Back in April, Livvy wrote this epic post about our first sex party. We had to wait another six months for our second, but when it did finally come along it was every bit as wild and hedonistic as we’d both hoped.
The theme was ‘Sexy Time Machine’, and the party took place in a photographic studio near Clapham Common. We went as Doctor Who and the TARDIS, and while we both knew our costumes were unlikely to stay on for long, one of us at least looked little short of spectacular.
As long-time readers of this blog will know, I have a strong aversion to articles, blog posts and advice columns that talk in prescriptive terms about sex and dating, or which make sweeping, universal statements about the way we fuck. It’s not just that they’re often preachy, prudish and judgemental; more fundamentally, human sexuality covers such a broad spectrum of kinks, desires, and interests that the Venn diagram of what I like in bed versus what you like in bed will always contain a healthy amount of symmetric difference.
For that reason, I’ve always tried to avoid using my own sexual experiences as a template for what other people should do or what other people enjoy. That’s occasionally a bit of a balancing act: when I wrote about hand jobs, for example, or about vaginal ‘tightness’, part of my aim was to reassure people who’d been fed damaging messages about what men want from women, so I consciously chose to discuss both subjects in more general terms. However, I consider those posts to be exceptions rather than the rule; I use this space to share stories from my sex life, not to tell my readers what they should do with theirs.
The reason for bringing all of that up now is that I read something on Twitter recently that made me sad. Someone I follow was expressing frustration with her lack of sexual experience, and questioning why men would want her when she is “all enthusiasm but no technique”. It wasn’t quite a lightbulb moment, but the more I thought about it afterwards, the more angry I got with the way mainstream sex advice has created this notion that there is a right and a wrong way to ‘do’ sex – a standard user manual for the human body, which can be studied and applied to each new partner.
It’s two days after Christmas, and she’s getting ready to go back – back to London, back to work, and back to a cold, empty flat at the end of it. My parents’ house is neither cold nor empty; it is quiet though, or maybe just calm and content after a festive period full of life’s most basic pleasures – good food and drink, sleep, comfort, and conversation.
I lift myself out of the mid-afternoon lull (and the armchair in which I’m enjoying it), scoop up my mug of tea, and slip out into the hallway. I pad up the stairs towards my bedroom, tugging at my clothes even before I’ve opened the door. I know she won’t be far behind, so once I’m naked I move quickly. The bag of sex toys has travelled with us from London to Dorset, and now here, but this is the first time I’ve delved inside.
By the time she enters the room I’m under the duvet, with just my head poking out. The mug steams silently on my old chest of drawers – it’ll be cold by the time I pick it up again.
“Take your clothes off and get in here,” I say, and she complies without hesitation, clambering over me before snuggling her perfect, naked body up against mine. I let her get comfortable, pulling her even closer and kissing her neck as her fingers reach for my cock. It takes her no time at all to get me hard; her hand moves with a practised rhythm that I know I’ll soon find almost impossible to resist, especially with the warmth of her skin and the scent of her hair surrounding me.
For nearly 200 years, wreaths have been used to celebrate Christmas and welcome visitors to the house during the festive season.
Traditionally those wreaths are candlelit, but modern technology has intervened in recent years to provide a more convenient (and less flammable) form of illumination.
Still, while fairy lights have their own twinkly charm, they lack the plain heft and solidity of a proper Christmas candle. The welcome they give is bright and charming, but also just a little insubstantial. It carries less weight.
Touch yourself for me
snap snap
Show me how you do it. Show me how you want it
snap snap
Yeah, like that. Just like that
snap snap
Twice now, I’ve published short collections of things I’d been fantasising about over the previous 24 hours. Each post was written at a time when I was struggling to focus on longer, more structured pieces – in part because I was so uncontrollably horny that my brain was just jumping from one hot scenario to the next.
My sex drive seems to have peaked again recently, and that’s coincided with another mini period of writer’s block. My drafts folder contains half a dozen posts that I’ve either abandoned or mothballed, and I have a similar number that haven’t yet made it out of my head. Their time will come, but for now I’m going to offer up another 24-hour snapshot of exactly what’s been keeping me on edge. I hope you enjoy it…
I played hockey yesterday on a pitch that occupied one small corner of a sprawling sports complex, shared with local football and rugby teams. The weather was filthy when we arrived and got steadily worse once the game was underway. The wind whipped across the exposed fields, rain slanted sideways into our faces, and a winter gloom seemed to creep in a little closer with every passing minute.
By the end of the match, I was sore, tired, and ready for the bright and warmth of the opposition’s clubhouse. For pasta bolognese, a pint of beer, and rueful reflection on the defeat we’d just suffered. After some initial uncertainty, I now really like the group of guys I play with, and few things can salve wounded pride better than hearty food and good company.
Even those comforts do little for aching muscles, however. They require scalding hot water – the kind that feels like it might strip the skin from your body – and a proper scrub. After everyone else had left, I went over to the rather austere, chilly shower block and found an empty changing room. Livvy came in with me and took a few photos as I got changed, snapping away until my sweaty kit lay in a messy pile on the floor. I left her sitting on a bench while I waited for the water to heat up, then closed my eyes and let it wash over me.
As some of you may have noticed, I really enjoyed putting together last year’s Christmas Erotica prompts, and reading all of your submissions. Like, really enjoyed it. Picking the prompt each day, from the long list of festive songs that I love, writing it up, waiting to see how people used it – the whole thing made me smile so much over the course of the month, and not just because it combined two of my very favourite things, Christmas and sex. It felt like getting an exciting, mysterious present every few hours, and really, what’s not to love about that?
I did strongly consider doing something similar this year, only with Christmas movies instead of songs. Think of the possibilities! Home Alone, Love Actually, Bad Santa, Die Hard, Trading Places…so many film titles, so many filthy directions in which to take them. I may still do a truncated version of this, in fact, but I’m not sure how much appetite there is for another set of daily prompts. Nor whether movies have quite the same appeal as songs and carols.
For that reason – and because I had so much fun with it at the time – I am re-opening the submissions page for last year’s prompts. Maybe you really wanted to write something for one of the song titles, but ran out of time to do it. Maybe you have a half-finished story sitting in your Drafts folder, or an idea that only hit you in February. Maybe you weren’t reading my blog last December.
Either way, if you want to write something for any of the 19 prompts I put together in 2015, here’s your chance. You have from now until the 25th to send me a link to your story, and I’ll add it to this page on my blog. There’s already a whole bunch of great stories there, so you’ll be in excellent company – seriously, go check some of them out!
Even if no-one has any Christmas Erotica left inside them, the memory of that whole project will still make me smile whenever I think of it. I guess I’m just feeling greedy today…and I have been a very good boy this year…
This week’s Sinful Sunday prompt was ‘artificial light’, which offered an almost overwhelming array of options for weird, wonderful, and sexy-as-fuck photography (as the other submissions make very clear).
In fact, as I first started to give it some thought earlier this week, I realised that I’ve already played around with a whole bunch of artificial light options over the last couple of years – from all the night-time shots I’ve done, lit by different lamps in different rooms, through to Christmas tree lights, street lamps, and even the fluorescent glow of a London Underground train.
One thing I’d not yet explored? Shadows. So when Livvy suggested projecting my body up onto our bedroom wall, I wasn’t about to say no. When she leaned over me, her freshly-washed hair tumbling down onto my stomach, and her lips grazing the head of my cock, I wasn’t really able to say much at all…
I am not, by nature, a morning person, and that remains true even on days when I’m getting up to do something I love, like play hockey.
In fact, early hockey matches can be a real pain. It’s not just that I lose one half of my weekend lie-in – with 70 minutes of running around to prepare for, I also have to make sure I’m up in time to eat, hydrate, and generally cleanse my body of the previous night’s excesses. Adulting 101, some would call it.
Today’s game gets underway at 10.30, which meant my morning routine started with an 8.15 alarm call. I rolled out of bed, drank a pint of water, padded into the kitchen, and turned on the oven. Food is rarely far from the front of my mind, and even though I don’t like to eat too much before I play sport, I pretty much always have a breakfast plan. On this occasion, that involved hash browns, eggs, and maybe a small slice of cake.
With the oven heating, I went back to bed and set another alarm for 8.35. I knew I had to leave the flat at 9.10, so the idea was to stick the hash browns in for 20 minutes, scramble some eggs, have a cup of tea, and get myself ready to wolf down my food at 9.