Someone else’s story: open relationships and kink


I have a huge amount of admiration (and, OK, a dash of envy) for people who can do open relationships well. I’ve tried, and failed, to come up with a long-term open solution that works for me, and have come to the conclusion that I’m perhaps not sensitive or competent enough to do openness well.

Which is why I love hearing from people who do – who have found a good balance of communication, enjoyment and honesty that allows them to balance the feelings of a few different parties. If anyone says it’s easy I struggle to comprehend, because for me it’s always been a mountain I couldn’t hope to climb. So above all I love hearing from people who’ve recognised the obstacles, worked through the difficult bits, and come up with something pretty damn special. This week’s guest blog is from Jenny, who’s got a story about open relationships and kink, as well as some great advice for those who might be struggling with similar worries.

Open relationships and kink

Communication in a relationship can be tricky at the best of times, and things only get more difficult when one of you is kinky. Asking for something in bed can be tough. Asking for something outside of your relationship feels impossible.

If you don’t ask for what you want, you might never get it.

I wanted to share my story because it’s a positive example of an open, kinky relationship which I am very proud of.

I’m happily coupled up with an incredible woman. We were friends before we started dating and are closing in on our first year together. On top of all the stresses of a new relationship, I had the added concern of telling her about the other important person in my life: my very close friend who happens to be my dominant.

He has a girlfriend too and they’ve been together for years. After much discussion about sex, BDSM and our respective love lives, we came to the conclusion that we’d like to explore our kinky bucket lists together. His girlfriend wasn’t into submission and I prefer being topped by men, even though I’m a lesbian. We get on and find each other attractive, but we’ve no romantic chemistry at all. We were confident it wasn’t going to get awkward or messy: we knew what we wanted from each other right from the start.

With this in mind we set about asking for our partners’ permission to get together every month or so and indulge ourselves in play.

It was a scary thing for both of us: his relationship is long established and he didn’t want to jeopardise their future together, while I‘d just started dating my girlfriend and didn’t want to scare her away. It was something we both wanted, however, and we didn’t want to impose our niches on partners who weren’t into it. Equally, we didn’t want to do without for the rest of our lives. So we asked them.

I wanted to be completely honest in starting our relationship. I told my girlfriend that I’d spent our first few dates secretly hoping she was kinky, which was a disservice to her. I wanted to appreciate her for who she was, and she is truly fantastic. I’m a firm believer that it’s very tough to get everything from one person. It’s too much pressure. So I wanted to have a romantic relationship with her and be kinky with someone who wanted it as much as I did. She was understanding and patient and after hearing all she needed to hear from me, gave me the permission I had asked for.

In return she is allowed to know as much or as little as she likes about our scenes, and to request certain acts are off limits. The same goes for my dominant’s girlfriend, who also gave her permission a few days before.

We got permission about nine months ago, but it wasn’t a case of getting an “ok” and then skipping off to the dungeon whenever we feel like. My girlfriend and I are in constant communication about our arrangement. Each time I schedule a scene I check in with my girlfriend, that she’s still ok for this to happen and each time I come home we spend time together as a couple and check in again. I remind her that I love her and if she wants me to stop, I will. She tells me she loves me and trusts me to remember her even when I’m with someone else.

Part of the agreement is that if either his partner or mine gets uncomfortable and asks for us to stop playing, we will without question. We enjoy playing and exploring our niches, but our commitment is to our girlfriends. We appreciate that what we’ve been given is something special, something that strengthens our relationship with our partners all the more.

Juggling both romantic and kinky relationships is tough – and not just practically. Scheduling a scene when we’re both off work, both our partners are busy or out of town and when one of our houses is free is almost impossible.

We have to keep talking about the arrangement all the time. Everyone has to be clear and what they do and do not want and how to communicate that. We are each responsible for our own thresholds and protecting them. We also have to trust that everyone else is aware of their own limits and will communicate them clearly.

None of us have been in an open relationship before so we’re working it out as we go. The two of us have never been in a Dominant/submissive relationship either. There’s a lot of chat involved every which way. It’s hard work but it is worth it.

The one thing I’ve found the hardest is asserting my needs when it comes to negotiating between romantic and kinky relationships. I have no intention of being prioritised over my dominant’s girlfriend, but during D/s scenes, the circumstances are altered slightly.

In one of our earlier scenes my dominant received a phone call from his girlfriend, which he took. The feeling of abandonment was compounded by my already vulnerable state in the scene and I was incredibly hurt. I did not feel empowered in the scene to ask that he not take the call. After thinking about it, and even discussing it with my girlfriend and getting her opinion, I asked for us to turn our phones off when playing. Now, when our partners call on a day we’re playing, if they get answer machines they know why they can’t get through and that we’ll contact them as soon as we turn our phones back on. This rule makes me feel more secure when I’m being submissive.

Having rules like this does not mean we love our girlfriends any less, but it is part of the responsibility we have to each other as play partners. Both relationships are significant and require communication and effort. Neither can be taken for granted.

As previously mentioned, I often involve my girlfriend in my D/s relationship. If something is playing on my mind it shows and she is gracious enough to ask if I want to talk about it. This shows a great deal of trust and patience, which is a beautiful quality in the woman I want to spend my life with.

By some miracle, the four of us now socialise as well. We don’t discuss the arrangement, but it isn’t ignored. The fact that we can share a meal together and enjoy each other’s company as two couples is something that’s very precious to me. There’s no tension or jealousy; we all know where we belong.

It is scary to ask for something you really want, but if you’re ready to have an honest conversation about it, and keep having those conversations, there is always a chance that it can work out.

Sometimes, better than you’d hoped.

On sex excuses


I’ve got a headache. I genuinely have – my head’s throbbing and for once it’s not because I drank too much last night. It’s because I’ve spent an inordinate amount of time growing steadily angry about the husband who detailed his wife’s ‘sex excuses’, and then sent her the spreadsheet.

Long story short: he compiled a spreadsheet logging the times he’d tried to initiate sex, and her responses, including the reasons she’d given for saying ‘no’. These included such things as ‘you’re too drunk’ and ‘I have to be up early.’

Excuses for not having sex

Here’s a list of excuses for not having sex that I have given my partner (or he has given me) in the last couple of months.

  • It’s late, I’m knackered.
  • I smell super gross.
  • I’m not actually that horny right now.
  • It’s too hot.
  • I just came about five minutes ago.
  • I’ve got a cold that makes it tricky for me to breathe through any of my face holes.

What do all of these excuses have in common? That’s right – they’re all things that happen to humans quite regularly. They’re also not really ‘excuses’ – an ‘excuse’ is something you use to ‘get out’ of something that you otherwise would be obliged to do. These, on the other hand, are just explanations of some stuff that’s happening (extreme tiredness, snot dripping out of someone’s face) that is causing that person to be unkeen on sex.

Why do we give sex ‘excuses’?

Here’s the thing: no one ever has a right to sex. Not your partner, not the person who’s spent twenty minutes going down on you, no one. Therefore you are never compelled to give a reason for not sleeping with someone. If you say ‘no’, that should be the end of the discussion. Maybe you have a nice cuddle instead, maybe you hop onto the night bus and go home, whatever.

But if I were to turn round to my partner and say ‘no’, then wander off, that would sound a bit odd. Sure, I don’t owe him a reason, but I like to explain lest he feel his ardour is wasted and I have suddenly decided I just don’t fancy him. So I say ‘argh, headache’ or ‘I stink like the bottom of the laundry basket’ and he is reassured that my lust for him remains strong – the mind is willing, but the flesh is… stinky and sweaty and not in the mood.

So, the reason I am pissed off by the spreadsheet compiled by this arsehole is not just because it displays a terrifying sense of entitlement towards sex, nor because it’s a cruel thing to send your partner along with the explanation ‘this is why I won’t miss you when you’re away on your trip’ – although it is both of these things. The main reason I’m angry is because he’s taken her reasons – those little nods towards making one’s partner feel better, softening the blow of the rejection – and turned them back round on her. Sneering as if her reasons are lies, and making her feel like not only is her lack of desire for sex a moral failing, but that her attempts to soften the blow are manipulative and wrong.

But you’ve got to have sympathy for the guy… no?

When I had a rant about this stuff on Twitter, I got a few people telling me that ‘you’ve got to feel sorry for the guy.’ In fact, I get this quite a lot – when I write about men who believe they are stuck in an imaginary Friend Zone, or men who struggle to chat up women, I am pretty much guaranteed a comment or two that says ‘well, you have to admit that it’s sad to not get any sex. Let’s get more guys laid and bad things won’t happen any more.’

Here’s how far I’m willing to go: I do feel sorry for people who want sex but can’t get it. I do. I have a hell of a lot of sympathy for people who are horny and lonely and struggling to find someone to share their life, their bed, or even just a sweaty five minutes in a pub toilet somewhere. I’ve been that person, and it was shit for me.

But no matter how shit it is, I do not have sympathy for those who try to coerce or guilt-trip a fuck out of someone. Being sad that you’re not getting laid is perfectly natural – using that sadness to manipulate is unacceptably cruel. So no – I don’t feel sorry for the guy who made the spreadsheet, at all. Any ounce of pity I had for him evaporated when he painted his lack of sex as a failing of his wife. Had he spoken to her properly and tried to work out whether there was a wider problem, all under the understanding that he didn’t have a right to sex an arbitrary number of times each week or month, then I would be cheering him on and wishing them future happiness.

As it is, by making a spreadsheet of her ‘excuses’ he has implied not only that she doesn’t have the right to refuse sex (which she does, obviously, as does he, as does anyone), but that her reasons for refusal are ‘mean’ – she is a horrible wife who isn’t doing what she should, and doesn’t have the decency to make up good enough reasons for not doing it.

Maybe next time he tries sex with her, she’ll hit him with a new reason:

  • I can’t fancy you while you’re trying to manipulate me.

What does ‘female gaze’ mean?

If you only look through the camera, you miss the fact that the astronomer is shagging a real-life astronaut

Image by the brilliant Stuart F Taylor

“Argh you’ve ruined porn for me.”

This is often how conversations begin in my house. After talking to the boy about traditional pornographic tropes, and the way some pornographers are challenging them by making ‘female gaze’ porn, he says he cannot see a traditional extreme porn close-up shot without thinking “oh, that’s very male gaze.”

Hence, I have ruined porn.

Thing is, I find it hard not to notice this stuff too. Having learned a bit about female gaze porn (and as most of what I’m learning about porn I’m learning from Pandora Blake, it’d be remiss of me not to link you to her excellent discussion of female gaze in art and pornography), I’m trying to work out exactly what it is that I like about certain scenes and films that utterly turns me off about others. It’s hard to explain exactly what ‘female gaze’ is in just a few words – the idea is that much of our art and entertainment uses a ‘male gaze’ perspective – in which women not so much ‘portrayed’ as ‘ogled’. ‘Female gaze’ on the other hand, tends to take a different approach – trying to use images and story that would work to tell a story either from a female perspective or to a female audience. In ‘female gaze’ porn, it often translates into wider shots, more dialogue, more rounded characters or a greater focus on female pleasure.

What interests me, though, is that while video porn is something that – although traditionally assumed to be a male product – is now being targeted at both genders, when it comes to written erotica, the vast majority of it is marketed solely at women.

Which is ridiculous, when you think about it. Porn is a genre of entertainment like anything else – open to different interpretations and nuance and style, each of which will appeal differently to different people. Like the difference between a traditional retelling of Shakespeare and a Baz Luhrmann film with guns and stabbings and car chases, what makes porn sexy for one person but shit for another often just comes down to how you tell the story.

Here are two stories. Which do you prefer?

Version 1: A story about fucking

Girl meets boy. She’s wet. Soaking wet so you can see the slickness dripping from her open cunt. She’s smiling, enjoying it. Cupping her own tits in her hands as she lies back on the bed. Open. Waiting. Eager.

He’s hard – his broad hands stroke his fat cock as he stands over her – taking in every inch of her silky, taut, nakedness. Her nipples are hard, and he teases them with his prick. Rubbing the end over them as she moans faintly. The wetness from the tip of his cock leaves a trail on her chest, and she runs a finger over it then licks it off. She smiles.

He moves down her body, touching each bit of her – squeezing her tits, pushing the palm of his hand onto her stomach, running his fingers down through her wet slit. She moans. Kneeling between her legs, he spreads her thighs wide, holding the tip of himself against the entrance of the hole he’s about to fuck.

“Please fuck me.” No pause, straight in. The request made and granted almost simultaneously. He plunges himself into her and she squeals, reaching down to grip his arse with her hands. He fucks her – swift strokes that make her tits jiggle and her breath quick. She gasps, moans, and looks down to see his thick cock pushing into her.

In. Out. Again. More. Harder.

She flips over, presenting her arse for him to fill. As he slides his cock in his big hands grip her, slapping her and leaving red imprints. She moans again, arches her back, pushes herself onto him as he gets closer to coming.

In. Out. Again. More. Harder.

And it’s there – he pulls out, his dick twitching and glistening with the juices from her cunt. He grips the base and – with measured strokes – rubs out arcing ropes of spunk. They splash over her – drops and pools of come all over her arse. A river drips down the crack of her arse, mixing with the wetness in her cunt. His dick twitches a few more times: a few more drops.

And they’re done.

Version 2: A story about fucking

Girl meets boy. She’s halfway between nervous and excited: watching him undress has her nipples feeling tight and cold, and her cunt aching to be touched. She pulls off her knickers and lies on the bed, all the better to take in the view as he pulls off his clothes. His dick’s hard already – thick and pronounced through his tight black shorts. He hooks both thumbs under the waistband and pulls them down – grinning as he watches her eyes grow wide.

She’s touching herself – she can’t help it. The sordid hotel room and the look of this guy and the excitement of knowing she’s doing something new. She’s squeezing herself – teasing her own nipples as she hopes he will soon – hinting that she needs him near her.

She wins. With his dick in his hand he approaches her on the bed, not bothering to hide his enthusiasm – she likes that. He’s stroking himself and wants to touch her – as he rubs the tip of his cock on her nipples she can’t help but let out a moan. No words as such, but they both know this is a ‘yes please’ moan – an ‘oh God do more’ moan. So he does it again, and she moans again, using a finger to trace the wet trail he’s left on her nipple, and licking it off. Revelling in the fact that she’s done this to him.

He moves down her body, touching every inch of her – making the most of what they both know will only happen once. He cups her tits in his hands and squeezes, the firmness and her moaning making his cock twitch and his stomach kick with excitement. His palms flat on her belly, his fingers trailing down to her cunt – he doesn’t know which of them is more excited. Which more aroused. It probably doesn’t matter: all either of them wants is the culmination of this night: the tipsy flirting, the hands-under-skirts under the table, the whispered ‘fuck me upstairs’ that she gave him in the lift. The ache he’d been carrying, semi-hard, in his trousers from that moment.

He’s kneeling between her open legs, savouring the look of need in her face, the way she arches her back ever so slightly to make it easier for him to enter her.

“Please, fuck me.” She begs, half-smiling half-frowning as she thrusts herself towards his dick. He does – long, hard strokes, filling her up and making her cry out with satisfaction. She shudders with the delicious feeling of fulfillment, and glances down to watch as he works his cock in and out of her.

In. Out. Again. More. Harder.

He’s close, he can feel it – deep in the pit of his stomach he can feel climax rushing through him. He should pause, he knows, and wait until she’s had more pleasure from him. But the sight of her face twisted into lustful satisfaction, and the sight of her tits jiggling up and down with each stroke it’s… close. It’s tricky. He wants so much to come but he wants to watch her for a bit longer, hear her cries of joy a few more times. Know that he’s doing this: he’s making her cunt twitch and her eyes light up and her nipples tingling and hard.

She flips over, and he takes a second to calm himself. He squeezes the base of his cock. Blinks once, twice, breathes deeply. She’s doing the same – breathing deeply. Reveling in the power she has to take his orgasm from him. She arches her back, pushing her arse out towards the tip of his cock. Groaning loudly as he enters her.

In. Out. Again. More. Harder.

He bites his lip as he comes - a last-ditch attempt to hold himself back and give himself more time. She grips the pillow with her hands, squeezing it as she’s squeezing him, wanting to milk every drop of enjoyment from this evening. He pulls out, gasping as he reaches the peak of his climax, shooting ropes of spunk over her - twitching from his dick and signalling the end he didn’t want to reach just yet.

She feels the jets of spunk hitting her arse – forceful, strong, and copious – and she aches with delight. She locks the feeling away in her head, as she’s locked the sounds of his grunting gasps and the sensation of his cock tracing the outline of her nipples.

While he’s wishing he’d had more time, she’s pulling up her knickers and wishing herself home. So she can relive her triumph alone.

Someone else’s story: fucking but not touching


We’re none of us good at this – none of us are experts. Sex and relationships and love and body-confidence: we’re all stumbling wildly around, hoping that at some point we’ll hit on something wise. Or if not wise then at least a bit better, more useful. Something that’ll help us work out how to make the world feel awesome about us, or at least make us feel awesome about ourselves.

I’ve struggled before with trying to explain how I feel about my body. While I want to wave a flag and shout ‘yay me!’ into the faces of people who sneer, but deep down I want to kick myself and whisper ‘do it better’ to the reflection in the mirror.

This week’s guest blog, by Anandamide, is beautiful and excellent – it touches on not just the feeling of insecurity but the feeling of inadequacy at feeling so insecure. He nails it in a way I think I’ve failed to, and made me throb with sadness.

Someone else’s story: fucking but not touching

I swear I can’t figure myself out; and I swear maybe I never will.

Spending hours a day, days a week tearing it in the gym; trying to win the impossible race to impossible perfection so that I can rip my top off in a dark, dry-ice club and feel like I’m at least treading water. So the neurotic scrabblings inside my head can be eased, daft of course because you shouldn’t feed the trolls.

And last night in Fire, the last night of Fire for a fair few weeks, I was flavour of the evening. Ended up rolling high on drugs and hormones grinding against a 20 year old for 30 minutes, lost and soaring and blind. And of course he was hot, because I only get with guys if they’re hot, unless I’m in a dark room or so high I can barely see. This time I could see, and I see where it’s going. So I make my excuses, and go. Leaving him on his own looking mournfully at me. Put my top back on, take it off and put it back on the right way ’round, then walk. Past the taxi rank, past the Hoist; past the Griffin, going home.

‘You will call me, yeah?’

And I nod, and I’d like to, because he’s a sweet guy, and he’s only 20, and he’s only been here 6 months. It must be lonely. So we’ve been texting, and I had said maybe I’ll be free this evening, but I’ve spent all day on a comedown in pyjamas and don’t see any reason to change that now it’s dark, and windy, and Hallowe’en.

I think he just wants company, and a shag. And I’m sure I want a shag. I must want a shag. He’s hot, and I’ve wanked twice today, and I’m idly watching porn. But you know sex is kinda scary, sex with someone who knows your name and knows your face, who could judge you, and analyse you, and decide maybe no.

I’ve been running from that for a long time. It can’t go on. I feel lingering stirrings of jealousy when I see everyone else lining up quick shags or fuckbuddies, but I recoil at the opportunity myself.

So still I spend hours a day, days a week tearing away in the gym; pouring protein down my neck and exhausting myself trying to win an impossible race; so I can rip my top off in a dark drug hazed club and feel that I’m in with a chance of being wanted; so I can be desired, but never held.

I swear I can’t figure myself out.

And I swear maybe no one ever does.

I’m going to see him, I’m going to neck a Viagra before just to make sure I get hard – and you know the stupid thing is I don’t even know that he wants a shag? I wonder, sometimes, how many guys out there are fucking just so they can be held when it’s over; how many lonely people there are out there taking a shag with a stranger as the price for feeling a heartbeat next to their own, breath on their shoulder, warmth in their arms. I wonder sometimes if any of us know why we’re running in this race, or if we have the faintest idea what we’re running towards.

But I’ll see him, and I’ll neck a Viagra before just to make sure, and we’ll shag and it’ll probably be fun, what with him being hot and cute and lonely. And maybe even for a few moments I’ll forget the scrabbling neuroticism inside my mind, worrying about him thinking about me, about me thinking about him. And maybe we can just cum, and it’ll be a brief bliss, and then I can just hold him, and he can feel my heartbeat, and we can feel like we’re not alone, like just this is enough.

And staggering though darkrooms and saunas, that’s the part of sex I always lose out on. Forgetful fucks and guys whose faces I never see, all wild and sharp and fierce. Fucking without touching, all the time longing to be touched. Those heartbeats afterwards; strong, deep, slow.

On why faking orgasms isn’t the end of the world


I’m going to put it out there: I don’t mind if you fake your orgasm. No, really, go right ahead. What’s more, I’ll tell you that I’ve faked orgasms in the past, and if you think that makes me a bad person, or a pitiable sex-deprived creature, then you can fuck a thousand miles off.

In general, if you’re engaging in safe and consensual acts, sex positive people will cheer on your lubed-up love with an open heart and a total lack of judgment.

Unless you fake your orgasms.

Why do we think it’s bad to fake an orgasm?

This blog was prompted by the revelation today that men fake orgasms too. Cue tortured commenters screaming ‘how the fuck is that possible?’ and the inevitable smackdown by sensible people saying ‘well, duh, of course men do this sometimes – they are human.’

Whenever the subject of faking orgasms is raised, the general consensus is that it is a bad thing to do, for one of the following reasons:

  • If you fake an orgasm, how is your partner supposed to know how to give you a real orgasm? You’ll be giving them the wrong impression, making them think that fumbling half-heartedly with your clit is the most surefire way to send you to heaven and back. Ergo you end up in a vicious cycle of rewarding poor performance, until your entire sex life consists of limp clit-fumbling gand your own exaggerated screams.
  • If you fake an orgasm, it’s because you don’t realise that actually it’s perfectly normal for people not to orgasm. Thus, when you fake, you reinforce society’s ideas that orgasms are de rigeur, even if the shag you’ve just partaken in lasted less than the time it’d take for the kettle to boil.
  • If you fake an orgasm, you are tacitly supporting the idea that orgasms are the Only Possible Goal Of Sex, and so both you and your partner will fail to spend time on the non-orgasmic things you enjoy. Like beating each other with wooden spoons or licking cream cheese from the inside of their ear canal, or whatever it is you get up to.

Faking orgasms is not as bad as people say it is

While the arguments above all have some basic merit, I strenuously object to the way they are often used, not as a piece of general advice but as an absolute decree: Thou Shalt Never Do This. Yes, faking orgasms can lead to trouble, or be symptomatic of problems if you’re doing it on a daily basis, but there’s a big difference between accepting these things and acting as if those who fake orgasms are bad at sex, and must be either pitied or corrected.

Realistically, people fake orgasms for a whole host of reasons. Some good, some bad, some practical, some habitual. You know, like many of the sex things we do. Sometimes I’m not up for a long make out session, but my partner is and I know that if I do it chances are I’ll get his hand down my knickers at some point – the jackpot I’m actually angling for. Sometimes I’ll suck a dick not because I’m desperate to get it down my throat, but because it just feels like the natural next step in a fuck I’m playing jazz with. Often we do things because they make us wet and hard and throbbing and horny - occasionally we do them for other reasons.

I’ve faked orgasms

Although the vast majority of it has been spectacular, there have still been occasions where I felt like faking an orgasm was the right thing to do. I’m lucky enough that I usually find it easy to come during a shag, and right now I’m with a long-term partner who has a thick cock and a good rhythm, and who knows me inside out, as it were. I also have a Doxy and my own two hands, should things prove more difficult on a particular occasion, so I haven’t faked one for a good long time. But have I faked orgasms in the past? Goddamn right I have.

Not because I’m tired, or because the sex is appalling and I can’t quite bring myself to say so: I’ve faked orgasms for the simple reason that coming represents the nuclear button in my sexual arsenal – when I come, he is more likely to come.

Six pints into a very late night, if we’re having an exciting fumble followed by a sticky and determined hump, it’s probably going to be tough for both of us. I’m deeply horny, and shivering with lust, but I know that it’s just not going to happen. The one thing I want right now is to feel the twitching throb of his cock pumping spunk inside me. I’m faced with a choice. Do I pull out one of my just-about-adequate sex moves? A hand gripping just the right place, an arched back, a filthy sentence or two to help him on his way? Or do I pull out my ultimate sex move - clenching my cunt nice and tight and moaning like I’ve sat on a washing machine?

Faking orgasms doesn’t make you a bad person

Conclusion of this unnecessarily sweary rant: you’re not an awful bastard if you fake orgasms – no matter what your gender or your reasons, this is a choice that you get to make for yourself. I’m not going to pass any judgment on what it says about your sex life if one day you want to twitch your genitals, roll your eyes, and Meg Ryan your way to climax. Even if you’re fucking me - if you fancy putting a bit of AmDram into it, go right ahead. I’d like to think I can tell, but wouldn’t we all? If you know the end’s a long way away, but you also know I love it when you make those moany noises, then just make the fucking moany noises already. It will, in all likelihood, bring my orgasm closer, and even if it doesn’t then at least we can put a full-stop to proceedings, albeit a jizzless one.

I care about this quite strongly because, as a young-un, I used to fake orgasms quite a lot. Almost every single time. I probably faked more orgasms than I had actual orgasms, even during a period when I was wanking so frequently you’d have thought I had eczema of the clit. I faked, and I pretended, and I loved every second of every minute of every fuck I was having. But every time I scanned an article on sex tips it screamed at me: “do not fake your orgasms! You are ruining your sex life! You are teaching your partner to do the wrong things and basing your love on a lie!” So I’d fret and I’d stress and I’d worry, and in the end I’d fake it anyway, because while I hated feeling like a liar I loved it when he came.

One day, while I was making the noises and twitching my legs and clamping my cunt down hard on his cock, it actually happened for real. The climax started and I felt hotness swell from my knees to my crotch, waves of happy-horny-oh-yes-don’t-stop-fuck-nnngggghhh-jesus-yes crashing hard up to my chest, enveloping me in pleasure and surprising the fuck out of me.

He couldn’t tell, of course, but then I don’t think I really needed him to.