Being a sex blogger is great, because people assume that I’m fucking dynamite in bed. People sometimes email me dirty stories that I star in, and – I have to be honest – in these stories I occasionally demonstrate a level of sexual prowess that would stun even the most avid pornography fan. They’d certainly surprise the fuck out of any guy unfortunate enough to have been at the receiving end of my incompetent humping.
Which leads me neatly on to the fact that being a sex blogger is awful, because people assume that I’m fucking dynamite in bed. In the past I’ve been incredibly reluctant to fuck people who know who I am, not just because I’m nervous of potential stalkers, but because if you’ve read what I’ve written and wanked yourself into a frenzy, the only thing I could ever really be is a disappointment. I’ve mentioned before how first time sex is usually crap. First-time sex with someone you mistakenly believe to be a sexual wizard is even more so.
Am I good in bed?
No one’s good in bed on their own. I don’t think I’ve ever fucked someone so stunning that with zero effort on my part they could make us both come in buckets and render me speechless with their sexual skill.
Likewise no one’s crap in bed. It’s pretty difficult to lie naked with another adult who fancies you and do absolutely nothing to make their nipples hard, their cunt wet or their dick spurt. And yet still we worry – we worry and we stress and we question and we wind ourselves up into a quite remarkable tizz about something which, frankly, was always going to be hit and miss.
Was it good for you?
I hate the giggling way that people ask each other about such-and-such a fuck, this or that particular ex-partner. That one question:
“Was he good in bed?”
simultaneously drips with possibilities and yet is utterly meaningless.
If I tell you someone’s good in bed, what exactly have you learned? Not much. You have learned nothing about their technique, skill or enthusiasm; their consideration, confidence or cock. All you’ve learned is that I liked fucking them.
And realistically the way I like to fuck is almost certainly different from the way you like to do it, so you can’t even extrapolate: ‘oh, GOTN said he was good so he must have a lovely big cock and a battery-powered tongue.’ No. All you can glean from this question is that I liked fucking him. For all you know I liked it because he tied me upside down, covered me in Yorkshire pudding batter and then jizzed into one of my ears.
So don’t ask me ‘was he good in bed?’, ask ‘did you enjoy it? Was it fun? Was it good for you?’ These questions, at least, are an honest admission that sexual enjoyment is very personal. What’s good for me might be awful for you, depending on how much you like it when someone roughly grabs your tits, spits in your mouth, and calls you a ‘dirty, hateful slut’.
Sex in co-op mode
Of course not even the ‘did you enjoy it?’ question will get to the heart of the matter, because – believe it or not – sex isn’t all about my enjoyment, it’s about his as well. I can roll my eyes in an agony of joy while rippling orgasms tear through my chest and my cunt spasms tightly around his skilled and ‘good for me’ dick, but if he’s not happy as well then what’s the bloody point? He could get ten out of ten for oral skills and bonus points for angry, frantic hate-fucking and we’d still both go home disappointed if I hadn’t contributed so much as a desperate pant, a well-oiled hand job or a softly-whispered ‘pleasepleaseplease’.
The point I’m rather tortuously making is that sex isn’t a single-player game. It’s not a competition in which we all get individual scores. You can practise as much as you like on your own but when it comes down to it your final score will be a joint one. Sometimes I’m great, and sometimes I’m awful, and the same can be said of you. The key question to ask is not ‘how good am I in bed?’ but ‘how good are we together?’