Life is hard and haunted. The world is a mess, I am a mess. But I cannot just focus on the darkness and the panic: in order to keep driving forwards through the tricky stuff, I need to fill my tank with occasional joy. So I text a guy I vaguely know and I ask him to bring me tequila. And his dick.
Music and memories: some songs have such a powerful connection to certain memories that I cannot hear them without getting horny. Or sad. Or excited about someone I haven’t seen for years. I’ve talked before about what music can do – from putting you off shagging if a terrible track comes off on a sex playlist to making me want to use your cock just cos I did so the last time this song came on. Today, I’m delighted to welcome back an incredible guest blogger – @OxyFromSg who writes erotica with Phedre Sinclair at this blog right here. Here in my little corner of the internet, Oxy has already delighted us with tales of DIY gloryholes and weird wanks – to share some hot memories, and the music that helps bring them out.
It’s really fucking shit, let’s start with that. Lockdown continues/escalates across the UK, to varying degrees of clusterfuck depending on where you are. One thing is certain: at some point you’ll be trapped at home, bored and miserable and longing for the Before Times. To try and ease the misery, and plug the awesome companies who support my site, here’s a quick rundown of some sexy things to keep you entertained through the oncoming horror show.
Look look! I’ve found it! After years of sifting through terrible dating ‘systems’ and advice that amounts to ‘treat women like they’re vending machines‘, I think I’ve found the worst online dating strategy of all time. One that misses almost every conceivable mark. Are you ready? Here it is…
I used to yo-yo break up with my ex-ex. Number eight. The guy I met at university and loved for many years (whose dark dark eyes and devious filth you can read about in my first book if you’re interested). We had our problems, but we also had our passion. Long, tortured silences in the middle of arguments that would stretch on for what felt like hours, while each of us rummaged in our equally-wordy minds for the perfect phrase that would lift the blanket of sadness. But words can’t always do the work: sometimes, most times, the physical yearning would beat our mouths to the punch, and one of us would reach out to touch the other. That touch would set us both on fire, then we’d fuck like the fucking would fix it.