This might sound weird: I like it when men take things from me. Not large things, like my dignity or my house. Or even small-ish things like my life savings. I like it when they assert a kind of casual dominance – taking inconsequential things from me, with an attitude that tells me I couldn’t possibly object.
It’s one of those tiny kinks that’s tricky to explain to those who do not share it, and because it lacks overt sexuality, it may well be baffling to many. But I hope I can describe it well enough that those of you who do will get horny, and those who don’t will understand – at least in part – the appeal.
My ex boyfriend used to steal my chips. Annoying though it is sometimes when someone leans across and takes a chip, I think we had a mutual agreement that my chips were also his, and his were mine. There’s a niceness in sharing – an intimacy. But that is just the start.
My best friend steals my cider. That’s closer. When his pint is finished and mine’s still half full, he’ll reach across the table and – grinning – take my glass. Sometimes he makes eye contact with me as he pours half my share into his. There’s sharing and closeness there too, and my best friend is an attractive guy, so we’re slightly closer still.
But it’s not just about sharing. Sometimes it’s about just assuming – I like that there are men who understand implicitly, because of how close we are, that they are allowed to take small things from me as an assertion of our closeness. I like it when my other half takes me firmly by the hand in a crowd of people – assuming that casual dominance and control, not because he’s actually controlling, but because he understands that in that moment it’s exactly what I want.
He takes things from me. Little things and bigger things. He knows he can, because I like it. It’s intimate and sexy.
Other guys – ones I fancy – can take liberties that result in arousal. Picking up my wallet to go to the bar, for instance (contactless payments have made this taking-things kink so much easier), or downing the last of my wine before we race out of the pub. Looking around for a light and instead of asking me if I have one, simply reaching into my back pocket to take it out.
It’s hot. So so so hot it almost makes my eyes water.
Here’s where I give you the caveat that I always have to give: this only works if I already like someone. It’s the reason my experiences on this blog can never be turned into a ‘how to’ manual – most of the things I do, and I love, can never be universal truths or ‘guaranteed’ turn-ons. They only work because of the people who are doing them, and the way those people make me feel in exactly that moment.
This trick doesn’t work unless I already fancy you. Unless I know for sure you’re not the kind of person who’d take anything larger. Unless I know your decision is calculated, based on what you think I’d be OK with. It wouldn’t work unless I knew you’d give it back if I asked. A strange guy walking up to me and tipping half my cider into his glass would receive a swift ‘off you fuck’ and possibly a bill for the next pint. A guy who is just a passing acquaintance, who I don’t already fancy? Same deal. I don’t just want men to take things away from me, I want very specific men to do it, in a precise and deliberate way.
Let me tell you about this friend of mine.
I don’t know if you’re still legally allowed to call something a ‘crush’ when you’re thirty-two – are you? If so, I have a crush on this guy. If he didn’t read this blog, I’d pick a more intense term, but I have to look him in the eye at some point after this goes live and I’d prefer not to have him simply blush and run away. So I’m going with ‘crush’, and infer what you can from that. He’s lefty, sarcastic, funny, and he has slim, dextrous, beautiful hands. This story makes no sense without names so I’m going to call him Ryan.
We were out with another friend – Owen – who I love dearly, and who Gets My Perviness in a way not many others do. All three of us smoke, but only I’d brought cigarettes.
Owen and I, who tend to lean towards chain-smoking when we’re drunk, took cigarettes directly out of the packet and lit them ourselves. Ryan didn’t ever light one, he’d just occasionally reach over and take the cigarette from Owen, have a couple of drags, then give it back.
It was quite mesmerising to watch.
There are lots of things going on here. If I had to plot why this was sexy on a Venn diagram, there’d be circles marked ‘sexy hands‘ and circles marked ‘nonchalance.’ One marked ‘guy I have a crush on’ and another marked ‘taking little liberties.’ ‘Public display of dominance‘ would be on there, and ‘lack of eye contact in a way that implies a power-battle.’ And oh so so much more. When I’d finished drawing and colouring in all the circles on the ‘why this is so fucking hot’ Venn diagram, I’d file it somewhere in a folder entitled: THINGS I WANT MEN TO DO TO ME.
It’s such a simple thing, really: a guy casually reaching for the cigarette I’m holding, and plucking it out of my fingers, all the while maintaining a steady flow of conversation and eye contact with someone else. Putting it to his lips and taking a drag. Exhaling slowly. Flicking the burning tip in the direction of the ashtray with his slim fingers. Taking another drag, maybe glancing in my direction. Smiling sarcastically. Exhaling again, then swiftly returning it to me when he’s had enough.
Taking something away from me with casual ease. Knowing he can do it and I will like it. And never acknowledging that the very act of doing it will make me want to fuck him.
How did he know it would make me want to fuck him? What prompted Ryan, when I returned from the bar, to decide that Owen had probably had enough of sharing, and now it was my turn? Because it seemed quite an abrupt switch – going from stealing cigarettes from this guy he knew well and instead turning to take mine. Casually. Quickly. Without making eye contact. As if it was a natural impulse that just magically touched on all the fantasies I’d been having as I watched him earlier on.
How did he know?
Here’s my guess: while I was at the bar, Owen leaned over and whispered something along the lines of: “You know what she’s angling for? For you to take her cigarette, like you did with mine.” I imagine the reply was a combination of flattered confusion and playful delight.
“Are you sure she’d actually like that?”
“She wouldn’t… you know… be really fucked off?”
“No. She’ll like it. Trust me.”
He’s a good friend, Owen. And like I say: he gets me.