We’re sitting at opposite ends of the sofa, legs entwined. There’s something chill and easy on the telly and I’m enjoying the sensation of his hand stroking up my thigh. He moves his palms in measured, predictable strokes. From my bare knee, up and over the fabric of my shorts to the top, and then back again. My skin tingles and my cunt starts to ache.

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“Can you separate the art from the artist?” is a ludicrous question, and it’s one I’ve wanted to tackle for a really long time. The answer is both ‘yes’ and ‘no’ depending on the art, the artist and you, the person who consumes it. There are always examples in the media of artists who have fallen from grace (or, less euphemistically, done something so morally repulsive that the idea of listening to their songs/watching their shows/reading their books now feels obscene), and often when a new person turns out to be a wrong ‘un, some thinkpiece or other claims we must learn to ‘separate the art from the artist’, which makes my brain twitch so I throw down a few notes. I’ve never written properly about this, because apparently I’ve never quite found the right fire to burn the whole question to the ground, but I think I’ve got the torch now, so I’m gonna pick it up and hope you join me in the flames. Let’s talk about ‘separating art from artist’, and specifically let’s talk JK Rowling.
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Introducing Jenby’s guest blogs makes me feel like a lowly intern announcing the arrival of the CEO: her adventures are as creative as her writing is exquisite, and I am always in awe of both. She’s the most prolific guest blogger here on the site, as well as almost certainly the kinkiest person I have ever met. Just this year she’s already told us about some fun (and romantic) sharps’ play, her first ever nyotaimori scene, and getting railed at an orgy while dressed as Marie Antoinette. I was telling a friend just this morning about Jenby’s recent hucow episode, in which she was literally milked in front of a lucky audience at a club, and my friend (herself no stranger to deliciously creative pervery) exclaimed in wonder – with wide, excited eyes – that she had just learned an awesome brand new thing. I am always honoured that Jenby brings this thrill of deviant discovery to my blog. Today she is here with another kickass story, and this one’s all about sweat. Buckets and buckets and buckets of it. Open wide.

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Almost every guy I have ever dated has told me that if they had tits themselves, they’d spend all day just staring at and playing with them. I am not getting ready to snark, or shame anyone for saying this, in fact I completely understand. Tits are fucking awesome. The thing that makes me horniest about my own body is the excellent rack stuck to the front of it. Although I don’t spend all day groping them or staring (I’m a busy girl), I do spend a fairly sizeable chunk of my time being aware of them – enjoying how they look and feel – so I thought I’d have a go at answering the unspoken question hovering beneath all those comments from all those past boyfriends. Here’s what it feels like to have tits.

Note: I’m a cis woman who has mostly dated cis dudes. I’ve tried not to be too gendered in this because tits are not exclusive to one gender, but my perspective is naturally coloured by my experiences. 

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