I’m not a fan of the word ‘sexpert’, mostly because it’s occasionally used about me, even though I’ve no idea what I’m doing. But there’s one area in which I’m happy to bestow the ‘sexpert’ title – those who work in the sex industry, and have carefully honed their sexy skills. This week’s guest blogger is just such a person. Jaye, who blogs at How To Almost Be A Porn Star – has worked on phone sex lines for a long time, as well as indulged in plenty of phone sex for fun, so she’s well-placed to tell you just why you should pick up the phone and let your filthy mouth run wild…

I love this post, and if you do too go and check out Jaye’s blog and follow her on Twitter.

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I write confessional sex stories. Which is a weird thing to say because I’m not really confessing sins or expecting absolution. I’m just telling stories and expecting readers – if they’re kind enough – to click or share or stump up some cash for my books.

Confession is a pretty horrible word – drowning in centuries of expectation. It conjures images of the religious urge to ‘cleanse’ people of their misdeeds via exposure. Telling your stories so that others can judge you: shout ‘shame!’ as you’re paraded through the town. When you call it ‘confessional’, it’s a wonder anyone chooses to write stories about themselves.

But we do.

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He likes me to make eye contact when I’m sucking him off. He likes to see my big, wet eyes staring deeply into his. Imploring. Desperate. Needy. Close.

But when the roles are reversed, I want no eye contact. I want him to look down, or away, or at the colours and shapes behind his own eyelids. Never looking into mine.

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Before I begin, allow me a minute to put off 50% of you: this is not erotic fiction about what to do on your wedding night. It’s not a post about a romantic fuck at the end of your special day, or how to arouse your partner on the wedding night even though you’ve been together five years and you’re bored of the sight of their bollocks by now. If that’s what you’re after, then please pick up your warm white wine and move on to another buffet: this wedding night fuck is dirty.

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I’m back. Only just – this goes live as soon as my plane lands and I drag my sweaty arse through security. But I’m back. So here are two things to kick things off after my break – the New York Museum of Sex and some bollocks from UK MP and general waste-of-time Philip Davies. Ready? Let’s go.

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