All Posts – Page 338
On why absence makes the heart grow fonder
This is a weird one because I’m writing it while the subject is in the next room. Sitting in his pyjamas, frowning at the mysterious black box of web code while he does magical things with his fingers that make the internet happen.
When we’re together, we watch TV. We paint walls, we count pennies, we laugh. And, of course, we fuck.
He’s good at touching me. He touches me all the time – playful slaps on the arse when we’re making dinner, a casual grope while we catch up on Game of Thrones, kisses and sly strokes that end with his hand down the back of my knickers, warm and soft against my arse.
If I wanted to, I could walk through into the next room to touch him right now. But I won’t.
I’m crap at affection
Despite being a filthy girl, keen to be used and abused, I’m not so great at touching. While I’ll happily sit and stroke someone for a while, or get comfy in the crook of their shoulder as we watch TV, I reject casual affection the way you’d swat away a mosquito.
Fuck off, I’m busy.
Don’t touch me, I’m eating.
Cooking.
Doing the washing up.
Just… get your hands off me. I feel trapped.
Because I associate hugs and affection with a certain kind of choking panic, I anticipate that every hug I enter into could end up siphoning five minutes of otherwise productive time out of my day. I’m an idiot, of course – if affection and touching were as terrifying as my knee-jerk reaction tells me it is I wouldn’t have spent half my life in bed with guys who make me cry with orgasmic joy.
And yet I look for escape routes. I watch the clock over his shoulder. I forget that, actually, I do really enjoy this when I can just shut my brain up for five minutes and settle into it.
The hotness helps my brain do exactly that. A cuddle for the sake of a cuddle brings on trembling and twitching – an unnecessary and irrational this-isn’t-getting-the-bills-paid panic. But a sly hand down the back of my jeans, cupping one of my arse cheeks and pushing two fingers’ worth of knickers into the crack of my crotch? That’s distracting. That’s fun. That’s the button I need pushed before I can sigh relief and hug back with enthusiasm.
An absence of affection
As I say, I could touch him now if I wanted to. I could wander into the next room, strip to my underwear, and slide his laptop off his knee. I could straddle and fuck him on the squeaky sofa, pushing my nipples into his face and reveling in his delighted moans.
But I’m not going to do that, because the anxiety tells me that I shouldn’t be fucking, I should be working, and affection can wait until later. It can probably wait until tonight, when we’ve both clocked off. Sadly then I might not be in the same hungry-horny mood: the waves will have subsided and I’ll be back to pushing him away, twitching at his deliciously warm hands teasing my cunt while I’m trying to cook dinner. At the time I won’t regret it – I’ll see myself as the sensible one, She Who Shan’t Be Distracted, who Gets Things Done.
It doesn’t really matter today, when he’s nearby, but when this blog goes live on Sunday, I’ll be far away. Creeping hands and playful slaps will be replaced with curt texts and joky emails, and all the ‘Miss you’s and ‘Love you’s that I forget to say when he’s around. Absence makes the heart grow fonder, and it also makes the brain realise what an incomparable prick it can be when it has everything at its fingertips.
I won’t be able to walk through to the next room to touch him. I won’t be able to bury my face in his stomach and tell him he’s delicious. I’ll feel, but be pathetically unable to articulate, just how fucking stupid I am for knocking him back day after day. His hands won’t be on me, and I’ll have all the time and space and independence I am usually crying out for.
And because I’ll have it, I will hate it. And I will miss him.
On the sexiness of novelty
Here are a few things my boy is a fan of:
- My hair being short
- My cunt being freshly shaved
- Me wearing a dress
- Me wearing his clothes
Can you guess which common theme ties these all together?
Novelty is sexy
No matter how much you love someone’s scruffy jeans and bog-standard t-shirt/hoodie combo (and I have to say I do: I really really do), there’s something deeply hot about novelty. The person you see day in, day out turning up looking as if they’ve been taken over by someone else.
That, I suspect, is why suits are so deeply arousing. I don’t go weak at the knees over the men who get on the tube day after day in a standard-issue blue suit with pastel-coloured shirt: they’re clearly the people for whom ironing shirts and selecting an appropriate tie is part of their daily routine. But my God, when a guy I’m dating gets scrubbed and pressed for a special occasion, both my heart and my knickers melt at the sight of it.
It’s not that you look much different in a suit: you still have the same face, same hair, same body. But all of those things are decorated in a new and beautiful way. Just as the high street looks more magical with Christmas lights, you look more magical in a suit.
My new sexy hair
So, novelty is sexy. But that doesn’t mean that I’m going to spend half my life trying new outfits and hairstyles and facial expressions just so I can inject pizzazz into any sexual encounter I have with someone I’ve known for a while.
It’s not just for him that I get my hair cut – I find it pretty fucking sexy as well. Not out of an arrogant desire to show off, you understand: my hairdresser’s good but she’s not good enough that the new cut will hide the fact that I’ve put on a bit of weight and have bags under my eyes you could carry a weeks’ worth of shopping in. It’s not because my new hair makes me sexy, it’s because it makes me different.
Difference isn’t about becoming a different person: it’s about the ability to slightly tweak your feelings along with your appearance. If I’ve been feeling shite for the last few weeks, cutting off half my hair and seeing someone noticeably newer in the mirror gives me the chance to cut off some of the other stuff I’m feeling too. New-hair GOTN just isn’t the sort of miserable twat who’d sit around moaning about stuff: she looks like the sort of achieving go-getter who’d… I don’t know… stand up and moan about stuff.
This works not just for hair: new underwear, a ridiculous colour of nail varnish, a new piercing, half an hour spent bothering to put on make-up. And, incidentally, it means that not getting my hair cut, or shaving my cunt, or doing any of the things that magazines tell me I should do every single day, is utterly crucial to milking the sexual joy out of my changes in appearance. The sexiness of novelty relies on the everyday sexiness of the ordinary – they are two sides of exactly the same coin.
Fuck me like I’m someone else
I think part of the attraction of changing my appearance comes from a long-held desire to fuck strangers. I don’t fuck strangers these days, but I do flirt wildly with them. New men, with different bodies and clothes and mannerisms and accents… they’re special. If I’m meeting you for the first time, and you’re a guy, chances are I’ll spend the first hour or so of our conversation batting away mental images of what it’d be like if you bit my neck. Or slipped a hand up my skirt. Or ordered me to my knees and pushed your aching dick through my eager, open mouth: I can’t help it.
But changing my appearance gives me a tiny flash of that ‘fucking strangers’ hotness, no matter how well I know the guy I’m fucking. Because I’m new now. I’m different. I won’t necessarily drop to my knees the way you know I will – I might push you back on the bed and grind myself up against your straining cock. I might beg you to spit in my mouth, or find myself spitting in yours. I could do this any time, of course, but I don’t often realise I can until something changes about me, and it clicks into place that – hey! I don’t have to be the same person every day.
What I’m saying is that newness is filthy. I’m saying change is sexy. I’m saying bend me the fuck over, grab a handful of my freshly-cut hair, and screw me like we’ve never met.

On making money from sex blogging: how do you do it?
When your sex blog grows beyond a certain point, you’ll get people asking questions like “are you making money from sex blogging?” and “have you given up your day job yet?”

On physical reductionism, and hot anal sex
Buttsex is probably the simplest go-to example when trying to explain how some types of sex make people drool with delight while making other people wince and run away. I love it, and all the men I have done it with love it (because if they didn’t they wouldn’t have bothered doing it with me). But I received an email from someone a while ago which prompted us to have a bit of a chat about the whole thing. He asked:
1. Why would I enjoy fucking you in the ass?
2. Why would you enjoy being fucked in the ass?
They were based, quite understandably, on the specific physical things that he felt, and imagined I felt, and could essentially be summed up with “neither of our bodies are designed for anal sex to provide the most intense type of physical pleasure, so why would you do that rather than anything else?”
I think that’s pretty interesting, because it reflects a view on sex that is very different to my own.
Sex isn’t just about the in-and-out
I love the feeling of cock inside me. I love feeling it in my mouth, in my cunt, and in my ass. The specific physical sensation – of being full, being stretched, being the willing and moaning receptacle for something rigid and twitching – is excellent. I have nerve endings in my cunt that thrill with the touch of your dick, and I have nerve endings elsewhere that thrill with that touch too – perhaps not quite as thoroughly, but they thrill nonetheless.
However, the joy of sex is not limited to this purely physical thing. If you read some of the dirtier stories I write, the things that make them filthy hot are not the descriptions of the tingles and shivers in my cunt: they’re the things that go a bit deeper – that fire thoughts in my head that make me want it with an aching desperation. Sex feels nice physically, but amazing mentally.
The power of a stunning fuck comes not from the specific movements of someone’s cock, but from the fact that his hands grip my hips, the power with which he pulls me back onto him. The words he whispers when he calls me a “good girl”, or when he puts his hand over my mouth and whispers a menacing “sssh.”
Sometimes he pulls his dick out of me and teases my clit with the slick, taut head of it, and I bite my lip and push up against him. Sometimes he orders me into a specific position: “Get on your side. Pull your leg up. That’s it. Get your arse high in the air so I can fucking see you.” Then he slaps a firm hand onto it before he enters me.
All of these things, physically, do less than his dick. But in reality they do so much more.
Fuck me in the ass because it’s filthy
So yeah, anal sex doesn’t do as much for me physically as the sex we have when he puts his cock in my cunt. But what it does do is give me the opportunity to grit my teeth, to shiver with nervous anticipation as he flips me onto my side and I hear him opening the bottle of lube. To brace myself with delicious anticipation as he tells me: “I’m going to fuck you in the ass now. Do you want that?”
The “oh I’m not sure oh please yes oh God it hurts and I love it” moment when the head of his dick pushes into me.
The nerve endings thrill – and there is an element of pure physical pleasure there. But that’s a bonus feature – the main event is the filth. The feeling that I’m being used, that I’m hurting to be used, that I love the pain so much and my need for it makes me a dirty, dirty bitch. It’s one thing being called a ‘good girl’ after we’ve fucked and I’ve come three times. Quite another to glow with the achievement of taking a solid fuck in a place where it hurts, being stretched and filled with his spunk, then glowing with my own achievement afterwards – when he calls me a ‘good girl’ after that, I feel like I’ve really earned it.
It’s all play, of course: buttsex isn’t a particularly taboo or perverted thing to do, and nor is it something that only he enjoys. But when it hurts a bit I can keep up the pretense that that’s exactly the case, and it makes it hotter for both of us.
Anal sex from his point of view
So I think the above has satisfactorily answered the question “why do you like getting fucked in the ass?”, but what of the other – what’s in it for him? Here’s the full text of the guy’s question, which I found utterly fascinating – as someone who doesn’t have a penis myself, I am a big fan of hearing explicit descriptions, from a dick-owner’s perspective, on how fucking actually feels:
Think about it: pretend you have a cock. The whole thing is a bundle of nerves, although, sadly, far fewer nerves than your clit. The end of this cock of yours, the head, is particularly sensitive. Now, put it into that girl over there. First, her cunt: you can feel all of her on every part of your cock; the head deeply buried in firm girl-flesh, wet and fragrant. Next, fuck her in her mouth. Same thing, although now you have the added bonus of her throat milking the spunk out of you. (And, if you are very lucky, her eyes on yours as she sucks.) Very nice, no? Now, roll her over and fuck her in her ass. Gently at first, and then at ramming speed. What do you feel? Better question: what do you not feel that you did feel in the other two orifices? Right! You don’t feel anything except the ring of her ass holding you. That’s it. Nothing else.
Awesome stuff, obviously. Unfortunately, this kind of description can only take us so far. I now know that the exact feeling of my ass on someone’s dick is potentially not as nice as the feeling of my cunt. But what I also know – because I interrogate men I shag about their cock sensations with an enthusiasm that is probably quite tiring for most of them – is that all cunts feel different. Some are deep, some shallow, some tight, some looser, ridged in different ways, different levels of moistness, etc etc. And yet each and every one of them is fun to fuck.
Presumably, for every penis there exists an ‘optimum pleasure’ cunt. One which grips your exact cock shape in the best way, which milks the spunk out of you as it twitches to climax in just the right rhythm and with the perfect amount of pressure. Yet you don’t pledge your life to that particular cunt: you explore other ways of pleasuring yourself that don’t involve that same sensation every time.
So I can assure you that, no matter how much better my cunt might be as a snug, warm, wet dick-milking organ, my entire body can do so much more. He will fuck me in the ass because it makes me squeal in a way that he loves to hear. Because he enjoys being the grunting, angry dominant one who tells me to ‘sssh’ and empties himself into me like I’m just a toy for him to play with. He loves the tightness, but he also loves the way I squirm as he orders me to push myself back onto him. He likes to hear me gasp, and he likes to feel me tense up as he fucks me harder. He loves the sound of me begging him: “please, please, please come inside me.”
He loves to hold me afterwards and kiss my neck, and tell me I’m a fucking good girl.
So, while I cannot possibly answer why you might want to fuck me in the ass (you might not want to, and that’s cool – we can still be mates), I can tell you why other guys do. My answer to both of your questions is – and always will be – I like hot anal sex because it’s really fucking fun. Physical reductionism takes us some way towards understanding why certain acts are hot, but if we rely on it as the sole measure of whether sex is pleasurable, we might as well just have a wank.
Sex is not the opposite of feminism
Do we need to say this? Really?
An article went up on IndyVoices today that discussed feminists “dancing on the grave of NUTS magazine” and lamented that “by outlawing lads’ mags we risk turning women’s sex into a taboo.”
It’s not the only thing I’ve seen that wants to pit Feminism against Sex in some imaginary battle of opposites. I’ve seen some bloggers saying that sex positivity is being pushed in people’s faces and that there’s pressure on anyone who writes about feminism to be simultaneously politically angry and coquettishly sexual. This is often taken to mean that if one wants to be a proper feminist – you know, one of the one’s who is really serious about it rather than one of the ones who just wears feminism the way they’d accessorize with a lovely new scarf – then one has to avoid being sexual.
Pro-sex doesn’t mean pro-the current sexual norm
The reason the IndyVoices article is a steaming pile of horseshit is that it assumes there is only one kind of sexuality: the kind that’s packaged by publications such as NUTS magazine, page 3, and anything that involves a lady showing her cleavage to get one over on weak men who are hampered by erections.
To say that this is a narrow view of sexuality is to drastically undersell the problem. Of all possible sexual worlds, this is a very very small one in a multiverse teeming with infinite possibilities.
So, you can be against this particular portrayal of women and still be pro-sex.
Being a feminist does not mean ignoring male sexual pleasure
Some men like sex. Some women like sex. It is not inherently anti-feminist to be a woman who enjoys pleasuring men, just as it isn’t anti-feminist to be a woman who’d rather not do that, thank you very much.
If you want to sign up to be a feminist (I’ve got a clipboard and a list of names here somewhere – every sign-up gets a free “YAY FEMINISM” badge), you don’t have to push back against anything that might make an individual man happy. You just have to want men and women to be equal. That means Cosmo and Glamour articles on ‘how to please your man in bed’, the ones mentioned in the IndyVoices piece, are not necessarily ‘anti-feminist’.
I know, I am sticking up for Cosmo – shock. That is literally how bad things have got.
What is anti-feminist is when these articles frame their version of sexuality as the only possible one. If these magazines are the dominant things that shape the discourse, with no acknowledgement that – hey! People are basically all individuals and the chances are that our generic sex tips won’t work on everyone! And some people don’t actually want to have this kind of sex anyway! – that’s when things are fucked. The problem isn’t that these articles exist, the problem is that they tell us a very specific story about how we all should be.
So: wanting sexual pleasure – to give it and to get it – is not anti-feminist. What is anti-feminist is claiming that everyone must give it and get it in exactly the same way.
Anti-page-3 doesn’t necessarily mean anti-women
The No More Page 3 campaign has taken a lot of stick. But it has taken a lot of stick for a pretty good reason: it comes across as pretty anti-women. Like, really. Although they are fighting against sexual norms that paint women as interesting baubles for men to wank over (and I am totally down with smashing that), some of the campaign rhetoric involves making women feel bad for displaying their bodies, and that’s not cool.
Going back to point 1 – there are many different types of sexuality. And Page 3 caters to one very specific type. In my feminist, pro-sex Utopia, there will be things that cater to this type of sexuality: there will be women who earn money by getting their tits out for lads who wank to them, and no one will hate on any of the participants in this happy exchange. However, it will all be happening in an environment that is very different to the one we have now: an environment in which this type of sexuality is merely one among many, one which is not the dominant face of ‘sex’ as society understands it, and which no one feels pressured to participate in or look at if they don’t want to, because we will all accept that this is not the only way.
Feminism is about not telling women what they should be. Or what they should not be.
Pro-sex doesn’t mean pro-‘pushing your sexual desires onto other people’
This one’s the kicker, and it’s this view I’ve seen fairly frequently elsewhere. I’ve read articles and blogs by people I admire saying that they feel pressured to be overtly sexual in order to “keep up with the Joneses” of popular ‘sex-positive’ feminism. It’s the other side of the coin from the IndyVoices article.
In IV, the author claims that ‘feminists’ are in danger of turning ‘women’s sex’ into a taboo. I’ve heard other bloggers claim that – on the contrary – women who do not want to openly discuss their sex lives are made to feel like renegades and outcasts while the rest of us frolic in an online orgy of self-congratulatory masturbation.
I don’t think anyone should be made to feel like this. Sex positivity is not about all getting our tits out and smearing chocolate on each other. It’s not about wanking on buses, or making everyone tell us the intimate details of their sexual fantasies. It’s about accepting that everyone has different desires: I want to live in a world where I can openly enjoy sex, and talk about everything that I (and other people) do to my body that gives me pleasure. Other people might want to live in a world where they can enjoy sex very privately, or not do it at all, or sort of enjoy it sometimes but not shout about it from the rooftops.
Guess what? These people can all coexist happily! The reason I set up this blog is so that people like me who enjoy the kind of sex that I do can come and talk about it and we can swap stories with each other. Also, if I’m honest, because I like to boast and my mates are probably sick of me talking about this shit in the pub after four gin and tonics. However, I do not print it out and wave it in the faces of passing strangers, because not all of them will be down with it.
So, while I love talking about sex, I realise that there are many who would rather not talk about it, do it, or have it shoved in their faces. In a genuinely sex-positive world, all of us can live happily and equally no matter how much sex we want, what kind of sex we want, or whether we want it at all.
Feminism is sex-positive, but not sex-compulsory
To my mind, feminism and sex-positivity go hand in hand. However, ‘sex-positivity’ doesn’t just mean mourning the loss of NUTS magazine and insisting that Page 3 is totally fine – that’s being ‘positive’ about just one aspect of sexuality, and failing to acknowledge the huge problems with the fact that this type of sexuality dominates our discourse in a way that is often misogynist.
I think sex-positivity is about more than just shouting “YAY SEX” and fucking whoever I like. It’s about more than just what porn I do or don’t watch, or whether I buy sex toys. It’s not about whether I’ll flash my tits to get into a nightclub and call it empowering. To me, being sex-positive is about celebrating the diversity of human sexual experience. And with such a diversity, we are always bound to disagree. I just wish we could have those disagreements without having to pretend that sex is the opposite of feminism.
I appreciate there are problems to tackle, and I am happy to navigate the ethical path of my sexual desire and my feminist principles. But I will do that, because feminism and sex are not mutually exclusive. It’s a complicated relationship, but a close one, and ultimately I choose both.