A thousand words about a picture

Image by the brilliant Stuart F Taylor

We’re both quite sweaty, that’s the first thing. This picture is all the hotter because of that. There’s a light sheen on the side of his face, but I – as ever – am the sweatiest. Hair in wet curls plastered to my neck and forehead, the white shirt I’m wearing absolutely drenched to near transparency. The photo was taken at a fun, bouncy gig. We’d been dancing.

That night was the first time I’d seen him in over a week, and I was craving his touch. Just absolutely desperate to feel the heat of his hands in the small of my back and his breath on my face. You can practically see that hunger shining out of me in the photo.

A friend of ours spotted us snogging in a corner and snapped a pic to send us – of him and me and me and him and the powerful, visible evidence of our ravenous lust.

He’s wearing a black t-shirt, which complements my white one perfectly. He’s pale, bearded, bald and sexy. I’m slightly hidden behind him so all you can really see of me is my left arm, tense with need, hand cupping the back of his neck and pulling him right up tight. His arm – the beautiful shape of it emphasised with gorgeous tattoos – is clasped around my waist, gently tugging me towards him.

Our faces are close together. His eyes are shut, so are mine. His lips are closed too, pursed a tiny bit to show he’s reaching for a kiss. Mine are slightly parted, as if I’m about to devour him.

Many men in the past have photographed me naked – my arse (fine), my tits (OK), the wet, open lips of my dripping cunt (please no) or me sucking their cock (why not?). But those are so dull by comparison – this is the hottest image anyone’s ever taken of me.

The sweatiness which would normally make me cringe makes me grin instead: I’m sweating because I was dancing with him. Bouncing and singing and occasionally reaching down to grab his arse. Smiling into his bright-bright eyes and encouraging him to watch those beads of sweat drip from my forehead to my chest and down my cleavage.

I don’t care that I look as big and broad as ever – my lifelong obsession with how massive I always appear fades into nothing. We’re the same height, he and I: the perfect match for snogging. This picture shows a night on which we really made the most of it.

Later, we took some friends back to my place. And although I didn’t think that night could get better, it did. His friends got on with mine, and they made friends too. He had fun with my best mate, and they shared hugs. As someone whose boyfriends have often had an issue with my male best friend, this is one of the purest joys I can ever experience: my boys getting along. I want to gulp down all this happiness like a pint of ice-cold cider.

Our friends chatted and drank and swapped music, while he and I snuck off to the kitchen, the hallway, the garden… anywhere just to spend time in each other’s arms. Whispering about how desperately we wanted to go to bed and touch. Our mates pulled an all-nighter, but eventually – with my cunt aching and my heart completely full – I insisted my Hot Punk Guy come to bed. Just for a while.

So as that night turned into daytime and our drunken glows morphed into excruciating hangovers, we lay in bed and shored up our connection. My lips on his, breathing the same air. I touched his cock so gently, feeling it pulse beneath my fingertips. Staring into his wide, beautiful eyes and telling him how excited I am for whatever we choose to do next. Soaking up the sound of his voice as he told me the same, ticking off things on our mutual bucket list: I can’t wait to take a trip with you; meet more of your friends; try that casual sofa-sex idea; get stoned and go for a roast; learn more about how you think and what you want. At one point, in the midst of this pulsing intimacy, I took his hand and placed it low down on my stomach, at the top of my knickers, encouraging him to slide his fingers further.

“Want to feel how excited I am?” I asked, and he nodded.

When he reached the soaking wetness at the top of my thighs, he moaned.


Everybody loves in different ways – we express it with different words and gestures, at different moments in time. His way is to tell me he wants me forever – make grand promises that stretch out into future decades. My way is to dive into the detail: sketch out the exact shape and texture of my love, the specifics of how and why I want him. Just as I’ve tried to do here with that beautiful photo – talk you through the detail of exactly why it thrills me.

He’s embarrassed to have been caught in such a private moment, I think. I, on the other hand, am grateful to our friend for sending me this truly precious thing.

He and I. Us. At our best.

Captured in one ecstatic second.

Of the many happy moments in my lucky, lucky life, this one’s so close to the top. I’m sweaty and drunk and thrumming with lust, safe in the arms of the man I love most, lips slightly parted as if I’m about to consume him.

And all the things I would usually nitpick about my appearance, like how many chins I have or whether my eyebrows are overgrown… the thickness of my upper arms, the breadth of my shoulders or waist, the chips in my nail polish or redness in my cheeks or pores on my nose or whatever… they mean nothing.

Who cares about how I look? Together we are fire.




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