Men I fuck tell me secrets. Loads of secrets. They tell me about adventures they’ve had with other people, or playful exploration on their own. Desires that sit on pause in the far reaches of the back of their brain, awakening only when I ask them to tell me something filthy.
It’s not shameful to have these secrets. I bet when I mentioned them there were one or two things that bubbled briefly to the surface of your mind: the stories that make you feel shame, or the ones to which you’ve been sworn to absolute secrecy. Maybe they aren’t memories, but fantasies – shadow-versions of you who seized a particular moment, or visions of your future in which you aren’t afraid to give voice to your yearning depravity.
This is the sexiest thing.
The best aphrodisiac is that story about you wanking in a forest
Shy dudes telling me hot things they once did, with a heady, erotic combination of bravado and shame. Men who look shyly down at pint glasses or wine-stained tablecloths before flicking their eyes up to my face, registering my desire to hear – to know – before uttering the sentence that’s the best aphrodisiac for me:
“I’ve never told anyone this but here goes…”
Tales of tight-sniffing and underwear theft. Blowjob swaps with college friends or sex challenges gone wrong or visits to anonymous houses late at night to play scenes with masked-up strangers. Masturbationally creative mishaps. Masturbationally creative epiphanies.
That last one’s the most popular, by the way.
And those are just the ones I can tell you about. Some stories are even more secret than that, because the whispered, horny secret came with an extra layer labelled ‘I’m so serious don’t even tell your anonymous blog’ slathered neatly on top. But these secrets are the best aphrodisiac. They’re the turn-on to beat all other turn-ons.
You can keep your tits and arse and cock and everything flesh-focused and physical, because the atoms that make up your body will never be more ‘you’ than the neurons that make up your mind. The things you have done, and the dreams you have had, are more powerful than anything I can see with the naked eye.
Though they can be evidenced by things I can see with the naked eye, because these memories and fantasies have so much power that the mental becomes the physical. When I ask for your dirty little secrets, the ones which bubble up in your mind have the power to cause you to stutter or blush. To slick your knickers or stretch your pants or simply take a big, deep breath to refresh your brain. Giving it strength and energy and a teeny bit of time, allowing you to think very carefully indeed about whether you let me inside.
Don’t tell me you’ll send me a dick pic: tell me secrets. The crush you had on your friend at school and how you once wanked over his gym socks. The lover who asked you to fulfil their weird kink, and the moment you realised you were super fucking into it. The wanks you had which necessitated a pre-jerk-off trip to the supermarket, or the hardware store, or your drug dealer. The stories that have been whirling round and round in your head, trapped there for aeons by shame, just waiting for the right eager pervert to invite you to pour them all out.
Tell me your dirty little secrets. There is no aphrodisiac on the planet that can ever hope to compete.