I want you to connect with this blog post. I want that with all of them, but this one in particular. Dive in, let go, have fun. Don’t wonder where it’s going or what might happen next. I want you to connect with this story.
Casual readers often message me with requests for scenarios or acts, like I’m a sex jukebox and if you chuck a couple of quid in then porn will come out. But anyone who’s been reading for longer than a few months understands that isn’t how it works. Not with the true stories, anyway. On a good day, with a fair wind behind me, I could write you some passable fiction about fisting, even though it isn’t one of my kinks. But ‘passable’ isn’t ‘powerful’ and it’s the latter I’m aiming for.
The posts that hit the hardest (in my opinion, as the arrogant prick who writes them) don’t come from moments when I launched into kinky shit just to hit keywords or complete a bucket-list fuck. The best stories – kinky or otherwise – grow from connection.
It’s easy to talk about sex in raw physical terms: which bit goes where and who did what to whom, but a video camera could tell you all that, you don’t need input from me.
Fucking, though? Pure fucking, the best fucking, is far more than the sum of its parts. Not just a series of horny acts, attempted or completed one after the other till you both decide to stop, but what those acts add up to: the connection you build. Your mileage may vary, of course, but to me exceptional fucking is less about what you do to each other than what you help to create.
That extends to you too, by the way. When you connect with the stuff I write here, you’re helping to create something as well. Though some of you will prefer to be casual observers, and others won’t like it at all (no shade), those of you who dive in with both feet are connecting, on some level, with me and the people I fuck. That’s why when I say ‘no shade’ if it isn’t for you, I really and truly mean that: I don’t expect everyone to consent to this kind of intimacy, as I wouldn’t expect every person on the planet to want to kiss or fuck me. This isn’t Tesco and I’m not slinging meal deals, it’s personal. And ‘personal’ means it has to be a two-way street. If you want to join me on a playful little journey, a lovely horny evening or a promising date, you aren’t just passive observers: you’re planting the seeds of these stories and letting them take root inside your head. Adding layers of your own imagination to fill in unmentioned details: what people’s bodies looked like; the way they smelled; the colour of their eyes. The way this person’s moans sounded or the precise and specific shape of that other one’s dick. It requires a level of honesty on my part that I always aim for but rarely achieve, and an immense amount of empathy and acceptance from you in return, as you meet me with passion or playfulness or whatever other tone best fits the mood. If you’re too cool or cynical then what I’m doing will fall flat. Likewise if you simply aren’t into it – as I say, no shade.
But if you consent to participate, you help to create something hot that only exists between us. I throw a spark out there, you provide the fuel, and together – you and I – we make fire. Isn’t that awesome?
I want you to connect with this blog post.
Connect with this kiss
This guy and I, we’re chilling in my lounge, getting a bit high and giggly. Occasionally making out with each other or asking questions to try and get a feel for how well we match. With immense satisfaction, I take mental note of the fact that his breakfast McDonald’s order is exactly the same as my own, then sit back feeling smug and happy as he greets each song on my playlist with a cry of ‘Fuck, I love this one!’. There’s the occasional understandable mismatch – I wouldn’t ever expect a dude to relate to Karen Carpenter like I do – but broadly he’s into my choices, which is rare.
This level of enthusiasm gives me confidence. A little hint of that precious ‘connection’ that I talk about so much on here. So partway through a song about making peace with your irrelevance in an infinite universe, and accepting your flawed self just as you are… I turn towards him and lean in for a snog.
He kisses so well, this guy. So slowly. He kisses slowly because there are slow songs on the playlist but also, I think, because I kiss slowly. Whenever I’m allowed to, at any rate. Unless there’s a specific reason to power in with something hurried and urgent, these days I tend to kiss with a measured intensity. Adjusting the pressure of my lips and sometimes the location (tracing along someone’s jaw, or fluttering a line of shivery kisses down the side of their neck towards the collarbone, for instance) but usually keeping the pace hovering somewhere just above ‘glacial.’
I want to fucking feel a kiss, you know?
So as a general rule, I try to kiss slowly. And this guy matches my pace. He isn’t anxiously performing dominance or rushing to get on with the next Sex Thing. Nor is he trying to shove his tongue in my mouth when my lips are barely parted. He just… enjoys the kiss. Sitting on the sofa, head turned towards me, he either instinctively wants to take his time about this or he’s deliberately responding to the way that I try and kiss him.
I am all in.
Immediately. Physically. Powerfully. I am nothing but atoms and want.
This guy makes out so beautifully, it feels like we’re slow dancing.
Every jolt of physical sensation that thrums across the surface of my skin is focused on the points where our lips and bodies touch. Not just the kiss, but the way my palm rests on his inner thigh, angled up slightly so I can feel his cock growing hard and heavy in his jeans. The flushed heat from his upper arm where it meets mine as we hold each other. That pinpoint half-pleasure half-tickling sensation from his fingertips as he strokes the bare flesh of my back – trailing over the strip of skin that’s exposed where my top rides up from the waistband of my yoga pants.
These tiny movements, applied with gentle pressure and given time to sink in, have a far more powerful effect than similar actions done with great force and speed. They don’t just fire messages to my brain, they resonate everywhere that matters. Telegraphing lust to the parts of my body that currently stand untouched, but now cry out for it with overwhelming urgency.
The back of my neck, where tiny hairs strain upwards.
My nipples, rock hard against the inside of my bra.
The desperate ache at the entrance to my cunt.
We keep making out, being present in the here and now and relishing these wants. Not trampling on this moment in our haste to reach a fuck. We exist. We kiss. We allow our arousal to bloom.
We give this fully-charged chemistry the respect it fucking deserves.
And we make out for the duration of a song we both enjoy – a song with big feelings about Important Life Stuff. And at the end of that song we break apart and make noises like oh wow and fuck yeah and that was pretty cool wasn’t it.
And then the next track kicks in.
Within three notes I know what it is, and therefore know exactly what I want to fucking do. The song is Jeff Buckley’s ‘Hallelujah’, and on reading that I imagine at least seventy percent of you know too: I wanted to slowly and firmly ride that hot guy’s fabulous dick.
Not only does this man kiss extremely responsively, he’s also receptive to suggestions: non-verbal ones as well as specific requests. So when I straddle him and start, fully clothed, to grind myself against his also-fully-clothed erection, he responds by grinding back gently, while maintaining that slow, ardent kiss. The kiss is pretty much constant, broken only by gentle wanders down the neck or up to forehead and occasional flashes of deeply intimate eye contact.
Eye-contact during sex often makes me nervous. I sometimes worry that the look is a request I need to fulfil. But this eye contact didn’t make me feel that way. This eye contact just pinned me in the moment and made me feel all that other stuff harder. The touching, the warmth, the shivering intensity. It made me realise I was enjoying this so much that my knickers felt wet against my thighs. I could feel myself gushing with each firm rub of flesh through fabric on flesh, and hyper-aware of every taut thud an inch or so inside me as I thoroughly pulsed with longing.
This eye contact was not awkward. This eye contact fully punched me in the cunt.
Straddling him, legs spread wide, putting gentle pressure on the place where his rock-hard dick provided resistance to frot against… there I squirmed, high and happy in his lap, as Jeff Buckley dreamily lilted his way through the first few verses of Hallelujah.
And every single atom that made up who I was thrummed with desperation to get his cock out and sit on it. But at the same time I was so utterly at one with that kiss, and the grinding, that I couldn’t comprehend ever switching to anything else. I rubbed myself against him and I sighed and kissed that man as if I had the whole of eternity spare in which to do so.
And he responded. In sync. Like we were slow dancing.
Echoing my movements, kiss for kiss and pulse for pulse and thrust for thrust until I couldn’t remember which of us was in the lead and who should follow.
I am the opposite-of-ashamed to tell you I almost came in my fucking knickers.
We didn’t fuck to that song, but only because we were too busy making out and frotting. I was drinking in the way he’d occasionally breathe out these horny little sighs. The way his hands trembled when he touched me. The colour of his eyes, Jesus Christ, half-closed in a fuckdrunken stupor.
The rigidity of his cock as he thrust back up against me: matching my pace to perfection. Meeting me exactly where I was – with empathy and acceptance and passion and playfulness – in that precise moment in time.
Create something with me
I want you to connect with this story. Dive in, let go, have fun. Don’t wonder where it’s going or what might happen next. The man who features in it has never read my blog. He knows what I do, but not who I am, and he’s asked not to know those details just yet (so if you know him, ssssssh). But because he hasn’t read the blog, I worry that he can’t offer truly informed consent to be featured.
What’s more, he’s expressed the occasional concern that he can’t live up to the kink expectations of a professional sex-haver like me. He even asked me, on one of our dates, if I found it harder to blog when I was in a relationship – as if an intimate connection with one person might hamper the work that I do!
I wrote this piece to try and show him what I do, without having to send a link and compel him to access the intimidating mountain that is my back catalogue: twelve years of sex thoughts and stories spanning everything from fuckmachines to free use secretaries, angry rants to abject heartbreak. It should (I hope?) give him an idea of what ‘featuring on my blog’ really entails, and therefore mean he can give truly informed consent to appear here (or not, as the case may be).
More importantly I hope it will show him what regular readers know so well already: the hottest moments in my life haven’t come just from ticking weird kinks off an arbitrary bucket list. My favourite stories – kinky or otherwise – grow from intimacy. The connections between me and the people I’m with are what make the most beautiful sex, as the connections you bring to these posts are what make the best bits of blogging.
Fucking – pure fucking, the best fucking – isn’t about what you do to each other, it’s about what you help to create.