Dick groping and impulse fucks: an ode to casual horn

Image by the excellent Stuart F Taylor

One of the things I miss about having a regular partner – notably a live-in one, who hangs around the house, teasing me sluttily by existing in possession of a dick – are those moments of casual horn that come when you’re in close quarters. The fact that another person in my space will necessarily be sexual sometimes, and either by design or pure, gold-plated luck they’re sometimes sexual with (or at) me.  I miss silly, everyday, random bursts of horn.

The idea for this blog post came to me late at night, as I was drifting off to sleep. It occurred to me that it’s been a long long time (literally years) since I was awoken by the gentle shuffling and muffled smacking sounds of a guy beating one out beside me in bed.

I miss that type of casual horn so much. The shaking of the bed, the tension in all his muscles somehow projected through the mattress so I can feel the strain of it too: his rigid focus on the task in hand. The heart-thumping excitement of lying there wondering if he might roll over in my direction so he can dump his cum either into or onto me. The internal dilemma of whether I should pretend I’m still asleep or allow him to realise I’m awake, and then shift myself across the bed till our bodies are touching – all the better to feel how vigorously his tight fist yanks at his straining cock.

The smell of someone. Just that horny, low level, exciting scent of a real human man in the house, one whose dick you’re allowed to touch almost all of the time. Unngh.

Running my hand up his thigh after a scene in a TV show that had some decent fucking in it, to see if he got a boner. Or better yet, sitting with him on the sofa, each of us leaning against opposite arms: legs entwined, my feet gently squished against his crotch. Talking in those casual-yet-hushed voices about the wank he had last Thursday. Reliving a horny moment while lightly pressing the sole of my foot against his dick, massaging it with a casual, purposeless air to see if he fancies a re-run.

I miss the way he’d come in to the room where I was working, flies open and shorts pulled down just far enough that his junk stuck out over the waistband. Cock fat with blood and gripped in one fist – slightly raw-looking, so I could tell he’d been having a wank. And he’d look at me with dark, urgent eyes and say “d’you wanna bend over and get fucked?” And I’d leap up, bend over the sofa, yank down my jeans and spit on my fingertips. Rub the wetness at the entrance to my cunt while he positioned himself behind me. Grunting that I was a ‘good girl‘ as he roughly stuffed it in.

Do you want to know something ridiculous here? Sometimes, when he offered that, I’d say ‘no’. To think! I’d say ‘no’!

“I’m so sorry,” past-me would say, like a fool. “I’m right in the middle of writing this thing and I’m really stressed out.” And he’d shrug his shoulders and retreat to go beat a solo one out elsewhere in the house. Understandable at the time, of course, but weird to me now. I said ‘no’ to a fuck? A bareback, brutal quickie? No more than 5 minutes out of my day but with someone I genuinely loved!? Madness! It could have given me a memory to tide me over during this seemingly-infinite dry spell.

Perhaps next time I have a partner with whom I can do this I’ll be so thirsty for it my capacity to say ‘no’ will have disappeared completely. I hope not: ‘no’ is healthy, because it makes a ‘yes’ so much more exciting. But still. Rationality disappears when you’re drowning in want, so right now I’m enraged with my past self for all of those ‘no’s. On this day, in this moment, I would chew my own arm off for a gold-plated offer like that. Fat, raw dick. Urgent eyes. A tight-gripped fist. “D’you wanna bend over and get fucked?” Christ.

Or for other moments of horn, too. Like when a guy comes up behind me and pretends to fuck me through my clothes. Or how I’d sometimes lean over to hug one man or another and realise that wasn’t quite enough, so I’d twist my body further and climb up, straddling him so I could hug with my thighs as well as my arms. I miss men with whom grinding on their dick feels so natural that we’d just chat like that: me there, him beneath me, his boner this unacknowledged, enjoyable presence just making itself known to both of us.

Holding someone’s dick when they go for a piss! Taking aim and holding it and glancing at his face – focused and concentrating on the power of the stream and the angle and at least a little bit on trying to make sure he doesn’t get too hard while he empties his bladder.

Sitting and talking to someone in the bath. Tugging gently on his flaccid cock. Making a ring with thumb and forefinger just below the ridge of the head and pulling ever so softly against it. Knowing that if I get the pressure and position just right that flaccid cock will start to get fatter and harder in my hand until he swallows pointedly, or makes a little grunting sound in the back of his throat, and then I get to decide right then what to do. Do I straddle him and sit on it, splashing water fucking everywhere, or just order him out of the bath? Keep wanking him or try to hold my nose to stop the water choking me as I take it into my mouth?

Or maybe I save it for later. Say something flirty and just hope he’ll follow me to the bedroom the second he’s out of the bath, tear off my t-shirt and jeans and shove me face-down onto the bed, smothering my own body with his and pressing his cock into the wet slit of my cunt as he growls ‘you’ve been asking for this’ in my ear…

Then the obvious things too, of course: getting my arse smacked as I stand up from the sofa to go fetch drinks or dessert. Hugs that turn into casual gropes in the ‘up next’ breaks between Prime shows. Morning cuddles with insistent erections that dent the bare flesh of my arse. Pub nights with friends in which the conversation touches on a type of sex we’ve had lately, and the flash of grinning delight we exchange when we either don’t think, or don’t care, that people can see them.

I miss fucking. Easy fucking. This fucking.

Above all I miss the abundance of it. It sounds weird to say, but I miss the mundanity of it. These days any one of these scenarios feels like a pot of gold at the end of the rainbow, back then it was just another Tuesday.

I long for a Tuesday on which I can say ‘no’ to sex, and know that a fuck will still be on offer later. Turn down a mid-work shag if I’m not in the mood, without worrying that I’ll be waiting three months until the next opportunity to get my cunt stretched out by a rock-hard mid-wank fist-raw dick. I miss being able to say ‘no’ to this thing right now and not regret it later. Pick and choose a fuck based on whether I am horny, not trying to stockpile it just because it happens to be nearby and fuck knows when hot guys will be back in my area again.

I miss fucking, so much. But I also miss saying ‘no’. I miss being able to turn something down casually – with all the confidence of a woman who knows that when she retires to bed later that evening, he’ll be there beside me, cock in hand. Vigorously shaking the mattress in the darkness. Grunting softly under his breath. Wondering where on my body he will dump his come when he’s done.



Shortly after I drafted this post, I listened to this episode of Katherine Ryan’s podcast where one letter-writer asked for advice on what to do about her husband wanking in bed next to her (starts at 33 minutes 30 seconds). Just goes to show, doesn’t it? One man’s trash is another man’s treasure. One woman’s ‘ewww no’ is another’s ‘unnngh yeah.’


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