We all know that communicating about sex is vital. Whether it’s sending a hot email with your filthy plans for the evening, or asking your partner just how hard they want to be spanked, sex cannot possibly be fun unless you know which bits the other person likes.

And yet for some reason people laugh when I ask the burning questions.

Are you sad that you can’t fit your whole fist in me?

Is it nice if I keep sucking for a bit after you’ve come?

Do the ‘blow-job-imitating cock sheaths actually feel like a blow job?

For some reason I am known as one who irritates – even pesters – gentlemen I fuck about the deep details of their opinions on anything to do with sex.

What’s the best porn you’ve ever seen?

Have you ever warmed up a melon and then fucked it?

Or their bodies…

When you hold your dick to stop yourself pissing, does the semi mean you stop needing to go, or just that you can’t go?

Do you like the taste of your own spunk?

Can you tell the difference between this [wanks off with right hand] and this [wanks off with left hand]?

The truth is that, while a lot of these questions are there because I’m just tingling with curiosity…

Is it more fun to jizz loads in volume, or to jizz with force and power?

What’s better: coming inside me or coming on my tits?

Many of them are there because the very act of him answering turns me on. Watching his eyes glaze over as he considers the implications – the details – of each question I ask makes my blood run hot and my mind run into overdrive.

If I rub my cunt on your feet while I’m sucking you, does that put you off your own orgasm?

When we first got together, did you used to wank about me?

Do you still wank about me?

As I ask about it, I like to think about him doing it. And I know that while he may not share my fantasies, he’s more than happy to play along with them for a few minutes – to give me that delicious sense of sexual hope that comes from his temporary uncertainty about the answer.

Would you suck another dude off and let me watch?

Do you prefer to come on my tits or my arse?

What’s the most wanks you have ever had in a day?

And I know it can sometimes be trying…

No, but hypothetically, if you were going to suck another dude off and let me watch, which dude would you pick?

Or clumsy…

If you could get a hand job from anyone, would you rather someone with huge hands so they could envelop your cock, or tiny hands to make your cock look massive?

Or downright bizarre…

If we were having sex, and I turned into a zombie halfway through, would you keep going?

But I love asking questions – I love it. I love that despite the oddness of my pillow-talk investigations, he takes this shit seriously. No matter what I ask. Whether it’s weird hypotheticals…

Any kind of sex you want with just one person, or only blow jobs forever but from as many people as you like?

Would you rather never wank again but get shagged once a month, or never shag again but can wank as often as you like?

If I transported you back in time, blindfolded, to different sexual encounters, could you tell who you were fucking just based on the shape and feel of their cunt round your dick?

Ridiculous scenarios…

If you saw me in an Amsterdam window, how much would you pay for a shag?

What’s five Euros in British money?

Tittilating possibilities…

What’s the weirdest thing you’ve ever shoved up your arse?

Which of these x-rated Tumblr gifs is your favourite?

Tentative suggestions…

Your opinion on spunk bubbles?

Could you come just from me doing… this? [does ‘this’]

Or genuine concerns…

Do I taste different at different times of the month?

Have you ever woken up when I’ve been wanking next to you in bed?

I love the questions – I love the chat. From the sublime, through the terrifying, to the so-ridiculous-he-can-barely-give-an-answer. Because it’s not the questions themselves that matter – it’s the fact that I’m asking them. That I’m saying “hey, I’m really interested in this. I’m interested in you. Now please tell me everything you can about your penis.”

I know it gets irritating sometimes, and when it’s late at night and we’re lying in bed, and I have his dick in my hand, often the last thing he wants to do is engage in a surreal sexual game show.

Pizza or buttsex? Blowjobs or throatfucks? Nancy Botwin or Danaerys Targaryen?

But he answers. Because he knows that the best way to give me a window into his desires is to give me the rapid-fire answers to sexual questions. If you asked me what I like sexually I could write two thousand words that passably reflect what goes on in my head: the thrusting, aching, wet desire that covers all the things I truly love. He, on the other hand, would sit in front of a blank page for half an hour and eventually scrawl “tits” before throwing it into the bin. But neither of us would come close to really nailing the nuanced and subtle things that push us into arousal.

He answers my questions because the answers paint the picture that neither of us can fully do with words. Because alongside zombies, time-travel, spunk-force and Amsterdam windows, what I’m actually asking is:

What do you like?

And that’s my favourite question of all.

 

Note: All of these are genuine questions I have asked my boyfriend at one point or another. He helped me write the list for this blog post, and there were about a hundred more that didn’t make the final cut. If you have any questions you’d ask your partner, chuck them in the comments and let’s see if we can get different people answering them!

In my wallet I have a coin that can’t be spent anywhere. I had six of these, once, and I can’t remember where I got them from. They look a bit like two pound pieces, but they’re designed as arcade tokens of some sort.

A long time ago I gave half of them to my boy. “These are yours,” I said. “Because you like shiny things, and because I have no idea what to do with them but they’re too satisfyingly pretty to waste, there’s something deliciously symbolic in each of us having a few.”

“OK,” he said, conveniently forgetting to add “why must you always be so weird, darling?”

Apology tokens

Later that week I got pissed. A horrible, ugly kind of pissed, the way I used to get at University when hangovers were just something that happened to other people. I made exactly the kind of fool of myself that you would expect, and that I still blush to remember. Loudly obnoxious, I made inexcusably crap jokes in front of his friends, flirted wildly with at least two of them, and said some thoughtless things to him in casual conversation that gave him a tight hurt deep in his chest.

“I’m so sorry,” I said the next morning. “I’m awful, and I will never do that again.”

“Shit, don’t worry,” he replied, because he is infinitely magnanimous and lovely like that. “Happens to the best of us.” And then he took one of my tokens.

So began a game of give-and-take. When he’d fuck up in some way, or upset me, he’d give me a token. When I fucked up, I’d hand one to him. The actual tokens were meaningless – you couldn’t buy anything with them, and they weren’t recognisable to anyone outside of our twosome. But between us they meant loads: I fucked up, I’m sorry, I love you.

It’s my fault.

Fighting and reuniting

I hate fighting. The arguments I had in past relationships were usually drawn-out affairs, in which both I and my partner would sit in spiky, accusing silence for hours, waiting for the other person to throw the next hurtful comment. When the comment came, so did the knee-jerk response, and the ground of the argument shifted from “you haven’t done the washing up” through “remember how you behaved at my friend’s wedding” to “why have you never truly loved me?” over the space of miserably bitter nights.

Because – especially for an argumentative harpy like me, who sees debate as a matter of both professional and personal pride – it’s hard to say ‘I’m wrong’. Giving ground feels not like a natural compromise between two sensible adults but like – *gulp* – losing.

Hence the tokens: it’s easier for me to give him a token than to admit a mistake. Easier to hold my hand out and ask for a token when I think he’s fucked up. It’s a way of transferring blame that doesn’t mean having to say any actual words that hurt each other.

“You’re a cunt.”

“You’re a bitch.”

“You’re wrong.”

I can just hold out my hand and hope he gives me a token. Or I can pass him one of mine, and meet his eyes, and he’ll know without me having to say it that I mean ‘fuck fuck fuck I’ve done it again and I’m so fucking sorry.’

Your fault/my fault

There’s only one token left in my wallet now, which I think means that on balance I’m a bad person. But I can’t quite be sure because this system died a long time ago. Did we just forget? Were there so many months without arguments that the system fell by the wayside? Or did he, knowing I had just that one left to hold on to, forego the chance to ‘win’ so that I wouldn’t feel too terrible?

One of the heart-achingly wonderful things about him is his power to stop arguments. As I shake and rage on my stubborn high horse, he can step forward, put out his hand and say “let’s stop fighting now.” Never “just admit you’re wrong” or “shut up and we’ll have dinner” – there’s no blame or anger, just “let’s stop fighting now.” A heartfelt desire to be held, and loved, and an understanding that although the problem remains, the fight itself is over. It means no row has to bleed over into tomorrow, and the next day, and the next.

It’s one of the best things about him, and a skill that I – as a stroppy and defensive bastard – would utterly love to be able to master. It’s one of the things I boast about when I’m boring my friends with stories about how lovely he is. Relationship diplomacy at its best, and a tactic that has proven valuable during every fight we’ve ever had.

Except, inevitably, this one.

Yesterday, I blogged in the Guardian about crap relationship advice – there’s a mountain of it out there, often backed up by  poor arguments, pseudosciencey ‘facts’ and anecdotal evidence.

However, because I am a clumsy arse, I spectacularly failed to mention that not everyone is spouting bullshit – just as pseudoscience is irritating in opposition to real science, so there is good relationship advice to contrast with the bad. There are some people out there who give fantastic advice, based on genuine evidence, expertise and empathy. To try and rectify my clumsiness, here are a few fantastic people who know what they’re talking about, and won’t give you any crap about Rules, Game, or Ten Ways To Blow His Mind In The Sack…

Dr Petra

Dr Petra is a social psychologist – she writes a blog about sex and relationships, and advice columns in places like the Telegraph. Her advice is non-judgmental and evidence-based, and if you head to her website you’ll also find lots more links to good info sources.

Her recent blog about how one goes about getting involved in sex research strikes me as the sort of thing you might like to join in with. She also picks up on a lot of the bad science in sex.

Meg Barker

Meg’s site – ‘Rewriting the Rules‘ – is a source of fantastic advice too. I find anything Meg writes on gender particularly helpful – I am pretty clumsy and unsure on the topic, and Meg has taught me many things. If you’re a newbie to this topic too, this article on non-binary gender is a good place to start.

Bish

His advice is mostly for young ‘uns, but there is a hell of a lot of stuff on his website that I – as an adult human who has had a lot of sex – still didn’t know. He taught me that what I had previously believed about hymens was inaccurate, introduced me to cute ethical stickman porn, and is one of those rare people who can give you advice without ever making you feel bad for needing it.

Sense about sex

It’s like sense about science, but for sex – need I say more? I will anyway – this is also the source of Bad Sex Media Bingo, which you should keep by the telly so you can tick off the examples of media sex bullshit next time Channel 4 does a documentary on wanking.

This list isn’t exhaustive – from the comments on the Guardian article, I’ve already added OnePlusOne and Annalise Barbieri to my list of things/people to read in future. If you have other recommendations to add, please do drop a link in the comments! Then the next time I write an article about this stuff, I can remember to link to the good, rather than just rant about the bad.

As a sex blogger, I am legally obliged to provide some sort of fodder that hits the keyword “Valentine’s Day”, or Google will have me shot. But if you want a syrupy-sweet and romantic entry or a rant about twee, tedious predictability of the day itself, you’re better off looking at previous years’ entries. Because today I’m going to talk about House of Cards.

House of Cards on Valentine’s Day

No, this isn’t just an excuse to remind other fans that Season 2 of House of Cards will be released on February 14th, it’s simply because House of Cards presses so many of my ‘holy shit that’s so hot’ buttons that it is almost impossible to list them all.

I’ll give you my top ones, though.

1. Powerful, evil men

From Andrew Scott’s playfully terrifying Moriarty to the drawling, bass sarcasm of Professor Snape, there’s an entire book to be written about how deliciously sexy evil can be. I’m definitely not the only one who thinks this. Plenty of submissive-leaning people on Twitter replied to my achingly hot story about number 14 by telling me, in no uncertain terms, that they were off to rub themselves raw, and I’ve been in certain circles where one cannot mention Kevin Spacey’s name without causing at least three people to collapse in a puddle of their own lust.

Why is Kevin Spacey so sexy? I think it’s because in House of Cards he is a ruthless, vicious, scheming man. A bastard’s bastard. The créme de la créme of cunts. And with every new machination, each twisted smile or liberty taken, I want to hug myself with merciless joy and have him devour me like the wolfish Beelzebub he is.

2. Hate fucking

Not all the sex in House of Cards is hateful, but there’s certainly a hell of a lot more of it that is powered by rage, revenge, and politics than you’d get in your average drama series. Sometimes it’s nice to see the perfect couple getting together on screen. But at other times it’s fantastic to be reminded that sex can be had for many reasons: not all of them good.

An on-screen fuck is so much hotter when you know one or other of the characters has an ulterior motive.

3. Zoe Barnes (played by Kate Mara)

I very rarely fancy women, but I am happy to make an exception for Zoe Barnes. She’s indescribably stunning, as well as being sneaky and devious and cunning and all that good stuff too. She also has a quality that I am exceptionally jealous of – in anything she wears her tits look spectacular. I want to hug her so that our chests smoosh together, then pick her up and fuck her against a wall.

The perfect House of Cards relationship

Hauling this entry back from drooling celebrity lust and onto the crucial topic of Valentine’s Day (see, Google? I am playing your wicked game), the most insanely hot thing about House of Cards is the relationship between Frank Underwood (played by Kevin Spacey) and his wife Claire (played by Robin Wright). They’re  both incredibly powerful people, but together they seem to be striving for a kind of give/take equality that I’ve rarely seen before.

Neither of them seems as concerned about fidelity as you’d expect from a high-profile married couple. They both make mistakes, sexually and personally, but what’s utterly fascinating is that they have this ongoing deal: I support you, then you support me. They know that it’s not always possible to excel simultaneously, so they take it in turns. Frank takes the limelight while Claire supports him from the wings, then they swap, and he dedicates his time to making sure that she gets the best exposure.

Every now and then they share a cigarette. The cigarette is, like all smoking on TV these days, a metaphor for their relationship. One of them will start it, then halfway through pass it to the other one. Breathing in, then out, then handing it over.

Love me like Frank Underwood

Don’t get me wrong, these characters are both pretty horrible people, so I wouldn’t recommend any of you turn into Frank Underwood any time soon (unless you are joining me in ‘filthy evil men’ sex games), but their relationship looks a lot like the sort of thing I want. A partnership of the most interesting kind, where you’ll step aside for your partner when they need to succeed, fight for their goals as passionately as you fight for yours, knowing with total certainty that they’ll do exactly the same thing for you a little way down the road.

And, of course, lust painfully after each other as you get dressed for a night out – because along with the support and the love, there’s always a little promise of fiery rage around the corner.

 

Addendum: If this entry wasn’t Valentine’s-y enough for you, here are some previous V-day entries ranked in order of how much I like them.

Love is like being tied to a rock that you also sort of want to have sex with

The most romantic thing I’ve ever written

Unwilling monogamy (not strictly V-day, but about love)

For Valentine’s Day I want a blowjob