Lockdown plays havoc with my horn, and I know I’m not alone. A brief survey of ‘most people I know’ tells me most of us are struggling with very weird lockdown libido. Sometimes we’re numb to the very idea of sex, and wanking feels so alien that we wonder how we could ever have stomached touching our own genitals before. At other times we’re climbing the walls, wanking twelve times a day then yelling BRING ME MORE FUCK like some sex-starved Henry VIII.
“I’m not 17, I’m a grown-arse woman. I just regularly make childish mistakes.”
– Tracey, Chewing Gum
In today’s blog, I am going to tell you about a ridiculous, embarrassing mistake. The first person I told was my good pal Jessica, who greeted this story with howls of laughter followed by ‘you’re definitely going to tell the blog this, aren’t you? You HAVE to.’ And yeah… I am committed to telling you my silliest fuckups as well as my sexiest fucks, so I guess I do have to. This is a story about chewing gum, and the question of how soon in a budding relationship is too soon to be a fuckup.
We’re fucking in front of a mirror, with his hands on my hips and me face-on, tits jiggling and arms reaching behind me so I can hold the back of his head and neck and grip him tightly while he pounds it in. We both look really fucking good and for some reason I don’t feel the awkward-shameful nervousness I would usually feel to see my naked body this close. This jiggly. This… exposed. I think what I have today might be body confidence.
I used to yo-yo break up with my ex-ex. Number eight. The guy I met at university and loved for many years (whose dark dark eyes and devious filth you can read about in my first book if you’re interested). We had our problems, but we also had our passion. Long, tortured silences in the middle of arguments that would stretch on for what felt like hours, while each of us rummaged in our equally-wordy minds for the perfect phrase that would lift the blanket of sadness. But words can’t always do the work: sometimes, most times, the physical yearning would beat our mouths to the punch, and one of us would reach out to touch the other. That touch would set us both on fire, then we’d fuck like the fucking would fix it.
The first time my heart was broken – and I say this with a fairly solid definition of what heartbreak feels like for me, and how it’s different to a simple, everyday hurt – it felt like the world was going to end. There was too much emotion to hold inside my fragile body, and it stayed for so long that I couldn’t conceive of the possibility that one day it wouldn’t be there any more. This heartbreak – puny and pathetic now I come to think about it – was caused by the wandering, horny eye of an eighteen-year-old boy.