My favourite time to fuck is after I’ve emerged from the bath. I step out, dry off, cover my body in lotion or talc, and lie on the bed listening to the tail end of whichever podcast I put on to keep me company while I washed. When it’s nearly finished, I sext…
I miss the house parties I used to go to when I was younger. The casual group of people gathering to drink, which turns into a few more people, a bit more music, maybe some drinking games and… sex. Not group sex, necessarily, just ‘I’m really horny is there a room we can go into to fuck?’ sex. Sex that started with a giggling suggestion and wolf-whistles and ‘get a room!’s. Sex that ended by checking someone else’s parents’ bedsheets for spunk.
Yesterday I got a phone call, while I was in the middle of writing a Twitter thread. It was from my boyfriend, who had – in the process of trying to fix the door – accidentally locked himself in the bathroom. “Can you come upstairs and rescue me please?” he asked. Feeling like a knight in shining armour, making sacrifices for the greater cause of love, I broke off my tweeting and ran upstairs to help.
When I was about twenty two, a friend of mine asked if I wanted to come to a fetish bar with her. This wouldn’t be a particularly unusual thing for someone to ask me, because I am a huge fan of both fetishes and bars. What made it odd, though, is that I’d never once had a conversation with her about kink. There were plenty of other people she knew better than she knew me, and we’d not once spoken about our own personal kinks. So how the fuck did she KNOW I was kinky?
I don’t want to say ‘I love you’ yet again. I only say it because I’m too lazy or too tired or too wrapped up in it to give you eloquent specifics. What I want, instead of these ‘I love yous’, is to be able to describe the shape and weight of your presence in my life. I’d like you to see yourself through my eyes.