A confession: when you’re out, sometimes I lie on your bed and bury my face in your bedsheets. Huffing the lingering scent of summer sweat like it’s perfumed roses or myrrh or forty-quid wine. I am creepy, so of course I sniff your bedsheets. And that’s not all I do.
Some kinks my partner and I do because they come naturally to us – all we need is to hear about them, see them in porn, or get flashes of them in our minds when we’re wanking ourselves to sleep at night, and our guts lurch with a desire that screams “Yes! This one’s for us!” But there are others that take time to consider, or to practise, or to fully understand. To shamelessly paraphrase Kennedy: some kinks we choose to do not because they are easy, but because they are hard.
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.