“It’s hot when two girls get off, but it doesn’t work the other way round.”
“You know. Like women watching a guy play with another guy’s dick. It doesn’t have the same effect.”
I’ve had this conversation too many times. Far too many times. There’s a longer blog to post another day about the fact that straight-guy sexuality is so tightly woven into our culture that often dudes struggle to get their heads round the fact that, you know, they can be objects of lust just as easily as they’re subjects. But I’ll bore you about that another day.
For now, in response to the person who said this to me, allow me to describe an interaction so hot it makes my toes clench, even just remembering it.
On Sunday morning when I slipped back into bed, I realised something: your body changes on a daily basis, and so I will never know every inch of it. It is always new.
From the scent of you, to the heat you radiate, to the marks and curves that come and go: I will never know every detail of your body.
How did I chat people up before? When I was single, and I had to put some effort in beyond just saying “Your dick. My mouth. Now”?
I think I probably started with a hint: a story about this one time at college, leading to a detailed breakdown of who did what. But where there were strangers, now there’s one guy. Where there were hints, now there’s directness:
“Your dick. My mouth. Now.”
“Let’s get some dick in you.”
There are two ways I can tell this story. If you’ve not read the sexy version then pop over and read that before you look at this one – I suspect it won’t have quite the same effect if you read them the other way around. I’ve been wanting to do this ‘two versions’ thing for a while, because it’s as honest an answer as I can find to a very frequently asked question: is what you write true?
It is. But storytelling, like sex, is often about the angle.
How should I define my first date? There were lots of experiences with boys long before I was ever formally asked to the cinema, or for dinner, or whatever it is people do when they’re not just desperately trying to rummage in each other’s pants.
The first time I kissed a guy (on the lips, no snogging or anything) I was at the swimming pool. Our friends had all got together for an afternoon of splashing around, and I was determined that I’d come home with a boyfriend. The proto-boyfriend, you understand – not a real one. The one you get when you ask your best mate to just go around all the boys who seem vaguely willing and ask them in turn: “Will you go out with my friend?”