Do you remember the kids’ fable of Brer Rabbit and the briar patch?

I’ll refresh your memory: Brer Rabbit was a bit of a dick, and Brer Fox decided he didn’t like him much. He made a trap in which to catch Brer Rabbit, and Brer Rabbit walked straight into the trap. On catching him, Brer Fox (who thought he was cunning) wondered aloud what he should do with the rabbit now he’d caught him. Brer Rabbit shouted:

“I don’t care what you do, as long as you don’t throw me in the briar patch!”

“Anything?” said the fox, and at this point I think he could have benefited from a few lessons in critical analysis and not trusting sources with a huge vested interest. “You’d really want me to do anything rather than throw you into the briar patch?”

“Yes,” said Brer Rabbit. “Hang me, shoot me, eat me, just don’t throw me into the briar patch!”

So our hapless fox, who I remember feeling intensely irritated by as a small child, did the opposite of what the rabbit had requested, and he hurled Brer Rabbit into the briar patch. Brer Rabbit, who was also a bellend, danced for joy. Burning all of the bridges marked ‘potential future escape scenario’, he crowed that the briar patch was actually his favourite place to be.

“I was born and bred in the briar patch! Hahaha!”

What the fuck has this story got to do with flogging? I’ll tell you.

I rarely play the ‘briar patch’ game. Leather belts, canes, anything whippy with a biting sting is not to be trifled with. I’ll be up-front about my limits, and clear as day when I give feedback. If I’m being bratty and getting playfully punished, a thin cane gives a genuine reprimand. I’ll grit my teeth, bare my arse, and bite back yelps with each stroke.

The flogger, though? It’s my briar patch: I wasn’t born and bred with it, but ever since I started loving BDSM, it’s always been my happy place. My favourite flogger is heavy and thick – purple suede (obviously), with enough fronds that it falls like a thud. There’s a sting if you place it in certain ways – with the tails whipping round to catch me on the hip rather than the bottom. But if you can place it perfectly, right in the middle of one of the cheeks, I will moan and squirm like you’ve just kissed my clit.

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There are plenty of things in life I love right now, which I’ll inevitably tire of in the future; painting weird patterns on my nails, eating coleslaw directly from the tub, occasional incompetent gardening. But there is one thing I will never ever tire of: hearing new masturbation tricks.

The following story was told to me by a smoking hot stoner guy – the same guy who taught me blowbacks could be a form of breath play. I’m going to tell it to you in his own words, as closely as I can remember. If you would like to picture him speaking, understand that however you see his face, you must give him big hands and broad shoulders: strong, hefty arms in a loose t-shirt. Picture it now: imagine him reaching down to grip his cock.

Got it? Then let’s begin.

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It’s Sunday morning: you’re possibly hungover. You’re probably keen to fill your face with the greasiest, stickiest breakfast you’ll get to have all week. I feel you. Here are the best three post-sex breakfasts, as judged by the fucks that came before.

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For over a year now, Stuart F Taylor (aka @chainbear on twitter) has been drawing illustrations to go with my blog posts. They’re stunning things, each one custom drawn to go with a particular post. Whether it’s a specific sex act (like spanking) or an abstract concept (like edging yourself to orgasm), each and every one of them is a work of sexy art.

Stuart’s going to be taking a very well-earned break for a month or so, so I thought it might be a nice opportunity to give you a run-down of some of my favourite sexy illustrations that he’s drawn over the last year or so. Problem with picking favourites though, is that I love every single one of them so it’s pretty much impossible to choose – head to the image galleries (SFW one + NSFW one) and check out the others.

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My favourite arcade game used to be the 2p waterfall. I don’t know if you get them everywhere, or just in the kind of shit seaside town I grew up in. A combination of permanent drizzle, a shingle beach, and water you have to have rabies jabs to swim in meant that traditional outdoor activities were far less tempting than the arcade.

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