It’s quite hard to pinpoint when I knew I wanted to be a sex blogger: I’ve definitely always wanted to write, but I don’t think I’d worked out my niche until recently. Even when I started this blog I was unconvinced that it would turn into a proper vocation – I saw it as a hobby that might somehow be practice for what I’d end up actually doing… until the day it turned into what I actually do. But maybe it actually started before that, as evidenced by this email that my best friend found from ten years’ ago, after a particularly awesome fuck…
I rarely stop loving someone just because I’ve stopped fucking them. The end of a sexual relationship doesn’t always mean the end of a relationship altogether. In all likelihood we were friends before our genitals ever touched. Whether it was a one-off shag, a short-but-sweet playtime, or a long-term commitment, there’s something we’ve shared that I’ll be gutted to let go of.
I’m feeling a bit wistful and nostalgic at the moment, to tell the truth. An article I wrote for The Debrief, in which I had to contact a bunch of my exes and get them to give me sex reviews, left me reeling. As I made a list of people, trying to work out who to ask, I found myself overwhelmed by how many people I’ve shagged that I’m still on ‘hey can I ask you a random question?’ terms with.
I kissed a girl, and I liked it.
Or more truthfully: I kissed a girl and it was sort of OK but the main reason I kissed her is because there was a dude that we both fancied who we knew would be pretty aroused by the whole scenario.
It’s not quite as catchy, but it is something that happens a fair bit. Ever since I first saw girls kiss in nightclubs I’ve heard whispers about ‘lipstick lesbians’ – usually accompanied by judgmental frowning. I’ve heard people moan about it and damn these girls. They’re stupid, they’re pathetic, they’re attention-grabbing and – perhaps most damning of all – they’re not even really into it. How dare they?
I read an article today by Julie Birchill, in which she discusses these girl-on-girl kisses. Girls who like girls for boys, girls who like girls for attention, and – her example being the famous Madonna/Britney snog – girls who like girls for money.
Sometimes I kiss girls for boys
I’m going to go out on a limb and say that there’s nothing wrong in principle with people pulling others for the arousal of a third party. After all, many fantastic threesomes have begun that way. Some of my fantastic threesomes have begun that way. And I’d be a miserable hypocrite if I didn’t admit that two boys kissing to try and turn me on would… well… turn me on. Finally I suppose I should also admit that kissing girls to give boys erections is something that I do quite frequently – it is, perhaps, one of the tamest things I have done in my unending quest to give guys erections.
Likewise, people do shit for money all the time. Money is not an illegitimate reason to do something – it’s the reason most of us haul ourselves out of bed at godforsaken hours of the morning five days a week to go and do boring things when, given the choice, we’d rather be at home eating crisps and wanking. If you’re a pop starlet who thinks she’ll make more money by kissing a girl, I can see you making a legitimate choice to kiss a girl rather than – say – do something headline-grabbing for charity or get strategically semi-naked in your next music video.
Finally – attention. We all want attention, don’t we? Short of hermits, nuns and wanted criminals, everyone likes having a few pairs of eyes on them. If we burned people at the stake for attention-grabbing, they’d come for the bloggers first but the rest of humanity wouldn’t be far behind.
We’re all just people, making decisions. And the decision to place your tongue inside someone’s mouth and move it around a bit can, like any other decision in our lives, be made because we want money, attention or sex. There’s nothing obviously crass about doing something for these reasons, and yet girls who kiss girls are often met with contempt because they dared to do something that wasn’t purely motivated by a desire for the kiss itself.
The ethics of snogging someone you don’t really fancy
I suspect what people hate most about girls pulling other girls in clubs – and why ‘lipstick lesbian’ is (in my albeit limited experience) a phrase frequently spat with disgust and horror – is the lies. No reasonable person could have a problem with two women who fancy each other pulling in a nightclub – the problem people seem to have with this scenario is that there isn’t always desire. We’re used to kissed being motivated by this, so any other motivation both looks and feels like a lie.
People aren’t angry about what your motivations are (money, attention, or arousing other people), they’re angry because of what they’re not. You’re not motivated by lust, therefore you’re lying.
But my issue with this is that although I hate lies as much as the next person, I don’t feel like this really is a lie – it’s a game. You’re play-acting like you fancy someone in the same way as you might play-act a naughty schoolgirl, or an angry sargeant major, or a runaway My Little Pony. There’s nothing wrong with games as long as all participants know the rules.
The only time this falls down is if one of the participants doesn’t know the rules. If I pull you because we both fancy a guy and want to watch him get an erection in the pub, and if that guy knows that we’re doing that for him, then a good time will be had by all. But if one person doesn’t have that knowledge, and thinks the kiss is the start of something beautiful, then their legitimate and honest desire has been turned into something tawdry and crass.
Imagine someone you’d fancied for years finally getting up the courage to ask you for a snog, which you gleefully do, only to find out straight afterwards that they were doing it on a nudge and a wink from their partner. Horrible, heartbreaking, cruel, and immoral.
That’s what we should be disgusted by. Not the kiss itself, but the way it’s done. Kissing is, like all sex acts, intrinsically dependent on the enthusiasm of the other parties involved.
The person who is kissing you out of genuine love or lust has the right to be offended and upset if you’re being dishonest, and knowingly misleading them, but the people who scowl and whisper ‘lipstick lesbian’ have no such rights. They can guess at your motivations, but they can’t know what rules you’ve established with the other people involved. All they will ever see is two girls kissing – it’s up to those girls to decide whether they’re happy with that.
I need to clarify – if only because at some point my Mum might read this and be disappointed in me – that I don’t confine my toilet-based sexual activity just to wanking.
Here is a trilogy of toilet-based filth
At a gig
There once was a guy who couldn’t stop me. Persuasion turned to pleading turned to mutual obsession, as we’d fuck and touch when we hoped no one was looking. Sometimes they were looking, but I don’t think we really cared.
His friends played gigs in crappy dive pubs in my home town, and we went to see them hammer out some songs while we drank lager and Smirnoff Ice and groped each other in the crowd. When the songs were over we made out on a sofa that smelt like roll-up fags and vomit, and we watched the door of the gents to check when they were empty.
When the coast was clear he rushed in, with me sauntering casually behind him as if punky girls pissing in the gents is completely normal – which, to be fair, it is. I followed him in and we locked the door – pulling at each others’ clothes and kissing the way that kids do – all tongues and spit and desperation.
I pulled his trousers down to his ankles and he sat on the lowered seat of the toilet. He gripped his cock and grinned as I hiked up my skirt, pulled my knickers to one side, and sat down hard onto his cock. He put his hand over my mouth to keep me quiet as I fucked him – quick, hard strokes, squeezing my cunt tight to make him gasp, jerking sharply up and down so he could watch my tits jiggle in a tight, punky corset top. My boots were slipping on the wet floor, so I held onto the walls of the cubicle to get purchase. And I fucked him. And fucked him. And fucked him.
He shuddered as he came inside me, and I squeezed tighter to better feel his dick pumping the last few squirts nice and deep.
As we left one of my friends came in to use the loo. Noting my filthy grin he gave a cheeky salute. The boy closed the door behind him and followed me out, shouting after him:
“I wouldn’t use that one, mate – the seat’s broken.”
At a birthday party
A different boy – more recent now. But we’re still at the stage where we can’t stop touching each other. To be honest, I find this stage very difficult to escape from. With the last boy I loved it went on for about seven years – the constant need to touch each other – to press my hands against his stomach or push my face into the back of his neck, to whisper filth into his ear until his dick got hard enough that I could squeeze it through his jeans.
On the train, in the pub, on escalators coming up from a midnight tube ride – I cannot stop touching this man.
And the other day, at a friend’s birthday party, I made him hard enough that I couldn’t not hold him. I couldn’t resist taking his dick out of his trousers – looking at it and seeing how much he wanted me, how desperately he needed to fuck.
We excused ourselves for a few minutes and bundled into a toilet with a broken lock. Quickly and firmly he undid the buttons on his flies and pulled down his boxers – lovely tight boxers that show the perfect outline of his cock. He held the door closed with his hand as I held his dick with mine, and put the tip in my mouth. As I spat on it, and sucked, and rubbed him with my hands, the door rattled so slightly I hoped no one would notice. And he stifled lustful groans as he came into my waiting mouth.
In a karaoke bar
I wanted her so much I thought I loved her. For the brief time that we were together all I wanted was for her to be there. We were going out drinking – will she be there? We’re off to a party – can we bring her? We drank and we fucked and I loved her. And when it was all over and we could no longer fuck, I thought I loved her even more.
She had a dirty smile, and cat-like eyes, and a softness that was maternal. Everyone I knew wanted to bury their face in her tits, and most of the time she’d let them, and love them.
After we’d broken up she joined us at a karaoke bar – just a small crowd of mates, getting messy on cheap booze and caterwauling 90s classics. I’d brought a boy, but my desire to fuck him left when she entered the room. He was fun, but she was special.
I put my arms around her when she came in – breathed in the scent of girl-perfume and cigarettes and shampoo. I put my hand on her knee under the table. I put my hand on her thigh while I sang. I put my hand up her skirt and she didn’t stop me. I raked my nails down the inside of her leg, feeling the fabric of her tights pulling through my fingers. I followed her to the toilets.
When we got inside she said: “We shouldn’t.” But I wanted to, so – generous and full of love – she kissed me.
She gave me soft, feminine kisses – the type I’d abhor from a man just made her even better. And I kissed her back, hard, and reveled in being the one in charge. I lifted her top, pulled down the cups of her bra, and gave hard, sucking kisses to her nipples. I squeezed her hips and stomach through the fabric of her dress, and lifted the hem so I could rub my palms on her damp crotch.
I understand why men get frustrated with tights. Everything’s so close and so nearly there, but they’re hard to get down. I pushed her against the wall of the cubicle and tried to get a good enough grip.
I panted, and she sighed, as I rubbed her through her tights. She wouldn’t let me take them off. She’d let me kiss her nipples and touch her, but when I tried to remove them she stopped me, and in a hushed whisper said:
“Enough. They’ll be missing us.”
And she straightened up, and smiled, and kissed me on the lips. We went back to our friends and my boy, and he put his hand beneath the table so he could feel the memory of her soaking through my knickers.