I have a huge amount of admiration (and, OK, a dash of envy) for people who can do open relationships well. I’ve tried, and failed, to come up with a long-term open solution that works for me, and have come to the conclusion that I’m perhaps not sensitive or competent enough to do openness well.
Which is why I love hearing from people who do – who have found a good balance of communication, enjoyment and honesty that allows them to balance the feelings of a few different parties. If anyone says it’s easy I struggle to comprehend, because for me it’s always been a mountain I couldn’t hope to climb. So above all I love hearing from people who’ve recognised the obstacles, worked through the difficult bits, and come up with something pretty damn special. This week’s guest blog is from Jenny, who’s got a story about open relationships and kink, as well as some great advice for those who might be struggling with similar worries.
Open relationships and kink
Communication in a relationship can be tricky at the best of times, and things only get more difficult when one of you is kinky. Asking for something in bed can be tough. Asking for something outside of your relationship feels impossible.
If you don’t ask for what you want, you might never get it.
I wanted to share my story because it’s a positive example of an open, kinky relationship which I am very proud of.
I’m happily coupled up with an incredible woman. We were friends before we started dating and are closing in on our first year together. On top of all the stresses of a new relationship, I had the added concern of telling her about the other important person in my life: my very close friend who happens to be my dominant.
He has a girlfriend too and they’ve been together for years. After much discussion about sex, BDSM and our respective love lives, we came to the conclusion that we’d like to explore our kinky bucket lists together. His girlfriend wasn’t into submission and I prefer being topped by men, even though I’m a lesbian. We get on and find each other attractive, but we’ve no romantic chemistry at all. We were confident it wasn’t going to get awkward or messy: we knew what we wanted from each other right from the start.
With this in mind we set about asking for our partners’ permission to get together every month or so and indulge ourselves in play.
It was a scary thing for both of us: his relationship is long established and he didn’t want to jeopardise their future together, while I‘d just started dating my girlfriend and didn’t want to scare her away. It was something we both wanted, however, and we didn’t want to impose our niches on partners who weren’t into it. Equally, we didn’t want to do without for the rest of our lives. So we asked them.
I wanted to be completely honest in starting our relationship. I told my girlfriend that I’d spent our first few dates secretly hoping she was kinky, which was a disservice to her. I wanted to appreciate her for who she was, and she is truly fantastic. I’m a firm believer that it’s very tough to get everything from one person. It’s too much pressure. So I wanted to have a romantic relationship with her and be kinky with someone who wanted it as much as I did. She was understanding and patient and after hearing all she needed to hear from me, gave me the permission I had asked for.
In return she is allowed to know as much or as little as she likes about our scenes, and to request certain acts are off limits. The same goes for my dominant’s girlfriend, who also gave her permission a few days before.
We got permission about nine months ago, but it wasn’t a case of getting an “ok” and then skipping off to the dungeon whenever we feel like. My girlfriend and I are in constant communication about our arrangement. Each time I schedule a scene I check in with my girlfriend, that she’s still ok for this to happen and each time I come home we spend time together as a couple and check in again. I remind her that I love her and if she wants me to stop, I will. She tells me she loves me and trusts me to remember her even when I’m with someone else.
Part of the agreement is that if either his partner or mine gets uncomfortable and asks for us to stop playing, we will without question. We enjoy playing and exploring our niches, but our commitment is to our girlfriends. We appreciate that what we’ve been given is something special, something that strengthens our relationship with our partners all the more.
Juggling both romantic and kinky relationships is tough – and not just practically. Scheduling a scene when we’re both off work, both our partners are busy or out of town and when one of our houses is free is almost impossible.
We have to keep talking about the arrangement all the time. Everyone has to be clear and what they do and do not want and how to communicate that. We are each responsible for our own thresholds and protecting them. We also have to trust that everyone else is aware of their own limits and will communicate them clearly.
None of us have been in an open relationship before so we’re working it out as we go. The two of us have never been in a Dominant/submissive relationship either. There’s a lot of chat involved every which way. It’s hard work but it is worth it.
The one thing I’ve found the hardest is asserting my needs when it comes to negotiating between romantic and kinky relationships. I have no intention of being prioritised over my dominant’s girlfriend, but during D/s scenes, the circumstances are altered slightly.
In one of our earlier scenes my dominant received a phone call from his girlfriend, which he took. The feeling of abandonment was compounded by my already vulnerable state in the scene and I was incredibly hurt. I did not feel empowered in the scene to ask that he not take the call. After thinking about it, and even discussing it with my girlfriend and getting her opinion, I asked for us to turn our phones off when playing. Now, when our partners call on a day we’re playing, if they get answer machines they know why they can’t get through and that we’ll contact them as soon as we turn our phones back on. This rule makes me feel more secure when I’m being submissive.
Having rules like this does not mean we love our girlfriends any less, but it is part of the responsibility we have to each other as play partners. Both relationships are significant and require communication and effort. Neither can be taken for granted.
As previously mentioned, I often involve my girlfriend in my D/s relationship. If something is playing on my mind it shows and she is gracious enough to ask if I want to talk about it. This shows a great deal of trust and patience, which is a beautiful quality in the woman I want to spend my life with.
By some miracle, the four of us now socialise as well. We don’t discuss the arrangement, but it isn’t ignored. The fact that we can share a meal together and enjoy each other’s company as two couples is something that’s very precious to me. There’s no tension or jealousy; we all know where we belong.
It is scary to ask for something you really want, but if you’re ready to have an honest conversation about it, and keep having those conversations, there is always a chance that it can work out.
Sometimes, better than you’d hoped.
We’re none of us good at this – none of us are experts. Sex and relationships and love and body-confidence: we’re all stumbling wildly around, hoping that at some point we’ll hit on something wise. Or if not wise then at least a bit better, more useful. Something that’ll help us work out how to make the world feel awesome about us, or at least make us feel awesome about ourselves.
I’ve struggled before with trying to explain how I feel about my body. While I want to wave a flag and shout ‘yay me!’ into the faces of people who sneer, but deep down I want to kick myself and whisper ‘do it better’ to the reflection in the mirror.
This week’s guest blog, by Anandamide, is beautiful and excellent – it touches on not just the feeling of insecurity but the feeling of inadequacy at feeling so insecure. He nails it in a way I think I’ve failed to, and made me throb with sadness.
Someone else’s story: fucking but not touching
I swear I can’t figure myself out; and I swear maybe I never will.
Spending hours a day, days a week tearing it in the gym; trying to win the impossible race to impossible perfection so that I can rip my top off in a dark, dry-ice club and feel like I’m at least treading water. So the neurotic scrabblings inside my head can be eased, daft of course because you shouldn’t feed the trolls.
And last night in Fire, the last night of Fire for a fair few weeks, I was flavour of the evening. Ended up rolling high on drugs and hormones grinding against a 20 year old for 30 minutes, lost and soaring and blind. And of course he was hot, because I only get with guys if they’re hot, unless I’m in a dark room or so high I can barely see. This time I could see, and I see where it’s going. So I make my excuses, and go. Leaving him on his own looking mournfully at me. Put my top back on, take it off and put it back on the right way ’round, then walk. Past the taxi rank, past the Hoist; past the Griffin, going home.
‘You will call me, yeah?’
And I nod, and I’d like to, because he’s a sweet guy, and he’s only 20, and he’s only been here 6 months. It must be lonely. So we’ve been texting, and I had said maybe I’ll be free this evening, but I’ve spent all day on a comedown in pyjamas and don’t see any reason to change that now it’s dark, and windy, and Hallowe’en.
I think he just wants company, and a shag. And I’m sure I want a shag. I must want a shag. He’s hot, and I’ve wanked twice today, and I’m idly watching porn. But you know sex is kinda scary, sex with someone who knows your name and knows your face, who could judge you, and analyse you, and decide maybe no.
I’ve been running from that for a long time. It can’t go on. I feel lingering stirrings of jealousy when I see everyone else lining up quick shags or fuckbuddies, but I recoil at the opportunity myself.
So still I spend hours a day, days a week tearing away in the gym; pouring protein down my neck and exhausting myself trying to win an impossible race; so I can rip my top off in a dark drug hazed club and feel that I’m in with a chance of being wanted; so I can be desired, but never held.
I swear I can’t figure myself out.
And I swear maybe no one ever does.
I’m going to see him, I’m going to neck a Viagra before just to make sure I get hard – and you know the stupid thing is I don’t even know that he wants a shag? I wonder, sometimes, how many guys out there are fucking just so they can be held when it’s over; how many lonely people there are out there taking a shag with a stranger as the price for feeling a heartbeat next to their own, breath on their shoulder, warmth in their arms. I wonder sometimes if any of us know why we’re running in this race, or if we have the faintest idea what we’re running towards.
But I’ll see him, and I’ll neck a Viagra before just to make sure, and we’ll shag and it’ll probably be fun, what with him being hot and cute and lonely. And maybe even for a few moments I’ll forget the scrabbling neuroticism inside my mind, worrying about him thinking about me, about me thinking about him. And maybe we can just cum, and it’ll be a brief bliss, and then I can just hold him, and he can feel my heartbeat, and we can feel like we’re not alone, like just this is enough.
And staggering though darkrooms and saunas, that’s the part of sex I always lose out on. Forgetful fucks and guys whose faces I never see, all wild and sharp and fierce. Fucking without touching, all the time longing to be touched. Those heartbeats afterwards; strong, deep, slow.
In my call for guest blogs, I make a big point of asking for things that I don’t have any experience of. Partly because I’m a voyeur when it comes to other people’s sexy tales, and partly because it means you can raise topics that I wouldn’t be able to bring up just via my own waffling. One of the neatest ways to fulfil this is to send me a story: your story. Something that you’ve experienced that meant a lot to you. Something that can be good, bad, sexy, awkward, difficult, emotional, or all of the above.
Here is Codex, and this is his story.
Mental domination and emotional impact
There is a famous philosophical conundrum that goes like this: a man is walking along a cliff when he looks down at the beach and spots what appears to be Pablo Picasso drawing a work of art in the sand. Its the first masterpiece he has ever seen and is shocked when he realises that it will be washed away by the tide within the hour. He is faced with a choice, run back to his car to fetch his camera and capture a copy for the world to marvel at or sit and be the one who can experience it, for real.
I have been with my partner for a long time, we met when we were 14 years old, got married in our early 20s and have subsequently grown up together and spent over half our lives together now. We took each others’ virginity early on resulting in a single notch etched in to every bed post we have since owned. We embraced the opportunity to come out of our shells as shy youngsters and experimented with our sex lives in complete safety throughout our teens and 20s, It was rarely outrageous but I won’t have it said that you can’t find variety in a long term monogamous relationship.
That said, that level of commitment so young caused me to raise questions. For a long time I dabbled with finding out what sex might be like outside the boundaries of my marriage, naively curious about what I might be missing. A few causal opportunities had presented themselves over the years but for one reason or another they passed me by without much concern. That was until earlier this year.
I few years ago I became friends with a girl through work, she was cool, sexy in a really unaware way and bookish (a weakness of mine). We had a lot in common, and in a way that would have never resulted in anything I really really liked her. We lost contact until late last year when she tweeted me a ‘Hi’ and immediately we were in each others pockets. She told me she had crushed on me hard and we began texting each other as if we were the last two sex-starved people on earth.
She, it turned out, had carved out a niche in the sex industry as a submissive, a sexual peccadillo that had intrigued me for a while but had never really reconciled with my ambitions of being feminist. “You like getting slapped in the face? I’m not sure I could ever slap a girl in the face”
Things between us were to beginning to escalate, We arranged that I would come and visit her and hang out with vague assurances to each other that we would control ourselves. These gave way to “something might happen, lets see” to “I’m going to fuck you” extending further still to her requesting I flex my curious dominant streak against her practiced submissive lifestyle.
Intimidating wasn’t the word, while I was graced with a few weeks to figure out how I might impose myself, how do you convincingly dominate a pro having never done it before? Fine if you are paying for it, who gives a shit? But we had become close and we cared for each other, nothing else mattered more.
With my reservations about using what I saw as violence and lack of experience I decided if I was going to be convincing at all I would have to concentrate on mentally dominating her, she was up for that and told me to not hold back.
The date came around, she knew none of the details of what I had planned, Despite talking a lot over the previous few months we had only actually met a handful of times in two years. I was less nervous that I had feared though, eagerness and excitement were all I could feel, and when I walked up the stairs and in to her flat seeing her sat waiting, head bowed, feet turned in, I had to stop myself from jumping her there and then.
I managed to stay calm, as was my plan. I sat down in front of her, our knees touching and I could sense her nerves getting the better of her. I built some tension by asking her some personal questions, stretching out the awkward pauses, taking advantage of her uncertainty. I immediately realised that despite her job, her submissiveness was innate. Any experience she had meeting clients meant nothing with a friend, naturally shy she appeared more nervous than me and my confidence was growing.
I told her to go for a walk around the block, just to fuck with her – I wanted her nerves to brew for a little longer and a chance to get my bearings in her flat. When she came back and knocked on her own door, I let her in, took her through to her bathroom, put her straight in the shower and made her stand in it fully clothed, the water as cold as it could go. There was a point where any modicum of amusement vanished from her eyes, the squeals turned in to painful gasps and she screwed up her body suffering from the freezing assault. There was a purpose to her discomfort, I wanted to break her composure and nurture her back. Turning off the water I took her hand and led her out of the bathroom where, without speaking, I relieved her of her sodden clothes and held her. As she shook I slowly began to smooth away the goosebumps with a towel, paying attention to every inch of her, following her contours, carefully minding the pressure I applied to the bruises and marks she had received at work. Nothing was said, I just held her close as she regained her comfort.
Her warmth was returning along with her desire, I whispered in her ear that she were to lie on her sofa and touch herself. I sat impassively and watched as she traced two fingers through her open mouth and began to enthusiastically circle her clit. She looked glorious as her speed increased and she squirmed and bucked rhythmically loosing herself in her private moment.
At that point I walked out.
This was all part of my domination, she had asked me to push her mentally and sure enough my sudden departure during her ordered masturbation was enough to bring her to tears. I waited, stood outside her door listening to her quiet sobs. The next thing I heard was a song we both loved, I’m not sure why she put it on but it was too much for me to take. I knocked on the door and returned to her arms. Her tear streaked face and post shower hair were a knotted mess. She needed more nurturing and at that moment she was everything I cared about.
We went for lunch soon after where we chatted and grinned about what had happened. When we finally did have sex later that afternoon it felt a very natural sequel to the ordeal I had put her through. The sex was very intimate and vanilla, a departure for her but a welcome contrast from the intensity of the morning. We spent the whole day recovering, wrapped in each other but when it was time to leave that was the last time I saw her.
My wife found out that I had cheated on her along with some of the details and consequently I made the decision to cease any further contact for the sake of my marriage. The circumstances surrounding the episode dictate that it will remain an isolated indiscretion. I am not proud of my infidelity, I am ashamed of my weakness and work hard every day to attempt to undo what can’t ever be undone. She knows our subsequent adventures in to a sub/Dom sex life are somewhat inspired by my own adventure but equally they are guided by her own kinks and desires and so any similarity stops there. As our interest has grown we have embraced the bits we both find appealing and developed a trust and mutual need for what each other can provide (including an occasional slap in the face). It sounds odd to say that an affair can give you the tools to galvanise a stale marriage but that is really how it feels and for that alone I am glad it happened.
Its not something I recommend trying, and I don’t particularly expect much sympathy – the whole event was unique and a result of two people leaning on each other during difficult times which I wont elaborate on here. I am eternally grateful that my marriage has been allowed to continue because I deserve much less, but I am also secretly glad I stayed and experienced, just like the man and Picasso’s masterpiece.
Those of you who know me know I love comedy almost as much as I love dick. Anyone with the ability to make me laugh gets bonus attractiveness points and most likely a large slice of my heart. So I’m delighted to welcome this week’s guest blogger. RB is a stand-up comic who struggles with one of the eternal dilemmas: how do you keep a straight face when something sexy also makes you want to burst out laughing? Sex and stand up comedy wouldn’t have struck me as a natural pairing – I’m a notoriously miserable twat when it comes to laughter during sex, and as a general rule if you giggle when I’m naked I will burst into horribly unattractive tears and order you out of the bedroom. But thinking about some of the stranger things we do in pursuit of orgasm, I have to admit RB’s got a point: sometimes we are hilarious creatures.
Sex and stand up comedy
‘When I spank you, what do you say…?’
‘Well, little slut?’
‘I don’t know, what DO I say?! This is sex, not Mastermind!”
And we collapse into giggles, in a sweaty, semi-clothed heap, and the moment’s gone.
When I first became interested in BDSM recently, I thought the greatest conflict it would present would be with my feminism. How, after all, could you campaign for sexual autonomy and equality, then be completely dominated in the bedroom, and called all sorts of names you’d seethe with anger at in the outside world?
Obviously, I realised quickly that it chimes perfectly with feminism; you can do whatever you damn well please in the bedroom with a consenting and understanding partner, whether it be being beaten with a riding crop, pissing on someone (I’ve heard that’s a thing…), or straightforward missionary in the dark.
No, the biggest conflict I’m experiencing; being a sub and being a smart-arse.
I’ve been performing stand-up comedy for over a year. I’m a fledgling but I’m pretty damn good. I also perform spoken word poetry and improv – I feel I could, just about, call myself a ‘comic’ without sounding like a massive arse. It’s my life; I love it, I’m good at it, and I want to make it into a living someday. But with this, my personality has shifted into one of ‘tiny loud clown’; I take very little seriously and spend an inordinate amount of time trying to make people laugh (including strangers). If I can find an acceptable opportunity to take the piss, I’ll take it. So, how on earth am I meant to react when a man pulls me onto his knee and slaps my arse, again and again, whispering very low, ‘fucking jailbait.’
A handful of people that I’ve spoken to have assumed I’m a domme, and I can understand why. I’m loud and confident to the point of hyperactivity (off-set by the occasional depressive episode where I stay in bed for two days, cry and cannon ball Pringles tubes). I’m very argumentative and opinionated, and I talk about sex, in and out of stand-up, with a frequency and volume which amuses and alarms people in equal measure.
But, BUT, this is the thing. Performing is exhausting. Commanding an audience’s attention can take all your nerve, courage and confidence; and I do an awful lot of it. When I get to the bedroom with someone; to relinquish control, to hand over the keys, is such a relief. It’s like taking your shoes off at the end of the day. I can relax. I’m in someone else’s hands. And oh, what capable hands they can be. As refreshing as it can be for a loud little idiot like me to quiet down and obey orders, it’s equally fun to watch a soft-spoken, polite, unassuming person take the command they might not otherwise have in their everyday life; to watch them transform into a beast who’s going to fucking have you – use you and bite you and turn you into a panting wreck.
‘God, you’re so fucking wet, you little slut. You want me to untie you? You want me to fuck you? You want to feel my cock inside you, do you?’
‘Yes, sir. Oh, fuck, FUCK…’
Keeping in character is tricky. Sex is never like the movies. There are knees slamming into faces, narrow beds to fall off, crap knots, sneezing. Having to move out of a kneeling position during a spanking because you desperately need to blow your nose. Hearing the word ‘balls’ and bursting out laughing. Just realising the absurdity of the entire situation and failing to take it seriously. I’m a beginner, and I’m still stumbling through a sea of spankings and commands and filthy hard limit lists, and I’m still going to get the giggles. Occasionally I worry that I won’t be able to stop; I’ll degenerate into a pile of hysterical laughter, those fits that make your stomach ache and tears leak out of your eyes, and I’ll totally undermine the person that I’m with.
But, when you’re on your knees with your wrists tied in front of you, and he’s behind you, fucking you in short, hard strokes; slapping your arse with an open palm, chuckling darkly as you gasp at the sound, and the quick burst of pain, calling you a ‘filthy…little…BITCH.’ and you feel as if you might either come or go absolutely fucking mad…
…it’s hard to make a joke. Or make any noise at all, except to moan, and to swear, and to scream.
I am a sucker for colloquialisms, particularly when they’re to do with sex. One of the first things I learn when I go to other countries is find out their dirty sex words. Get me drunk enough and I’ll share with you some of my favourite words and phrases. To be honest, even in a sober state I’ll happily explain to you how the Japanese word for ‘cunt’ is but two tiny dots away from the word for ‘mango’, and how this got me out of a fair bit of trouble when I was practising my letters.
But some of the best colloquialisms come from Ireland. It’s not just that I read them while imagining a gorgeously lilting Irish accent, it’s the fact that the words themselves sound so much more playful than their boring London equivalents.
Lad. Mickey. Ride.
Today’s guest blogger has some super-hot things to say about words. What’s more, she gives us an overview of these pretty, playful Irish colloquialisms. She’s brand new to sex blogging, so if you love her words then please do check out her blog – Abbi Rode. You can also follow her on Twitter at @OCDcrankypants.
Words I love, words I hate
Everyone calls their parts different things, at different times with different people. I know most girls don’t like the words I like but I’m not speaking for most girls, I’m speaking for me.
My favourite two words for my holiest of holies are pussy and cunt. There is no way to mistake the sexual in those two, it oozes from them. And if I’m talking about sex then I want powerful sex words to use.
They’re actually the only two I like. I’m sure it started with Don Draper (not the actual, but a guy who was like him, all confidence). He only had to look at me and talk to me to get me wet. One time he had me laid out on the bed, utterly exposed he was kneeling at the edge of the bed, he had my legs wrapped around him. But he was entirely in control. He wouldn’t even let me sit up. He looked directly at me and told me to be quiet. This immediately got me breathing fast, then he licked his thumb, and rubbed it up the lips, then put his thumb in his mouth, leaned down and whispered “I love this cunt.” I gasped, he again told me to be quiet or he’d stop. With his wet thumb he rubbed it again up the lips and I started to buck at this point, he held me still with one arm. Looked me directly in the eye and smelled his thumb and said “This is the best smelling cunt in the world, and I own it. I’m going to do exactly what I want to it.” It was him, how he was, the way he looked at my pussy and the way he got me so excited with the power of one word. That was it, I loved it ever since. But only said like that, only in the context of sex. I don’t even think he knew what he did that day. I don’t think he even cared, he was just doing what he wanted and I was almost incidental to that. He was in control, worshipping it getting the reactions he wanted.
From then on all he had to do was whisper in my ear, anywhere that we were, that he wanted my cunt, that he loved the smell of my cunt… anything with that word and it brought me straight back. So I love that word, I think more people should be aware of how sexy it is and get the pleasure from it, it’s the last really taboo word.
Pussy is another one that girls seem to hate. I know many feminists, who would be OK with cunt, still don’t like this one. But I do. It seems so guttural, so common, so… well… dirty and obvious. I just like it. I think it’s powerful and it can’t really be used in any other context than sex. You’re not going to the doctor to talk about your pussy, are you? And it’s a little tamer than cunt. You need descriptions for different excitement levels and these serve the purpose.
I don’t think I mind vagina, I just think it’s terribly unsexy. Again that’s what I’d say in a clinic. Even if discussing with my partner after the fact and he said “Is your vagina ok, I think I was a little rough”. Nope, don’t care for that at all. I did like that one guy used to refer to it as my ‘va-jean’. It was cute and it worked. Obviously not during sex, but general enquiries into its well-being “So, you got waxed yesterday, how’s your ‘va-jean’, ready for action?” Perfect.
Fanny – I’m not mad on this. It’s a word from childhood and the American understanding for it as ‘bum’ has it ruined for me. Either way, it’s not one I choose to use or hear used referring to me.
Now box, I hate. Just because I can’t understand how anyone thought it was a good description for something so warm, soft, inviting and categorically not angular. It makes no sense and my very rational mind is both confused and insulted by the term. It baffles me.
I can never settle on a word for my rack that I’m entirely comfortable with. I’m OK with tits, boobs, breasts. But each seems weird in the wrong context. I know that I do hate boobies, seems too childish, the same with titties. I may have to investigate this further?
While we’re on that I don’t think I ever say mickey either, it just seems the wrong end of comical. I think if I was insulting someone I might say it:
“Big swinging mickey, I’ve had better.”
Dick and cock are my equivalent to pussy and cunt, respectively. I love cock – read that however you want to. It’s meant every way. It’s my favourite word for my favourite part of a man. I do like dick every now and then, I need variety. And I don’t think I’ve come across anyone that’s taken umbrage to their member being called either of those things.
I don’t think I ever use the word lad, again unless in a somewhat comical way “And I walked in the kitchen and there he was with his lad out.”
And tool is only for insults, really isn’t it?
I have been known to refer to a particularly big penis as a weapon, I can’t take credit for this, I robbed it from a friend who used it when recommending someone.
This list could be endless.
Thanks Abbi, now I have to go and cold-shower away all these mental images of hot dudes getting their ‘lads’ out, and filthy men whispering dark somethings about my cunt. If you enjoyed the above, do check out AbbiRode.com, and let Abbi know about your own favourite sex words in the comments. Personally, I’ll swap you a Japanese word that means ‘the sound of wanking’ if you can give me ‘cunt’ in any other language.
And if you’re a sex blogger, particularly if you’re just starting out and want to build some traffic, I’d love to hear from you – check out my guest blog page and get in touch if you’d like to write something.