Most of what I write is true. But ‘Truth’ itself is much more slippery. Truth with a capital T can never come from the mouth of a single person, and it never comes in the form of a story, because the act of telling a story involves shaping and curating truth: picking which bits stay in and which bits get cut. What makes a story, when it comes to non-fiction, isn’t Truth but perspective.

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Do you have a website where you post erotic stories? Would you like to turn some of those stories into audio porn? I’d love to hear from you! Erotic writers, sex bloggers, anyone who writes smut on their own website. I’ll pay a license fee to adapt your work into audio porn, and give you a widget to embed those stories on your own website, which makes your erotica more accessible to people who use screenreaders and also gives your site some extra sexy content. Interested? Read on…

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The problem with suddenly becoming single is that it throws up a bunch of dating problems that I very much hoped I would never have to deal with. I appreciate that absolutely none of these are serious – they are all things I’ll happily overcome, about which my whining is intended to be no more than a brief and amusing distraction as you trip down whichever path your Wednesday happens to be taking. My current mantra, as life gets harder, is ‘I like doing difficult things.’ Doing difficult things is incredibly empowering, and having the freedom to do those things excites me. Nevertheless, as I start to explore the ways I will throw myself into the exciting hard stuff, I can’t help but bump up against dating problems that I genuinely do not want to tackle. Here is a brief (and likely non-exhaustive list) of things I can’t be arsed with.

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Beginning. Short sentence designed to make you ponder something odd or sexy or enraging or cute. Longer sentence which explains why that thing you were pondering is actually a little bit more complicated than you might have previously thought. Teasing line aimed at making you want to read further: why am I doing this?

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“What was the plot of that porn, then?” He asks me, twenty seconds after we’ve both come. We’re sitting side-by-side on the sofa, him covered in spunk and me casually discarding the dildo and Zumio I used to get there myself. On the TV the porn scene we were watching still plays: porn with no plot, just a couple of people having a vigorous and sexy shag. He reaches for the controller to switch it off as I try to put into words what ‘the plot of that porn’ really was.

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