If I’m certain of anything about myself it’s this: I am a fucking nightmare. Anxiety means I am constantly examining every detail to see what might be right and wrong with my life. No – scratch that – every detail of what might be wrong. What’s right gets dumped on the ‘finished’ pile, and rarely given more time than a cursory ‘hooray’ before it’s time to move onto the next thing. Leaving my brain free to focus on unpaid bills, people I may have offended, and a mountain of relationship insecurity on the side.

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As ever when I roll out some dirty poetry, I’m going to ask you to be gentle because I don’t really know what the fuck I’m doing. But I wrote a sexy poem, about sex and aging. Two things that are not incompatible. I suck at poetry titles, so feel free to suggest one in the comments. And I suck at poetry too, it’s just that sometimes I like the rhythm of it to make a point or turn a dirty phrase.

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There are few things that all humans have in common, but one of them is this: if we’re lucky, we’ll all grow older. And while everyone changes as they get older – physically and emotionally – the things we enjoy hopefully never lose their shine. You’ll still be just as overjoyed at winning a pub quiz in your seventies. Or going on holiday to somewhere beautiful and drinking sangria on the beach. And – because this is a post about sex and aging – I’d hope you’d still enjoy an excellent fuck.

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I write confessional sex stories. Which is a weird thing to say because I’m not really confessing sins or expecting absolution. I’m just telling stories and expecting readers – if they’re kind enough – to click or share or stump up some cash for my books.

Confession is a pretty horrible word – drowning in centuries of expectation. It conjures images of the religious urge to ‘cleanse’ people of their misdeeds via exposure. Telling your stories so that others can judge you: shout ‘shame!’ as you’re paraded through the town. When you call it ‘confessional’, it’s a wonder anyone chooses to write stories about themselves.

But we do.

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Before I begin, allow me a minute to put off 50% of you: this is not erotic fiction about what to do on your wedding night. It’s not a post about a romantic fuck at the end of your special day, or how to arouse your partner on the wedding night even though you’ve been together five years and you’re bored of the sight of their bollocks by now. If that’s what you’re after, then please pick up your warm white wine and move on to another buffet: this wedding night fuck is dirty.

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