A good friend won’t raise eyebrows if they turn up at your house and there’s a fuckmachine assembled in your office. A great friend will offer to babysit your fucking machine while you’re looking for somewhere to live. The latest Kink of the Week topic is fucking machines, so I expect a lot of people will be dreaming of having a vigorous robotic fuckpony of their very own. Here’s my pitch as to why, if you can’t afford one yourself, you should consider buying one on a timeshare with your pervy mates.

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Katherine Ryan tells a fabulous story, in her stand-up show Glitter Room, about the time her ex-boyfriend moved to Japan. He had to go for work, and she didn’t want to move with him, so they split up. Shortly after he arrived in the country, he rang her to express shock that she had stayed where she was, and hadn’t followed him halfway around the world. He tells her: “I thought you needed me more than that.” Katherine replies: “Oh sweetie, I didn’t need you – I liked you. I enjoy having you around, but you are a luxury item.” I’ve been thinking about this a lot lately, and I think I understand a bit more where I fall on the idea of ‘needing’ men (or ‘a man’). Friendships are one thing, but when it comes to sexual and romantic relationships, men are a luxury.

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They call it the walk of shame but you know damn well it’s a victory march. The morning after you’ve got laid, as you drag your fuck-tired body to the bus stop, or the tube, or the café round the corner which will furnish you with a bacon butty for the long journey home, you know: this is not shame, it is glory.

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So I’m definitely SUPER into rough sex and degradation and stuff, but I’d rather be degraded for how slutty I’m being than for how I look. If we’re talking hard limits you should know I am very sensitive when it comes to my body so ‘you filthy little bitch’ is A-OK, but ‘pig’: not so much. I’m up for butt stuff but I’d like fair warning so I can do a bit (OK, a lot) of prep for anal in general. I’m not into age-play, so you’re never my fucking Daddy and I guess the MAIN thing… like my hardest of all hard limits… is… could you please be really careful with my glasses?

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My ex once offered to buy a stranger’s shoes, to stop him from hassling me outside a restaurant. It was the weirdest method of stopping someone being harassed that I’d ever come across, and alongside being genuinely funny to me at the time, it also worked.

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