Obvious point: it’s hard to write a blog when there’s a plague on. Especially a personal blog which relies on telling stories. At the moment the world is mostly flooded with two types of story: the boring and the horrible. There are rare, lovely, sexy moments of joy, and I try to capture those when my brain is functioning, splatter them onto the page and hit ‘publish’ quickly before I have too long to second guess whether they’re good enough. But I’m mostly here for honesty so I’m just going to say it plainly: it’s hard to write a blog when there’s a plague on.
Big news, team: we’re not making resolutions this New Year. We’re not telling ourselves to change our body shape or stamp out bad habits. We’re not asking each other if we’re doing Dry January or nagging people about how they live their lives. We’re not making resolutions this New Year, we’re embracing dreams.
We’re fucking in front of a mirror, with his hands on my hips and me face-on, tits jiggling and arms reaching behind me so I can hold the back of his head and neck and grip him tightly while he pounds it in. We both look really fucking good and for some reason I don’t feel the awkward-shameful nervousness I would usually feel to see my naked body this close. This jiggly. This… exposed. I think what I have today might be body confidence.
This is not a Christmas gift guide, because in my family we’re not doing gifts this year – we’re doing ‘hugging those we can and vid calling those we can’t and making plans for a big fuckoff party once we’ve all received our vaccines’. I checked my calendar this morning and was unsurprised to discover that 2020 has lasted at least ten years so far. And while it’s glorious that we’re now hurtling rapidly towards the end of it, with joyful vaccine news on the horizon, I don’t think any shiny presents will be sparkly enough to brighten what’s been such an objectively devastating time. So this is not a Christmas gift guide.
I stumble in the front door, drenched to the skin from a long and glorious cycle through central London, fighting the downpour and dodging past Boris bikes, punk tunes blasting into my left ear. Exhausted and satisfied and aching all over: my cunt hurts from getting well and truly fucked. As I walk in, I’m accosted by my conscience, who is as steaming angry as I am post-fuck happy, with the words ‘you fucked your ex’ on its lips.