Tag Archives: anxiety

Domme voice/The Socks/My cloak of confidence

Writing from the domme perspective is hard. When I’m being submissive, it’s easy to write with a focus on what a dominant guy did to me and how: the words this one growled and the ways he twisted and angled my body so as to best please his own eyes and cock. These hot actions, performed by him, could draw the majority of focus for any given blog post. I know it doesn’t have to be this way – with the dominant as the ‘do-er’ and the submissive as a passive recipient of whatever they choose to do, but it does tend to end up like this quite often. So writing from a subby perspective feels more comfortable to me, because if you focus on someone else when you’re bragging about the sex you had, you can partially hide the fact that you’re bragging in the first place.

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Guest blog: Cake or death – pleasure and performance anxiety

I’ve written quite a lot about anxiety here on the blog, but I don’t think I’ve ever written anything as beautiful as this guest blog on performance anxiety. The way he captures the minutiae of life intruding on sexual pleasure, then zooms out to place those in the context of larger existential panics – it properly punched me in the heart. If you’re thinking of pitching me a guest blog but you’re nervous, please read this and see that you don’t always have to focus on one specific story, or give a super-comprehensive and detailed piece of advice: sometimes the best sex writing is about capturing a feeling, articulating it beautifully, and then sharing it to help other people feel a little less alone.

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Higher and higher: a fuck that was way too intense

You know those meditation apps which show a circle increasing and decreasing in size, which encourage you to breathe in and out in time with the animation? Sometimes I like to fuck like that.

CN: drug use, minor references to panic attacks. But broadly this is a super-hot one, I promise. 

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I don’t pack what I cannot carry alone / Big Strong Girl

When I move in, it takes a couple of days before I can get my bearings. Before I can survey my domain and think ‘fuck yeah. I am queen of this.’ When I move in, it takes a couple of days before my heart stops racing like it’s trying to escape from my chest. Before I stop thinking ‘shit. What the fuck have I done.’

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Men are a luxury, and right now I am broke

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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