Almost every guy I have ever dated has told me that if they had tits themselves, they’d spend all day just staring at and playing with them. I am not getting ready to snark, or shame anyone for saying this, in fact I completely understand. Tits are fucking awesome. The thing that makes me horniest about my own body is the excellent rack stuck to the front of it. Although I don’t spend all day groping them or staring (I’m a busy girl), I do spend a fairly sizeable chunk of my time being aware of them – enjoying how they look and feel – so I thought I’d have a go at answering the unspoken question hovering beneath all those comments from all those past boyfriends. Here’s what it feels like to have tits.

Note: I’m a cis woman who has mostly dated cis dudes. I’ve tried not to be too gendered in this because tits are not exclusive to one gender, but my perspective is naturally coloured by my experiences. 

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You know what ‘the ick’ is, right? A feeling you get for someone based off a silly/cringe/weird thing they did or said or are, which torpedoes your burgeoning attraction for them. Little moments of disgust which, once noticed, mean you can no longer fancy that person. It is often understood that ‘the ick’ is both irrational and unavoidable. About a month ago (sorry I’m slow) Stefano Hatfield published an opinion piece in the I Paper about how terrible ‘the ick’ is as a concept, so it feels like a good time to dust off my rant about why I hate this phrase so very much.

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There are two things I adore about today’s guest blog. Firstly its celebration of something that is so often shamed. I’m a sucker for a change in narrative, especially one which helps to brush aside societal norms that can be harmful and irritating. I’ve always found hairy armpits wildly sexy – watching a hot guy lie back in bed with his hands behind his head makes me want to do feral, torrid things with his body. But I always struggled to find pit hair sexy on myself, until I stopped shaving back in 2020 and never looked back. The second thing I love about this guest blog is the way it captures something I’ve tried to articulate myself, but never so clearly: the way that desire can mould and shape itself to the things in your life at this moment. Your partner’s quirks and mannerisms. Their specific body, and how it changes over time. This post is an ode to hairy armpits, but I think it’s also a love letter to this kind of desire. And I adore it.

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I don’t know how long it’s been since I was last properly belted. A year at least, maybe two. It’s not the end of the world. I love kink, and I adore being used and abused, but my desires are incredibly responsive, so I’m far less concerned about finding a relationship that ticks off all the spanky acts on my submissive wishlist than I am about building connection with someone I love. Still. One of the nice things about leaving a relationship is remembering all the opportunities that you once packed away with a shrug, which you can now dust off again. And as I rummage through a box marked ‘things I can do now I’m single’, getting belted just happens to lie on the top. Luckily for me, a mate made it her mission to drag me up off the floor from the pool of wine and tears in which I was lying, and force me outside to have fun. Let me tell you about my friend, the Queen of the Dungeon.

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I am positively gleeful about today’s guest blog, team – it’s a gloriously sexy celebration of power and strength and softness and grappling sexily until your opponent submits. Courtesy of the fabulous Bunny Harper, who is here to talk about erotic wrestling, and how a sport she had once been pushed out of became something she reclaimed with eroticism and power. I adore this piece, and I know many of you will too – check out Bunny’s blog here and read her amazing piece on erotic wrestling below!

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