I don’t think I’m a very fun person at the moment, let’s start there. I used to be this irritatingly bouncy, joy-filled fucker who skipped from social event to social event with the words “isn’t this BRILLIANT” on my lips. I loved my friends, found pleasure in so many little things, and although life was often underscored by a pulsing beat of anxiety, usually I could keep that at bay with the promise of a pint in the sunshine and a decent playlist in my headphones as I stomped down the street to reach it.

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“I just need you to know,” one guy told me, before we started fucking, “that I very rarely come during penetrative sex. In fact, I can count on the fingers of one hand the number of times that’s happened.” It didn’t matter who he was fucking or where his dick happened to be, he had very rarely ever come inside. You’d hope that someone as body-positive and sex-knowledgeable as Girl on the fucking Net would instinctively have some bon mot at the ready to put him at ease and reassure him that delayed ejaculation (or an inability to ejaculate full-stop) is common, and nothing to be ashamed of. And I did but… Although my rational brain was more than happy to explain that I don’t actually need champagne fountains of jizz in order to be sexually satisfied depressingly – embarrassingly – my heart fluttered with something a little different. When he told me how few people had managed to get him to come inside them, something deep in my soul chimed in with: ‘I bet I can do it, though.’

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Fucking doesn’t usually work by just ticking off your desires in order, like crossing items from your shopping list once you’ve put them in your basket. But talking about ideas in the downtime, or the afterglow of the previous shag, can help plant seeds for the future. We don’t have enough time together, me and this guy. Not nearly enough. And because we are acutely aware of this fact, it turns out that both of us have been making mental lists of possibilities. Lying on the bed after our first cunt-ruining fuck of this 24 hour hangout, he reveals that he’s even made notes on his phone. Scattered ideas from flash-frame images he’s wanked on since the last time we hung out.

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The second I walk in the door, he’s all over me. Soft lips and firm hands. Rummaging under my clothes and kissing me passionately, before I’ve even had the chance to take off my boots or unclip the panniers from my bike. It’s hurried, urgent, eager. Exactly as I’d seen it in my idle daydreams. I’ve been thinking on this for the last two days, ever since the possibility of it was first floated. A tentative ‘if you’re in the mood for sexy ideas…’ followed by a fantasy of such powerful dominance and laser-targeted kink accuracy it had me squirming in wet knickers at my desk. You bet I’m in the mood. How are you fixed for Sunday? 

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The next chapter of this story happens when I’m probably in the middle of a breakdown. Perhaps it’s the way my life has been lately – an agony of paranoia and mistrust – that’s causing me to make some dodgy decisions. But this particular decision led to something good, I think. As helpful as it can be to hear ‘I love you’ in times of hardship, ‘I trust you’ healed my heart right now.

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