The other day you asked me “what’s so hot about men in fishnet tights?” and I don’t think I gave a good answer. I nodded when you asked if it was something to do with them being ‘femme’, implying that men in fishnets are hot purely because they’re fucking with gender norms. That’s part of it, but it’s not the whole truth because your question took me by surprise so I had no words. Forgive me, I was distracted by the fact that you were wearing them at the time: naked save for black net that clung to your thighs and cupped your junk in ways that trashed my attention. Today I want to try and give a much more accurate answer. What’s hot about men in fishnets? Let me count the ways…

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Sometimes I write posts to turn you on, and sometimes I write them so I can hop up on my soapbox and have a rant. In fact, I’m due to write a nice in-depth rant about fantasies off the back of the last two horny posts – a woman having a wank part 1 and part 2. But today I’m feeling soft and chill, and I don’t feel like getting into complex stuff. Today I am just writing because there’s a fun story I’ve been meaning to share for a while, and I love wallowing in nostalgia – especially nostalgia about times when I was blissfully happy and loved-up. I think the following is such a great date idea that other people might want to steal it and try it for themselves. This is the coolest date I went on with my Hot Punk Guy, and with some slight adaptations to personalise the schedule, it could be the best date you go on as well.

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I have a habit of staring. Not at strangers – that’s too creepy, even for me. I have a habit of staring at my boyfriend. He’s astonishingly beautiful, and I like to look at beautiful men during moments of downtime. When they’re not deliberately making an effort to be sexy, just going about their daily lives with no idea how stunning they actually are. Sometimes they catch me doing this.

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My bedsheets smell like last night’s fucking. Well, fucking which lasted the whole of yesterday if I’m honest. Then once again this morning at roughly 5 am. We barebacked: my favourite kind of fuck. Rock-solid, exquisitely-shaped, diamond-hard cock sliding inside me, bare. Leaking precum. I could feel every single atom of his dick against every ridge of the inside of my aching cunt. His flesh meeting mine, stretching me out. Sensing, as he slid into my body, just how desperately and urgently wet I was. We bareback fucked to a soundtrack of tunes that he selected and I utterly loved while I clung to that man like my life depended on it and begged him to never stop doing what he was doing. He looked into my eyes and whispered: “you’re fucking incredible” and kissed me with a kind of gentle awe. This is a real thing which happened to me yesterday. This man fucked me like he meant it. And oh God, put me out of my misery now please: if this man turns out not to mean it, I will shatter.

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A lovely woman set me up on a blind date. Yes, my life is like a film now and I’m very grateful for that. How do you reckon the blind date went? For context, I can tell you that I had met this lady precisely once in my life, and during that meeting we’d spoken for less than two hours. She’s a very warm, open person though so our conversation went to fun places really quickly. We commiserated with each other about the terrible state of The Apps these days, and I told her about my dating challenges: why I’m trying to meet men in real life rather than repeatedly bang my head against the brick walls of Feeld and OKC. Three days later, this woman I barely knew texted me: I have a potential date option for you. (Yes I work fast). This magic dating fairy then went on to tell me that the guy in question was funny, sweet, asked questions and that a mutual friend of ours had approved the match. She wanted to know if I was still up for trying out the whole ‘blind date’ idea. I said what you’d expect me to say: Omg seriously?! I am SO IN. Predictions: what do you think?

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