One of the weird things about being an adult – and I mean an adult adult, not the adult I was in my twenties who spent most of her time trying to please other people – is that I’m starting to recognise more situations in which I cause friction by just… not doing exactly what other people want. By ‘other people’ here, I mostly mean ‘men’.
This post contains elements of consensual non-consent, i.e. when someone feigns reluctance during sex play. In this case it’s a stealth fuck where someone comes into the other person’s house late at night and climbs into bed with them. Everything in it is fully consensual, and the people involved have discussed the scenario in detail before attempting to fulfil the fantasy. Don’t ever do this in real life unless you have talked about it in detail and understand what your partner consents to (and how they can withdraw that consent if they change their mind), and please don’t read on if you find this kind of thing distressing.
It’s her birthday, and he’s promised her something really special: a midnight visit when she’s asleep. She loves getting fucked in her sleep. The sensation of waking up – dreamy and vulnerable – to find his bodyweight pressing down on top of her. His rock-hard dick shoving roughly into her cunt. For years she’s been desperate for someone to do this to her – for her – and finally it’s going to happen.
OK so hear me out: ten condom fucks. Fucks which require a large number of condoms. Fucks which start at about 2pm, are interspersed with drinks and chatting and playing Beat Saber and slow-dancing sexily in the middle of the living room. Fucks which ebb and flow between oral, penetration, and naked touching, meaning each time you decide you’re gonna get down to it, you slip on a new condom. Fucks which mean you have to scatter condoms throughout the apartment so there’s always one easily to hand. Ten condom fucks.
It’s everything I hate in a sofa, this thing: brown; leather; thin metal legs; angular armrests that you can’t properly lean against and a seat that’s too narrow for spooning. I hate this sofa so much that when my ex and I hung out together, I used to sit on the floor. Give me well-worn carpet and a numb bum over sticky brown leather any day of the week. I hate this sofa for every single thing… except fucking. This sofa features in almost every filthy post I’ve written on this blog in the last four years. This sofa launched a thousand fucks.
We’re in bed, getting down to it, and usually my one-track mind is laser-focused on what it will feel like when he slides his dick inside me. At the moment when I realise that’s not going to happen – he’s slowly softening and the look on his face switches from horn to confusion or embarrassment – I remind myself how lucky I am that I don’t ever have to worry about erections myself. Twenty years ago, if a guy went soft on me, my main feeling would be heartbreak: he doesn’t fancy me enough. I’m ugly. Unsexy. Incapable of teasing a boner from him. Ten years ago, I’d be annoyed: did he have a wank before we met up? Has he had too much to drink? These days, frustration and sadness have (thankfully) made way for a different feeling: relief that the pressure isn’t on me.