I miss getting cum in my eyes. I miss the delicious final moments of fucks spent with men who want to choose where they’ll splatter their load. I miss those split-second ‘inside or outside’ decisions during which they’re thinking about all the different places to jizz – face, tits, arse, cunt, hair, feet… I miss looking up at a guy’s face, twisted with pleasure and effort as he beats his cock for the final few strokes, before letting go and splashing cum all over my upturned face. Yeah, I miss facials.

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It’s really easy to talk about how sexy you are when you do stuff. When you perform delicate tasks with precision, or say things that make me melt. And logic might dictate that it’s harder to see why you’re sexy when you do absolutely fuck all, but that isn’t always the case.

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He breezes into the kitchen, grins at me in a self-satisfied way and proudly tells me “look!” before whipping out his cock. And I think ‘Ahh… my muse.’ My beloved muse. My weird, nerdy, playful, dodgy, nervous wreck of a muse.

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I never used to fantasise about sniffing underwear. Even during my horniest moments, when I was in the early stages of learning what turned me on, and discovering the answer was ‘everything’, it never occurred to me to try and get hold of a guy’s underwear and hold it over my face, breathing in the heady scent of his cock. Until one day, a boy I was in love with came to visit, and left his underwear behind when he departed…

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Picture the scene: a delightful sexy person has either sent you a nude selfie, or allowed you to take nude photos of them. You, proud that you own such a blessed image, are boasting to your pals about its hotness, which is so intense it’s practically burning a hole in your phone. Your mates ask for a quick peek of the treasured pic. Are you allowed to show them?

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