There’s this big house that I’m wandering around, and occasionally I stumble across people wanking in different rooms of it. It’s full of sofas, and cushions and huge-screen TVs. What’s playing on the telly is almost-porn: one of those films which features tits and fucking, but also just enough plot that you’re not quite sure if it was pitched as a broader release. I am horny as fuck, and I desperately need cock.

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Bear with me, I’m rusty as fuck. Something I could have said equally to him as to you. It’s been a long long time since I wrote up a fuckstory that was about anyone other than my ex. So bear with me, please, I know I will not get this right.

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Back when I was dating, in the times Before Him, a mate used to sometimes ask the question: “is he a friend? Or a Good Friend?” Good friend – that’s how we discerned them. The boys I was fucking from the boys I was not. I’m gonna tell you now about one of my Good Friends.

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I had a different plan for today. I had a different blog post for today. And seriously, tune in next week on Sunday because it’s lovely – cute and uplifting and warm and happy and Stuart’s drawn a gorgeous image to go with it. I had a very different plan for today.

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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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