Stoya calls them ‘comets’: those people who orbit your life at a distance, occasionally blazing into it for brief yet bright moments of sexy joy, before whooshing off back to their own. I don’t think it’s always easy to be a great comet – it requires a tricky balance of charm and composure. You need the ability to connect well in a short space of time combined with a casual detachment that allows you to say a cheery goodbye without worrying you’ll be forgotten the second you’re out of sight. I think it’s tough to be a good comet, but let me tell you about a brilliant one of mine.

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This fabulous piece about fulfilling her craving for big tits is written and read by the brilliant Sherryl Blu. 

I’d regularly daydream on how amazing it would be to be smothered with a set of juicy size 36DD boobs – that’s 36DD at the minimum! I’d often close my eyes and imagine what it would be like to play with myself whilst being force fed a fully erect nipple.

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This fabulous first date hookup story is by Robyn of RobynEatsEverything, and is read here by Girl on the Net. 

The pub was closing early. The two members of staff were busying themselves behind the bar and every glance in our direction was a plea for us to leave so they could go home. You told me you didn’t want the night to end here; there’d been laughter and anticipatory touches and plenty of eye-fucking across the table as I suggestively sipped my drink through a straw. As a first date, it was perfect. We reluctantly untangled our hands from each others’ across the table and said our goodbyes to the bar.

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No one ever tells me to my face that I’m greedy, but I am. Right now I trip through life with only a vague idea of what I want, but a raging certainty that I definitely need more of it. More. More drinks, more nights out, more catch-ups with friends I’ve not seen since Covid. More joy, more lust, more playfulness. More sex. More of those evenings which start with a pint and end up with you all tumbling into someone’s flat so you can welcome the dawn together with burgeoning hangovers and the sparkle of brand new friendships. More threesomes that make me feel like it’s my birthday. And because this is a post about the Godemiche Morpheus, inevitably I’m greedy for far more wanking too.

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One of the inherent difficulties with dating blog readers (and I should note here that I have not done much of it) is that by the time you’ve asked GOTN on a date, there is very very little I can do to make you not want to fuck GOTN. I can turn up, as I always do, looking like a bag of shit. I can get messy drunk and say things that are awkward or uncool. I can sweat like a horse at the Grand National because we’re no longer in the depths of winter but I enjoy a lovely jumper nonetheless. And yet still… you’ve read my blog. You liked my blog. You enjoyed the filth I post so much that you invited me out on a date. So I have a dilemma, which is that I can never really tell if you genuinely like me, or like GOTN.

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