He puts my hand up against his crotch, tells me ‘press here – not too hard’ and twitches his pelvic floor. His muscles flutter at my fingertips and in the palm of my hand, his dick jumps. Throbs. I press my hand tightly against him and stare. Openly. Impolitely. Greedily. I look down his body, see my own hand cupping his cock, and feel the pulsing throb as he works those muscles.

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If someone were to ask me what I bring to the table, sex-wise, I wouldn’t mention specific parts of my body. My body is fine, my hair is fine, my clothes are basically clothes. I like to think I’ve got a pretty filthy grin, but apart from that my physicality is nothing to either write home or pen a strongly-worded letter of complaint about. So if we’re having sex, what I’m bringing to the party isn’t my body, it’s my attitude. To be blunt: my enthusiasm.

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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’.

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Today I’m going to tell you an old, old story. Guy meets girl in a workplace. Guy tries to chat girl up. She finds his comments overbearing and creepy. Guy continues, despite her discomfort. When the inevitable HR investigation happens, he explains to the boss that it was ‘only banter’. Starts jumping in any time other colleagues make jokes of any kind: “you wanna watch out, mate! You’ll get reported for that! You can’t say anything these days!”

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Hey there! Thanks so much for getting in touch off the back of one of my tweets. It’s flattering that you want to tell me your opinions/feelings/experiences when it comes to sex. I’m not gonna shame you for what you’re confessing, but please note: this isn’t actually a confessional.

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