As a general rule I never have enough confidence in my own music taste to recommend what I like to other people. Most of my partners have preferred me to uncritically subsume their own playlists rather than contribute suggestions of my own: they rarely ever let me pick the music. As a result, not only am I suffused with a vague sense of embarrassment when talking about music, I have rarely spent much time actively seeking out new bands. But recently I found a band who make my heart swell with joy, and their latest album gave me powerfully horny ideas. I hope they will forgive me for taking this to such an X-rated place, but I’m gonna talk about Solid Gold by Holy Moly & The Crackers: the fuckiest album I have heard in a very long time.

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There are two levels on which I’m enjoying dinner. On the surface, the main conversation – catching up with friends I’ve not seen in years. Beneath the table, something even better – his thigh nudging against mine. The oh-so-casual initial pressure that could easily be written off as an accident conjures a flash of possibility as I realise that… yeah… this guy just might want to fuck me. A rush of teenage horn flushes across my skin as I decide that I’m gonna nudge him back to find out for sure. Meeting his pressure, thigh-against-thigh, I remind myself that this guy has a wife.

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It’s always exciting to introduce a brand new guest blogger, and today’s even more thrilling for me because this guest has recently launched a blog of her own! Say hi to @goddessdeeva, who runs the INGENIOUSLY titled Duct Tape and Daddy Issues, which you should check out if your appetite is whetted by this fabulously fuck-hungry and politically powerful guest piece – about attitudes to sex and why it’s important to question the dodgy messages we’re given about it.

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Note: this piece tackles some stuff about femininity, womanhood, and ‘worth’. I do not believe that any of the things I say about ‘good girl points’ are true and I don’t encourage you to believe or internalise them. But as with all weird notions, sometimes you have to state it to slate it, so I’m allowing myself to be a bit more open about the dark beliefs that power a lot of my decisions, especially in light of some Twitter discussion I’ve seen about why you shouldn’t just keep trying to be ‘good’ and ‘liked’ all the time. Rest assured I’m working on these things.

The other day, at about 11pm, a guy offered to walk me to the train station. We’d been having a lovely evening together – eating dinner that he’d cooked for me because he knows it’s one of my favourites, watching a weird film that we’d chosen together because he cares about my opinion, then enjoying a teasing blow job because when we started getting horny I specifically requested that he let me be ‘playful’ for a bit. It was fabulous. I felt very content. Very… what’s the word? Very heard. Valued. Appreciated. But when it came time for me to head home, he offered to walk me to the station, and this objectively kind gesture made me deeply uncomfortable.

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I’ve written quite a lot about anxiety here on the blog, but I don’t think I’ve ever written anything as beautiful as this guest blog on performance anxiety. The way he captures the minutiae of life intruding on sexual pleasure, then zooms out to place those in the context of larger existential panics – it properly punched me in the heart. If you’re thinking of pitching me a guest blog but you’re nervous, please read this and see that you don’t always have to focus on one specific story, or give a super-comprehensive and detailed piece of advice: sometimes the best sex writing is about capturing a feeling, articulating it beautifully, and then sharing it to help other people feel a little less alone.

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