This might sound weird: I like it when men take things from me. Not large things, like my dignity or my house. Or even small-ish things like my life savings. I like it when they assert a kind of casual dominance – taking inconsequential things from me, with an attitude that tells me I couldn’t possibly object.
I have a giant Twitter crush. In fact, I have more than one giant Twitter crush. The problem with Twitter is that it is a window into the sexiest thing about someone: their mind. The extra problem with Twitter is that it’s a curated space – people use their Twitter accounts to tell jokes and stories, or post funny pictures of weird things they’ve done. In short: it’s a place where all the guys I would usually fancy get to show off the things I am most attracted to.
Sorry – this blog has been removed at the request of the guest blogger.
Given my apparent inability to meet celebrity crushes and speak to them like a normal human being, I have made a quite concerted effort not to meet my heroes. At events where interesting science-minded people give talks that make me fall in love with their knowledge, I’ve usually steered clear of them at the post-talk drinks, run away if I see my friends with them, and all but hidden in the toilet if I bump into one.
But that doesn’t mean I’ve stopped being in love with these people. My heart still flutters when an intelligent or funny guy takes to the stage with a microphone, and the tiny amount of brain capacity that isn’t dedicated to preventing myself from fainting will instead focus on imagining the hilarious speech he might make at our wedding reception.
Yet those aren’t the kind of crushes I want to talk about today. Strangely, given the fact that I’m usually incapable of seeing a hot guy without imagining what his dick tastes like, most of my celebrity crushes are of a much tamer nature. There’s little actual sex – no licking and sucking and being banged up against a wardrobe – it’s mainly very family friendly. Long walks in the park, him laughing at my jokes, and maybe the odd playful squeeze to prove just how powerfully my famous boyfriend loves me.
Fucking a crush
Today I want to talk about the other kind of crush – the one that is less to do with personality and everything to do with the sheer physical need for a fuck.
Those people you see – either on TV or in the street – who appeal to me not because of their beautiful words but because of their beautiful bodies. Guys with bare arms and tight t-shirts. Guys whose jeans hang just low enough that I can see their hipbones.
Usually, when I fall for these guys, it happens like this:
1. Gotn is sitting on a tube, minding her own inane business.
2. Gentleman gets on the tube, and stands directly in front of her.
3. Gotn notices that this gentleman is wearing jeans of the aforementioned hanging-off-the-hips type.
4. Gotn tries to subtly look up, pretending to read the shit adverts for Wellbeing vitamins, or check the maps for the next tube stop, cunningly taking in every inch of his taut, strangerly hotness.
5. Gentleman catches Gotn’s eye and she looks away, ashamed and embarrassed to have been so caught out in objectifying the guy in question.
6. Gotn runs home to have a wank, imagining this guy strapping her by the wrists to the ceiling bars on the London Underground, stripping her naked from the waist down and fucking her with the hip-grabbing, butt-slapping desperation of a guy who can’t get his dick inside deep enough.
If you are one of these guys (and, chances are if you regularly travel on the Central line and you have both tattoos and tight t-shirts then you are one of them) I apologise wholeheartedly. If you’re one of these guys but you tend to sit down on the tube, please replace the fantasy with “imagining this guy laying his London Standard to one side, slipping down in the seat slightly, unzipping his jeans and pulling her ass-first onto his cock.”
I dream of being spanked by porn stars…
Sometimes the images that my brain thrusts on me in public are so extreme, so visceral, that they make even me feel uncomfortable. Imagine my delight, then, when I found myself starting to develop long-distance crushes on men who were a) not the kind of romance-fodder that most celebrity crushes provide and b) actively consenting to be looked at in that dribbling, appreciative way that we perverts like to look.
I’m talking, of course, about porn stars.
A couple of months ago I started working for the incomparable Pandora Blake. She runs a site called Dreams of Spanking, in which beautiful kinky people spank and get spanked to the delight and appreciation of perverts like me. They have a huge and varied range of scenarios, from straight-laced Victorian spankings to feisty, angry catfights. But best of all, they make a real and concerted point of showing everything: not just girl arses (which, despite being straight, I am a big fan of – I like to put myself in the picture, you know?) but boy arses, boy arms, boy torsos and the close-up expressions on the faces of guys when they’re beating ten shades of awesome into a delighted partner.
I can revel in these crushes because the guys in question know exactly what’s going on. They aren’t innocent bystanders on the tube, whose presence in my fantasies might disturb them if they knew about it. They are paid, consenting performers who have agreed to be pictured on camera doing all the things that make me go dribbly. There’s nothing wrong with fantasising about strangers, of course – what goes on in your head is personal and private. But the difference with crushing on porn performers is that I can quite gleefully and delightedly point towards them and go “look at this seriously hot guy doing delicious things to this beautiful lady“, and no one will either shuffle uncomfortably or call for my arrest.
In conclusion, then: screw celebrities – my crushes on hot porn performers are more explicit, more far more fun. Oh, and the best thing about these guys? They remain resolutely behind my laptop screen, so they’re unlikely to appear in a comedy club or on the tube any time soon. As long as I never meet them, I will never have the opportunity to disappoint them.
It’s been years since I got that teen-crush feeling. When I was younger my walls were plastered with pages cut from Just 17 magazine (which, incidentally, was perfect for a thirteen year old but by the time I hit 17 seemed childish and disappointing). There were guys I fancied, guys I vaguely thought might be decent boyfriend material, and guys I’d stare at for hours imagining exactly how they’d come in for a kiss.
Taj out of 3T had the best pre-kiss build up, if I remember my youthful fantasies correctly.
I remember the ache most – the longing. The knowledge that there was absolutely no way I’d ever get to meet my celebrity crushes, let alone have the courage to say a wobbly ‘hello.’ At the time it was borderline painful, and it gives me pangs of sadness to this day when I see youthful One Directioners begging for a Harry Styles follow: they know they probably won’t get it, but every atom of their crush-filled being pushes them to chase this impossible dream.
I have a million and one crushes as an adult, but most of them lack that same passionate desperation. Although my youthful crush fantasies revolved mainly around kissing the object of my desire, when I grew up a bit, despite understanding the sticky delight in going much further, I still didn’t usually think about fucking the celebrities I loved. This was probably due to the fact that the vast majority of my crushes were on comedians. I’d see guys on stage being hilarious, and all I could imagine was buying them a beer, having a chat, and exchanging jokes until we were both pissed and hurting with laughter. Crucial to the fantasy was the reciprocal laughter. As a kid I wanted mutually desired kisses – boyband heartthrobs who were as excited be kissing me as I was them. Slightly older, and I dreamed of meeting a funny man and making him laugh. I think they call it narcissism.
Unfortunately, I met one of my adult crushes once: a brilliant stand-up who looks uncannily like Rik Mayall on growth hormones. He was gigging at a club I go to a lot, and after his set it looked like he was staying around for a drink or two. I stared dreamily at him from across the room, until eventually a friend of mine nudged me in his direction.
“Go and talk to him, you dick. You’re supposed to be good at this.”
“Slander. I have never ever claimed to be particularly good at ‘this’. I have, in fact, frequently expressed surprise at how lucky I am given that I have wobbly confidence and a mortal fear of showing myself up in front of hot guys.”
“Just go and talk to him. Buy him a drink or something.”
So I did. I screwed up every ounce of my courage (Dutch and otherwise), and sauntered over to him as casually as you can saunter when all your limbs are trembling and you’ve forgotten how to speak.
“Hi,” I said, wittily.
“Hi,” he replied, with a friendly smile.
“I… umm… I think you’re great.” He smiled again, and my brain forgot how to do things. “Can… can I buy you a drink?”
He looked at me for quite a while, as if trying to work out what to say. I had no idea what he was thinking – it could have either been something awful “how do I get rid of this stuttering super-fan?” or something amazing “how do I respond well enough to put this lady at her ease so I can have her sitting on my lap by the end of the evening?”
Unfortunately, what he was actually doing was working out a polite way to point out that I was an idiot. As I smiled at him, hoping against hope he’d say yes, he broke eye contact with me, looked slowly downwards, and stared at the brim-full pint sitting in front of him.
“I’ve already got -”
I ran away. Before he’d even finished his sentence I was halfway across the room. I ran without saying anything else, because my throat had closed up and my tongue wouldn’t move. I grabbed my coat and my friends and rushed to the tube before anyone could try to change my mind. On the long journey home I alternated between waves of nauseated panic that I’d made myself look like a dick in front of one of my heroes, and triumph that I had at least managed to say a couple of words to him.
It’s lucky I never met Taj, after all. I’d only have disappointed him.