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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There’s an ache that I have not yet told you about On Here. It throbs beneath the surface of my every other need. I have no idea if it’s something I’m legitimately allowed to feel, or if publicly acknowledging it is silly and self-defeating. It isn’t something I can actively chase, and it will definitely scare a few men. But let’s have a go anyway: what I ache for is decades of sex. With the same person. I am up for being open, being polyamorous, whatever relationship structure best fits my own needs and his. But fundamentally, powerfully, deeply, I yearn for long-term intimacy. As my life marches on, I find myself growing colder and colder at the thought of sex with total strangers. These days I dream of a man who I can fuck for decades.

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I’m delighted to welcome Emory Oakley to the guest slot today! Emory is a queer trans man who writes fantastic educational content about gender and sexuality over on his blog. He got in touch with a pitch about dating while trans, specifically about how getting hit on by a gay man validated his trans identity. I’m really honoured that he’s up for sharing his story here, and if you’d like to find out more do click the links to some of the other fantastic pieces he’s written elsewhere on all the details of his journey in learning about how own identity.

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The other day, I fell for a stranger. I choose my words here carefully. ‘Fell for’, not ‘fancied’ or ‘desired’. ‘Fell’, like you would if you slipped on a banana skin. Fall as in pratfall. But also fall as in ‘fail’. Perhaps this fall wasn’t a trip or a stumble (cue laughter track) but something more dismal, like a ‘fall’ off the edge of a cliff in a climactic episode of Eastenders. When I told this story to friends over WhatsApp, with a winky face and what I thought was a killer punchline, half of them reacted with sympathy. One asked if it was meant to be funny or sad. It was meant to be funny, but I guess if that isn’t obvious I should ponder why my friends are responding to the comedy of my life like it’s a tragedy. Maybe I should look a little closer. Let me tell you a story about falling for a man I’ve never met.

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Here’s a kiss I’d really love to have: the oh-fuck-we’re-about-to-miss-our-tube kiss when we get kicked out of the pub at closing time, having overstayed our welcome because we got stuck into a fun discussion. We know that we both want to fuck but early morning meetings make that impossible tonight, so we give each other the kind of snog that’ll leave the other person hungry for next week’s follow-up liaison. That’s one of the kisses I’m hoping for when you message me on a dating site.

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