For some reason, when you become intimate with people, they often feel like they have a right to say critical things about the way you look. Men have often felt this way about my body over the years: making comments about my weight, the various places in which hair grows and whether I remove it, the way I dress or carry myself, my use (or rejection) of make up. As if our intimacy constitutes a contract which grants them the right to correct me. Or perhaps, more kindly, like they believe I will welcome the opportunity for self-improvement that they’ve so thoughtfully opened up. Please, for the love of infinite fuck, understand this: I will never welcome these comments. You should never say these things. Your negative comment on my body is never welcome. My body is my body. If you don’t like it, don’t fuck it: that’s the deal.  

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One of the things I’m finding hilarious about dating again, eleven years after the last time I was single, is that no matter how compatible or otherwise my date and I might be, there is one fact on which we always agree: OK Cupid is shit now. This isn’t a problem with an obvious, easy solution, I just think that when you realise something truly good is gone, it’s important to allow yourself time and space to mourn. OK Cupid sucks horrible arse these days, and I know I’m late to this revelation but I’m super fucking sad about it, and I wanted to have a little rant.

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This post is just a random collection of lessons I learned in 2021, and if I’m honest it’s also partly a vehicle for me to share with you some of my favourite posts and images from the past year. I’m extremely lucky to get to work with Stuart Taylor, who draws fresh new art each week which brings this blog to life in ways that are not only extremely fucking sexy (here’s my favourite hot image from the year – unngh) but also cute and funny (here’s my favourite cute/funny one!). The image that illustrates this post, by the way, comes from one of the things I most enjoyed writing this year: an ode to the walk of shame. Anyway. The end of December is a good time for taking stock of what you’ve learned in the last year, for for what it’s worth here are some of my lessons from 2021.

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It’s important to me that you know this: I don’t publish sexy blog stories about people without their permission. That hasn’t always been the case – when I first started blogging I wrote about people who were so far in my past that I couldn’t have popped back up in their lives to get their OK, so I just fudged a lot of details and shot for anonymity. These days, everyone I’ve slept with recently knows that I’m girl on the net, which handily bypasses some of the more awkward conversations I might have to have with a stranger, and also means there’s no excuse to not ask before I turn our fuckstories into #content. So: sex writing and consent. Do people approve their blog posts? And if so, how does that work?

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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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