As ever when I roll out some dirty poetry, I’m going to ask you to be gentle because I don’t really know what the fuck I’m doing. But I wrote a sexy poem, about sex and aging. Two things that are not incompatible. I suck at poetry titles, so feel free to suggest one in the comments. And I suck at poetry too, it’s just that sometimes I like the rhythm of it to make a point or turn a dirty phrase.

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There are few things that all humans have in common, but one of them is this: if we’re lucky, we’ll all grow older. And while everyone changes as they get older – physically and emotionally – the things we enjoy hopefully never lose their shine. You’ll still be just as overjoyed at winning a pub quiz in your seventies. Or going on holiday to somewhere beautiful and drinking sangria on the beach. And – because this is a post about sex and aging – I’d hope you’d still enjoy an excellent fuck.

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I’ve never been a big fan of massage oil – it gets all sticky on my hands. While it’s delightful to stroke and prod and knead someone else’s body (particularly the arse – God how I love rubbing oiled-up hands on someone’s arse) I’ve always been a bit put off by the fact that when the massage stops and the slippery fucking begins, there’s nowhere to wipe my hands.

Until now, because I have one of these amazing tactile fluidproof sheets, and holy shit do I love it. The following post isn’t a review, it’s just an account of some wet and delicious sex I had. It’s also written pretty much in one take, because I got horny while I was writing it and it was a choice of either editing it for ages or just putting it live then having a wank and a nap. Sorry.

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I’m not a fan of the word ‘sexpert’, mostly because it’s occasionally used about me, even though I’ve no idea what I’m doing. But there’s one area in which I’m happy to bestow the ‘sexpert’ title – those who work in the sex industry, and have carefully honed their sexy skills. This week’s guest blogger is just such a person. Jaye, who blogs at How To Almost Be A Porn Star – has worked on phone sex lines for a long time, as well as indulged in plenty of phone sex for fun, so she’s well-placed to tell you just why you should pick up the phone and let your filthy mouth run wild…

I love this post, and if you do too go and check out Jaye’s blog and follow her on Twitter.

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I write confessional sex stories. Which is a weird thing to say because I’m not really confessing sins or expecting absolution. I’m just telling stories and expecting readers – if they’re kind enough – to click or share or stump up some cash for my books.

Confession is a pretty horrible word – drowning in centuries of expectation. It conjures images of the religious urge to ‘cleanse’ people of their misdeeds via exposure. Telling your stories so that others can judge you: shout ‘shame!’ as you’re paraded through the town. When you call it ‘confessional’, it’s a wonder anyone chooses to write stories about themselves.

But we do.

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