Before I begin, allow me a minute to put off 50% of you: this is not erotic fiction about what to do on your wedding night. It’s not a post about a romantic fuck at the end of your special day, or how to arouse your partner on the wedding night even though you’ve been together five years and you’re bored of the sight of their bollocks by now. If that’s what you’re after, then please pick up your warm white wine and move on to another buffet: this wedding night fuck is dirty.

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GOTN is on holiday until next week. In her absence, please enjoy this poem which she started writing in a workshop ages ago, then added some bits to, then read at the SheVibe bawdy poetry slam during The Woodhull Sexual Freedom Summit.

As with everything Woodhull-related, it would not exist without Doxy, who not only make my favourite ever sex toy, they also sponsored me to go, so please show them lots of love. I suggest following them on twitter and .@-ing them with a message of intense affection such as ‘you make my life complete’ or ‘I cannot imagine a future without you.’ If enough of you do it then it will simultaneously delight and confuse the hell out of them.

UPDATE: the wonderful @ninjasexology has added some new verses to the poem – in italics below and they’re AMAZING. You should check out her wonderful blog, where she showcases her collection of utterly incredible, often very girthy, and always imaginative dildos.

If you’re better at titles than GOTN is, feel free to suggest one in the comments.

xxx

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Many of my friends are people I’ve never met. That’s weird, isn’t it? It is genuinely a very different world to the one I grew up in, where friendship meant ‘the people whose doors you’ll knock on if you want to hang out at the weekend.’ Now, though, friendship usually comes with an @ and an avatar.

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What, dear friends, is the point of the male orgasm? That moment when spunk shoots out the end of someone’s cock is surely a thing that could happen without pleasure? Could evolution not have given penis-havers a simple urge to ejaculate that was not in any way based on physical sensations of joy?

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Most of the ones that got away did so because of timing.

Paul (not his real name, but he looked like a Paul. Or a Peter. Or a Stephen – with a ‘ph’ not a ‘v’) will never know just how perfectly wrong his timing was.

I met Paul in a beer garden. Again, most of the ones that got away escaped from beer gardens. Or pub lounges, if the weather was shitty. Metaphorically slipping out of the window when I was busy fucking someone else in the toilet.

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