WHY HAVE I NEVER WRITTEN ABOUT RIDING CROPS?! I need to rectify this immediately, because riding crops are not only super-hot, but they also represent one of my earliest sexual memories. And by that I mean there was one time I spotted a riding crop on TV and couldn’t understand why I got all the funny feelings.

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I’ve wanted to write about sensual masturbation for a really, really long time. This rant has taken about three months to percolate in my mind, and eventually boil over – I estimate that’s roughly 2.5 months longer than the total time I’ve spent wanking in my entire adult life.

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I always hated the common dating site question: ‘what are your favourite books/films/bands etc?’ It struck me as a bizarre way to help encourage compatibility. Sure, if you’re going to be with someone for a long time you don’t want them to be constantly swapping out your punk rock tunes for dance anthems, but it’s more than possible for people with differing tastes to want to jump each other’s bones. Is there anything more useful I’d have asked?

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“Let’s get some dick in you.”

Storytelling is like sex: so much of it is about the angle. And there are two ways I can tell this dirty story. One ends with a punchline, the other with a perfect climax.

As this is the filthy version, I’ll give it to you quick and hard.

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Let me tell you something about real men: real men cry. They weep giant, fist-sized tears of misery. They collect them in a bucket, which they’ll later use to drown an angry bear.

Pay attention: it’s important. Because just as we’re told that ‘real women’ have curves, so we’re also spun lines about which men count as ‘real’.

Study the signs, remember them. Then burn your laptop lest this fall into enemy hands.

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