I get these bursts of it, every now and then. Like a high. It swells upwards and outwards from the centre of my chest – rushing with a power that’s so much stronger than the first tingles of love. In the beginning, these rushes were so intense that sometimes they’d stop me in my tracks. Make it so I had to pause whatever I was doing and just breathe for a few seconds. In and out. Spine straight, shoulders back, slightly light-headed like you get when you stand up too quickly.

Freedom.

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I haven’t felt this brand of rage in a while, so I thought I’d have a go at capturing it while it still flows fresh through my veins. Basically, at the heart of it, I am angry with a man because he wanted to be helpful. He wanted to be helpful so much that he ignored me saying ‘no, please do not be helpful.’ Inevitably, no matter how angry I am at him, I am even more angry with myself. Here’s the thing…

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I have very little truck with entertainment that simply makes me think – I want to read, watch and listen to stuff that makes me fucking feel. And few genres on this planet are more effective at making people feel stuff than porn. Direct, intense, powerful: compelling people to touch themselves, revelling in the sensation of their crotch thudding hot and warm with blood. I adore porn, and in fact I will happily recommend you some fabulous sites if you’d like to buy a sub to get your rocks off (click the ads! And if you can’t see any porn ads, hit refresh until you do!). I don’t actually watch porn while I’m wanking, though, and every now and then I have a conversation with someone in which they look at me like I’m weird when I tell them I can (and usually do) get off without porn. I’m a sex blogger who has access to a lifetime’s worth of free porn! Why aren’t I watching it all the time?! It’s like they feel sorry for me, having to make do with just the thoughts in my head instead of the magic on screen. All the while, I’m feeling sorry for them, because they don’t have access to the kind of content that plays in my own private cinema.

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This bored and ignored scenario is the next in the wank tales series, which I tried to write up to balance out some of the more aggressive and brutal ones. There’s still a lot of desperation/urgency in this one, but way more consent. In the spectrum of what I tend to find hot, this is at the cutest end. 

I’m reading a book. It doesn’t need to be an erotic book, and in fact it’s probably better if it isn’t. Just a book that I’m really absorbed by: perhaps a re-read of one of my favourite page-turners or something brand new by an author I adore. I’m lying across the bed on my stomach with my nose buried in a Kindle. He comes in and lies next to me on the bed.

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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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