Something really awesome happened in the men’s rights arena recently. A change that will benefit millions of prospective fathers in the UK: the parental leave rules changed.

Let’s take a minute to celebrate what this means. In the past, it was always assumed that the person who gave birth to a baby would be the person who’d be the primary carer in its first year. So mothers usually got maternity pay, and it’d be assumed that – beyond the statutory two weeks of paternity leave taken shortly after birth – dads would be the ones working in their child’s first year, while mums took on the lion’s share of childcare.

Obviously this explanation is pretty basic, and doesn’t take into account a whole bunch of stuff – same-sex couples or non binary people who give birth but wouldn’t identify as a mother, for instance – but those were the general rules, and they had a huge effect on UK workplaces. Now, though, thanks to rules on Shared Parental Leave (which came in at the beginning of April), apart from a compulsory statutory two weeks, which must be taken by the person who gave birth, parental leave can be split.

So: Dads are no longer assumed to be the ones working through the first year, missing out on things like their child’s first steps, or the chance to join baby yoga classes or hand-wash tiny babygros that are covered in weird yellow vomit – both parents get to decide how the work/childcare split happens. This is pretty fucking awesome.

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We’re grown-ups now: it’s not the done thing. You can’t fuck in a crowded room at a sleepover and expect to get away with it. We have more fun, don’t we? Those group sex parties and swingers’ clubs and all the places we can legitimately fuck in the open? Except we don’t, not always. And sometimes the delight of having secret sex in the dark is overlooked in favour of open sex with an audience.

I used to do this a lot. When I was young, I mean – not now. Now we have money for hotels, and big houses, and far far fewer friends. And – what’s that other thing? – oh yeah, restraint. There’s little need now to pack horny couples into a living room and hope their sex doesn’t jog the couple shagging on the pillows next to them.

That’s either a shame or a blessing. If you think it’s the latter, then please don’t read on.

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Recently I had a chat with a mate of mine who is signed up to a couple of dating sites. Tinder, OKCupid, whatever it is the kids these days are using to hook up with people. She explained to me that her greatest bugbear is guys who – after she’s ignored their first message (or more likely first deluge of messages) – say ‘hey, you could at least tell me no rather than just ignoring me. It’s polite to say something, after all.’

No.

Hear this: I can totally see why your average dude might be confused by that. That unequivocal ‘no’ looks a bit harsh, doesn’t it? If you’re someone who sends a lot of dating messages only to be met with tumbleweed, you might think ‘hey, GOTN, that’s not very nice. I’d reply to everyone, so why shouldn’t they reply to me?’

*cracks knuckles*

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From casual conversations held with friends in darkened rooms, while they don’t realise that I’ve got a guy’s dick tight inside me, to moments when people walk in while we’re fucking. That split second where they stand and stare and can’t work out how to extract themselves if the ground resolutely refuses to swallow them. I was going to write about that stuff this week. It was going to be light-hearted and fun and a bit hot. Then, as I was collating anecdotes and remembering past fucks that fit the bill, I stumbled upon a sex story I’ve never written up – a brief encounter so horny that I couldn’t let it go. While sex interruptions are frustrating at the time, I doubt this brief fuck would have burned so clearly in my mind unless we’d been disturbed partway through, adding a heart-thumping fear and greater urgency to everything.

I might still write about sex interruptions in general, but for now you can have this: the filthy sex story that’s sat in my head for the last four days and won’t stop bugging me until I’ve relived it properly. Some things are just like that, you know? Well, you’ll see.

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This is my favourite sex position: me face down. Head buried in the pillow. Heat that borders on claustrophobia. Legs straight, and slightly parted. He kneels above me, ideally holding his dick in one hand, using the other to squash and pinch and slap my arse. There’s a vulnerable feeling – being exposed and examined and used. Occasionally spread.

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