I’m more than willing to suspend my disbelief to enjoy a good TV show. I’ll ignore loud explosions in deep space, grin and bear anachronisms in historical dramas, and even nod through a paradox or two. But one thing I refuse to believe is that at no point in his long long life has Doctor Who gone back in time to fuck himself.

I mean COME ON. He used to look like DAVID TENNANT, for crying out loud! And Matt Smith: all gangly limbs and twinking nerdery. You would, wouldn’t you?

One of the things I enjoyed most about the book The Time Traveler’s Wife (if you haven’t read it then it’s about a dude who accidentally time travels) is that in it, when his teenage self meets another teenage self, they wank each other off. It’s not described in detail, but it’s straightforward enough that it made me go ‘omg realistic portrayals of identical-selves masturbating is exactly what has been missing from all time travel.’

So, in that spirit, here are a few of the sexual encounters that would happen if I had a time machine.

Time-travel threesomes

I don’t really want to have sex with myself, if only because I don’t tend to fancy women that often, and I suspect I am exactly the kind of person who would annoy myself by being obnoxiously loud and eating all the nice crisps at parties. So I don’t think me and me would make a good couple. However what we WOULD make is an excellent threesome double-team.

In the past I’ve turned down amazing sexual opportunities because I’m too jealous of the other girl involved, or because I’m scared that the guy I’m with will enjoy the other person more and be permanently disappointed with my own mediocre vagina. However, with a time-travel threesome, I wouldn’t need to worry about that, because I am basically the same person.

I’d pick and choose some of the less exciting fucks I’ve had in the past, and spice them up by introducing my future-self halfway through and watching the guy’s eyes widen with delight as he realised all the tingling possibilities. I’d join an ex or two in some double-penetration, strapping one on so I could fuck me while I was being fucked. I’d head to the first time I used a strap-on at all, and sit heavily on that guy’s dick at just the moment his prostate pushed hard squirts of spunk out of him. I could pop back to last night, when I ground heavily onto my partner’s dick while he wanked me off with a Doxy. Past-me could still do that: I wouldn’t want to ruin her fun. But while she was doing it I could be biting his nipples or letting him suck mine.

Being the first

Is this creepy? I think perhaps this is creepy. In my head it’s super-romantic, but I don’t think we need to worry about creepiness given that time travel is impossible, so if you’re thinking of writing angry letters, please save them for the day when we manage to break all the laws of physics and invent an actual Tardis.

It’s 2002, or thereabouts. A guy who – in 2002 – I’ve never met, is masturbating furiously and desperately wishing he could hurl away his virginity. Late one evening on his way home from a friend’s party, he runs into a woman. Old enough that he wouldn’t usually look twice, but young enough that he definitely would. She invites him into her Tardis, and because he is probably only 18 at this point, I will spare you the pervy details.

What’s important though is not necessarily what happens then, but what happens years later, when he runs into me for what he thinks is the first time.

“Wow. You… you look really familiar.”

“Really?”

“Yeah. You look like this person I knew once, ages ago.”

“Oh really? What was she like?”

“It’s kind of a funny story actually. It’s how I lost my virginity…”

Fixing mistakes

Picture the scene: it’s three AM outside a shitty nightclub – in one of those vaguely Mediterranean ‘party towns’ that are magnets for young people who want to get drunk and sweat on each other. Two girls who are far too young to be there are sitting on the laps of two guys who can’t believe their luck. The guys are young too – not yet mature enough to realise that if you really want to get laid you need to avoid drinking twelve shots of AfterShock. They’re all snogging, and having a whale of a time.

One of these girls enjoys it so much that she tries to take the guy somewhere quieter to fuck.

“Give me a sec,” she whispers erotically, then runs to the bins and sprays rainbow-coloured vomit  in a decorative arc over the pavement. She wipes her mouth.

“I’m done. Let’s go.” The guy nods, looking a little queasy himself, but clearly game. The girl leads him to what she thinks is a secluded spot. They snog again, briefly, before he backs away. It might be the taste of her sick-washed mouth, but our heroine decides it’s probably just because he’d rather do other things. She pushes his head down between her legs, pulls her knickers to one side, and he licks at her with eager enthusiasm – this is clearly a dude who’d rather taste cunt than cocktails.

In the faint distance she can see the nightclub lights illuminating her best friend and the other guy, snogging on a chair. Her cunt twitches with pleasure but she’s far too pissed to notice.

At this moment the sky splits, and a time machine appears. An older version of the girl leans her head out of the time machine and – in the manner of a Mum yelling at her kids to get inside for dinner – she shouts:

“You fucking idiot! Everyone can see what you’re doing! You’re not in a secluded spot at all, you’re in a field right next to a busy road! Go home and sober up or in ten years’ time you’ll have to write a blog post about how much you regret this whole sordid incident!”

Time travel sex – watching and wanking

Of course it wouldn’t just be about joining in or changing the path of history – that’d kind of imply that my sex Tardis would mostly be about regrets. I’d probably spend most of my time popping back to my favourite moments. That first ever threesome with two guys, which fulfilled a list of long-held sexual desires so spectacularly that I still remember it in a sleepy, dreamlike way. I’d watch as they kissed each other, and look out for the expression of shining delight on my face. I’d take mental photographs of every beautiful moment: as they fucked me, as they fucked each other, as we all tangled together in a huge pile of happy fucklust.

I’d visit a few fetish clubs to watch myself get beaten.

Head to old bedrooms in which I frotted tirelessly against exhausted ex-boyfriends.

Watch a few of the hottest boy snogs I’ve ever seen.

It would be like having a live-action replay of some of the best fucks, and the most beautiful people I’ve ever known. Hot and horny but also tinged with wistful nostalgia.

Maybe one of the best things I could do if I had a sex Tardis would be to leave little notes for myself on the morning of each hot encounter, saying:

“This one, tonight: this one’s special. Drink it in. It’ll never happen the same way again.”

You know how sometimes a particular smell evokes a really specific memory? Hot days smelling like childhood holidays, Baileys smelling like Christmas or – if you want to be less saccharine and cheesy about the whole thing – dick that smells exactly the way your ex used to?

I have a style of skirt that reminds me of my first spanking. No, really. It was grey, and patchwork – silk and corduroy and cotton and linen all sewn together in a rough pattern, draped perfectly over my hips and arse. It was one of the best items of clothing I’ve ever owned, and I can’t work out if that was because it sat just right on my bum, tight enough to cling so I could feel it when I walked, but loose enough that the material would billow out around my thighs when I walked somewhere, or if it was the best because it reminded me of spanking.

The first spanking

I’d been slapped before – occasional smacks on the bum as I walked naked to the bathroom. Boys who’d slap it when we were flirting after school, or boyfriends who’d give it a whack when they ironically ordered me to the kitchen for beer. But I’d never before had a proper spanking.

I arrived at his house at the usual time – what we’d have called ‘after work’ because we were students, but something far closer to 3pm. I’d been away for a week or so and I couldn’t wait to see him. This guy. This dream-come-true. This person I jokingly called The One when he was out of earshot.

He didn’t think much of me back then. We were mates who fucked, but while we were both equally enthusiastic about the fucking, I suspected there was a serious imbalance on the ‘mates’ front. He was my best and my almost-only – the one I’d seek out and chase and invite to every occasion. I was the one he ditched when something more interesting came along.

Still, we were pretty happy, not least because each time one of us came up with something new to do with each other’s genitals it would be greeted with an enthusiastic and husky ‘fuck yeah.’

When I came in he gave me a brief hug. We did some small talk. He told me to bend over a chair and flip up my patchwork skirt.

He could almost certainly feel the wetness through my knickers. He ran his hand over me quickly – not savouring the feel of my cunt through the fabric, just planning where his first slap would fall. He pulled down my knickers and settled for my left cheek.

Smack.

Firm, stinging, perfect. I yelped.

He adjusted my skirt, hitching it higher to stop the hem falling back down over my thighs. I was bent almost double over the chair – the wooden back digging into my stomach, hands gripping the front legs to try and keep my balance.

Smack.

He was testing us both. Trying something that neither of us had done with this level of seriousness. Playful slaps turned to full-on, powerful blows and I made enough of a racket that he asked me to sssh. His housemates weren’t in but that didn’t mean the neighbours weren’t.

Smack.

I imagined him rolling up his sleeves.

Smack.

One stroke fell slightly left of its mark, half of it catching me in the crotch where I was wet and sensitive and raw.

Smack.

This time right in the middle of the cheek. Satisfyingly thuddy and good enough to make me wriggle.

Smack.

Enough of this now.

Smack.

I said ‘enough.’ I said ‘I really need you to fuck me.’

Smack.

He held me firm – one hand on the crumpled skirt pulled up to the small of my back.

Smack.

‘Do you like it?’

‘Yes. I like it. But I need you to fuck me.’

He paused for a while, and I could almost hear his indecision. Feel the stiffness of his cock pushing through his jeans and against my hip as he took a step to stand beside me. He ground his dick into me and my legs started to tremble. I asked again. ‘Please fuck me.’ Note the ‘please’. I asked nicely. I choked out the ‘please’ like if he didn’t fuck me, I’d cry. To be fair, I would have.

He told me I’d get six more slaps and that I’d have to count them. And he said they’d be hard enough to sting his hand.

After he’d delivered the spanking, I was a mess of arousal and emotions and red, raw pain. I pulled down my knickers as quickly as I could and pulled him into me, feeling his dick fill me up seemed to push the pain away. With each stroke I twitched and tensed the muscles in my legs, worried that I’d knock the chair over.

As he fucked the frustration out of me, and came hard into my aching cunt, his hands gripped the patchwork skirt around my waist, pulling my sore arse back to the base of his cock, to get the most pleasure possible with each angry stroke.

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Listen up, people! I have googled around a bit and have been unable to find a word that sums up the level of knicker-moistening excitement that I experience when a gentleman lets me suck him off while he codes, so I invented one: Vimphilia. To mean: a kink/fetish for programmers.

(more…)

When I fuck up, I apologise. The apologies are always heartfelt, but rarely ever sufficient. I’m sorry anyway.

I’m sorry that I am a desperate, horny, sexually incontinent bastard. And I’m sorry that I am apparently incapable of saying ‘no’ when my blood’s up and I’m pissed. That the voice in my head which tells me ‘this is wrong’ whispers so quietly next to the roar of the voice that says ‘touch me touch me touch me oh please touch me.’

There’s no excuse, because there’s never an excuse. There’s something horrible and bad inside me that encourages me to do awful things that will hurt guys I love, and I’ve come to the rather worrying conclusion that the bad thing is just ‘my personality’. I am just the sort of person who does bad things: a bad person, if you will.

I did some bad things. I didn’t fuck anyone, blow a guy in a doorway, or get into the exact kind of trouble I’ve been in before, but I did things bad enough that they required confession and flagellation.

I confessed because – like all naughty schoolgirls – I know that if you lie about something it makes it worse. Because I’d promised never to lie about this… this ridiculous inability to say ‘no’ when a certain type of guy asks if I want to sneak off to a quiet place with him. Because there was a boy I liked and, Christ, he was hot and hard and needy and strong and had big hands and wet eyes and all the things I can’t resist.

And we did stuff. Like teenagers covering up for the fact that, underneath the playful euphemism, there was a very real and potent lust, I’m going to use the phrase ‘did stuff’. Clumsy, awkward, unspecific, slickly wet and angry. Stuff.

When to beg forgiveness

There’s a certain level of idiocy that I don’t have to confess. For instance – I got pissed and told a guy I wanted to suck him dry: textbook, easy, and powered by the clumsy and inappropriate section of my brain. Fell down a staircase. Wanked on a train. Said someone’s dick was pretty. Held a friend too long in a hug because he smelt so fucking good and I just didn’t want to let go.  Ate the last Creme Egg. Wanked in the shower. Put this guy’s boxers on my face and breathed in until I felt lightheaded and wet.

These things don’t require confession because the confession would be met with an eye roll. A “fucking obviously” that recognises just how much of a cunt-dribbling sexual glutton I always am. But other things do require it, because they involve much more than me. They involve me, and someone else, or two other someones, or three, doing stuff. That exclusive, behind-closed-doors sweaty betrayal of things that are far more important than my brief pulsing lust.

I know what I have to confess: it’s the things I know I don’t really want to tell him.

Why am I such an incorrigible twat?

I’m not addicted to sex, I’m not smashing relationships like someone else would smash windows and nick box-sets to sell for crack. I just… choose sex. I do it because it’s more fun than not doing it. I’m not making a selection between two different kinds of soup – I’m choosing whether to eat or not, at just the moment my stomach starts growling. Because some fucking random guy says ‘can I slap you?’ and my immediate answer is ‘oh God yes please’.

These are the things that require confession: the things I do that no amount of joking or playing will render unsexual. The things that he wouldn’t want me to do on the grounds that I so desperately want to do them. The things that require actual willpower to stop.

So I confess. And I tell him. And in telling him I break his heart a bit, and hate the heartbreaking more than I hate the deception that would have come otherwise. And he says thanks, and that it hurt him, and that I’m not a bad person. He strokes my hair and sits next to me, and chokes down the pain so he can make jokes and pretend it’s OK.

Worst of all, worst of fucking everything – when I confess to him that “I did bad things” he responds with a calm and measured:

“I thought you might have.”

Fuck.

Fuck. Fuck. Fuck me for being such a pathetic horny slag. And fuck me twice for being so depressingly predictable.

He’s not angry: just disappointed. But I’m angry. And although sackcloth and self-flagellation might feel punishingly good against my skin right now, it won’t stop me from doing it again. Because, as noted, I am predictable. And angry. And horny. And… fuck.

 I’ll get letters about this, so just FYI – when I write stuff that’s super-personal like this I usually leave a big gap between when it happened and when I publish. The guy involved has given his consent for me to write it.

My parents want me to get married. My grandparents want me to get married. When the marriage is over and done with (or, in most cases, before it’s even been floated as an idea) they will all want me to have children. To produce tiny copies of myself and my other half, then send them out into the world to follow in their mother’s footsteps/continue the family line/whatever it is that people expect children to do.

But although these things are unarguably signs that you’re committed to your relationship, there are other things that – to me – indicate commitment in a different way, yet are rarely celebrated or treated as exciting.

A long time ago I moved in with my partner – an ex. When I told my family, I had a mixed range of reactions, from ‘congratulations!’ to ‘are you sure? It’s a pretty big commitment.’ The latter, bizarrely, was from people who’d previously asked me when they’d hear wedding bells. I had another relative who said ‘why are we celebrating this? You’re basically just housemates – it’s not exactly commitment, is it?’

Weddings versus other commitment

I love a good wedding – they’re desperately romantic. I like turning up on the day and smiling alongside the happy couple in cheesy photos, throwing confetti and drinking booze and getting a bit weepy over the speeches. Cracking stuff. Best of all I love hearing the pride in friends’ voices when they start saying “my husband” or “my wife”. Marriage is pretty cool, for those who want to do it.

In terms of marriage as commitment, though, I think it gets far too much of the credit. Sure, it’s a commitment: a public declaration of your togetherness and all that. But as a tediously practical nobhead, I can’t help but think that ‘marriage’ gets a lot of the commitment glory that should realistically be given to other, less romantic, things.

I’m talking about mortgages, mostly.

For many reasons, I have some fairly strong ideas about money and equality and independence in relationships. When I say ‘fairly strong ideas’ what I mean is if you even think about suggesting that I live off my partner’s wages, or that my credit card bills don’t matter because he could pay them with his savings if I really struggled, I am liable to burst into sanctimonious ranting.

Independence means a lot to me. My money is my money and his money is his, and that is the way it has always been. I’ve struggle to ‘share’ in the traditional, ‘committed’ sense of the word: joint bank accounts, paying bills without splitting to the final penny, not counting up who’s added six bags of Malteasers to the Ocado order, that kind of thing.

Money as a sign of commitment

So when I say I don’t want to get married, it’s not because I have a fundamental problem with marriage, or that I’m pissing on your happy day if that stuff works for you. I’m not even saying I’ll never get married – if I were with someone who gave a massive and deal-breaking shit about it, I’d say an enthusiastic ‘I do’ to keep him happy. What I am saying, though, is that if you want a real test of whether I’m committed to a relationship, don’t ask for my hand: ask for a joint bank account.

Ask me for a mortgage. Buy a sofa we’ll sit on together. Offer to pay some of my debts then wave a hand and say ‘whenever’ when I ask how I’ll pay you back. Romance wise, it isn’t a patch on standing up in front of your loved ones and pledging to ‘love, honour and whatever it is they say instead of ‘obey’ these days’, but it gives me the warm and fuzzy feelings nonetheless.

These activities make me gooey because they’ve previously made me so afraid. If I throw my money in with yours – save jointly for a holiday, buy a house, or split the cost of getting the bathroom re-tiled, then… what if we break up? The knowledge that if this relationship goes down the toilet we’re left not just splitting book collections but setting up standing orders for repayment terrifies me. Would he charge me interest? Would I be left with a bill?

These fears and more mean that I’ve probably taken my fear of financial commitment a bit far. What started as ‘rent is split 50:50’ has become ‘I would rather watch you eat take-out on your own than eat a portion of a meal I can’t afford.’ In any relationship, my partner and I have paid for our own things, kept our own money, and always – always – split the bill.

Which means that, while my relatives might still be nagging for marriage, I can hug myself with the warm fuzzy feelings that come from looking at mortgage rates together. I can see romance in him chipping in to help re-tile the bathroom.

It’s not that romantic on the surface, but I’ll happily say ‘I love you’ with a spreadsheet.