Today’s guest blog is by @Pervy_thoughts on Twitter – he’s here to share a deeply personal story about conception, pregnancy, and some of the complications involved. When he first got in touch with me, he focused on the difference between sex for recreation and sex to make a baby, so I was really moved when his story took a different turn. It’s by turns funny and deeply sad, and I’m grateful to him for sharing it here. Names have been changed with the consent of the other person in the story.

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Today’s guest blog covers a topic I’ve wrestled with in the past: who gets custody of the sex toys when you split up with someone? It’s not just a financial wrangle – although with the price of some high-end toys it certainly can be – but the emotion involved in things you’ve used and loved together. It’s an utterly gorgeous post, and I’m delighted to be able to bring guest blogs back with something so lovely – please welcome this week’s guest blogger Nic.

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Once I stayed in a hotel so ‘intimate’ that if your lover was lying in bed, you could technically look them in the eye while you had your morning shit. Upon arrival in this hell-hole, I realised there wasn’t a loud enough megaphone in the world to adequately amplify the force of my ‘Fuck no!’, but luckily for me my partner is understanding, and equally reluctant for me to see his dump face. We established a toilet etiquette system, so neither of us would be forced to see things we would never be able to unsee.

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I hate my sofas. I hate them with every single fibre of my being. I hate them more because I should have anticipated the problems I have had with them, and left them to rot in Marks and Spencer where they belonged. With their shitty sleek design and their evil spindly legs. And their squeaky, ill-placed, uncomfortable cushions.

I cannot fuck on my sofa. And although this might sound like an entitled whine (it is), I want you to be able to learn from my mistakes if you can. Never ever ever buy a sofa you cannot fuck on.

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I’ve lost count now of the number of exes I’ve stared at across a pub table and thought ‘God, I wish you were inside me right now.’ Chances are if I’ve fucked you once I’ll probably be up for another go, and having a casual pint with you and discussing your job/wedding/newborn baby is not going to do anything to help distract me from the fact that I once tasted your dick and it was goooood. But this isn’t about ex-lust, it’s about getting over your ex. It’s about the feeling you get when someone amazing has gone, and it feels like nothing will ever fill the cavernous, throbbing hole bored straight through your heart.

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