Today’s guest blog began when CavaSupernova got in touch with a link to her story. I love a good story. And my favourite stories come with a mix of filth and emotion. This story was slightly different. Filthy, yes. Emotional, fuck yes. But also the sort of thing that makes me want to reach through the screen, seek out the villain of the piece, and shake him into a thousand tiny pieces.

There’s a world of difference between exploring your hot sex fantasies with people, and using sex as a way to hold power over someone. With wisdom and a far calmer tone than I could manage, CavaSupernova‘s story explores the latter. I don’t want to give too much away, but please be aware that this might be triggering.

Open relationships and threesomes

I love threesomes. I do. I love, love, love them.

I’ve made a few stops on the FFF to MMM spectrum, and for me, there’s no end to the fun. Try being in the middle of a girl sandwich; one’s teasing your nipples with her fingertips as she watches the other licking your cunt, and your back is arched to breaking point you’re so turned on.

Or a nice MMF spitroast, one horny guy doing you from behind, while you suck the other’s rock-hard cock. Or maybe you’re at an orgy and some guy’s just tied your hands behind your back and his wife’s asking you to sit on her face while her man does you from behind.

Mmm, hot. To the power of three.

Or not, as the case may be.

In early 2010, an anonymous letter landed on my doormat bearing a dynamite revelation: “Your husband is fucking men behind your back. In your bed.” Turns out my bloke had been cruising guys online for a couple of years and having threesomes with them.

A 16-year relationship, 11 of them married, down the pan. Within the week I bailed out, within the year, we were divorced.

I’ve already blogged the full story, but there’s one specific aspect under the microscope here because it screwed up my head big time during the dazed months that followed:

What right had I to get upset?

How can a chick who loves threesomes – who has had sex with other men in front of her husband – get her arse out when her spouse does the same thing?

A closed relationship

Me and my husband – let’s call him B – had a sort-of open relationship. It mainly expressed itself when, after a night out caning it, he’d invite some similarly wasted male acquaintance or other back to ours. We had never talked about or designated ourselves as non-monogamous. It just happened.

The threesomes were so knicker-wettingly intense I get hot even thinking about them now. B just had a knack for picking gorgeous, intelligent men, with great bodies, no inhibitions and an awesome line in dirty talk.

Back to 2010. I was devastated when that letter arrived, descended into gibbering, teeth-chattering shock. But as the news sunk in, I began to feel like a hypocrite and then I started to hate myself for feeling so bad. “You brought this on yourself, you stupid, stupid idiot.”

Open any glossy women’s magazine and there’s some ‘expert’ telling you how non-monogamy will nuke a marriage. Make it disintegrate in a mushroom cloud of jealousy and recrimination.

By their logic, I’d paid the price for smugly assuming the rules didn’t apply to me. I deserved everything I got.

Simple, right? Well, no.

B and I had a tatty, grim shambles of a pairing. It had gradually, imperceptibly, come to revolve around his drink problem and filthy temper, my endless dread of his next outburst, and the fear that I’d be next whenever he started smashing stuff up. It’d happened so slowly I didn’t even notice; got used to his shit without even realising it.

This abuse was tipping into violence. He tried to strangle me twice, enjoyed shoving me around and slamming doors in my face; laughed it all off as ‘just messing about’. After Doormat-gate, it took months to dawn on me that his ‘betrayal’ wasn’t about the sex. His ‘adultery’ was just another element in a campaign of emotional and verbal abuse. This abuse caused our split.

The high times, ironically, had kept us going. My ex had a cuckolding fetish, loved seeing me with other guys, really got off on it. He often asked me to go out and pick up men, so I could tell him all about it. I drew the line at that, but it was pretty hot just talking about it.

He also fancied the blokes, hence the Gaydar habit. If we’d had a happy relationship, I’d have been cool with him getting it on with men, though. A chance to watch a guy suck another guy’s cock? That’s my ultimate ‘makes me hotter than the sun’s internal core’ fantasy.

The problem was never openness

Without threesomes – one of the few ‘fun’ activities we shared – we’d have split earlier, not later. The agony aunts were wrong; anger and abuse destroyed us, not kink.

I also realised my ‘open’ marriage was anything but. We weren’t remotely open with each other. We didn’t talk. We didn’t establish parameters. So, if you’re attached, and want to experiment, do your due diligence and go into it with your eyes open. You could end up having the time of your life: I did.

Now I’m mended, the self-hatred’s finally evaporated and I love threesomes more than ever. Angry, manipulative men, though… I’ve given those up for good.

If you identify with any of the more shocking things in CS’s post, or if you’re in a relationship that scares you, you can find out more and get advice here. And if you like her writing, check out CavaSupernova’s excellent blog or follow her on Twitter.

As a sex blogger, I am legally obliged to provide some sort of fodder that hits the keyword “Valentine’s Day”, or Google will have me shot. But if you want a syrupy-sweet and romantic entry or a rant about twee, tedious predictability of the day itself, you’re better off looking at previous years’ entries. Because today I’m going to talk about House of Cards.

House of Cards on Valentine’s Day

No, this isn’t just an excuse to remind other fans that Season 2 of House of Cards will be released on February 14th, it’s simply because House of Cards presses so many of my ‘holy shit that’s so hot’ buttons that it is almost impossible to list them all.

I’ll give you my top ones, though.

1. Powerful, evil men

From Andrew Scott’s playfully terrifying Moriarty to the drawling, bass sarcasm of Professor Snape, there’s an entire book to be written about how deliciously sexy evil can be. I’m definitely not the only one who thinks this. Plenty of submissive-leaning people on Twitter replied to my achingly hot story about number 14 by telling me, in no uncertain terms, that they were off to rub themselves raw, and I’ve been in certain circles where one cannot mention Kevin Spacey’s name without causing at least three people to collapse in a puddle of their own lust.

Why is Kevin Spacey so sexy? I think it’s because in House of Cards he is a ruthless, vicious, scheming man. A bastard’s bastard. The créme de la créme of cunts. And with every new machination, each twisted smile or liberty taken, I want to hug myself with merciless joy and have him devour me like the wolfish Beelzebub he is.

2. Hate fucking

Not all the sex in House of Cards is hateful, but there’s certainly a hell of a lot more of it that is powered by rage, revenge, and politics than you’d get in your average drama series. Sometimes it’s nice to see the perfect couple getting together on screen. But at other times it’s fantastic to be reminded that sex can be had for many reasons: not all of them good.

An on-screen fuck is so much hotter when you know one or other of the characters has an ulterior motive.

3. Zoe Barnes (played by Kate Mara)

I very rarely fancy women, but I am happy to make an exception for Zoe Barnes. She’s indescribably stunning, as well as being sneaky and devious and cunning and all that good stuff too. She also has a quality that I am exceptionally jealous of – in anything she wears her tits look spectacular. I want to hug her so that our chests smoosh together, then pick her up and fuck her against a wall.

The perfect House of Cards relationship

Hauling this entry back from drooling celebrity lust and onto the crucial topic of Valentine’s Day (see, Google? I am playing your wicked game), the most insanely hot thing about House of Cards is the relationship between Frank Underwood (played by Kevin Spacey) and his wife Claire (played by Robin Wright). They’re  both incredibly powerful people, but together they seem to be striving for a kind of give/take equality that I’ve rarely seen before.

Neither of them seems as concerned about fidelity as you’d expect from a high-profile married couple. They both make mistakes, sexually and personally, but what’s utterly fascinating is that they have this ongoing deal: I support you, then you support me. They know that it’s not always possible to excel simultaneously, so they take it in turns. Frank takes the limelight while Claire supports him from the wings, then they swap, and he dedicates his time to making sure that she gets the best exposure.

Every now and then they share a cigarette. The cigarette is, like all smoking on TV these days, a metaphor for their relationship. One of them will start it, then halfway through pass it to the other one. Breathing in, then out, then handing it over.

Love me like Frank Underwood

Don’t get me wrong, these characters are both pretty horrible people, so I wouldn’t recommend any of you turn into Frank Underwood any time soon (unless you are joining me in ‘filthy evil men’ sex games), but their relationship looks a lot like the sort of thing I want. A partnership of the most interesting kind, where you’ll step aside for your partner when they need to succeed, fight for their goals as passionately as you fight for yours, knowing with total certainty that they’ll do exactly the same thing for you a little way down the road.

And, of course, lust painfully after each other as you get dressed for a night out – because along with the support and the love, there’s always a little promise of fiery rage around the corner.

 

Addendum: If this entry wasn’t Valentine’s-y enough for you, here are some previous V-day entries ranked in order of how much I like them.

Love is like being tied to a rock that you also sort of want to have sex with

The most romantic thing I’ve ever written

Unwilling monogamy (not strictly V-day, but about love)

For Valentine’s Day I want a blowjob

A member of my family is expecting a baby: cue applause, coos, expressions of delight, and the sound of excited aunties scrabbling at wallets to go and pick up the cutest, tiniest booties from a nearby branch of Mothercare.

Exciting though it is for some (the pregnant couple are clearly ecstatic about it), there are others who are tempering their squeals of joy with mutterings: “when’s the wedding?” they ask, with pursed lips and a sour expression.

The answer, in this case, is that there isn’t one.

Traditional family expectations

Perhaps it’s the season: a couple of weeks of touring relatives can give one an unnecessary burden of expectations. Where’s your boyfriend/girlfriend? When are you getting married? Where are the grandchildren with which you’re obliged to provide me?

There are some things we’re expected to do that are fair enough: respond to a nice gift with a thank you letter, help with the washing up so the cook doesn’t have to do it, smile at the Jeremy Clarkson book that Gran thought you’d like even though any decent human would rather eat it than read it. Sometimes we’re expected to do things because they’re just decent things to do, which is fine. But there’s more that sneaks over the line, laying expectations on individuals that are either impossible or undesirable to carry out.

Perhaps it’s families: older relatives are so used to passing on their wisdom that when advice turns to expectation we barely notice the difference. “You’re a lovely girl, you can find a great partner” easily melts into “you’ve got a lovely partner, you should marry him” and onward to “where’s the baby?” fairly naturally. There isn’t an obvious stopping point, at which relatives prompt themselves to step back.

We all do it

I understand why grandparents think a wedding should happen before a birth: it’s how it was in their day, and it’s what they’re used to. Luckily, though, not everyone shares the opinions of those born eight decades ago: we get less prescriptive, society becomes more liberal… it’s how progress happens.

But it happens much more slowly because so many of us stick to the status quo – we expect things of others because it’s the easy thing to do. Far simpler to join in with teasing loved-up friends about marriage and babies than to leave well alone and let them make up their own minds. Far easier to frown at people who choose something different than to celebrate their choice and show interest.

I’m sick of these unnecessary expectations. Not just the ones about marriage and babies, but the other ones too. Losing weight, going on dates, earning money, buying a house, having exactly the right amount of fun but not so much you appear out of control. Have the right kind of sex (fun, varied, but not too kinky) with exactly the right people (ones you love, ideally one at a time). We expect people to be bright and eager, but not desperate. To have a plan, but not too much ambition. To make money, but in ways we approve of. To live, achieve, then die to order.

The rebellious ones

Perhaps worse is that even when people reject these things we still paint them into a corner. As the one who rejects stuff. The one who isn’t traditional. The one who’s rebellious. So-and-so will never get married because she’s always been the odd one out. That boy will always sleep around because he always has. Rejecting the traditional trajectory doesn’t send you on a whole new journey, without any expectations at all, it just lumbers you with a new set.

So while the pregnant couple grimace through questions about weddings, others are expected to never get married, or at least to do something wild and reckless before they don a ring and a dress. Still others have to grin and bear a grilling on why they haven’t got a boyfriend yet, when the answer may well be ‘I just don’t want one‘.

I’m guilty of this too. For all the ‘live and let live’ ranting on this blog, Christmas with relatives has led me to deduce that although when pressed I’ll tell you I have no expectations, my default position is to assume everyone’s similar. That we all want more or less the same things, and that my own route to happiness is the best one for us all to take.

My resolution for 2014: expect nothing.

Once upon a time I was sitting in a tiny greasy bar with a boy, when a rose seller came along. She had a basket full of dozens of roses, each one tied up nicely and ready to be hawked to the nearest soppy romantic.

I growled my customary ‘don’t disturb me in the pub’ growl. The boy looked interested.

Romantic acts

Romantic acts don’t have to be the obvious ones: diamond rings, flowers, breakfast in bed and the like. But these things do have a certain kind of charm, and if you want to impress someone, it might be easier to reach for a bunch of flowers than a deeply personal something-or-other that has the potential to backfire.

I have a deep and sincere admiration for people who perform romantic acts. Those who know exactly when to shower love, and in exactly what quantities, to make someone melt.

But it’s not easy. One person’s romantic gesture is another’s worst nightmare, and the success of the gesture in question all comes down to how well it’s received. I was reminded of this recently when a friend told me a story about a guy she knew: madly in love with one of his friends, he journeyed the two hours it took him by train to turn up at her house. Rather than knocking on the door and sobbing his undying love directly at her, he decided to be a bit more subtle. He knew she was a chess lover, so he left two chess pieces: a king and a queen, on her doorstep, along with a dozen red roses and a letter that explained how he felt.

“Aww,” said I “how romantic.”

“Fuck that,” said she “it’s creepy as all hell.”

The roses and the romance

I hate that this is the case, but it is, and I have no idea why. Romance is a fantastic thing, and I’m sure many of us would love to have more of it in our lives. But it seems like the main thing that makes a difference between a romantic act and an inappropriate one is something the romancer can’t always know: whether your crush actually fancies you.

If they do, you’re a hero. If they don’t, you’re a loser. And possibly a creepy one at that.

I’m going to tell you two different versions of the roses story now.

Version one:

The rose seller approaches me and the boy, and my heart is beating far too quickly, hoping against hope that this shy, nerdy first date doesn’t turn into a mush-riddled disaster. All I know about this guy is his name, his occupation, and a story he’s told me about how his sister once pushed him off a swing. I don’t know him well enough to anticipate whether he’s cheesy enough to think the ‘rose for a pound on a first date’ gambit is a good idea.

He does.

Red-faced, I accept the rose. Later that evening we part, and his post-date text seems unnecessarily gushing. We never see each other again.

Version 2:

The boy grins at the rose seller, and I whisper to him “seriously, dickhead, don’t buy me a rose. I’d only have to carry it home.” He squeezes my leg under the table, looking slyly at me in the way he knows makes me want to lick him. For the last two, three, four years I’ve alternately mocked and raged at him for his lack of romance, his lack of spontaneity.

“How much for a rose?” he asks the lady with the basket. I’m looking away now, too embarrassed to make eye contact and show that, secretly, I actually really want a bloody rose, even if it’s drooping slightly and will end up getting left on the bus. She tells him how much they cost, and there’s a long silence. Ages. Aeons. Millennia pass while I stare at the rings of liquid on the bar and fiddle with the plastic twizzly gin and tonic stick and just wish he’d get on and tell her ‘no’ so that we don’t have to eke out the embarrassment.

Years, or perhaps five seconds, later, he speaks.

“I’ll take the lot.”

And he hands over note after note after note from a wallet that’s rarely opened unless it needs to be. And I walk home arm in arm with my boyfriend of many years, drowning in roses and love.

There’s no right way to do romance

Arguing with my friend over the chess incident made me sad for the boy who’d tried so hard. For his unrequited love and his inability to read the girl’s reaction. Assuming they were both in earnest, no one did anything wrong here: it’s just a misjudged gesture and a mutual tragedy. But from my friend’s point of view, it’s a stupid guy making a desperate play for a girl who’ll never want him.

As she put so succinctly: the difference between creepy and romantic often just comes down to whether they actually fancy you.

I don’t think I want this to be true.