On Sunday morning when I slipped back into bed, I realised something: your body changes on a daily basis, and so I will never know every inch of it. It is always new.

From the scent of you, to the heat you radiate, to the marks and curves that come and go: I will never know every detail of your body.

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I’m not going to say the word. The V word. The one that’ll have half of you clicking away and the other half vomiting copiously onto the carpet.

But what I am going to do is write about non-sexual love. The love that I usually ignore here in favour of hot sex or wanking or – very occasionally – posts about men who give me that warm feeling in my chest.

Other kinds of love are often neglected – it’s the topic of one of my favourite posts over at BishUK: more than one love. He talks about everything and everyone we love but we never send cards to or buy roses for. Friends, family, community – the people who support and inspire and care for us.

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I thought there were none. I thought there were no bed-located tricks that were universal. I assumed that all humans, due to our unique-like-snowflake sexual preferences and genital configuration and kinks and quirks and loves: I thought there would be no universal Trick To Blow Their Mind In Bed.

But if there were one, and I’m not necessarily saying there is, then it might be this:

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People who aren’t into spanking could be forgiven for thinking that the whole thing looks a tad painful. Harsh smacks on the bare bottom. Occasional whimpers punctuating the sighs. The sound of stinging whacks on flesh.

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I’ve always hated the phrase ‘my other half’ – it implies a lack of completeness about me. That I, on my own, am never quite full or rounded. Not quite enough.

I hate ‘him indoors,’ which implies the kind of comfortable, settled domesticity that I’ve never really felt with anyone.

I’m ambivalent about ‘boyfriend’ and ‘partner’ feels too grown up.

I panic at the thought of a ‘husband.’

‘Boy’ is becoming tired, and not a natural descriptor for someone in their 30s.

Says ‘girl’ on the net. At the age of 30.

‘Mate’ is either too pally or too like an Attenborough documentary, depending on how you interpret it.

‘Lover’ makes me cringe.

Some days he’s my guy, my dude. That dickhead. And often he’s a twat.

But maybe my obsession with the lack of a proper word belies what the actual problem is with any of these statements: the ‘my’ that comes at the front of them.

No one is ever mine, of course.

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