I often get blood on the bedsheets. When I’m fucking someone and I’m due on my period, especially if they have a relatively long dick or we’re shagging in a position that gives depth, sometimes I bleed when we’re fucking. I don’t always notice, because it doesn’t hurt, so I often get blood on the bedsheets. It’s not the end of the world because humans are basically just weird bags of flesh and rocks and liquid, and sometimes when you’re shagging those liquids might spill out in ways that mean you have to do more laundry. It’s the cost of doing business, if you’re in the business of having lovely sex a lot of the time, and I don’t think it’s an onerous one. If the sex is good, then a bit of blood isn’t a huge price to pay – in fact, it’s a fucking bargain. I’m going to tell you two stories about blood on the bedsheets, each one involving a different man. And hopefully in doing so I’m going to illustrate one way to keep shame out of your bedroom, and show why I feel so strongly about banishing shame from my own.

(more…)

You know what ‘the ick’ is, right? A feeling you get for someone based off a silly/cringe/weird thing they did or said or are, which torpedoes your burgeoning attraction for them. Little moments of disgust which, once noticed, mean you can no longer fancy that person. It is often understood that ‘the ick’ is both irrational and unavoidable. About a month ago (sorry I’m slow) Stefano Hatfield published an opinion piece in the I Paper about how terrible ‘the ick’ is as a concept, so it feels like a good time to dust off my rant about why I hate this phrase so very much.

(more…)

Apropos of absolutely nothing, I’m going to tell you a story about this one time (ages ago) when I fucked the furniture. Specifically a bed. And technically, properly, I guess if you want to get right down to the nitty-gritty detail of the thing, it wasn’t just ‘me fucking a bed’, it was ‘us’. Because while I shagged the bed with my excellent and adventurous vagina, the man I loved was having a valiant go at simultaneously fucking me up the arse. Let’s do this.

(more…)

This gorgeous piece about yearning for anal play is written and read by Lou Kane and originally appeared on their website.

The sun had only just crested the horizon, its first butter-yellow rays invading the small bedroom D and I shared. My fingers were already at work. It was a standing rule that I was allowed to touch myself without asking permission if D was asleep; lately, I’d been pushing that rule to its outermost limit.

(more…)

[Ages ago I did a tweet that included a silly joke about wanting to bundle men up in a blanket and give them a hand job and a stern talking-to. Someone messaged me to say there might be some smut in that, so I had a go at writing some. I don’t know how good it is, just that I had fun writing it. It hinges on eroticisation of sexual shame (specifically masturbation shame), so please note I don’t actually think it is shameful to masturbate, obviously: wanking is one of my favourite hobbies. But shame is fun to kink, so that’s what I’m doing here.]

You promised you wouldn’t come while you were away. I was looking forward to all the spunk built up during my seven day absence – that thick, powerful brand of cum that thuds from your dick after a long period of denial and frustration. You promised me you wouldn’t come. And yet the second my flight had landed, I received a text from you letting me know that you failed.

(more…)