Tag Archives: sex shame
Do you get embarrassed when you talk about sex?
I talk about sex more than the average person. Hopefully that’s not a shock to any of you. Even before starting this sex blog, I was well-known in my friendship group for being the one who Talks About Sex. If someone asked me what I got up to at the weekend, and ‘what I got up to’ included some kinky roleplay with my partner and a friend, I’d probably include that in my roundup of life updates. Sex is part of my life – an important part – and if someone wants to be friends with me, they have to accept that when they ask me ‘how are you?’ the answer might come back: ‘horny!’. This isn’t something I think about very often, because I’m rarely prompted to consider it until I meet new people. At that point, when they ask what I got up to at the weekend, I have to temper my instinct to reply ‘eating crisps and wanking’ or whatever it might be. But a while ago one of my excellent Patreons asked me if I ever get embarrassed when I talk about sex, and it felt like a great opportunity to get nerdily detailed about the answer.
Blood on the bedsheets and shame in the bedroom
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.
Why the phrase ‘the ick’ gives me the ick
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.
In which I fuck the furniture
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.
You only had to ask
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.