It’s a question I’ve asked myself frequently. While it’s possible (and, indeed, hot as all hell) to watch yourself fucking in a mirror, there are some angles that are impossible to achieve, unless you happen to be shagging inside a circus attraction. What’s more, videoing something and having a permanent record of your shag, which could easily be copied/accidentally uploaded to whatever The Cloud is, isn’t always something I’m keen on doing.

So how do you do it? Well, here’s what we did.

For starters, we had three things: a phone, an iPad, and a raging horn. We set up the iPad and the phone to facetime each other. This tactic can be used not just for watching yourselves fuck from new and improved angles, it can also be used to watch one person having a wank. I know, you may prefer to be in the same room, but if like me you want to get as close as possible to the sensation of watching someone who doesn’t know you’re there, then setting up a phone in the corner of one room while you perv furtively in another can be a truly excellent bet. The other person has to know it’s there, obviously, but if they concentrate hard enough they can try and forget: making sure they’re focusing on their own pleasure rather than playing to the camera.

So, facetime. The only realistic way I could find out what I looked like getting fucked from behind, without having to actually record it. He held the phone, and I propped the iPad on a pillow in front of me before getting on my hands and knees…

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Do you remember the kids’ fable of Brer Rabbit and the briar patch?

I’ll refresh your memory: Brer Rabbit was a bit of a dick, and Brer Fox decided he didn’t like him much. He made a trap in which to catch Brer Rabbit, and Brer Rabbit walked straight into the trap. On catching him, Brer Fox (who thought he was cunning) wondered aloud what he should do with the rabbit now he’d caught him. Brer Rabbit shouted:

“I don’t care what you do, as long as you don’t throw me in the briar patch!”

“Anything?” said the fox, and at this point I think he could have benefited from a few lessons in critical analysis and not trusting sources with a huge vested interest. “You’d really want me to do anything rather than throw you into the briar patch?”

“Yes,” said Brer Rabbit. “Hang me, shoot me, eat me, just don’t throw me into the briar patch!”

So our hapless fox, who I remember feeling intensely irritated by as a small child, did the opposite of what the rabbit had requested, and he hurled Brer Rabbit into the briar patch. Brer Rabbit, who was also a bellend, danced for joy. Burning all of the bridges marked ‘potential future escape scenario’, he crowed that the briar patch was actually his favourite place to be.

“I was born and bred in the briar patch! Hahaha!”

What the fuck has this story got to do with flogging? I’ll tell you.

I rarely play the ‘briar patch’ game. Leather belts, canes, anything whippy with a biting sting is not to be trifled with. I’ll be up-front about my limits, and clear as day when I give feedback. If I’m being bratty and getting playfully punished, a thin cane gives a genuine reprimand. I’ll grit my teeth, bare my arse, and bite back yelps with each stroke.

The flogger, though? It’s my briar patch: I wasn’t born and bred with it, but ever since I started loving BDSM, it’s always been my happy place. My favourite flogger is heavy and thick – purple suede (obviously), with enough fronds that it falls like a thud. There’s a sting if you place it in certain ways – with the tails whipping round to catch me on the hip rather than the bottom. But if you can place it perfectly, right in the middle of one of the cheeks, I will moan and squirm like you’ve just kissed my clit.

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It’s Sunday morning: you’re possibly hungover. You’re probably keen to fill your face with the greasiest, stickiest breakfast you’ll get to have all week. I feel you. Here are the best three post-sex breakfasts, as judged by the fucks that came before.

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My favourite arcade game used to be the 2p waterfall. I don’t know if you get them everywhere, or just in the kind of shit seaside town I grew up in. A combination of permanent drizzle, a shingle beach, and water you have to have rabies jabs to swim in meant that traditional outdoor activities were far less tempting than the arcade.

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This post wraps some of my darker fantasies (about predatory fucking, sex and death, as well as other odd things that come into my head) with warmer things. Please take that as a content note, and don’t read on if that kind of stuff disturbs you.

And you know how jokes work waaaay better if you explain them in detail? Yeah? If you don’t want the explanation just skip to the hot sex story below.

If you want the explanation then here it is: I wanted to write something specifically for Eroticon, because I couldn’t decide which of my blog posts (or extracts from my book </plug>) to read in the session on the final day. So I wrote this, and it’s a bit more personal than a normal post because I wasn’t intending to put it online. Then some people told me to, so here it is. It’s a darker interpretation of the ‘questions I have asked my boyfriend‘ post from ages ago, and I wanted to try and get across the feeling of being so utterly comfortable and safe that you can embrace your darker and more terrifying thoughts without fear or shame or… well.

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