I am sitting with my toyboy on his exceptional sofa. This is a sofa designed for fucking, and I am visiting him this evening because I want to get fucked. We’ve talked about it over WhatsApp and I’ve been thinking about it on the train on the way here. What’s more, if he’s done as he’s been instructed then he’ll have edged himself at least once a day for the last few days in anticipation of me pulling down his PJs and riding him like a show pony. If anyone could be said to be ‘in there’, it is him. And yet for some reason he occasionally forgets how to use his words. Doesn’t understand that when you want a fuck you’re allowed to just ask for it. One of the aspects of domination that I’m really getting into is forcing encouraging him to voice his desires aloud. So I decide that I won’t let him get away with wordless pleading: if he wants a shag, I’m gonna make him ask for it.

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At my first ever munch about – oooh, a million years ago now – the first question people asked was: “are you a top or a bottom?” As we mingled with a bunch of exceptionally friendly people, dressed in anything from jeans and t-shirt to ropework and pants, everyone wanted to know:

“Top or bottom?”

“Domme or sub?”

What are you?

For want of a better word, we both said ‘switch.’ Having done our research (read: furiously masturbated to a number of blog posts and forum debates) we figured that our ‘whatever we fancy at the time’ attitude probably best fit into that category. Neither of us was a particularly dominant person, nor were either of us comfortable being cast in the role of submissive, nervous that it would prevent us from having the same kind of playful back-and-forth that was a staple of our usual nights out.

Kinda silly, really, but we were young, and hadn’t a sodding clue what we were doing.

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