My latest book is out today! Here are the links to buy it, and if you want to read a sample, then below is the whole of chapter 6, in text and at the bottom in audio (which I think technically counts as audio porn).
Extract below. I’m chuffed that this was the chapter picked for extract because I think it gives a pretty decent overview of the book – a bit of behind-the-scenes on blogging, a couple of fucking lovely blokes, a rant about openness and a dirty lubed-up hand job. Hope you like it.
Chapter 6: How A Bad Girl Fell In Love
‘OK, let’s get this over with,’ Adam said, sitting down with his coffee and giving me a ‘what the fuck have you done this time’ stare.
Adam: obviously not his real name – his real name is stamped so hard into my heart that using another one gives me a weird twisty feeling in my chest, but needs must. Adam was – if you’re keeping count – the eighth person I ever slept with and he stayed in my life for a very long time. He was single-handedly responsible for the vast majority of my ‘firsts’. First spanking. First time at a fetish club. First time at a swinger’s club. First threesome with a guy. First time I got a sex toy stuck inside me and we thought we’d have to go to A+E. Related: also the first person to fish around in my vagina with a long-handled teaspoon. He was my first utterly compulsive love: I’d simultaneously ache with desire for him and burn with misery because I couldn’t believe he’d ever love me back as hard as I needed him to.
It’s strange sitting face-to-face in a coffee shop with him, because it’s over now and I can’t quite comprehend that we’re not allowed to touch each other any more. What’s more, I have to ask him a pretty awkward question: can I write about you on my sex blog?
One of the most frequently asked sex blog questions (apart from ‘do you want to rate my dick lol?’) is: what does your other half think? They want to know how the people I write about feel – whether I get their consent, and whether there are things I censor because they wouldn’t like it. The answer, as with everything, is complicated. You want to be honest about things, and give people a picture of your life that’s as true as it can be, given your own flawed memory and intensely biased opinions. But you also want to spare the people you’ve shagged from the pain of unsolicited critique. The sheer, howling horror of having to relive their sexual mistakes through other people’s snarky retweets. It’s the ‘kiss and tell’ conundrum.
When I started the blog, I was sleeping with a few people. A combination of friends, casual fuckbuddies (the distinction between ‘fuckbuddy’ and ‘friend’, while blurry, rests mainly on whether you shag every time you hang out or just when you’re both bored and horny) and ex-boyfriends who weren’t quite in new relationships yet. I’d also just started seeing Mark. As a general rule, the more casual the relationship, the easier it was to ask: ‘do you mind if I write about your dick on the internet?’ Buddies were more likely to respond with a ‘hell yes!’ One was so delighted with his eventual write-up that he wore it like a badge of honour on his online dating profile, proudly telling prospective lovers that he’d been given a rave review. Another asked to read what I wrote before I published it. One chipped in some sex advice to accompany the post. Adam gave a far more nuanced answer.
Adam always makes me nervous, because although we’ve grown apart I have never stopped lusting after him. Worried I might blurt out something weird, I tried to approach it carefully, the way I imagined a mature person would.
‘I want to ask you something,’ I said, and refrained from adding ‘then I want to take you into the toilet out back and sit down hard on your cock.’
‘Go ahead,’ he said, again with that stare – the dark-eyed, intense look that he used to give me just before he’d grab my wrist and flip me over in bed, pressing his cock up against my arse so I could feel him pulsing against me. My hands shook a little bit and I expect he put it down to nerves. When I’d asked him to meet for coffee he knew this wasn’t just a casual catch-up – at the time we were both still raw about our split. He knew I was battling the desire to lean in and suck deeply on the fleshy, warm part of his neck just above the collarbone. The idea of torturing myself like this – by meeting without fucking – meant that no coffee could ever have been casual.
‘I want to start a blog,’ I said. And before he could get a word in, I reeled off the speech I’d been rehearsing for the last month – about how I really wanted to be a writer, and how they say you should write about your passions and if I’m writing my passions how can I possibly not talk about the filthy things we’d done together? I explained why I wanted to ask his permission – because while any other guy could blur into anonymity, the same couldn’t be said of Adam. If I were outed, he’d be too – with the bitter addition that he’d have no control over the stories I’d told.
Before I got even halfway through my speech he stopped me with a sigh and a raised palm.
‘Jesus. I knew you’d want to do this. I didn’t go out with you for so long without realising that at some point you’d want to air all our spunk-stained linen in public.’ There’s a vague, wobbly smile and for a thudding moment or two I missed him even harder: this guy who had such a fierce grip on who I am.
‘So can I?’
He sighed. And he looked at the ceiling for a while, pondering. Turning his coffee cup round in his slender, pale hands. Eventually he lay down the ground rules.
‘Do it. Just apply some editorial discretion.’
‘In what way?’
‘Don’t make me a fuck up. Wait. I guess I sort of am a fuck up. Please don’t make me a significant fuck up. I don’t want people to read about me and pity me –’
‘Shit, of course not!’
‘Most writers have one, though. For narrative. The guy who threw away the chance to bang a sex blogger. Or hurt her. Or… you know.’
‘Yeah. I know.’
‘I’m just saying: don’t make me that guy.’
For what it’s worth, my primary sex writing rule is this: all your stories belong to both of you. It applies whether you’re writing a book about your conquests or giggling over your latest one-night stand at the water cooler. Everyone has the right to tell their own stories and unless you consign yourself to a lifetime as a hermit, at some point you will be in one of those stories. That’s not to say you should set up a Facebook page and tag anyone you’ve ever rubbed your bits against: apply that editorial discretion. Just as the right to free speech comes hand in hand with the responsibility not to be an abusive arsehole, so the right to discuss your own sex life comes with a big, neon ‘don’t be a dick’ sign: hence the awkward coffee-chat with Adam and the subsequent self-flagellation as I try to twist my love for him into insignificance.
When I told Mark about the sex blog, he was far more chilled than Adam. Perhaps because it was early days: we hadn’t yet had the kind of sex he’d be nervous to tell his friends about. While he’d have loved the idea of calling me his girlfriend, he knew that’d mean a pretty swift separation without even a goodbye blow job. I was just a girl he liked, who met up with him twice a week or so, then rubbed against him in the hallway of his flat until one or both of us made a come face. We were new, casual and definitely not significant. So, as with so much else in life, laid-back Mark made the sex blog chat simple:
‘I’m going to write about sex on the internet. Can I write about what we do?’
‘Of course. Let’s do it again now, though, just so it’s fresh in your mind.’
Afterwards, when we were sweaty and knackered and definitely not hugging, he sat up with a jolt, lips twitching like he’d just thought of a killer joke:
‘I don’t have to actually read it, do I?’
Beyond text messages and pizza menus, Mark’s not much of a reader. Occasionally he’ll stretch to Reddit, but he prefers the posts with pictures. This isn’t a way to parade my book snob credentials, it’s just a fact: some people prefer pictures to words, and some prefer videos. Or gifs. Why the hell not? A hundred years ago reading was vital to acquire knowledge, but these days you could build an entire house just by watching the right YouTube clips. I only explain it so you understand that reading my blog was, for Mark, a pretty serious commitment. Occasionally he’d swap high-definition porn for thousand-word accounts of our haphazard fucking and give me his feedback via the medium of blow job requests. If a blog was good, he’d point to his crotch, and let me drink in the sight of his prick swelling firmly against the fabric. If it was really good he’d put a firm hand on the back of my neck, unzip his flies and nudge me towards him so we could relive the highlight of whatever he was reading.
If you’re shy about discussing your own sex life, allow me to try and tempt you to open up a bit: your other half’s more likely to confess to their kinky fantasy if you’ve got the ball rolling with yours. In that way, sexy chat breeds more sex which, in turn, causes more sexy chat: like a virtuous circle in which the hand jobs get more vigorous, imaginative and pleasurable as they’re amplified down the chain. Conversely, the less we talk about sex, the less we hear about sex from others. No one wants to swap shagging stories with someone who’s tight-lipped about their own discretions.
It’s like the teenage game ‘I have never,’ which works as an analogy for almost any sexual discussion. If you’ve never played, then what the hell have you been doing with your life? Grab some friends and a few bottles of the cheapest booze you can find, sit in a circle, and get stuck in. Here’s how to play: horny teenager number one states something that they have never done, and those who have done it take a sip of their drink. It could be anything – bungee jumping, horse riding, getting an ‘A’ in a maths test – but of course it’s never any of those things, because – 15-years-old or not – when it comes to secrets most of us think about fucking. So you start with the simple sex questions:
‘I have never had sex in a tent.’ (Come on, drink up)
‘I have never had a threesome.’ (If you drink here, give a secret smile of nostalgic arousal)
Then you move on to the more niche activities:
‘I have never given head to someone more than ten years older than me.’ (Drink and wink at whoever it is across the circle)
‘I have never had to go to hospital to have something removed from my arse.’ (Shuffle uncomfortably in your seat)
‘I have never masturbated in a train station.’ (Down your drink, please, or I’ll feel like you’re judging me)
It’s an utterly British way to kick off a sex chat, because while we’re often a bit shy about discussing our downstairs activity, we fucking love a good drink, so you realise quickly that if you hide too many of your secrets, you’ll never get good and trollied. So we say things we’ve never done, drink to the things we have, then giggle, point, high five, and cry ‘oh my god you didn’t!’
No one plays the game itself when they’re 30 (we’re too busy with fondue and foccacia), but our sex chat still reflects these gleeful teenage rituals. We want to play, because it’s fun hearing other people’s juicy secrets and you get the excuse to tell people your threesome story without looking like a braggart. So why is it so hard to start that conversation? Because the first person has to set the tone and that’s immensely difficult. Begin with ‘I have never had sex in the shower’ and you might be laughed out of the room – we all did that two years ago and if you haven’t you’re made to feel like a prude. On the other hand, if you tell people you’ve never had an orgasm in a swingers club, you immediately become That Person Who Has Clearly Fucked In A Swingers Club, and you have to hold your breath while people decide whether to congratulate or condemn you. Most of us want to gauge where we fall on the scale from ‘prude’ to ‘pervert’, but those who go first risk the judgment of the next in line. Whether it’s envy, disgust, or naivety about what humans get up to in the bedroom, sexual confessions turn everyone into judgmental tabloid editors.
It’s easy to break this cycle, though: talk more. Moral outrage and envy generally spring from a place of ignorance: ‘I don’t know what that’s like, but I have to have feelings about it, so I am either jealous, angry, or both.’ If we strip that ignorance away, all that’s left is the titillation:
‘Really?’ someone chips in. ‘You’ve had a wank in a train station?’
‘Of course – I paid thirty pence to get into the toilets so I wanted to get my money’s worth.’
Cue everyone grumbling about having to pay for toilets and making a mental note next time they have to fork out just to have a piss. Even if no one has done exactly the same, those in the group who may have worried that their solo activities were weird now feel slightly less alone – everyone’s a winner (except the people who are waiting in line for a wee). Naturally I don’t mean you should wander around your nearest shopping centre with a megaphone. Editorial discretion means not broadcasting your sexploits to people who aren’t interested, or at times when they’re not appropriate. But in conversation with friends, lovers, ex-lovers and people who follow you on Twitter, don’t be scared to talk about your experiences. I promise it’s worth it in the long run: you’ll get more people horny, hear their stories and advice, and best of all we get to drown out the twats who purse their lips and frown when we do what comes naturally. This, really, is the reason I started the blog. Why I bought a URL, mashed together a few pages, and started writing. When I took a deep breath and set the site to ‘live’, it was my first move in a very long game of ‘I have never…’
The first day it went up, I had 21 visits.
The longer aim, of course, was to get a bigger audience than just a bunch of friends sitting in a circle getting wasted. The second day there were 168 visits, by day four I was up to 500. It wasn’t millions yet, but I don’t live in a bubble: while my anonymity protects people to a certain extent, Mark isn’t naïve, and nor is he miraculously invisible – he knows that one day I may well be outed, and suddenly not only is my name out there in public, but his is too. He’ll be That Guy Who Fucked That Girl on the Net: thick cock, charming nerdiness and a habit of bracing himself during a corridor-fuck that left her trembling and clumsy. When I check these hot things with him, it goes a little something like this:
‘You know the other night, when you put the vibrating butt plug in me?’
‘I remember it well.’
‘And you know how you made that… noise when your cock went in?’
‘Uh huh.’
‘The gulp, and the sigh, and the way – as you slid into me, rock hard – you had to tense to hold back from coming?’
‘Yes, I remember. But please describe it in mo-’
‘How you came pretty much straight away, big thick spurts of spunk deep into my cunt?’
‘Yes. I remember.’
‘Can I write about that?’
‘Of course you can. Now get on my cock.’
Mark isn’t nervous of being in the spotlight, but understandably when it shines on him, he wants to make sure he looks his best. He isn’t a flawless sex god – in a different story he could easily be the guy who didn’t spank me exactly how I wanted and had to have it explained to him. Or the guy who mistook my dress for his t-shirt in the dark, and ended up wiping spunk on it. If I were to ignore his request for a positive spotlight I’d be a terrible hypocrite, because I do the same when it comes to me.
One night I came home from a product launch with two free bottles of lube. I don’t normally turn up to product launches, because there are PR people there and PR people don’t mix well with anonymity. Still, they also often have cocktails and free lube, so I’m sure you understand why I used to occasionally give in, pop on an outfit that doesn’t look like I just slept in it and troop off to a launch for some sex toy or other. In this instance it was a lube brand with an unusual gimmick. There were two bottles, with slightly different ‘sensory’ lubes (one ‘tingled’ and the other ‘zhuzzhed’ or something – I’m not an expert, I just smear them on and hope they don’t cause a rash). The PR person must have been pretty good, because instead of just asking me to give marks out of ten, she issued me with a challenge.
I turned up at home, half-cut on raspberry daiquiris, banged down both bottles of lube and instructed Mark to take off his trousers. He paused for less than a quantum nanosecond, then whipped off everything below the waist and lay on his back on the bed.
‘Do you want to try this?’ I held out one of the bottles and he squeezed a bit into his fingers, before rubbing it gently onto the head of his cock. I think he could sense that this was some kind of dare, but he was happy enough to recline, with his hands behind his head, while I took full control. I pulled out a couple of cock sheaths – one tight and black, which fits so snugly round his dick that it’s hard to get on without effort, the other softer, more jellyish, which has the kind of sucky texture that he says is reminiscent of a gentle blow job. Cock sheaths make hand jobs more interesting – they’re ridged and studded on the inside, the way my own hands could never be, so it’s like wanking a guy off with superpowers. I mixed the two lubes, Mark picked a sheath, and we got to work.
Because the sheath was so soft, as I squeezed and rubbed him I could feel his rock-solid dick pushing against the material. Twisting and clamping it round his dick, I could feel the ridge at the head pushing hard against my fingers, and watch the see-through sheath stretch as his cock strained against it.
I love the rhythm of hand jobs. I love the smooth-sticky feeling of lube on my fingers. I like the control – knowing that every kick of Mark’s arousal, every grunt and moan, every tingle and twitch is down to me. He put his hands behind his head and looked me directly in the eye. His eyebrows furrowed into a frown as I rubbed faster, squeezed harder. I revelled in the increasing frequency of the slick-slick-slick noises as I rubbed his dick, watching his face grow taut with concentration as he held himself back from thrusting against it.
And then he uttered my favourite three words:
‘I’m gonna come.’
Fuck yeah. Oh god yes. Does any three-word phrase have such a beautiful, simple sexiness? Hearing it, ideally uttered with a desperate whimper, makes me instantly wet – eager for the inevitable end, yet prematurely nostalgic for the moment when it’s over and I don’t hold his climax in the palm of my hand anymore. I did what anyone would do and immediately slowed the pace, trying to keep him hanging there for a moment while I took in every detail of his frown, his rapid breathing and the double-twitch of his cock just before he came.
Sadly restraint is neither my, nor his, forté. He arched his back, leaning up towards me as he shot spunk into the cup of the sheath. The clear material meant I could see the thick squirts filling it as he moaned. That’s what I’d been aching for ever since the PR woman had issued me with the challenge:
‘If you can make someone come in less than three minutes,’ she said playfully, ‘then you’ll know this is a good product.’
If you’d asked Mark what he thought of my sex blogging, he’d probably have mentioned the hotness of reading stories like that and knowing he was the star; the fringe benefit of having someone who comes home with free lube and a filthy idea flashing in her eyes; the opportunity to lie down, pull out your erection and be the test subject for a casual sexual experiment, then dissect the benefits of ‘tingling’ over ‘warming’ lube while you drift into exhausted sleep. But he’d also have added the caveat that no matter what the perceived benefits of dating a sex blogger, the fantasy figure people picture from the Internet is only a tiny fraction of the real life fuck-up. You can imagine what it’s like to get wanked-off by a horny girl on the net, but it’s harder to picture how she’ll respond if you eat her last Cadbury’s Creme Egg, or sit on the remote control when she’s trying to live-tweet Question Time. He’d have pointed out the gulf between reality and the write up:
‘I bet you won’t tell people what you did after the hand job,’ he’d explain, gesturing at my phone, which displayed a stopwatch app complete with time stamp. I was rubbing frantically at it with a towel and muttering ‘shit shit shit shit shit’, as I tried to clean off the smears of ‘tingling’ lube. ‘You won’t write that into the story, will you?’
He’d be right: I didn’t. Editorial discretion, see?
If you liked the extract, here are the links to buy the book! <3
- Girl on the Net: How A Bad Girl Fell In Love (Amazon)
- Girl on the Net: How A Bad Girl Fell In Love (Coles – these copies are signed)
Audio porn version: hear the extract as audio
I really hope you like the book – massive thank you to everyone who’s been reading the blog, sharing posts, and generally being supportive and wonderful. And everyone at my publisher, BlinkPublishing, and my agent, Lorella Belli, who is completely incredible. I know it’s probably annoying when people do big lists of thank yous so I’ll shut up now, and go get very drunk on cheap cider to celebrate.