Girl on the Net

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.

I’m young in this story. Not creepily young – it’s not illegal for you to masturbate to it (although I doubt many of you will want to). I was about twenty or so. Young enough that the relentless desperation to impress men which I still sport to this day was at its most raw and intense. My desire to get men to fancy me knew absolutely no healthy boundaries, and when it came to this one man in particular, I would have inserted any object up myself for any length of time if it caused him to give me even a single, brief glance of sexual pride.

Banana? Pah, easy. Deodorant can? No problem. Handful of coins we’d just won on a Wetherspoons fruit machine? I’d be game.

Those are hypothetical examples, but I did shove some pretty weird things up myself for this guy. On one memorable occasion he turned to me with a cheeky grin and a raised eyebrow, while holding an empty wine bottle that he’d grabbed from my bedside table. Tugging my knickers to one side and pointing the neck of the bottle at my extremely keen-to-please vagina, he looked me dead in the eye, like a sexy sommelier, and whispered: “may I?”

Naturally I said “yes” so he proceeded to … yeah, there’s no hot way to say this … rail me with the empty wine bottle. And although in the moment I definitely got a kick of pleasure from being ‘the girl who did’ – the girl who did this weird/hot thing for the guy I wanted to consume, the ‘girl who did’ what he wanted, the girl who could be relied upon to debase herself for the sake of pure sex – I can’t recommend it, I’m afraid. After a few minutes both of us gave it up as a bad job. The neck of a wine bottle is slim, hard and cold. And only one of these things is sexually satisfying.

Anyway.

This dude and I, we were staying at a flat belonging to a friend of mine (I’m so sorry mate) and his girlfriend (I’m even sorrier). We used to visit them a lot and party – drinking, smoking, playing Guitar Hero, singing along loudly to MP3s we’d downloaded off Limewire. It was the early noughties and that’s what we did for fun back then. Alongside fingering each other quite a bit and sometimes fucking in pub toilets if we thought we could get away with it.

Sidenote: I’m so devastated for young people today having to discover sex in the age of ubiquitous smart phones – the constant threat of surveillance must absolutely crush your opportunities for casual experimentation. I wouldn’t swap with the twenty-year-olds of today, not for love nor money.

So we’re hanging with my friend and his girlfriend at their flat, and when bedtime comes we retire to the spare room. This spare room has already played host to a fair few sexual experiments in its time, because as mentioned we are horny and depraved. Last time we were here, this filthy-hot dude had me kneeling – back arched and arse stuck out as far as I could push it – on an office swivel-chair, while he railed me in the cunt and simultaneously slid a plastic test tube in and out of my arse.

Was it fun? God yes. A thousand percent.

Do I recommend it? Absolutely not.

Imagine if that fucking thing had cracked while it was inside me?! Imagine if it had accidentally slipped all the way up?! It doesn’t bear thinking about. And yet, back in those days, you could sometimes buy shots of lurid-coloured, overly-sweet alcoholic aperitifs from corner shops. Those shots were served in test-tubes that were temptingly slim and insertable. Ergo, at some point, it was inevitable I would take one up the arse.

Come to think of it, maybe things are better for twenty-year-olds these days. At least you lot can experiment with body-safe sex toys that aren’t gonna shatter in your colon.

In which I fuck the furniture

Let’s get to the actual story, shall we? I’m gonna fuck the furniture: brace yourselves.

Because I told you at the start that ‘I fucked the bed’, I suspect some of you have a mental image of what that might look like. Maybe me humping the pillows or grinding against the edge of the mattress to get myself off? Perhaps you’re picturing me riding the headboard, cowgirl-style, while my lover sits behind me gamely trying to angle his cock into my arse without either of us falling down the gap between the bed and the wall?

You’d be wrong, my friends. None of that, to me, counts as actually fucking the furniture. Sex with the bed. Because while lying in the bed, hangover horns raging, the thing that caught our attention and caused our early-twenties fuck-anything libidos to perk up was this…

The bedknob.

Yes. I mean, it’s literally called a ‘knob’, right? That’s sexy, isn’t it? ISN’T IT?! Eh, to each their own.

I don’t actually think the bed itself is hot. But the man with whom I was sharing that bed was hotter than the surface of the sun. I would gladly have done anything if it could wring another helping of spaff out of his beloved prick. Although, despite the tone of my jokes about it, I don’t think that everything I did was purely a make-the-hot-guy-love-me thing. I actively got off on completing weird sexual tasks for and with this man, at least in part because he did the same with me. Gamely acquiescing to my own curious experiments: whether we could make him ejaculate twice in a row if we pushed through that painful post-orgasm barrier (yes); what it would be like to watch him getting tied up and beaten by an older dominant guy (hot, obviously); whether it would be possible for me to get my whole fist inside him (close, but not quite). He got off on my sexual curiosity at least as much as I got off on his, if not more. It was a very equal relationship, perversion-wise.

I need to emphasise this heavily, lest you think that the only reason I fucked the bed is because a pretty man told me to do it. He was pretty as fuck, sure. But make no mistake: I wanted to fuck that bed. The second the words ‘I wonder if you could fit that…’ escaped his lips, fucking the bed immediately got woven into the rich (horrifying) tapestry that depicts the beautiful (disgusting) landscape of my own sexual desires.

I was very up for fucking the furniture. I needed to shag that bed. What’s more, I wanted to do it while he stood behind me groping my arse and touching his cock and urging me onwards to glory.

So – slowly and carefully and with a lot of consideration as to what might happen if I slipped, I angled myself with one leg planted on the mattress and the other firmly on the floor, then enveloped the bedknob with my cunt. It filled me so utterly that I felt pinned in place – muscles trembling to keep me from sliding down further, brain whirring at the weirdness of the sensation and the adrenaline-kick of delight that I’d managed to do it.

Was it fun? No. It was hard and definitely colder than I’d imagined it might be.

Would I do it again? Yeah, probably. With the right man. And the right bed, come to think of it: as I’m sure you can imagine, this sort of thing requires a lot of elements to converge: size/shape of bedknob; texture; height of bed frame; privacy.

The thing is – and here we come back to the same message that runs through 90% of my blog posts, but now from a vastly different angle – most of the joy of sex comes not from the specific acts themselves, but from the tone and atmosphere you conjure. The connection you have with the other person. It ain’t what you do, it’s the way that you do it. So although the physical sensation of sliding the knob from my mate’s spare bed (once again, dude, I’m so very very sorry) into my dripping cunt left a fair amount to be desired, pleasure-wise, the fact that my beloved boy was standing behind me, urgently beating at his cock as he watched… well… that was more than enough to carry the experience. That was where the magic happened. And I’d do it again, goddammit.

He stood behind me as I gently eased myself down, touching himself and whispering things that are long since lost in the mists of time but which I know will have turned me on more. I imagine they were along the lines of ‘yes, oh my God’ and ‘fuck you’re really doing it’ and ‘well done’ and ‘good girl‘ and all the other phrases that make my cunt wet and my knees weak and my soul feel well and truly sated. I thrive on praise, no matter how I earn it, but doing degenerate sex things at the behest of a hot guy is up there as the most enjoyable way to rake in those sweet sweet compliments.

So yeah, I fucked the furniture.

And at one point as he was standing behind me he said “I wonder if I could fuck you in the arse at the same time?” so obviously we tried that too. The head of his dick pressed tight against me, stretching me in ways that caused adrenaline to flood my veins and make the bed-fuck trembling so much more intense. I willed him on, and wriggled a little to try and help but sadly, with spit-for-lube and weird angles and the fact that my cunt was already crammed with three dicks-worth of bedknob, sadly the answer was ‘not even close.’ He gave it a really good go, though, and for that I will always be grateful.

Yes. You read that right. I will be lying on my death bed listing reasons to be grateful from a fun life extremely well lived, and one of the things on that list will absolutely be:

“This one time, a guy I loved with my whole soul tried to shag me up the arse while I fucked a bedknob.”

I know my style of living isn’t for everyone, and there’ll be many people (current friends included) who read this and screw up their faces in disgust at the thought of me fucking the furniture. Nevertheless, I really love my life – I believe I’ve lived a very charmed one. It’s just maybe that charm was placed on it by a witch with a penchant for wanking.

Stop reading here if you just wanted the light-hearted bit, the next section’s gonna talk shame, pro-natalism and rape. 

There you have it: this one time I fucked the furniture. The purpose of my blog is to turn you on, sometimes (rarely) to educate and inform, but above all to help you feel a little less alone for the potentially unusual but still fun consensual sex things you’ve done with your body. To me, the level of shame we place on sexual behaviour feels not only deeply unhealthy but also baffling. There are so many morally questionable things people do in their lives that don’t attract the same level of shame as, say, having a creative wank that involves hand-sculpting a carrot. But there are people out there advocating for some truly abhorrent shit when their time would in fact be far better spent shagging the furniture.

I said this story was ‘apropos of nothing’ but of course those of you who’ve seen the JD Vance sofa-fucking discourse this week will be aware that… well… Donald Trump’s Vice Presidential pick was (falsely) accused of putting a latex glove between the sofa cushions and fucking it. Although the story has been debunked when it comes to Vance (HOW?!), there’s a high likelihood that almost any creepy misogynist you care to mention has slipped a latex glove somewhere and fucked it. I bet Andrew “I fucking loved how much you hated it” Tate has done some truly odd things with his penis in his lifetime. But those aren’t things of which these hideous cunts should be ashamed – no matter how weird an object you stick your cock in, I will defend your right to do that sticking. As long as it’s not harming anyone else or affecting others’ lives (my boyfriend and I gave that bedknob a bloody good clean when we were done), your sex life is your own to be as creatively weird with as you like.

So yeah, maybe JD Vance fucked a sofa (for legal reasons I’ll reiterate that he didn’t). But far more important than where he’s stuck his dick in private is what he says and does in public. This odious little fuck believes that people should be given more votes if they’ve had children, because apparently they have more of a stake in society. He believes abortion should be banned in all circumstances (so including when the parent’s life is in danger, including if the pregnancy is non-viable, including in cases of rape and incest). He also believes people in violent marriages shouldn’t be allowed to leave them. And oh God, so much more.

This is one of the things I will never wrap my head around. On a daily basis I encounter people saying ‘eww’ or having other ick-type reactions to perfectly acceptable (if a little unusual) sex acts, while many of those same people will nod along with batshit and terrifyingly fascist views on sex and relationships. Things that would actually cause serious damage, as opposed to a quick be-cushioned wank that will cause no harm beyond a few odd stains on the upholstery.

As a society, we dispense shame in ways that are wild and irrational, because society has given us extremely confusing messages about what is and isn’t worthy of reproach. I’m always here to remind you that humans are weird, degenerate creatures, and sometimes we fuck the furniture. So whether you’ve sat on a bedknob or fucked the gap between the sofa cushions, know that you are not alone. The key is whether you’re doing consensual things with your body while respecting everyone else’s rights to do the things they want with their own (like have abortions if they need them or not have kids if they don’t want to).

And if you can’t respect people’s rights to make normal choices about their own bodies and lives then… well… maybe you should go fuck a sofa.