What does it mean to be a feminist man? I tend to assume that most people who read this blog regularly would identify as ‘feminist’, but when I was on dating sites I found a lot of men with profiles that expressed a vague ick about labelling themselves as such. The idea that men would publicly say ‘I am a feminist’ can clearly be a bit controversial, but personally I think that a lot of the work of feminism – especially when it comes to the basics (pointing out day-to-day gendered expectations and beliefs, challenging other men on sexist microaggressions or intervening in harassment) we could really do with having more men step up and give us a hand. Alongside assuming you’re all feminists, I also likely make a lot of assumptions about the things most of the men reading already know about when it’s good to step in if you spot inequality in action. But I’m probably wrong to assume that, and I’m grateful to Paul for dropping by with an overview of what it means to him to be a feminist man. What actions does he take on a daily basis that other men could do well from copying? Take it away Paul…

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Sometimes, after we’ve fucked and I’ve come good and hard round his cock, he pulls out and lies back on the bed, holding me tight around the shoulder or waist with one arm, and stroking himself with the other. I like to watch him come. And while he’s pushing himself to come, if I can tear my eyes away from the sight of his beautiful hand gripped skilfully round the head of his fuck-wet dick, I put my lips right up against his. Almost – but not quite – kissing. Feeling his body tense and shake, inhaling as he breathes into my mouth.

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When I was young I used to get really pissed off at family events when older relatives would coo “ooh, haven’t you GROWN!”. Yes, Auntie Karen, of COURSE I’ve grown. I was a toddler last time you saw me and now I can read and write and reach the kitchen knives! But now that I’m an adult myself, I understand why grown-ups used to say this. Occasionally someone (or something) will drift out of your life, then return years later in a form so entirely different you simply have to remark upon it. Exclaim: “wow! What the fuck?! How have you changed so much when I am essentially still the same person?!” Let’s talk about the Hot Octopuss Pulse Queen.

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OK, yeah, this one’s weird: ages ago I wrote a story about Katie, who was given a sex challenge by her partner, Sam, that involved nipple clamps and photographs and the DLR (the Docklands Light Railway – a London train line that winds through Canary Wharf, the Docklands and more). It was originally written as part of an improv erotica challenge for Patreons (where they give me a bunch of prompts and I have to write a sex story that includes them –  this story had the prompts ‘Katie; praise kink; airport; allotment; the DLR; nipple clamps). Seeing as I’ve recently published a couple of other sex stories set on trains (gang banged on the Central Line, and surreptitious fucking on the Victoria Line), I thought I’d throw this one into the ‘tube line erotica‘ series too – you know, the series that absolutely no one asked for but that delights my nerdy, pervy little heart anyway. It’s quite a cute one, I think.

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When I saw the fabulous Emilia Romero pop back up on social media after an absence (follow her on Mastodon here!), I was over the moon, and then even more excited when she pitched me this beautiful, vulnerable guest blog. She’s written here before about kink, camming, and what happens when you discover Doxy, and her writing is always so stunningly heartfelt. Today’s post is an exploration of friendship and trust, via the medium of a good friend she met at a survivors’ support group (so note, there will be brief but non-detailed references to rape and sexual assault). It’s so wonderful to have you back, Emilia.

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