I am the opposite of The Hulk, in that apparently people really do like me when I’m angry. I know this because every now and then someone emails me a link to something unconscionably awful and says “get a load of this bullshit!”

A couple of months ago my sister emailed me to say “Have you ever seen The Millionaire Matchmaker? Honestly, watch it. You will shit a brick, then hurl that brick through the telly” – or words to that effect. As a lover of both shit telly, and having the excuse to write watching shit telly off as ‘research’, when it popped up the other day I refrained from turning over and settled myself in for a few minutes of relaxing, blood-boiling rage.

The premise of the programme is that millionaires are looking for partners. That’s basically it, although I should point out that on the one I watched all the millionaires were men and all the potential wives were women. I don’t know if this is the case for the entire show, so I’ll simply state that, naturally, if this is the case, then it’s sexist as well as offensively awful. But I’m not here today to talk about sexism, I’m here to talk about one of my biggest turn offs.

Look at all of my money!

I have a difficult relationship with wealth. Money’s great, of course. Without it I’d have nothing with which to purchase gin and crisps. But there are certain people who have a lot of money who seem to define not only themselves by it, but what your opinion of them should be. Wealth makes some people twats in the same way that good looks make some people arrogant. As if they are possessed of some magical, special quality over and above the contents of their wallet that will give them a headstart in your affections.

If you’re wealthy, then congratulations. You’re great, and you’re lucky, and you probably buy the gin in the fancy blue bottle rather than the stuff with the ‘Tesco’ logo on it. But above and beyond that, your wealth is nothing except a slightly awkward non-sequitur. If you got your money through talent, tell me about your talent. If you have it because of your background, tell me about your background. But waving fifty-pound notes and announcing your salary in a booming voice impresses me as much as a child who tells a roomful of adults that they’ve just done a poo in the potty.

The worst date I ever had

I got in trouble last week because I criticised The Rules, partly because one of them states that men should pay for things while women – save the occasional treat – should keep their purses firmly shut. Given my general hatred of discussing money, or having a guy’s wealth wafted in my face like it’s an enticing aphrodisiac, this advice reminded me of the worst date I ever had.

The gentleman arranged to meet me for a drink. This was at a time when I was pretty broke, and my weekly ‘beer’ budget was about a fiver, so I asked if we could go to a cheap pub I knew well, where I could guarantee I’d get at least one round in before I had to crack out my credit card. The cheapness was a condition of me agreeing to go on the date, and he agreed.

I arrived at the pub only to find him waiting outside, which struck me as a bit odd.

“It’s cold,” I informed him, pointlessly. “You could have waited inside with a pint.”

“I know,” he said. “But there’s a great cocktail bar around the corner and I wanted to take you there first.”

Like most Londoners, when I hear the words ‘cocktail bar’ I can’t help but picture a meat grinder, into which someone is stuffing ten pound notes. I told him again that I was quite broke, and that if possible I’d prefer to go somewhere I could afford to get a round in. After all, I explained, conversation is more important than cocktails, and I don’t really like being at the receiving end of someone’s redundant generosity.

“Sure,” he said. “Let’s have one cocktail then head back to the pub.”

Three cocktails later, I’d given up on asking. We had a couple of nice chats about his family, his job, my poor excuse for a life at the time, and were getting on relatively well. I’d managed to quell the panic that had hit me when I’d seen the prices on the menu, and relaxed into a fairly decent evening. Then we moved on. Not to the pub, because by that point he was pissed enough that all he could focus on was showing me exactly what he could buy. He hailed a taxi, which took us about 400 yards down the road, and into a wine bar which didn’t even have prices on the menu.

“What sort of wine do you like?” he asked, gesturing towards the bottom half of the menu.

“You know, I’m not really that fussy about wine,” I replied. “And if I’m honest, I’m a bit uncomfortable with you buying so many expensive things.”

A long pause, during which I shuffled nervously and tried not to look anxious.

“It’s OK – I’m not expecting anything in return,” he guffawed. “I just like nice things, and I’d like you to share them with me. We’ll have the [insert name of posh wine here].”

Until this point, I could have believed him. I could have thought – you know what? He’s a lovely guy, and isn’t deliberately trying to show off his money, he just wants to spend it. I should just suck it up, enjoy his company, and get over myself. I could have thought that, and I almost did. If he hadn’t followed the wine decision by proudly announcing:

“It’s only a hundred pounds a bottle!”

What are you trying to prove?

The moral of this story, if indeed there is one, is probably that I’m an uptight arsehole. One of the main things that made this the worst date of my life was that I couldn’t let go of the money factor.

But although my reaction might be a tiny bit extreme, the money factor is still a significant obstacle. Why? It’s not sexy: it feels suspicious. Filling my face with millionaire’s mojitos and one-hundred-pound wine is the equivalent of spending the entire date telling me that you do lots of charity work or that you don’t usually wear brown loafers. It makes me wonder what he’s trying to hide. Does he think he’s mean, so he needs to mention charity work to redress the balance? What’s wrong with brown loafers? Is there something innately shameful about ordering the house wine, or preferring pints to cocktails?

Look, if you’re minted and you want to buy champagne on your dates, that’s fine. If you love your money and want to find someone who will love it just as much as you do, that’s fine too. But that person is not me. If I’ve told you how much I hate pricey cocktail bars, then each time you buy something expensive you just demonstrate that you either haven’t listened or that you don’t care. What’s more, all I see is a huge flashing neon sign that says “I’m RICH! RICH! Fuck what else I might be, I’m RICH!”

It’s not that you can’t spend money on me if you want me to fancy you. It’s that I’ll struggle to fancy you if all I can see is your money. Put away your wallet and show me what you’ve really got.

There is no mirror hanging in my hallway at the moment, and this is incredibly sad. My first task this weekend will be to put it back up – there is a direct correlation between how many mirrors I have hanging in my hallway and how likely I am to get fucked up against the hallway wall.

I can see you

Quick, sharp, functional fucks in various places around the flat are always best when done in a strategic place where I can watch him screw me.

In the hallway he usually takes me up against the wall. Often on a Saturday or Sunday morning – he’ll wake up later than me, hear me typing the latest filthy blog entry, and stride purposefully through to the lounge, dressing gown cord pulled tight around his erection.

“Do you fancy sucking my cock?”

Yes. Always. Please. 

He’ll head for the bedroom but stop me halfway, in the long, narrow corridor that leads between rooms. I’ll drop to my knees, he’ll drop the dressing gown, and pull my head towards his crotch.

“That’s it,” he murmurs sleepily, as I take the full length of his dick to the back of my throat. “Get it nice and wet.” And I do, because at that moment it’s all I want to do. The wetter I get him, the more easily he’ll slip inside me when, inevitably, he tells me to stand up.

“Face the wall. Drop your knickers.”

I lean forwards, putting my arms above my head and pressing my face and chest into the wall, bracing myself and spreading my legs wide so he can get in nice and deep. Then I turn to face the mirror so I can watch him.

The mirror gives me something I’ll never normally get – a view of his arms, shoulders, hands and face in profile. The muscles tensing and clenching as he fucks me quick and hard. The dents around my hips as he grips his hands tight around me. The jiggle of my arse and the taut strength of his thighs as he pushes against me.

You can see me

I have mirrors in my bedroom too. Not on the ceiling – I am not a 70s porn star, more’s the pity – but a huge mirror that dominates my dressing table and means that fucking over the end of the bed provides the best view in the house.

I don’t just like looking at you, though. Although there’s an appeal in seeing a much greater view of you in the mirror, one of the hottest things is knowing that you can see me. That when you pull my hair back it’s because you like to look at the curve of my neck in the mirror – you want to be able to see my facial expressions, and the jiggle of my tits with each stroke. When you look down you can watch your cock sliding deep into my cunt, and when looking to the side you can see all the rest of me – every bit moving to the rhythm that you’re setting.

The view and the pace and the angle are all dictated by you, as you push one hand onto the small of my back to make me arch it further, raise my arse up. Or the slight wince as you slam your dick home more forcefully, bashing my hips against the iron of the bed frame.

And – God – the grin on your face when I catch your eye, and you catch me looking too.

Fucking in the mirror: we both get an awesome view. I’m just sad that there’s one thing I’ll never see as you see – the sight of your dick as you pull it out at the end, squirting spunk over, around and deep into the crack of my ass.

I hope you found this entry hot. If you’ve got time, please help me with a quick experiment: one of these stories was written when I was super horny, and the other was written when I was much calmer, directly after I’d had a wank. Please comment and let me know which section you think was the hottest: “I can see you” or “You can see me”. It’s for science. Answer will be revealed in a future blog post (subscribe using the box at the top if you want to get alerts). Oh, and if you like hot hallway fucking (and sex around the house), have a look at the latest post at SexBlogOfSorts – it is bite-your-lip-and-pull-down-your-knickers hot. 

There are times when even the most opinionated of us need to step back, take a deep breath, and shut the fuck up. Never do I get this feeling more than when it comes to discussing BDSM. People have raged to me before about my views on safewords, and various boundaries that I skip unthinkingly across. I do this because I am a hedonist, and often because I’m an idiot: sometimes I enjoy doing the kinds of play that experienced kinksters will warn against. In short, if you want an intro to kink I’m not the right person to come to.

Luckily I know someone who is – this week’s guest blog is from Charlie, who has written an excellent book that introduces people to BDSM in a safe, intelligent, and genuinely entertaining way. This guide is there to teach people many of the things that I’m too stupid and horny to say properly.  I’ve read it, and it’s ace. It’s also free to download as a pdf – so have at it.

So, with an intro to ‘Playing Around’, I’m delighted to welcome Charlie…

Playing Around (with punctuation): An insight into a kinky author’s suffering

Thwack!

“That should be a semicolon, Charlie,” my editor/partner [editor note: yes, I slept with them for their writing] muttered sternly, pointing their riding crop at the offending comma. “And you don’t spell ‘negotiation’ like that.”

It’s a tough life for an author, especially for those writing a book about BDSM whose editor is all-too-willing to take advice from it (not that advice is particularly needed). Yet despite this hardship, I recently released my free introduction to kink-e-book: Playing Around: A Short Introduction to Kink for the Curious.

Kink has come somewhat more into the public eye since the release of Fifty Shades of Are-You-Fucking-Kidding-Me, but as a (relatively) experienced kinkster, I can think of nothing more horrifying than people learning about the activities and dynamics of BDSM as a result of it:

“Whilst there’s no one right way of being kinky, there are definitely wrong ways – and the ubiquitous Fifty Shades of Grey highlights many of these: it has an incredibly poor view of consent (a contract is most definitely not a good way of going about consent. And complaining about safewording?), portrays abuse as BDSM (and vice versa), and ultimately implies that kinkiness is a problem from which to be saved…”

That’s not to say that there aren’t kink guides and resources available, but these are frequently aimed at people with at least a modicum of experience. For the newbie, the jargon-rich culture can be a little off-putting, to say the least.

I aimed to write the kind of guide I would have liked when I was a fledgling pervert, experimenting with my equally naïve partner. We had numerous conversations in hushed tones about what we would do with a short length of ribbon we acquired, or the flimsy and severely unimpressive riding crop we bought from Amazon: conversations which were, for the most part, fruitless. We could really have done with some guidance.

We were lucky: others report bigger issues. From a rather dire experience in which a favourite silk scarf was sacrificed – though only after a somewhat lengthy hunt for scissors – to an unfortunate incident where “harder” and “no harder” were confused. When you know what you’re doing, kink is both safer and more fun.

Kink, consent and communication

It’s not just the safety and fun that concerned me about, though. Fifty Shades (and society at large) has a huge problem with consent and communication: there is a worrying notion that negotiation is simply tiresome and detracts from the sexual experience. It is a vital aspect of any interaction, particularly sexual interactions – and even more so if you’re going to be tying people up and hitting them for fun. For me, it was just as – if not more – important to provide a practical guide to negotiation and consent as it was to talk about how to actually do the things in the first place.

“However you intend to include BDSM in your relationship(s)- as an introduction to an existing vanilla relationship, further exploration in a relationship where you have done some experimentation, as an active member of the scene, or anything else for that matter – you will need to communicate your needs and desires (and listen to theirs) to any partners you play with. Be honest – proper communication can only happen when everyone involved isn’t overly embarrassed or scared of voicing their feelings […] It’s likely that your partner is going to be feeling the same fear and uncertainty – be supportive!”

Not only is consent and negotiation a vital aspect of safety – both physical and emotional – it can, despite what Fifty Shades and its ilk implies – be an enjoyable experience in itself. Due to our cities being inconveniently located, Xandra, my editor/partner, and I often do this sort of thing via the wonders of the internet: it builds anticipation and ensures that we’re both brimming in excitement when we get to see each other. And of course, this also helped us to make an effective system of punishments for grammatical errors, as well as bribery with topless pictures.

Yes, it’s a tough life for an author, but for the worthy goal of turning communication into incoherent screams and moans in bedrooms across the world, I’d like to think it was worth it.

Now, if you’ll excuse me – Xandra’s insisting that they edit this post too…

Whether you’re looking to try something hot and spanky for the first time, or – like me – you’re up to your knickers in filth but still making lots of mistakes, or if you just want to find out more, download Playing Kinky: A Short Introduction to Kink for the Curious as a free pdf (released under a Creative Commons license), or head to Amazon US or UK where you can get it as an ebook.