There are three words that, when combined, make me shiver with delight. I’m not talking about ‘I love you’ – they have their place but aren’t likely to get me hot and wet and trembling. These three magic sex words are like an aural orgasm – they pinpoint a perfect moment that makes me want to stop time and milk that one second until I’m satisfied I’ve made the most of it.

It’s explained better by example.

Lubed up masturbation

“Do you want to try this?” I held out a bottle of lube – “tingling”, it said, although I suspect what won him over was that it also said “new”. He held out his hand, squeezed a bit into his fingers, and rubbed it on the head of his cock.

I’m a sucker for guys rubbing their cocks.

Prompted, perhaps, by recent thoughts on guys and sex toys, and remembering how meltingly filthy it is when I get to pull him swiftly to the edge of orgasm using a dick-sheath, I lay him down on the bed and got out two possibilities. One black, solid, and narrow – squeezing it onto his dick is tricky but the effort is worthwhile. The second one is clear, jellylike, and much softer.

I went for the latter – I like the feel of it in my hands. Because it’s so soft, as I squeeze and rub him I can feel the rock-hardness of him pushing against the sheath. I can run it up and down, twisting and clamping it round his dick, feeling the head pushing against the end and through my fingers.

I love the rhythm of hand jobs. The up down up down, the friction. I love the smooth-sticky feeling of lube on my fingers, and yes – I love the control. I like knowing that every kick of 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. And then the three magic words:

“I’m gonna come.”

Ungh. Those words have such a beautiful, simple sexiness that they make me instantly taut – aroused and eager for the inevitable end. I did what anyone would do, and immediately slowed the pace, trying to keep him hanging there for a moment while I took in his frown and his rapid breathing, and the double-twitch of his cock just before he came.

It turns out restraint is neither my, nor his, forté. He arched his neck, leaning up towards me as he shot spunk into the cup of the jelly sheath. It’s clear, so I can see him filling it as he moans, and as his frown deepens. That’s what I’ve been waiting for – that’s what the joy of the control, the feeling of sticky-wet lube, the anticipation as I came home with the bottles – all leads up to.

I’m gonna come.

His pleasure. My achievement. The perfect combination of hot.

Honourable mention to the lovely PR person who gave me the lube (Durex Embrace) that kicked off this story. She challenged me to see if using it could bring on an orgasm in less than 3 minutes. For the record, I reckon the 3 magic words came about 2 and a half minutes in, so kudos for that. I don’t do product reviews and this is the first time I’ve accepted a freebie, but I was sort of intrigued by this lube (it’s actually two different lubes sold together that produce an intriguing sensation when combined), so it was the kick-off for this particular escapade. I hope you’ll not think me an awful sellout, and will agree that the story above is way better than simply giving something marks out of ten.

As a sex blogger, I am legally obliged to provide some sort of fodder that hits the keyword “Valentine’s Day”, or Google will have me shot. But if you want a syrupy-sweet and romantic entry or a rant about twee, tedious predictability of the day itself, you’re better off looking at previous years’ entries. Because today I’m going to talk about House of Cards.

House of Cards on Valentine’s Day

No, this isn’t just an excuse to remind other fans that Season 2 of House of Cards will be released on February 14th, it’s simply because House of Cards presses so many of my ‘holy shit that’s so hot’ buttons that it is almost impossible to list them all.

I’ll give you my top ones, though.

1. Powerful, evil men

From Andrew Scott’s playfully terrifying Moriarty to the drawling, bass sarcasm of Professor Snape, there’s an entire book to be written about how deliciously sexy evil can be. I’m definitely not the only one who thinks this. Plenty of submissive-leaning people on Twitter replied to my achingly hot story about number 14 by telling me, in no uncertain terms, that they were off to rub themselves raw, and I’ve been in certain circles where one cannot mention Kevin Spacey’s name without causing at least three people to collapse in a puddle of their own lust.

Why is Kevin Spacey so sexy? I think it’s because in House of Cards he is a ruthless, vicious, scheming man. A bastard’s bastard. The créme de la créme of cunts. And with every new machination, each twisted smile or liberty taken, I want to hug myself with merciless joy and have him devour me like the wolfish Beelzebub he is.

2. Hate fucking

Not all the sex in House of Cards is hateful, but there’s certainly a hell of a lot more of it that is powered by rage, revenge, and politics than you’d get in your average drama series. Sometimes it’s nice to see the perfect couple getting together on screen. But at other times it’s fantastic to be reminded that sex can be had for many reasons: not all of them good.

An on-screen fuck is so much hotter when you know one or other of the characters has an ulterior motive.

3. Zoe Barnes (played by Kate Mara)

I very rarely fancy women, but I am happy to make an exception for Zoe Barnes. She’s indescribably stunning, as well as being sneaky and devious and cunning and all that good stuff too. She also has a quality that I am exceptionally jealous of – in anything she wears her tits look spectacular. I want to hug her so that our chests smoosh together, then pick her up and fuck her against a wall.

The perfect House of Cards relationship

Hauling this entry back from drooling celebrity lust and onto the crucial topic of Valentine’s Day (see, Google? I am playing your wicked game), the most insanely hot thing about House of Cards is the relationship between Frank Underwood (played by Kevin Spacey) and his wife Claire (played by Robin Wright). They’re  both incredibly powerful people, but together they seem to be striving for a kind of give/take equality that I’ve rarely seen before.

Neither of them seems as concerned about fidelity as you’d expect from a high-profile married couple. They both make mistakes, sexually and personally, but what’s utterly fascinating is that they have this ongoing deal: I support you, then you support me. They know that it’s not always possible to excel simultaneously, so they take it in turns. Frank takes the limelight while Claire supports him from the wings, then they swap, and he dedicates his time to making sure that she gets the best exposure.

Every now and then they share a cigarette. The cigarette is, like all smoking on TV these days, a metaphor for their relationship. One of them will start it, then halfway through pass it to the other one. Breathing in, then out, then handing it over.

Love me like Frank Underwood

Don’t get me wrong, these characters are both pretty horrible people, so I wouldn’t recommend any of you turn into Frank Underwood any time soon (unless you are joining me in ‘filthy evil men’ sex games), but their relationship looks a lot like the sort of thing I want. A partnership of the most interesting kind, where you’ll step aside for your partner when they need to succeed, fight for their goals as passionately as you fight for yours, knowing with total certainty that they’ll do exactly the same thing for you a little way down the road.

And, of course, lust painfully after each other as you get dressed for a night out – because along with the support and the love, there’s always a little promise of fiery rage around the corner.

 

Addendum: If this entry wasn’t Valentine’s-y enough for you, here are some previous V-day entries ranked in order of how much I like them.

Love is like being tied to a rock that you also sort of want to have sex with

The most romantic thing I’ve ever written

Unwilling monogamy (not strictly V-day, but about love)

For Valentine’s Day I want a blowjob

You know what really ruins feminism for all of us? Those yappy, uppity, stampy women getting all angry at each other when really they should be pulling together and joining voices to fight for the same cause. Can’t you just agree, ladies? I mean, how on earth are we supposed to start smashing the system when you’re all too busy tearing shreds off each other? When you can’t even all agree what it is that you, as a collective entity of half the human race, actually want?

Here’s a blog for people who are sick of ‘feminist infighting’ or, as I like to call it ‘disagreement’.

Disagreement does not equal death

I love a good debate. I have friends with whom I’ll specifically pick fights, or raise difficult topics, because they argue well and interestingly, and because sometimes bouncing my opinions off someone thoughtful and articulate is a great way to work out whether my opinions are actually valid. Sometimes it helps me to hone arguments about things I believe very strongly, and other times it’s good to hear the walls of my certainty collapse with an almighty crunch as someone points out a point of view I never considered.

There’s nothing wrong with disagreement. If someone else’s feminism does not equal mine it does not make theirs invalid. Likewise it does not make mine invalid. What it might make is some fascinating discussion, and an opportunity for us both to think a bit harder about what our instincts might have knee-jerked us towards in the first place.

The power to disagree

You know who else disagrees with someone? Fucking every single person who has ever held power. Politicians, CEOs, generals, Newsnight presenters, newspaper columnists, comedians – everyone with influence and an opinion. But I’ve rarely ever heard people say:

“The problem with sport today is that managers all disagree on the best way to play football.”

“You know, humanitarian charities would be so much more effective if they could all just agree on the most important problems to solve.”

“Well, if only big businesses would all just sit round a table and decide what their collective priorities are, it would be so much easier to fix the problems.”

Of course they don’t, because part of being respected, part of having power, is being given the opportunity to disagree. Contrast that with any campaign for the rights of anyone in a position of less power, or who is trying to fight back against a certain type of systemic repression:

“I met a gay person the other day who isn’t bothered about gay marriage. Why can’t they all just agree?”

“But some women are actually anti-choice! So how can abortion be a feminist issue?”

“It’s sad that so many feminists spend so much time disagreeing with each other on Twitter.”

Etc, ad infinitum until I want to throw up.

You’re not a real feminist if…

I don’t want to be told that I’m not a real feminist if I like watching porn, or if I support the rights of sex workers. What I do want to be told is why you think those things might be unethical, and I’d love to be able to listen to what you’re saying, discuss the points you raise, and either change your mind, change my mind, or agree to disagree. The great thing about disagreement is that I’ll usually come away stronger for having had it – whether by learning something new or developing my arguments and ideas.

Likewise someone else might have different priorities to me. After all, if we’re talking about equality across the entire human race, there are a million and one individual battles to be waged in the wider war on inequality. The fact that we can’t all agree which problem to tackle first is inevitable, natural, and completely acceptable.

All hail debate

Perhaps this blog is actually ironic, and I’m citing my love of debate then telling them there’s one way in which they can’t disagree. But I don’t think saying “calm down ladies and stop shouting at each other” is really a disagreement at all.

The most irritating thing about the smug-smiling people who decry “feminist infighting”, is that they’re not actually contributing anything to the debate. So tell me you disagree with me, by all means, but by sighing a faux-lament about how feminists should all just get on and agree with each other, you’re contributing nothing of your own, and ignoring the valid and important arguments that we’re actually having.

It smacks of trying to keep people in their place. It smacks of telling us we’re unladylike. And yes, it smacks of patriarchy. Of course feminists don’t all agree on which problem to fix first. Of course we don’t all agree on how best to solve problems. But that is because – and correct me if I’m wrong but I believe this is one of the foundations upon which equality is built – women have opinions too. We aren’t a homogenous mass, united by our gender, incapable of disagreeing with other members of the sisterhood: we disagree.

If you genuinely think this about every issue – if you want Londoners to all ‘stop infighting’ and agree on where to put the cycle lanes, if you want all Labour MPs to vote the same way on every major issue, if you want men to all take part in Movember because they should unite to fight the issue of testicular cancer, then by all means tell feminists they should stop infighting. But if, as I suspect, you don’t, then either join the debate or leave it. Just stop telling people they shouldn’t be having it.

The right to disagree is universal, so don’t smile and sigh and lament our argumentative movement as you try to take that right away.

So, here’s an odd statement, which the guy who emailed me was kind enough to allow me to publish:

I sometimes want to try things out – I have zero or little experience and I worry about that. Would be wrong to use a girl as just like to practise on and improve?

The word ‘practice’ bothers me, and not just because of its context-dependent spelling of ‘s’ or ‘c’. This gentleman was asking, after my article on virginity, whether it was OK to find someone to practise sexual things with (kissing, oral, and other delicious non-penis-focused activity) without having to have actual sex.

The answer to this question is a wholehearted ‘yes’, but also a wholehearted ‘no’, because of the way it was phrased.

Not having sex is totally fine

If you meet someone and want to do sexy things but without having what you’d class as ‘full sex’ (i.e. train goes in tunnel) then that is not only fine but, if the other person you’re with is a fan of kissing, oral, frotting, etc, utterly delightful. There’s a deep and gutwrenching joy in having things that aren’t ‘full sex’, and although I am personally a bit of a penetration fetishist (I find it hard to get off if I’m not being pounded, or at least under promise of being pounded in the very near future), there are hundreds of other things that are fun.

However, the word ‘practice’, makes me shudder with discomfort, because it implies some things that make me sceptical of how you actually feel about your partner.

There is no sex Olympics

The key question, really, is what are you practising for? Is there some sex competition that I didn’t know you could enter? Are there skills and techniques you need to know in order to pass a shagging exam? Is this hard work going to pay off ten years down the line when you meet someone who refuses to sleep with you unless she can see your Doctorate in lovemaking? No? Then what you’re doing isn’t practice.

It’s an uncomfortable word because usually we practise on something that isn’t the real thing. We learn to drive with supervision, in cars that have a spare set of pedals so our instructor can slam the brakes on when we almost power headlong into a roundabout (and Colin, if you’re reading this, I’m really bloody sorry). We practise exam questions on past test papers. Above all, the results of our ‘practice’ don’t really matter, because the marks aren’t real or final.

But in bed, the person you’re with is real. They have real nerve endings, real emotions and desires. To reduce them to a GCSE test paper, in which the marks (i.e. their feelings) don’t really matter sounds deeply disrespectful. This, coupled with the word ‘use’ was what gave me shudders in this guy’s email.

There’s nothing wrong with having consensual sex fun with someone that doesn’t involve penetration, but there is definitely something wrong with viewing any individual sexual partner as just a stepping stone towards the amazing sex that you’ll eventually have with someone else. Heavily implied there is ‘better’. You practice on the not-quite-real person, then have better sex with someone… well… better.

Eww.

Sex practice doesn’t make perfect

Most importantly, the idea of practice implies that if you do enough of it you’ll eventually become ‘good’. This is one of those bullshit beliefs we hold because so many advice columns, sex books, and articles about ‘Ten Ways To Blow Her Mind In Bed’ insist on peddling the myth that everyone likes the same thing. That you can be, objectively, a ‘good shag’. This – and I cannot stress this enough – is bollocks.

Sometimes you’ll have sex with someone for the first time, and loads of your trademark moves will genuinely blow their mind. They’ll sigh, and writhe, and moan in delight as you rub, lick, suck, and fuck them into a glorious and delicious climax. But this is rare. Most of the time you’ll do some things they like, some things they love, and many things that make them want to say ‘left a bit’, ‘a bit softer’, ‘no, wait, a bit harder’ until you do something exactly the way they like it.

I’ve slept with a fair few guys as well as a few girls. Each and every one of them was slightly different, with some of them doing things in ways I’d never have anticipated but turned out to love. Others did things that worked well for their previous partners but turned me right off. I’m sure the same is true of what they thought of me, and generally with those people I was with for longer, we got better at pleasing the other one and knowing what they wanted. No amount of practice can prepare you as well as the knowledge that everyone’s different. So practice doesn’t make perfect – it doesn’t even make ‘good’ – the best revision you can do is to talk to the person you’re with, and listen when they tell you what they like.

Don’t ‘use’ anyone

You don’t owe it to any hypothetical future partner to be the best you can be in bed. It’s not the case that you can pick people who don’t matter to help you perfect your techniques so that you can wow the love of your life at some point. Firstly because the love of your life may well want something completely different, secondly because whoever you’re practicing with may turn out to be the love of your life, and finally because it’s just a shitty thing to do. If I had wild and sticky sex with someone and subsequently found out that they were just ‘using’ me for ‘practice’, I’d kick them out of bed before you could say ‘I am not an unfeeling shag-robot.’

I don’t think this guy is deliberately being mean, or callous. After a few emails back and forth I think he’s just under the impression that he needs to be the best he can be. But you can be at your best not by learning techniques or practising your cunnilingus skills, but by being empathetic, caring and considerate of what your partner needs and wants. Not a hypothetical future partner – the one you’re with in exactly that moment.