I am not very sexy on weekday mornings. Not just in the sense that I have hair like a Muppet in a wind tunnel and breath like a Wetherspoons toilet, but also that if anyone touches me first thing in the morning I’m liable to cry. When my alarm goes off and I force my eyes open, the last thing I want is to have my tits touched: I will leap 20 feet into the air and run to the shower before you can say “I’m late I’m late I’m late.”

Life is exhausting and unfair. The fact that morning is usually when boys have their hardest, easiest erections is a cruel slap in the face: I feel ungrateful for saying ‘no’ to something so amazing, but at the same time… it’s 7 am, for fuck’s sake. I just want to drink my coffee, have a shower, and get the hell to work. Of course later in the day when my brain’s stopped caring how many minutes I have before I’m officially late, I feel like an idiot for wasting a lovely opportunity.

So I have to make opportunities elsewhen:

Just after work

I know people who change their clothes as soon as they get home, even if they don’t wear a suit to the office. The transition between work and home is an important way to strip the stresses and strains of the day from your body, shout “fuck that for a laugh”, and put on your relaxation face.

For me, post-work sex serves much the same purpose. I don’t want a guy to come home, sit on the sofa, and turn on the TV to wind down. Ideally I want him to come home, growl about what a shit day he’s had, then unzip his flies so I can sink eagerly to my knees and suck the stress out of him. If that fails, I’ll settle for a quickie up against the wall in the hallway, taking occasional glimpses of us in the mirror as he grabs, twists, pulls, and generally messes up the hair that looked so professional earlier.

During the evening

Sex has never, for me, been naturally associated with bedtime. Perhaps it’s down to my formulative teenage years, when the sex I had necessarily happened between 5pm and my 9pm curfew. I couldn’t sleep at my boyfriend’s house, ergo sex was an early-evening thing. As an adult, when sleeping with new people, I’d always prefer to have sex before we go to the pub, if at all possible, meaning I won’t be stuck trying to get a night bus at 3am after an unnecessarily long pre-sex preamble.

What I’m saying is that I like sex in the evening. I’d much rather be taken roughly over the coffee table before we watch Grand Designs than led gently to bed after Question Time for a half-hearted ‘I can barely keep my eyes open’ shag.

Evening sex is excellent – it inspires me to think more about when we might be able to fit a quick fuck in, and keeps me constantly on edge. I spend a lot of time appraising the boy as he sits hunched over his laptop on the sofa, cock visible through the thin fabric of his pyjamas. Coquettishly (but not that subtly) leaning up against him, rearranging my t-shirt so it shows enough cleavage to tempt him into putting an arm around me and squeezing.

The best thing about evening sex is that it doesn’t tend to become routine. Sex at bedtime can easily become part of my day in the same way as brushing my teeth or taking the bins out. Whereas evening sex can happen any time, anywhere – outside the bathroom, on the sofa, in the spare room as one of us ambushes the other while they’re putting away the laundry. Or, in my favourite scenario, bent over the bottom of the bed as I’m changing the duvet cover. Hands folded in the bed linen, gripping onto the fabric of the sheet as he pulls my jeans down just far enough, unzips his flies, and fucks me functionally until my legs give out. A fuck with just a few grunts, the feeling of him pumping spunk deep into my cunt, followed by a quick clean-up before I get back to the evening’s chores.

At the weekend

Because at the weekend I never have to worry about where I have to be and when. I have more time to do the things I need to do, so the things I want to do get more of a look in.

At the weekend I can wake up to him playing with my nipples and I can moan and play back, knowing that if I’m still tired we can go to sleep afterwards. At the weekend I can take my time when I suck his cock – edging him closer to orgasm then pulling away, grinning and watching him twitch with frustration. We can fuck in different ways, enjoying the pressure, the view, and the solid, tight feeling of each of our favourite positions. He can take his time to fuck me slowly but firmly, each stroke a teasing slap against my aching cunt as I will him to go faster, harder, to let me squeeze myself around his dick.

In the morning during the week we’re both desperate to get to work, and it matters if we don’t make it. At the weekend we’re desperate to come, but it doesn’t matter when we do it, as long as we both do.

I’m a girl of my word. And if I promise a prize for someone who writes an amazing description of their orgasm then by the God whose name they scream when they have it, I shall deliver a prize.

A while ago I encouraged people to write a description of their orgasm. For two reasons, really:

• it’s an interesting challenge for any erotic writer, and I wanted to see if people could do it better than I could (spoiler alert: they definitely can)
• I like reading about other people’s experiences, especially if they’re beautifully and sexily different to mine.

So, I’ve finished sifting, re-reading, and generally wanking myself raw, and was utterly bowled over and delighted by all of your entries. There were some stunning things in there, and if you’ve got time I’d strongly recommend you read the past entries.

Orgasm competition – top 5 entries

Because I don’t like the idea that my opinion comes top purely because I’m the one with the blog, I’m going to ask you to help me narrow down from the top 5 to the winner. I’ve chosen the five that – in my humble opinion – felt like the best ones, and that give an idea of the range of different feelings and sensations people described. I’m really sorry if yours isn’t in there – I would utterly love to have given a prize to everyone. All you need to do is read some entries and rate the ones you read on a scale of 1-10. Those scores will be averaged with the scores I’ve given them, and the winner will be sent the amazing trophy pictured above. I can take no credit for the amazing “Veni, vici” (Translation: “I came, I conquered”) joke – that was suggested by @Aug24 on Twitter.

(I’m not yet sure if he’d like to be credited, so if he wants to be I’ll add a link to his Twitter profile above)

But there you go – five very hot and very varied descriptions of people’s orgasms. Please do peruse them, rate and share with your more open-minded friends. The more people who do it, the better idea I can get of which ones people love the most.

Voting closes this time next week (6pm GMT Sunday 11th August) – have at it!

Editor’s note: I know that it’s often possible to game competitions that include voting, but I don’t think that will happen here: I have access to the back end of the system, so if I see someone’s rated everything low except one, those votes won’t count. It’s uniquified based on IP address, so you can technically vote and rate more than once via a proxy if you give a massive and substantial shit about winning. However, I’m working on the basis that most people who read this blog (and those who entered the competition) are lovely enough not to cheat. Well, that and the fact that the prize isn’t worth much money.

There’s a lot of bullshit spoken about lots of things, and never is the quantity of bullshit larger than when it comes swiftly behind a statement that ‘all’ people of a certain type are a certain way, or have certain problems. Sure, catch-all statements are often a handy shortcut, but the more you try to crowbar into that statement the greater the chance of it stinking like a dungheap.

So, in light of Some Things I Have Seen On The Internet Recently, I feel compelled to highlight a few things about feminists. Specifically, things that – while true of some of us – are categorically not true of all of us. Here are some things that ‘all feminists’ are not:

Subject to unrelenting abuse

Some people are showered with quite horrific and appalling abuse on the internet. One of the many things that ignites the ire of a miserable and hate-filled human is a woman who not only has some opinions but has the temerity to actually say them out loud. Why, it’s enough to make them want to commit a criminal offence on Twitter. This behaviour is, naturally, disgusting.

However, I’m worried that the total shitstorm of the last few days, while fantastic at highlighting what is a genuine problem for many people, has been painted by the media as a problem for ‘feminists’ (as evidenced by the fact that articles on the topic nearly all seem to refer to a ‘feminist journalist’ or ‘feminist MP’, as if a feminist is a surprising and unusual thing to be). People behaving appallingly to each other is not just a problem for feminists – it’s a problem for our entire society. Moreover, although many of the most prominent victims of Twitter threats are loudly and proudly feminist, there are many people who receive this kind of abuse who are not.

Additionally, I want to point out that although being a loud, stampy feminist might mean you’re more likely to be targeted by a subset of antisocial cockwipes, you aren’t guaranteed to get this treatment just because you are a feminist. Why is it important to say this? Two reasons:

– I don’t like the implication that you could make the abuse stop by just calming your feminist views down a bit, or shutting the hell up.

– I don’t want to think that there are people who’ll be too scared to talk about their opinions because a few unconscionable cunts fire all-caps hate-tweets at prominent women.

You might get shit: you might not. I just want you to know that it’s not guaranteed, and it’s not something you can prevent just by not having an opinion. On to the next thing ‘all feminists’ are not:

Women

Some of my best feminist friends are men, and all that. More importantly, these feminist men fall into the same camps as the people in the previous category: some of them get awful abuse and threats on the internet, others don’t. There is no way of predicting or preventing this stuff on an individual basis. Whatever your views on how we, either technologically or as a society (or both) deal with the problem of online harassment, there’s never a way that you, as an individual, can prevent this.

Fighting all of the time

Another thing ‘all feminists’ aren’t doing. There’s a big discussion going on about how we deal with internet harassment. I’m undecided on the best solution because – as with most complex issues – there is nothing that leaps to the front of my mind and screams “BUT THIS IS SO OBVIOUS AND HAS LITERALLY NO DRAWBACKS.” Naturally, there’s debate – sometimes heated. However, it depresses me that the nuanced, carefully thought through arguments from a number of intelligent people have been boiled down into either ‘feminists are fighting with each other over a Twitter button’ or, even more worryingly ‘feminists are fighting everyone else over a Twitter button.’

It’s a fucking debate – we’re all supposed to be fighting. And I think, when this many people are involved, you can reliably say that this isn’t a ‘feminist’ issue – it’s a ‘people’ issue.

The same

As evidenced by the fact that a feminist can be male or female, pro- or anti-Twitter button, troll, trolled or indifferent, it’s fairly safe to say we’re not all the same. I appreciate that ‘feminist’ is a handy catch-all for some issues, but this definitely isn’t one of them.

It’s a people issue. It’s not a niche interest or campaign that we can cheer on from the sidelines but ultimately will never affect us: it’s about how we as a society behave towards each other, and we all – feminist or not – need to get stuck in.

People disagree with me on lots of things. Like all people, I am occasionally offensive, often unknowledgeable, and far too frequently wrong. But one of the things people disagree with most often is the words I choose to use.

Language is an intensely powerful thing when it comes to sex. One person’s ‘hot’ is another’s ‘horrible’, with the result that despite having polite disagreements on sexual politics, one of the most heated rows I have is over my preference for ‘cunt’ over ‘pussy’.

I think it’s one of the biggest challenges for erotic writing. You don’t want to go too bland and be unable to conjure anything hotter than his ‘length’ penetrating her ‘sex’. Likewise you don’t want to go so hardcore that you put off readers who’ve warmed themselves up during the written foreplay, then fling your book/blog to one side if you get too gynaecological.

How much does a fuck cost?

My favourite sex words and swear words are the ones that have power – the ones that sound punchy and strong, and evoke that same passion as the kick you get in the bottom of your stomach when someone you fancy says something hot. Fuck, cock, prick, cunt. I know they’re not for everyone, but I think you can tell a lot about a writer by the words that they favour. So, I did a few quick calculations.

My book (which is currently on a 99p deal at Amazon, and that means it’s also cheap in the US too – at the time of writing this it’s $1.51) is 95,000 words long. It contains 499 instances of the word ‘fuck’. This includes words like ‘fucking’ and ‘fucked’, and to be fair some of those will be used in a non-sexual context, so fuck that for useful science.

More pertinently, there are 342 counts of the word ‘sex’. I think sex is a generic enough word that if you’re reading a sex book, you expect it to appear quite frequently. Perhaps slightly less expected is that there are 23 bastards, including one ‘weapons-grade bastard’. When looking into verbs, there’s one instance of ‘splattering’ that involves magnolia paint, as opposed to one of the more obvious substances:

Better, perhaps, as an indication of what I like, here’s a penis chart:

And one for the cunts:

There’s no real conclusion to this other than that I’m sweary and I like it. I think words that are traditionally considered ‘offensive’ are hotter when you’re talking (or writing) dirty. Not because there’s an extra frisson of excitement contributed by the fact that they’re usually taboo – there are plenty of other things that are taboo which we leave firmly out of the bedroom. No, I think their power comes from the same thing that got them on the ‘taboo’ list in the first place – namely the plosive, punchy, staccato kick when you say them. They’re frowned upon because they’re often used with power, in hatred. They’re hot because they’re used with power, in love.

Some people agree with me about that sexy kick, where others prefer softer, mellower words with their wanking. As with everything sexual, to each his own. But I hope this has given you some explanation (if never an actual excuse) for why I swear so frequently. Like the groaning of horny men or the slapping sounds of skin-on-skin, without which I can’t enjoy a dirty video, swearwords are the soundtrack to the porn that I write. Without them I couldn’t get aroused.

To close, I’ll answer my original question: how much does a ‘fuck’ cost? It makes up 0.5% of the words contained in my book, so at a current bargain price of 99p in the Kindle Summer Sale, one fuck will cost you around half a penny. In the US, it’ll cost you 0.8 cents. Cheap as fuck.