Sex isn’t always hearts, flowers, champagne and sky-high orgasms. To be honest sometimes it’s not even hot fumbling, high fives and a faceful of spunk. Often what might have been an excellent fuck is ruined by one of the two things that our race is miserably prone to:

• the laws of physics
• biological incompetence

To celebrate those fucks that go wrong, here are three true stories of bad things that have happened to me during sex:

1. Unbalanced

When people think of university they might think of dissertations, hippie students, or excessive masturbation in the library. I, on the other hand, am reminded of the exceptionally narrow beds in my first year halls of residence.

During my first year, I conscripted an eager boy to join me in testing just how much we could get up to on one of these beds, as a rebellion against the miserable cunt who designed them to deter any sex whatsoever.

We were only foiled once, during our first drunken attempt at buttsex. At the moment of climax my boy slapped my arse, slammed his dick home nice and hard and declared in a sexy, ecstatic moan: “I’m going to come in your ass.”

The good news is that he sort of did. The bad news: as my leg slipped from the side of the bed, the rest of his jizz sprayed elsewhere as he tumbled onto the bedroom floor, chipping a tooth on the way down.

Moral of the story: even during climax, concentrate.

2. Sex toys

I love sex toys – give me something new and shiny and I’m more than happy to stick it in my cunt to see how it feels. Once a guy bought some ben wa balls. Not normal balls – these were rubber-coated, and textured with short, soft spikes. Interesting.

At least, they were interesting for the first five minutes or so until he pulled on the string holding them together. Instead of cooing with delight, I was left on the bed screaming ‘what the fuck?!’ as I realised that only one of the balls had come out with the string – the other was left inside me.

Luckily for me, I didn’t have to go to hospital to have it removed. It’s surprising what you can fish out of a vagina if you happen to have a teaspoon to hand.

Moral of this story: Don’t buy cheap sex toys off the internet.

3. Dark alleys

Fairly recently, I met an incredibly young-looking gentleman with whom I got quite pissed. After the initial pleasantries and gin, we retired to a nearby alleyway where I gave him an enthusiastic and fairly sloppy blow job. After a pleasant – if frantic – five minutes I picked up my bag, squeezed out of the narrow alley, and we went our separate ways.

No sooner had I parted from him than I smelt something horrible. Awful. I had no idea where it might have come from, but it seemed to be following me. After thoroughly checking the bottom of my shoes, my jeans, and any other conceivable area, I eventually realised that the smell was dog shit. Not just a bit – a lot. A Great Dane’s worth – all over my fucking bag.

After ditching the bag in the nearest bin, I sat miserably on the train home, wanting to vomit over the lingering scent in my nostrils. But above all I was praying desperately that the guy I’d just sucked off hadn’t noticed, and mistakenly thought the excitement of giving him head had led me to shit myself.

Moral of this story: Clean up after your fucking dog.

I neither know nor give a shit if it tastes different when you’ve eaten pineapple.

Spunk is good because it’s spunk. It’s raw and hot and yours. It’s something that you squirt from the end of your dick when you’re so fucking satisfied with me, with what I’ve done, with what I look like when you have me bent over and tied to a chair, that you can no longer keep it inside you. Spunk is, more than anything else, the measure of whether I’ve made you happy.

It’s not good because of the taste, it’s good because you cover me with it. It’s good because you pump it deep and hot inside me. It’s good because you make me eat it.

Can you improve the taste of your jizz?

A brief and depressing google around this area tells me that almost anything natural and fruity could change the taste of your spunk (WARNING: research based on Google does not constitute actual science) so if you’re happy to chow down on a pound of melon or a shitload of grapes each day, alongside the almost inevitable diarrhoea you suffer, you’ll probably also be able to provide a liquid that your ladyfriend would be happy to dribble on her ice cream.

But why? What’s the point? I’m a grown-up earning a wage – I can buy sugary syrups and whipped cream and fruity treats to my heart’s delight – the only way I’ll get a taste of your spunk is to suck on your cock nice and hard, in exactly the way that you like it.

Tasting nice is not what your jism is for. Your spunk doesn’t need to taste like strawberries, or pineapple, or sugar, spice and puppy dog tails – your spunk needs to taste like what comes out of the end of your dick when you come.

Spunk makes sex better

Sex is fun whether you come or not – the feeling of you nice and full and tight and hard inside me will give me the shivers and make me wet and give me something to clamp down on – to tense my cunt around and twitch over and feel happy about. But sex in and of itself isn’t half as good as sex that ends with spunk.

Dribbles of it, spurts of it, nice thick white ropes of it covering my tits or filling my cunt or (my personal favourite) spurting hot and hard into the crack of my arse.

Don’t worry about how you taste – everyone tastes different – pineapple or not – all guys tast different. Some are bitter, some are salty, some shoot sourness down to the back of my throat that makes me gag and worry I might puke. You all taste different – it’s part of your charm.

Have a little taste now – go on. If you’ve never tried it before you’re probably quite an incurious person, but indulge me. Have a taste. You might not like it – many people don’t – but at the very least you now know. You see yourself in the mirror every day, you’re your own constant companion – the person who knows you best. You know what you look like, sound like and smell like, so why not also see what you taste like?

Go on, try it. Salty, sweet, bitter, whatever. That’s the taste of you. And that’s what makes it so special.

Whether the rumours are true or not, I don’t want your spunk to taste like pineapple. If I wanted a pineapple I’d eat one, but I don’t, so if your spunk tastes like pineapple I’ll feel disappointed. Cheated. Because I wanted that special flavour of you – of your approval, your happiness, your sexual gratification. I wanted hot, grunting, squirting thrusts of proper, salty spunk. And you’ve given me a fucking sorbet.