All Posts – Page 5
For the friend who wants to help but doesn’t know how
“I wish I could take it away,” he says. My friend who doesn’t know what to do with my sad feelings. He tells me, with sincerity: “I wish I could take some of this away for you.”
“Stop or I’ll come.”
I’m riding his cock. It’s the end of a very long night, and he’s built up plenty of spunk. Not only do I really want that spunk, I also really want to come myself. So just before I hop onto his dick, he hands me one of the toys that I wish every guy I banged had in his bedside drawer: a Doxy. Grinding my clit against it while his rock-solid thickness stretches out my cunt is a proper treat, and combined with the porn that I chose, which is playing in the corner of the bedroom, I’m sure I’ll come in no time.
Age verification: what’s the harm?
Welcome, friends, to my grubby little corner of the internet. A corner so strewn with obscenity that the UK government has decided you must prove you’re a grown-up before you can access certain parts of it. The UK’s new Online Safety Act has come into force, so UK people might have noticed a bunch of websites suddenly demanding you take a selfie, share your credit card details, or jump through another hoop to prove that you’re over 18. Quite a few of my friends have been discussing this in the pub, because for understandable reasons people who aren’t embedded in the world of online pornography or internet law are suddenly curious about why the internet is now so very broken. They’re also often convinced that the government will change its mind and therefore no one really needs to worry. I’ve had this conversation so many times now that I reckon I’ve got the basis for a fairly solid layperson’s guide to age verification: what it is, how it affects you, and why we absolutely, genuinely do need to worry.
Stroking: It’s all about the rhythm
We’re sitting at opposite ends of the sofa, legs entwined. There’s something chill and easy on the telly and I’m enjoying the sensation of his hand stroking up my thigh. He moves his palms in measured, predictable strokes. From my bare knee, up and over the fabric of my shorts to the top, and then back again. My skin tingles and my cunt starts to ache.
The facile debate about separating art from artist
“Can you separate the art from the artist?” is a ludicrous question, and it’s one I’ve wanted to tackle for a really long time. The answer is both ‘yes’ and ‘no’ depending on the art, the artist and you, the person who consumes it. There are always examples in the media of artists who have fallen from grace (or, less euphemistically, done something so morally repulsive that the idea of listening to their songs/watching their shows/reading their books now feels obscene), and often when a new person turns out to be a wrong ‘un, some thinkpiece or other claims we must learn to ‘separate the art from the artist’, which makes my brain twitch so I throw down a few notes. I’ve never written properly about this, because apparently I’ve never quite found the right fire to burn the whole question to the ground, but I think I’ve got the torch now, so I’m gonna pick it up and hope you join me in the flames. Let’s talk about ‘separating art from artist’, and specifically let’s talk JK Rowling.
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