It’s important to me that you know this: I don’t publish sexy blog stories about people without their permission. That hasn’t always been the case – when I first started blogging I wrote about people who were so far in my past that I couldn’t have popped back up in their lives to get their OK, so I just fudged a lot of details and shot for anonymity. These days, everyone I’ve slept with recently knows that I’m girl on the net, which handily bypasses some of the more awkward conversations I might have to have with a stranger, and also means there’s no excuse to not ask before I turn our fuckstories into #content. So: sex writing and consent. Do people approve their blog posts? And if so, how does that work?

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There are marks on my thighs, on my arse, on my tits, and on my brain. All of those marks will fade. I could take pictures of the first three, but I’m terrible at photos, and even my very best attempts can’t hope to capture the things I really want to remember. The ache in my limbs and the sting of the flogger and the satisfaction of being held down and fucked. The all-encompassing, electric joy of getting ruined by two people at once.

This post features BDSM and impact play, some of it quite vicious. All of it extremely consensual. I don’t know how well I have written consent into this story, because I am too busy trying to capture the things that happened, but yeah… please understand that holy shit this is all consensual-as-fuck. It was more than consensual: it was a fucking gift.

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I’m a big fan of masturbation sheaths – the squishy, textured, beautiful toys that you can use to add extra sensation to a dick-focused wank. I’ve written a lot about them here in the past, including a piece about one of the very best: the Tenga Flip Hole Zero EV (crap name, brilliant toy). I’ve also had guest writers extol the virtues of Tenga here too, most notably in this piece by Luke about the standard Tenga Flip Hole. This week’s post is a lot more personal, though, and I’m really honoured that today’s anonymous guest has chosen to share his story here. If you’re interested in trying out these kinds of toys, I hope his experience can give you a nudge in the direction of prioritising your pleasure: he’s written a beautiful love letter to Tenga.

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Recently I wrote the easiest guide to dirty talk in the English-speaking world. I am a fan of trying to simplify sex things to get more people on board with doing them, and I am quite proud of that guide – I reckon people who’ve never talked dirty before might find it useful. I thought I’d have a go at doing something similar for sex comms more generally. And this one’s even simpler: all you need is three words. One phrase. Learn it, and get instantly better at sexual communication. Ready? Brace yourself…

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When I tweet out blog posts I wrote this time last year, I am often struck by the howling sadness that I was pouring out onto these pages at the time. I figured a more balanced view from the future might be helpful, perhaps in the form of a letter to my past self. So one night I got drunk and wrote exactly that. Edited sober, because I’m professional: here’s a message from my future to my past. 

It’s worth noting, Ms GOTN-from-one-year-ago, that you might be sad right now, but it’s not like you’re doomed to misery. It’s important that you understand your life is not over. In fact, come closer, I’ll give you a glimpse of what your future holds. Listen very carefully and quit weeping, mate: it’s all cider and fuckparties from here.

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