Girl on the Net

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.