Girl on the Net

Stoya calls them ‘comets’: those people who orbit your life at a distance, occasionally blazing into it for brief yet bright moments of sexy joy, before whooshing off back to their own. I don’t think it’s always easy to be a great comet – it requires a tricky balance of charm and composure. You need the ability to connect well in a short space of time combined with a casual detachment that allows you to say a cheery goodbye without worrying you’ll be forgotten the second you’re out of sight. I think it’s tough to be a good comet, but let me tell you about a brilliant one of mine.

Although this isn’t going to be a romantic story (the best comets are far too fun for that) it’s probably relevant that when this guy texts me, it’s Valentine’s Day. I’m sitting in my living room with a glass of wine and a spliff and a pile of aching self-pity. I am listening to Karen Carpenter singing Rainy Days and Mondays, indulging the part of my heart that yearns so deeply for connection. Don’t pity me: I like wallowing in these emotions sometimes. I am both blessed and cursed with a lot of feelings, and sometimes it’s nice to pay attention to the achy ones – get comfortable with them. Befriend them. Invite them into your lounge for a Carpenters singalong and a glass of cheap Chenin Blanc.

So it’s Valentine’s Day. I’m drinking wine and wearing a big soft hoodie. Thinking about a boy who doesn’t like me as much as I want him to, and making the most of the rare opportunity to feel a little lonely for once. That’s when this other guy – my comet – pops up in my phone. We’ve planned to meet when he’s in town next week, and he’s offering to take me out for a fancy-ass dinner before we fuck.

I know what you’re thinking, and you’re right: I’m a very lucky girl indeed.

What makes a brilliant comet

One of the key reasons this guy is a great comet (for me, your mileage may vary) is that he makes everything stunningly easy. He picks a restaurant (and a hotel) that’s not too far for me to get to. Suggests posh dinner in the manner of someone who just really wants to do it, implying I’d be doing him a favour by tagging along. There’s a subtle, compelling dominance in the straightforward way he presents it. Just flat out: “I’d like to do this, are you in?” Meaning I – who would usually fuss and worry, muddying the conversation with effusive gratitude – instead just grin and text back: ‘Hell yes please! What should I wear?’

More powerfully sexy directness here, which makes me smile again: ‘a couple of levels up from your usual aesthetic, but don’t worry too much. PS I like black stockings.’

It reminds me of our first proper text chat, before date one (date zero I might tell you about another time: it was me, him and his incredible wife, who had offered him to me after I shamelessly wrote a post about wanting to borrow other people’s boyfriends). When I asked him if he’d like to discuss limits and other sex stuff before our date he told me simply: ‘I’m happy to take charge of things.’ The wave of relief and excitement when he said that was a powerful gift to anxious little me.

The third thing he does it is… well… quite obviously, he makes me pretty horny. I arrive at the restaurant before him, and when he sweeps in – with casual confidence – he orders an Old Fashioned without even glancing at the drinks menu. I don’t know why this is so hot, but fuck it: it is. It makes my cunt gush and the backs of my knees go funny.

In a different situation I might be less forthcoming. With someone else I could have bitten my tongue. But with a guy who orders Old Fashioneds with such charming ease, I feel comfortable saying over starters:

“I have a request for when we fuck later, if you’re up for it.”

Burning brightly

Dinner’s fucking lovely, of course, but this isn’t a restaurant review blog so I’ll skip that. Suffice to say we have a fabulous time, chatting and eating and drinking and discussing which of the waiting staff we’d invite to come sit on the cuck chair in his hotel room (there’s always a cuck chair in hotel rooms: it’s the law).

When we get upstairs, he’s game for fulfilling my request, although I might disappoint a lot of you here when I tell you exactly what it was. I think most people expect my requests to be at the filthy or creative end of the spectrum: butt plugs and anal. A heavy beating. Fisting or facials, perhaps. And those all have their charm. But often the things I fixate on are relatively vanilla, made horny purely by my temporary obsession. They get into my lizard brain like a fuck-hungry earworm, refusing to leave until I’ve satisfied that itch. Besides, hopefully a recent blog post has helped you understand why I wanted what I asked for so badly: I wanted to ride his dick, with permission to really make a meal of sitting down on that very first stroke. Sliding ever-so-slowly onto him, milking the enjoyment of having just the head of his cock inside me for a while, teasing myself (and hopefully him) before sliding…

… all the way down.

In a different situation I might be less forthcoming. But with the guy who, on the day his wife introduced us, sat down and brightly declared ‘I feel like an offering!’, I am comfortable enough to grab a clit vibe from my handbag, whip off my dress and ask him to lie nice and still so I can get to work.

I can’t always get off like this, and with someone I don’t know well orgasms are harder to come by. But this guy’s experienced and straightforward and charming, putting me at ease without us having to build up loads of backstory. It doesn’t hurt that his dick has great shape, either. So solid I commented on it with an awestruck squeeze of the base, nudging at the perfect angle against my g-spot as I make the most of every single millimetre of that first slide.

I’d told him if the build-up was right I could probably come within five strokes. I’m not quite accurate, it’s probably more like ten. But whatever. It’s fucking great.

If you’d asked me, midway through my self-pity-party with Karen Carpenter, what I craved at that point in my life, I’d probably have told you ‘a hug’ or ‘for a nice boy to fall in love with me.’ But I’m not always great at assessing my own needs. Turns out what I really craved was a friendly, dominant guy to let me squirm on his cock while I wanked with a Zumio, rolling my eyes at the ceiling before panting ‘thank you’ less than thirty seconds later.

Comets, you see? Burn brightly and briefly and with devastating power.

I can’t claim to be a great comet myself (I’d accidentally ghosted this guy for three months last winter because I suck at messaging), but I am very keen to be worthy of another visit next time our orbits align. So once I’ve had an orgasm of my own, I set about giving him a burst of brightness in return – bouncing and grinding on his cock like I’m trying to milk the spunk from him.

I had Covid the week before so I come equipped with ten days’ worth of pent-up isolation energy to burn. I grab the headboard and brace my thighs and he really lets me go for it: I ride him like there are rosettes to be won at the end. Setting my cunt to work on squeezing good and tight, I come twice more around his truly fantastic dick before wringing a (hopefully) satisfying climax from him too. I say ‘hopefully’… he seems pretty pleased. One of the things I admire about this guy is that he’s very straightforward – I’m sure if there’s room for improvement he’ll be happy to give me some notes for next time we fuck.

Casual sex, but make it easy

There’s an episode of Red Dwarf called Holoship, with which my fellow comedy nerds might be familiar. The Holoship is crewed entirely by holograms like Rimmer, and there’s no risk of STIs or pregnancy when they shag. Fucking is embarked upon as a playful, friendly thing instead of something significant: people offer each other bouts of sex in the same way they’d offer coffee or a quick game of tennis.

When I think of ‘casual’ sex, I’m not after one-night stands or Tinder dates, I’m hoping for something more playful and easy. Something a lot more like this. Familiarity and enthusiasm without a pile of baggage or first-date stress. The panting, knackered glee of us lying on the bed making jokes as I got my breath back, congratulating each other on not falling down at the ‘ghosting’ hurdle, offering grins and ‘thank you’s before a quick goodbye hug.

In a different situation I might have written a blog that was purely a fuck. With someone else perhaps I’d have cut out the Carpenters preamble, framing this in a way that made me seem a little bit more cool. But when I’m blogging about a guy who’s shoulder-shrug easy about the fact that I’ve got him on loan, it feels safe to be honest about the simple joy of shagging him like we’re on the Holoship.

When life seems dark and lonely, I don’t always need a hug or for a hot boy to love me. Sometimes I need a friendly comet who’ll burn brightly and briefly. Who will treat me with dominant ease and casual playfulness. A man who’ll order Old Fashioneds and black stockings, then let me ride his dick like we’re playing tennis.