Girl on the Net

There’s an ache that I have not yet told you about On Here. It throbs beneath the surface of my every other need. I have no idea if it’s something I’m legitimately allowed to feel, or if publicly acknowledging it is silly and self-defeating. It isn’t something I can actively chase, and it will definitely scare a few men. But let’s have a go anyway: what I ache for is decades of sex. With the same person. I am up for being open, being polyamorous, whatever relationship structure best fits my own needs and his. But fundamentally, powerfully, deeply, I yearn for long-term intimacy. As my life marches on, I find myself growing colder and colder at the thought of sex with total strangers. These days I dream of a man who I can fuck for decades.

It’s easy to tell you that I hanker after grubby sex things: bareback; tit-touching; a willing cock to suck. It’s a fuckblog, and that’s what you expect. No shade. But what I truly long for is something that is rarely acknowledged as erotic. Decades of sex with the same person? It sounds like the punchline to a joke. Doesn’t everyone just stop having sex when they’ve been together for a while? Aren’t we all agreed that novelty’s the thing? Variety? What’s so hot about fucking the same person for decades?

I’d like to have a crack at an answer.

Intimacy takes time and work

I want to know someone so intimately that nothing I do comes as a horrible shock. Someone who knows me well enough to laugh at my faults and embrace my weirdness. Someone with whom I can sit in companionable silence for hours without feeling awkward or bored, or greet with manic energy when I’ve had a new idea.

I want the ‘yes, and?’ that comes with true connection.

I enjoy being half of a couple at the absolute top of their storytelling game. At a party, one of you throws out a detail like ‘remember that time in Bangkok? With the tuk tuk driver on the fucking motorway?’ and the other catches the ball and runs with it: ‘fuck YEAH, oh god we have to tell you this… so we were really late for our flight…’. And you pass the story back-and-forth like you’re ducking and diving along the pitch, perfectly in tune with each other because you’re both so familiar with the beats: you know that they tell this part best and you trust them to hand back afterwards so you can do the detail for that bit.

You riff off each other. Grow with each other. Workshop not just the stories you tell but the life you live together: accepting each other’s experience and needs, and combining them with your own to make something that is richer, bigger and above all weirder than anything you could have created alone.

This is the foundation on which we build decades of sex.

Decades of sex

This means sex that’s like a jigsaw you do together on a rainy afternoon: just passing-the-time sex, as satisfying as a gooey grilled cheese sandwich. And while we have this standard grilled-cheese sex, I want to reminisce about more dramatic fucks we’ve shared: the ones that were a risk we took together – hurling ourselves into a sex club with matching wry smiles and a sense of mutual adventure.

Someone I can fuck like life depends on it is fabulous, for sure. But I want someone I can also fuck with the joy of knowing that absolutely nothing depends on it: they won’t judge me for making weird faces or falling off the bed or confessing some of my darker wants, the ones I’ve never told another soul.

Lazy sex, too – the kind you have just to get yourself off, where you’re using their junk like a sex toy and they’re only halfway into it but you know they kinda get off on the ‘bored and ignored’ thing and besides, you’ll make them a cuppa afterwards and they’ll love that.

I want creative sex – the type that takes risks which rest on foundations of closeness.

“Shall we try to pick up that stranger at the bar? They’ve been looking.”

“Reckon we could?!”

“Only one way to find out…”

I want good sex and bad sex with the same person in direct succession. I want the kind of fuck we dissect afterwards with pros, cons, and occasional noise reenactments. I want to watch someone wank so often that I know a split second before they do that they’re gonna need more lube, so I pass it before they even voice the thought aloud.

And bareback. Oh god, bareback. I fucking hurt for bareback.

I want to fuck someone for decades, people. Decades. I want to build the kind of trust and intimacy that means someone can genuinely ‘surprise’ me with a midnight stealth-fuck and though I struggle and squeal and fight back, I feel truly safe in their arms. Even when they tell me ‘sssssh’ and put their hand over my mouth, gently closing my nostrils at the same time until I double-tap their thigh…

I wish I could have decades and decades with the same someone. I want to hear the key go in the door at the end of a long day’s writing, and leap up from my chair to hurl myself into the arms of a person I trust. Someone who knows me. Someone whose body is deliciously familiar – so well-loved that I don’t just know exactly where his moles are, I have a favourite constellation to focus on when I’m dishing out kisses on a random Thursday morning.

I want decades of sex.

I want to know someone so well that I can tell if he’s had a bad day based purely on the quality of the memes he texts on the train on the way back home. I want to understand instinctively what to send back to help him shift from grumpy mode to horny. I want to know his body well enough that, when he gets home and flumps on the sofa to let me suck the pain away, I can keep him hovering in that blissed-out pre-come state for just long enough that his brain goes haywire on oxytocin and he briefly forgets how much of a prick his boss is. I want to fuck a man for so many years that I learn exactly which flicks of my tongue, squeeze-and-twists at the head, or deliberate gagging noises will trigger him to start pumping cum down my greedy little throat.

Wait, not just that! I don’t just want to know these triggers, I want to understand how they evolve. Chart the ever-changing journey of his cum-triggers and kinks and penchants and fleeting curiosities across months, years and – you guessed it! – decades. I want to be with someone for so long that I find myself having fond wanks to the memory of sexual seasons from years gone by. That brief period when he first moved in when he got this thing for a particular top I have, which he could yank my tits out of to display them – pert and perfect – nipples hard and ready to be casually pinched while watching Netflix. About three years ago, I think it was? Just before that phase where I became massively obsessed with the challenge of getting fisted, and he bought all those toys and we spent all those Sundays…

I want to fuck someone for decades, my loves. And that means a sex life that waxes and wanes as life comes at the pair of us. Sex that swells during times of plenty, and shrinks when times are tough. Or sometimes the opposite! Seasons when you’re just so warm and cosy and loved-up and content with everything that you almost forget sex exists. You pop off to bed early, kissing them on the forehead and chirping ‘don’t join me for at least ten minutes, I’ll be having a wank!’ and neither of you thinks that’s weird, you just know neither’s in a fucky place right now.

Or flip that again for a different season altogether: the roughest, coldest winters. When sex becomes a rock to which you can cling as you stare together down the darkest timelines. When you fuck because you need that closeness. That connection. That ‘damn it everything’s bleak and there’s no hope but you’re here and you’re warm and you know me so I will tear into your body and feel your beating heart next to mine and we will cry and come and cry and come some more oh God fuck let’s just remember we’re alive.’

Time and intimacy

I’ve been nurturing this ache since I broke up with my ex, and mourning the fact that time and circumstance mean the opportunity to have what I once saw glimpses of is slipping more swiftly from my grasp with each year that passes. That’s true, by the way: time runs faster as we get older. At least, we perceive it differently. A year really was forever when you were five years old. If you’ve only ever seen a few Christmasses, the next one feels like an aeon away: it’s a quarter of your lifetime. But as you grow up, time speeds up too. Next year will be just one fortieth of the time I’ve spent on this planet, and it’ll race by 2.5% quicker than the year that passed before. It’s true, my friends, and I hate it. The years slip by more quickly with each one you get under your belt, and I want to fuck someone for decades. Plural. How many of those do I have?

If this surprises you, I’m surprised at you: 80% of this blog was written when I had someone, and another 10% was written about the ‘someone’ I had before. I don’t know if I feel more sexually satisfied in longer relationships because that’s just how I’m wired, or if it’s one of those rare little gifts that this job has given me: if you spend your working day thinking about, obsessing over, and capturing all the things that are hot about your partner, you cannot help but be their number one fan. Their horny groupie. Maybe it’s easier to find novelty and excitement in someone you’ve known for ages if your whole being is tuned towards analysing them in detail every day. The curves of their ever-changing body. Their kinks and triggers and needs and desires.

People joke to me that they want to volunteer for the kinky shit, or tell me I should head out to sex clubs or hook up with total strangers. But these aren’t tempting to me: my cunt longs for connection, and it won’t be sated by casual curiosity. I can do this stuff sometimes, if I’m brave, and I do fuck people who aren’t interested in becoming long-term prospects. I’m grateful to these people for sorting me out, but ultimately short-term flings are not what I crave. What I crave is decades of sex. I’d be far more turned on about going to sex clubs, fucking strangers, and testing out new kinks if there were someone beside me who I trusted to join me on that journey.

It is not a trip I get horny for taking alone.

“These stories exist because we live them together”

Recently I got this comment from some amazing people on my Patreon…

We are sexagenarians. What a great way to describe people in their 60’s! We’ve been married for 42 years and are going strong on many levels, including sexuality. We believe that imagination in the mind’s eye is the key to eroticism. We have fairly recently discovered that audio is far superior to video when it comes to aligning one’s mental image with your carnal desire. While your offerings are wide-ranging in sexual practice and sometimes beyond our comfort level, the ones on the edges of our erogenous zones offer us the ability to discuss what we may be thinking but reluctant to express. This has lead to discussions previously thought to be on the edge of taboo. We owe that both to you and audio eroticism. Keep it coming. And coming. And coming.

Our bodies begin to betray us sooner than we imagine but our minds retain, and even refine, their carnal desires well beyond the time when our sags and wrinkles appear. In the gauzy halo of candlelight, our bodies appear young again and our desires can spark a fire as hot as a thousand suns. All night is no longer the goal; sated intimacy is. To release and sometimes explode, to give pleasure with groaning delight, and to observe self satisfaction is the roulette of an escapade. Even tonight, we expect to have “hotel sex.” I have anticipated it since morning. And I know it will end with satisfaction and an intimate caress, sometimes just a knuckle across a thigh and a gentle pat on the bum.

So, my ask you is to reach out to your stable of authors and, from time to time, seek out the tales that involve people who have loved each other for decades. People who know each other’s rhythms. People whose desires shape-shift to accommodate to the vagaries of what or may not get sufficiently engorged on any given encounter. I know these stories exist because we live them together.

I loved it so much. It made my heart feel both sated and sore. I’d love to hear more about this kind of sex: the sex that’s been decades in the making. The fucks that (yeah, I’m gonna say it) I envy. Far more than I ever envy friends who tell me they went to a fetish club or had a one night stand. In conversations with mates in long-term relationships, I often have to bite my tongue to keep from bursting out: oh God how I envy you. Some of them envy my life because I have the novelty that their eager hearts crave. But novelty is not worth much to me: I want decades of sex. I want fucks so intimate that people in their twenties could never conceive of the richness and depth that comes with such practiced familiarity.

This fabulous Patreon couple are making a very good point, and it’s not one we hear nearly often enough. Societal scripts about sex tell us that it inevitably wanes over time. That sexual desire is a fleeting thing, enjoyed when relationships are brand spanking new, then gradually fading as the years march on. But like everything society tells us about sex, that’s not true. Not for everyone, at least. I can tell you, hand on heart, that the best fucks I’ve ever had have been with men I’ve known for many years. And my life is peppered with fabulous couples who’ve known each other (and loved each other, and lusted after one another) for decades. So if you have this kind of sex, and you’d like to share a story – whether one-off shag with your long-term lover or a decades-long adventure of growth and change, or perhaps you just want to reminisce about a sexual season you remember from a year gone by – I’d love to hear it. Pitch me a guest blog.

They say familiarity breeds contempt. They say everyone gets a ‘seven year itch.’ They say that when you’ve been together for decades, sex is no longer on the menu.

I say bollocks: please tell me your stories.