Girl on the Net

One of the things I like to do of an evening is stick on a horny album and daydream for a while about my next set-piece fuck. By ‘set-piece’ fuck I mean something a little bit extra, not the standard ‘make out and bang’ that I’ll leap into on impulse. These might feature a new act I’ve not yet tried with this person (or at all), or something like special equipment, clothes or preparation. Sometimes it’s just a specific tone I want to play with: brattiness; begging; anticipation… you get the idea. I sit on the sofa getting high and listening to sexy music, daydreaming about a few recent hits from the bedroom, or mull over breadcrumbs that my partner might have casually dropped into conversation when hinting at what they might like, then see if I can come up with something that presses buttons for both of us. Now feels as good a time as any to talk about set-piece fucks, because I recently became single so I won’t be able to do them again for a really long time. Talking about the pleasure I get from doing this sort of thing gives me the chance to shoehorn in a topic I’ve wanted to discuss for a while: what monogamy means to me.

What is a set-piece fuck?

A set-piece fuck is anything you’ve planned and dreamed about: prepared for, physically or mentally. It might be an idea you’ve had about a super-creative use of a belt and a Fleshlight, or an idea for milking spunk that requires some pre-shag DIY. It doesn’t need to be super-ambitious, though: the hairband trick was technically a set-piece, likewise the head-stroke/wank trick in point three of this post, or this scene with rope and teasing anticipation.

You can find a few blog posts on this site where I wrote erotica about set-piece fuck ideas, published before I pulled them off (pun intended). For example, this piece about getting spanked in a dominant way (which I didn’t end up doing), or this one in which I fantasise about what will happen the next time I see my boyfriend (which I did, kind of). Usually you don’t get to read about stuff till after it’s done though, because I don’t want to try and script the future. Where’s the fun in just telling my partner exactly what to do and when? Sex is only magic if you build an experience together.

A lot of people seem to think that great sex comes spontaneously. It can sometimes – if you’ve been dating for many years and you have a repertoire and some serious understanding of each other, or if you’re a far better casual-sex-haver than I am (shoutout to Robyn, who is clearly exceptional). In these cases you might be able to have spontaneous, casual set-piece fucks that put all my planned ones to shame. But personally I’m more like the people in this incredible guest post: sometimes the best sex of your lives takes decades to perfect. For me, sex ideas are seeds that get planted during chats with a partner, then nurtured during these sofa-based sessions of horny nostalgia and planning. Crucially, for me, they require a specific person around whom I can encourage them to grow.

It’s hard to fuck you well if I don’t know you

This is why it used to annoy me when people on dating sites would expect me to reel off a list of acts (anal; threesomes; spanking) when they asked what I was into. I can give broad brush strokes and hard limits, of course, but it’ll just produce a blurred and rubbish picture of what our shags might be like. To make that picture come alive I need to know someone. I’m into loads of different kinks, tones and acts, but other than blow jobs (which I crave with genuine universal eagerness no matter whose dick is on offer), everything is up in the air until I know more about who I’m doing it with. I used to be really into anal with my Big Ex, because he loved it, but I wouldn’t yearn to do it with a partner who lacked the same wide-eyed enthusiasm.

When I first got with Hot Punk Guy, on our third date he asked if my job gets harder when I’m in a relationship. Assuming, I think, that I’d need multiple horny dudes to keep the sex blog interesting: one guy who’s into anal, another who likes spanking, a different one who enjoys more vanilla fucks but with great dirty talk or a specific tone… etc. At the time I laughed, because that’s not even close to how it works for me, but it’s a common enough assumption from readers too that maybe I need to consider that I’m the outlier here – after all, readers will often drop into comments to tell me what I should do next, like they’re queuing up fuck-requests on Spotify. But although I might have the occasional hankering for a specific sex thing, fundamentally the sex I get most excited about – that I want to shape my life and my work around – is the sex I have with someone so compelling that their kinks and desires become wrapped up in my own.

What monogamy means to me

I wrote a blog post last time I was single, which I never published, about feeling like there was a countdown timer in my head ticking off the minutes and hours and days until I fell for someone new. I knew that the second I actually fell for someone – love love – I’d stop wanting to do all the silly fun slutty shit that I do when I’m happily single. The full(ish) post is available in this Patreon update, if you’re interested. But here is a brief extract by way of summary…

As I plan dates and threesomes and random-shags-to-achieve-specific-fantasies, there’s a countdown timer ticking away in my head. I don’t know what my deadline is – how long it’ll be before I meet and fall for someone who’ll make it impossible for me to continue in this vein – but it absolutely is there. So: quick quick! Cram it in! All the dick! All the adventures and experiences and fun and friendship and gleeful fucklust! Get on it, quickly! Time is short.

I’ve had a lot of conversations with people lately in which they tell me why non-monogamy rocks. And it does, I know. I just don’t think it does for me. I really do enjoy being single, i.e. ‘fucking/dating/having fun with lots of different people’, in a similar way to people who are ‘solo poly’ might do. But I don’t think that’s really who I am. Not long-term, at any rate. My heart is monogamous. When I am in love with someone, I am not lamenting the people I couldn’t fuck: I’m enjoying the one that I can. I don’t feel left out or let down by the fact that I can’t pursue other relationships: I’m excited by the opportunity to grow closer to and be more filthy with this one specific person.

Although I’ve tried really hard to train my head to want a life that’s less tied to one man, my heart is an absolute shit. She does not do what she’s told, and she’s never been easy to control. I could give you some bullshit waffle about wanting to ‘be someone’s person’ or explain how much I love the teamwork that comes with monogamy when it’s going well, and I can absolutely piss myself laughing at you when you tell me that one person can never meet all of someone’s needs (because I know this, it’s why I have friends), but ultimately I couldn’t make an argument for monogamy that persuaded anyone else it was right for them. Or even that it’s necessarily perfect for me.

I just know it’s where I will go.

I dug this post out and had a re-read of it for Patreons just after I broke up with Hot Punk Guy. Because, hey, I am as guilty as the next person of occasionally wallowing in self-pity. When I break up with someone I’m not just sad about losing that specific person – their smell, their jokes, the fun we used to have – I am also lamenting the fact that I won’t be able to have the kind of sex I want for a very very very long time. Most of us will grieve the sex lost when we break up with somebody, of course, but for those of you who love casual sex, that sadness can be tempered by thoughts of exciting opportunities: new people! Novel cock! Surprising cunt! The chance to see a total stranger naked and squirming! I totally understand this – I’ve known enough guys who wanted to fuck me for the sheer joy of novelty, after all (and I’m happy to be that surprising cunt for the nice dudes amongst them!). But try as I might, I can’t conjure this feeling inside myself. Casual sex lacks something I yearn for – not just bareback (though that too), but connection.

My problem, or GOTN’s problem?

Monogamy, for me, is not deliberate. Right now I massively resent feeling this way, because when I break up with someone I’m so tuned towards them that it takes ages to wrench my attention elsewhere. I can’t get horny without wandering into daydreams about set-piece fucks that are tailored to whoever still occupies my heart. My mind lingers far too long on the shags that never happened. And although I suspect it’s partly because I just am monogamous, there’s another part that wonders how much is a byproduct of my work. The way I treat any man I feel fondness for as not just my boyfriend/fuckbuddy but also my fucking muse. My weird job has me recording audio porn about lovers long after we’ve cut off contact, re-promoting old blog posts or digging them out for internal linking, so I’ll often find myself masturbating over ex-boyfriends for many months (often years) later than might be considered healthy.

When I’m with someone, monogamy doesn’t feel like a difficult choice I am actively making: I’m not depriving myself of the thrill of novelty in order to have a relationship. It feels more like a genuine shaping of desire towards and around one person. To be completely accurate I’d have to describe myself as monogamish – I’d never turn down a threesome with a fun person and the man of my dreams. But if I reflect on this and apply some genuine emotional honesty I have to admit that the reason I love threesomes and group sex in a relationship isn’t because I’m desperate for new people to get me horny (though obviously, the people I’ve done it with are extremely hot and cool), it’s because that group setup in itself represents a cool new way to fuck… the man of my dreams!

It always comes back to him. Whoever ‘he’ might be. The two most recent porny pieces I’ve written are based off set-piece fuck ideas I had about someone I’m no longer with, and I know that’s extremely fucked up. It’s weird enough to write erotica about a real-life person in which you guess at their reactions and emotions like they’re a doll you’re playing ‘house’ with, let alone doing that with someone you aren’t even fucking any more. I don’t know that I like the person I am when I write these stories, but I do like the stories themselves. They feel more real than anything I could dream up alone. Besides, I don’t know that in this moment I can turn my mind to writing anything else. How do I get horny for a set-piece fuck if it doesn’t hit the same notes of intimacy and anticipation that this guy was into? Who the hell should I picture while I’m typing, if not him?

That’s at least partly what monogamy means to me, I think. And not only is it (presumably) a bit fucking uncomfortable for the lovers/’blog subjects’ that have been and gone, it’s extremely frustrating for me as both a sex writer and horny person trying to put myself back together in the wake of the latest heartbreak. When I wallow in arousal and try to come up with new stories, I can’t bring myself to dream of all the casual sex I could have with new men in the future, I’m taking refuge in hot nostalgia from the past, dreaming up set-piece fucks that will now never happen. In the process trying to block out the knowledge that I’ve not just lost my boyfriend but my muse.