Girl on the Net

Today’s guest blog covers a topic I’ve wrestled with in the past: who gets custody of the sex toys when you split up with someone? It’s not just a financial wrangle – although with the price of some high-end toys it certainly can be – but the emotion involved in things you’ve used and loved together. It’s an utterly gorgeous post, and I’m delighted to be able to bring guest blogs back with something so lovely – please welcome this week’s guest blogger Nic.

Sex toys after a break up

A friend of a friend recently put up a picture on Facebook to announce that he and his girlfriend were breaking up. It was a picture of their living room strewn with records, with some comment about how difficult it was going to be but they would still try and remain friends. I think the message was meant to be that the difficult part wouldn’t be the breaking up, but the deciding who got which half of the Paul Simon catalogue. Or something – I’m still not really sure. But it did make me realise that my last breakup would have a picture of its own, too. Not one that would be suitable for posting on Facebook, though: it was the bottom drawer of my ex’s cabinet, filled with all the sex toys we had accumulated together.

Most of my fucks before that had been fairly casual, fizzling out after a couple of weeks, and I can barely picture the layout of any of the rooms now. The posters and light fixtures I came beneath, the windows streaming in light that would always wake me too early all forgotten. But hers was imprinted on my mind early on. I remembered a humid night unable to sleep beside her, looking around her room wondering where she would keep her sex toys if she had any, like some sort of burglar casing the joint. It wasn’t until weeks later, when she noticed I was feeling the strain from trying to finger her cunt and her arse at the same time and asked whether I wanted help, that I finally found out. Watching her fuck herself as I kneeled over her, covering her tits in my come, only made me wish I had asked sooner.  

When we lived an hour’s train apart, it was this that sustained us. I would order deliveries to her house and wait impatiently for her reports, by text and often Skype, desperate to see what she looked like by herself. Then we finally moved in together. We were broke all the time, but shopped and planned out new purchases in the way I’m guessing other couples probably do with holidays. Lazily groping each other, thinking about what else we needed. Improvising with scarves until we realised that we really couldn’t do without some rope; shoving my hand over her mouth as we considered if it was worth investing in a ball gag.  

When we broke up and I moved cities, I left everything in that drawer behind. I had barely any space left in my suitcase anyway, but I knew it would be too difficult a discussion to have. How could we split the butt plugs that came in a set of three? Should I take the rope, since she had never really managed to get the hang of tying knots? I desperately wanted to take something from the drawer, from the relationship, not as a needy grappling for possessions but for what came with them. The surprise at the guttural moans I made the first time she slid her vibrating strap-on into me; that they were so much deeper, being forced out of me with each thrust she made. How the purple veined cock looked just resting above her cunt. The feel of her nails digging into my arse to steady herself as she shoved herself into my arse, each movement one she had longed to make, but was still an unfamiliar practice. The look in her eyes as she forced me onto my knees and shoved it into my mouth before I could have what I wanted. The vividness of that image made me afraid that anything I brought with me would leave me replaying the memories of these fucks over and over again. Yet I didn’t want to leave anything behind. I had become desperately greedy, and briefly resented the fact that anything I left would be used on someone else soon, that I couldn’t have these memories all to myself. I was paralysed by all of these different options, so in the end I just left, and tried to leave the memories of all that came with them behind.

She ended up in my new city months later, visiting ‘as friends’ we had agreed, but catch-up drinks soon turned to holding hands for old times’ sake and then me bruising both her tits as we fucked frantically, desperate to feel each others hands on cock and cunt and throats again. The next morning she solemnly looked at me, saying ‘I forgot to pack properly’, and we both laughed at what we hadn’t acknowledged to that point. We left it at that, but weeks later I got a parcel with some of the contents of the drawer and just a note inside that said ‘Happy wanking’.

To this day she remains one of my best friends, but from time to time I still furiously press a buttplug inside me and stroke my cock thinking over what she looked like all those times as she fucked my arse. We’ve reached the stage where we don’t separate time into ‘us together’ and ‘us not’, but I know that if I were ever to illustrate the former it would be with that bottom drawer, in a flat she’s now since left, with the subtitle ‘Happy wanking’.