Girl on the Net

It’s everything I hate in a sofa, this thing: brown; leather; thin metal legs; angular armrests that you can’t properly lean against and a seat that’s too narrow for spooning. I hate this sofa so much that when my ex and I hung out together, I used to sit on the floor. Give me well-worn carpet and a numb bum over sticky brown leather any day of the week. I hate this sofa for every single thing… except fucking. This sofa features in almost every filthy post I’ve written on this blog in the last four years. This sofa launched a thousand fucks.

I don’t remember the first time we ever shagged on it, but I imagine it’ll have been the day it arrived. If I had to put a number to it, I’d estimate that we’ve banged on this sofa well over eight hundred times. Maybe a thousand. We’ve had it for four years and we really like fucking – a thousand fucks is far from implausible.

As we split up, we have a conundrum about what to do with the sofa. We have to get rid of so much stuff. When friends and relatives ask me if I want to store my things at their houses, I have to gently explain that I won’t be able to take it back for least the next five years. Far better to give it to a good home, I explain cheerfully, as I paint on a smile and list my beloved furniture on Freecycle. I remind myself that it’s only ‘stuff’, and that I should get over myself. It’s 2021 for fuck’s sake – people have lost far more important things in the last year. Self-pity right now is grotesque.

But we still have a conundrum when it comes to the sofa.

Who’s gonna want a cum-splattered sofa?

In the faux-joviality of our post break-up admin chats, he tells me I should sell the stuff he’s left behind. He knows I’m short on money, and the cash will be useful. And that sofa… it’s worth a fair bit. I think he paid about £1500 for it, which is far more than I’d ever pay for anything that didn’t come with a title deed. The question which leapt instantly to mind was one I’m sure some of you are contemplating too. Namely:

Could I sell the sofa to internet perverts?

Would there potentially be someone willing to pay money to own the sofa that launched a thousand fucks? Is there cachet in owning furniture that GOTN bent over while getting railed with a dildo on a stick? The one she’s rode him on so many times she’s left dents in the cushions, while trying everything from cock rings to pulse plates to an actual full-on fuckmachine? If I took a picture of me sitting on this sofa in my knickers, could I earn a bit of money to offset the cost of putting the rest of my life in storage while I work out where to go?

The alternative options don’t bear thinking about. As we sit together on this sofa, my ex and I, sharing a joint and blowing smoke out of the doorway into the garden, we ponder our options and decide that none seem right.

That sofa means something. Not just for all the fucking, but for the time we spent there together. If you count the minutes awake, we spent more time on it than we did in our own bed. We sat on it and shared joy, misery, and everything in between. We’ve cuddled friends on this sofa. Shagged some of them, too. Held each other during dark times and made each other laugh when we needed it. We’ve eaten Haribo here and discovered new porn here and bitched here about the terrible ending that ruined Game of Thrones. He used to sit on this sofa playing video games while I read books on the floor, comfortably squirming against his feet as they rested on my bottom.

And yeah, we fucked.

I mean fucked.

Bold, italics, write-it-in-smoke-in-the-sky fucked.

This sofa – though uncomfortable and leather and too stylish to fit with my tatty old taste – is the greatest one for fucking that I’ve ever known in my life. I’ve bitched before about anti-fucking sofas I’ve had in the past – this one’s the opposite. It’s the perfect height for getting bent over the armrests, and sturdy enough that even two large, aggressively-horny perverts can really go some without worrying that it will collapse. It’s perfect for riding dick, with a backrest at the right height to grip with your hands while the person getting ridden sucks your nipples. You can fuck missionary at full stretch, or hang ever-so-slightly off the side, so your cunt’s the ideal height for someone on their knees to slam into. Bend over on it face-down-ass-up if they wanna stand, or hold yourself up on your forearms using the back rest, so you can turn your head a little to watch their face as they shove it good and deep. Kneel on the floor between their legs while they’re sitting and it’s the perfect height for a blow job.

What else? Oh yeah: it’s also wipe-clean.

For these reasons, we cannot palm it off on family. We can’t give it to charity either – that feels too obscene. Like ‘hey, British Heart Foundation, here’s this thing which is technically furniture but basically sex kit – it’s covered in four years’ of fuckjuice – YOU’RE WELCOME!’ Besides, it’s lost the fire tag, and they won’t accept sofas that aren’t guaranteed fireproof. And we don’t want to sell it to boring strangers. This is not a sofa for people who might sit on it and read the Daily Telegraph or have conversations about council tax. Strangers who would be horrified and disgusted to learn that I once lay on it with my mouth open as he rained jizz down onto me, before sucking it up like a grateful little bitch before kissing him long and deep as a thank you.

A thousand fucks… and just one more

Naturally, talking about the sofa leads to us fucking on the sofa. We’re just that sort of couple. It’s just that kind of sofa. We share a joint and he gives me blowbacks, which turn to kisses, which turn to me frantically yanking down my jeans and knickers and asking him to dick me. As I say, it’s the perfect height: my cunt’s presented for him, framed by my arse, bent over the arm on the right-hand side of it. My face is pressed into the cool leather of the seat, and he swings one leg up so his foot is right next to my face. So he has even more leverage for sliding it all the way in.

We’ve fucked like this so many times. Occasionally even with his foot on my head – pushing me down as I squeal and moan and say ‘pleasepleaseplease oh fuck yeah that’s good that hurts don’t stop don’t fucking stop.’ This time is different only because it may well be the last time ever.

I savour the sensation as he slides it in – so slowly at first that I can’t tell if my moans mean ‘yes’ or ‘more’. Then he plants his foot right on the leather seat next to my face, reminding me that ‘please get your dick as far inside me as possible’ means nothing until I’m bent over this sofa. This sofa. This specific one.

As he fucks me I let myself go – tell him ‘yes’ and ‘that’s it’ and ‘harder’ and ‘oh GOD’, and ‘I am gonna miss getting fucked by you over this exact sofa.’ He replies with ‘unngh’ and ‘mmm’ and – to the last one – ‘oh YEAH’, because he fucking knows it too and if we weren’t both about to come it’d probably break our hearts.

When he does come, I feel every single metric cc of it. The throbbing twitches in the base of his cock and (a rarer experience) the squirts themselves too. When he pulls out, there’s a drizzle of cum and menstrual blood which I wipe off my thighs with his underwear. He wipes his dick.

Then, as tradition dictates after a truly excellent fuck, we high-five.

Sigh.

It’s only ‘stuff’. It’s only ‘possessions’. And the last year has taught me that these things matter so much less than I ever imagined. But this sofa, more than anything else that’s getting chucked or recycled or given away… it means something. It comes with a truckload of baggage – the good and the bad and the woah-holy-shit-no-you-can’t-publish-this-it’s-too-filthy. This sofa that launched a thousand fucks is also where we lived out the last four years of our relationship. And although it didn’t work out, and there’s a hell of a lot of bad shit I’m not telling you, I can truthfully say that most of that time was incredible.

We had fun. We laughed. We nurtured each other. And above all: we fucked.

Although it’s ‘only stuff’, it’s natural to feel bizarrely attached to inanimate objects. The objects themselves don’t mean much, but the memories that stick to them do. We aren’t sad that we have to ditch the sofa, we’re sad to abandon the truly filthy fucks that we had on top of (and bent over) it.

What I’m saying, I suppose, is that the sentimentality we have for this object isn’t about the object itself, but other, more painful things that we’ve chosen not to talk about. We aren’t really mourning the loss of the sofa. The sofa is just an excuse to mourn us.

And also, I guess I’m saying: does anyone want to buy a fucking sofa?