Girl on the Net

I tiptoe into the flat through the door she’s left unlocked, because I don’t want to wake her when I get in. On the pillow in the spare bedroom, she’s left a fresh towel and two chocolates, and seeing them makes my heart burst with love. I spy from the hallway that the light is on in her room, so I can’t resist asking: “psst – you up?” I could wait till tomorrow to talk to her, but I’m brimming with eagerness now. I can spill all the details over ham and cheese croissants at breakfast, but she is awake right now, so she says “yes! Come in! Report back! Did you get alllllll the spunk?”

Update June 2022: If you’d like to meet my incredible friend Jessica, she has kindly done a really fun interview with me for Patreon. This is available as bonus content to all Patreons at any level, and it’s there to try and tempt you to come join the gang and help support the audio porn project. Listen to Jess being wise about relationships here, and hear us tell some disgracefully horny stories in part 2. Support at any level to get access to this, and I can’t stress enough that even if you only support for one month at the lowest tier ($2), I’m still extremely grateful to you for chipping in. If you want to chuck a bit more money towards the audio porn project, buy an annual sub (about $20 – or equivalent in your local currency) and just cancel after it’s taken the money if you’re worried about ongoing payments. 

Lying on her bed while she’s soft and warm and drowsy, regaling her with the story of tonight, I thrill with delight at the role-swap we’re performing. For the last year she’s been the one staying at mine: meeting men in London then retiring to my spare bed (suitably adorned with towels and chocolates too, naturally) then entertaining me at breakfast with stories of her kinky adventures.

I love her.

When I tell you I love my friends, I don’t mean I love them in the way you slur when you’re drunk after a birthday party. “I fuckin’ love ya man!” yelled from a front door as someone runs to get a cab. I mean love love. Romantic love. Love that writes sonnets and feels tingles in the pit of its stomach. Love that sometimes makes you hug yourself with joy. Love that makes you wonder what you could possibly have done to deserve it.

The lady in this post – Jessica – is not just one of my best friends, she’s one of the best friends, full stop. She’s powerfully kind, brilliantly funny, smart and wise and generous with her time. The feeling I get when a cute boy texts me is almost as good as the one I get when she WhatsApps out of the blue to say ‘fancy a call?’

The call will almost always be because she’s done something so filthy that texts can’t do it justice: been to a spanking party, or fucked in a particularly innovative way. Had a hilarious sexual mishap or thought of something dirty that she knows I’d really like. These phone chats echo the ones we’ve had on multiple mornings after: dissecting the strokes of this or that fuck over ham and cheese croissants and coffee.

They’re traditional, now: the croissants. Six frozen pastries chucked in the oven. She’ll shower, I’ll slice up cheese. One or other of us will put the kettle on. When they’re fresh and hot from the oven, we’ll prep two each, then settle down on the sofa with a breakfast fit for a pair of giggling slags, and one of us will tell the other just how much spunk we harvested last night. Then, because there’s always more to tell, we prep the remaining croissants and dive back in.

Friendship can be romantic too

One of the things I thought I’d find tricky, post break-up, was having nowhere to pour my romance. I know I’m a cold-hearted fucker when it comes to guys I’m shagging – I’m sure we’ll explore my intimacy issues in many future blog posts – but I’m deeply romantic at heart. I like the feeling of being in love. I like the intimacy that comes hand-in-hand with a person who can tell me ‘I’m grumpy’ and then put the telly on and expect me to leave them alone. I like the playfulness of people who don’t expect miracles – who love me even when I’m awkward. Even when I sometimes burn the croissants.

I didn’t need to worry that the end of my relationship would mean my romance backed up with nowhere to go. There are so many places to put it, so many people onto whom I can pour it out. The reason I picked Jess for this soppy-as-fuck post is twofold:

Firstly, she deserves it. She’s been so solidly beside me for the last two years that sometimes I forget she lives quite far away. I think about her every day, and when her name pops up on my phone, I get a kick of glee. I love sitting beside her on the sofa making horny comments about men on TV. I love the things we do together – both silly and serious and everything in between. I sometimes watch her when she doesn’t know I’m looking and think ‘fuck, she’s so utterly adorable/beautiful/hot like Jessica Rabbit’.

Secondly, she’s an extremely horny bitch. The most on-brand of friends to parade around in this blog. She’s taught me more about sex than almost any other person, and we’ve done the practical as well as the theory. Weirdly, although people always ask my best friend and I if we’ve fucked, they rarely ever ask the same of Jess. We have. Of course. She’s a horny bitch, remember? And you’re also familiar with… me, right?

The true meaning of intimacy

I love her because she’s amazing, and I love the miracle of her loving me too. I love her because when I sent her the draft of this blog post, she told me I’d forgotten the best and most triumphant story of our friendship so far. Extremely remiss of me. Here it is:

Shortly after she moved into her new flat, on the day we’d spent shifting boxes and cleaning and trying to tesselate old furniture with new rooms, we were sitting on the balcony having a coffee and congratulating ourselves on a job well done. We’d spent the night before doing last bits and pieces of packing while discussing what ‘intimacy’ means to us – being able to sit in silence together, automatically making each other coffee, general caring and support and – of course – farting loudly without shame.

Despite this, I’d still never fully let myself go in front of her, so when I – tired from running up and down the stairs at her new place carrying heavy boxes – let my body relax completely, and a monstrously loud arse trumpet rang out to puncture the beautiful evening sunset, there was a tiny moment of almost-shame. What if I’d disturbed the neighbours? What if Jess thought less of me? What if it smelled? I needn’t have worried.

She left a single beat of silence, for effect, and then let rip with one of her own. Louder, prouder, and even more tuneful than mine.

She makes my heart hurt.

Good times and bad times

I still remember the first time she cried in front of me – in the garden at my old place, clearly trying to hold in the tears. I handed her tissues and gave her a hug, and told her how amazing she was. Woven in with the hurt that my friend could be so unhappy was a sense of relief that she’d told me. That I could be the one to hold her and remind her that she’s loved. I suspect the balance of the bad parts are uneven, because I also remember so many times when I’ve cried on her: lying on the floor in my old office heaving sobs down the phone until she could calm me down, or trying to stop the tears pouring out of my face while we made fairy wings together, absurdly worried that if I cried too much I’d ruin our crafting by drowning it. I remember times when I’ve cried on her, and with her, and for her, but Jess herself has never made me cry.

When I am with her, I feel safe.

After a recent round of ham and cheese croissants, when I reported back on my post-No-Nut-November adventures, Jess pointed out to me that this was the first time we’d done these discussions that way round: with me telling her stories instead of vice versa. She confessed that on a few occasions over the last couple of years she’d been worried that I might get annoyed with our routine: her turning up at my place in the middle of the night, tiptoeing in, then delaying my morning work with tales of adventures that I wasn’t a part of. Which is cute, really, and extremely odd, because these are the things that I live for.

Getting messages from friends which say ‘guess what? I got laid!’ brings me bursts of uncomplicated joy. Loving someone the way I love Jess means going to bed each and every night hoping she’s doing all right. Hoping her day brought her filthy texts from hot partners. Crossing my fingers that tomorrow might bring her alllllll of the spunk.

The only thing better than the ping of a text saying ‘fancy a call?’ or ‘guess what? I got laid!’ is having her sitting right there in front of me, eating slightly burned ham-and-cheese croissants and telling me every filthy detail.