Some men have worried in the past that they’re not able to dispense exactly the kind of love that I crave – i.e. relentless praise, on an almost minute-by-minute basis, lest I wilt like a houseplant you’ve forgotten to water. To be honest, I often find myself worrying about this too. In an ideal world I’d be the recipient of an almost constant stream of written, physical and verbal encouragement – reminders that I’m sexy, fun, valid, wanted, loved. A good girl. I need this kind of thing so much that those I rely on to help me feel loved might think it borderline sarcastic to plough on even during the (frequent) periods when I’m not doing much to deserve it. I understand this. But there are other ways to make me feel loved, and one of the ways I practice love in return is by noticing and mentioning them…
When you listened to me talk about my family for ages
I need to talk. To feel heard and understood. Few things in this world make me feel loved more than somebody listening to me spaff out all my woes, asking questions to help me tease out my feelings, then offering a few supportive words (but never advice) and a hug.
I remember, during this particular conversation, when I had just returned from visiting multiple different family members and I needed to share all my thoughts, you stood up to get a round in and told me: “Hang on, you tee up that next story – I’ll get us a drink before you start.” It felt like you were willing to give this chat the space and attention it deserved. I was being given permission to sit with my feelings a little and untangle them with you: that made me feel very loved.
When I asked for a kiss, and you made deliberate space for it
I think you’re often at your best and most relaxed when we’re sitting in the park. We both feel nicely chill, and we’re usually next to each other on a bench or a blanket, with enough people-watching opportunity that we’re never short on conversation.
When we’re outside, though, I feel further from you than I do when we’re indoors on the sofa. There, I can reach out to touch your arm or kiss you or stroke the back of your neck without worrying that you’ll be embarrassed by passing strangers. In the park, I feel distant from you physically, even if we’re having really close and connected chats. It’s not a bad thing, it’s quite thrilling actually: the knowledge that I can reach out and touch you if I want, and you’ll probably let me, but that I have to pick my moment and go gently, watching you for signs as to when or whether you’re feeling awkward and so I should stop.
So we were in the park sitting side by side and I was feeling this way, and you said or did something indescribably sexy (probably a joke that made me wee a bit with laugher), and suddenly I realised that I wanted to kiss you properly. I asked for a kiss, or more likely simply told you that I wanted to kiss you.
“Please could you put your beer down so I can kiss you?”
And you did something that showed me you weren’t just OK with a kiss or willing to tolerate it despite passing dog-walkers: you moved all the stuff that sat between us (empty cans, phones, vape pods) and shuffled in much closer beside me. Close enough that I could smell the gorgeous scent of your skin and even imagine I felt the heat of it radiating off you.
That gesture made me feel so very wanted.
It’s not just a clear ‘yes’ that resonates through what you’re doing, it’s you taking an active step to make it easier for me to kiss you. Not just sitting still while I lean in, but scooching up to meet me. Something about this is infinitely more precious than mere ‘consent‘ – a murmured ‘yes.’ This is more at the ‘yes please‘ end of the spectrum. Not just allowing but opening up. Actively inviting me in.
Smacking my arse on the escalator
This one might be controversial. I imagine some blog readers could make the argument that smacking someone’s arse in public – especially in such a dramatic way – is wrong because it’s kinky, and you don’t have the consent of those around you to participate in kink. I’d argue that as long as it’s playful (and very obviously so to bystanders) then it’s no more distressing than two people snogging in public. It’s not like you pulled my knickers down on the Central Line, after all.
But when you followed me up the stairs at the station, I deliberately walked a little ahead to give you a view of my arse. I was wearing pretty tight jeans and I think you like my arse. I’ve deduced it from the number of times you’ve told me: “You’ve got a really great arse.”
The fact that I’d been hoping you’d notice aforementioned arse meant that all my attention was focused on wondering whether you had. To have that idle curiosity immediately sated by that smack with a flat, open palm was truly delightful. Even more so when it echoed loudly throughout the whole station.
CRACK. Like a fucking gunshot.
(I suspect it was significantly louder than you’d expected it to be, so I hope anyone tempted to frown upon it takes that into account before getting angry downstairs in the comments)
That smack was loud and intense and it stung so deliciously. But it gave me a throb of glee that not only were you thinking about my arse, as I’d hoped, you were so inspired by your thoughts that you wanted to fully thwack it on the escalator at Westminster station.
I couldn’t be sure what I was working harder to suppress: my instinct to giggle, or my vivid urge to fuck you.
When you told me you were comfortable
When you told me I was your best fuck and went on to explain. You didn’t once mention my tits (although they’re great), my lovely arse (ditto) or my blow jobs (always fun), instead you told me that the reason I’m good in bed is that I make you feel comfortable.
Unlike everything else I do, this isn’t something for which I’ve ever specifically tried to seek praise, but the second you said it I realised that’s one of the most powerful, precious things I could ever hear. I want the people I fuck to feel comfortable and safe around me. I want them to know that they can share their sexy secrets and be greeted with a grin and a curious ‘ooh’ – no shame or ‘eww’s in sight. I want it so much, this comfort: it’s more important to me than any individual kink ticked off a bucket list, and certainly far more important than whether either one of us comes.
That ‘you make me feel comfortable’ is right up there among the best compliments I’ve ever received, and I’m going to treasure it like it’s made of literal diamonds – taking it out occasionally to pore over when I need cheering up. It makes me feel so loved.
That ‘g’girl’
That morning when you nudged me out of bed to go clean the shower.
(I know, readers, this is incredibly sexy – please bear with me)
I have a problem with the drains in my flat (HOT), and sometimes they back up (MMM YEAH THAT’S THE STUFF), and I don’t want you to have to shower first when the bath is full of crap that’s been kicked back up through the plughole of the bath overnight (STOP WANKING AT THE BACK). So I told you not to shower until I’d had the chance to clean it, because I’m a lovely host and I wanted to sort it out first. After much nudging and poking and generally cajoling me out of my lazy morning state, eventually you got me to roll out of bed and slump towards the bathroom.
“OK, OK,” I said, moodily, “I’m up, I’m off to do the shower.”
And you replied, casually and dismissively and perfectly:
“G’girl.”
Not even a ‘good girl‘, fully pronounced. You swallowed the second half of that ‘good’ and it made me feel simultaneously wanted and chastised. The casual dismissal of ‘g’girl’ spoke to my kink for misogyny, and the fact that there was a ‘good girl’ at all meant my need for praise of some kind had been heard.
There’s a theme. I feel loved when I feel heard. What’s more… oh god we are back to praise again aren’t we? I opened by saying there are other ways to make me feel loved, but ultimately this whole post circles back round to praise – my thirst for it and my recognition of it and my subsequent need to dispense a tonne of it to this particular man because he made me feel wanted?
Here’s the thing, though: when I tell men I crave praise I think they often imagine that what I need is something akin to the praise I dish out myself. Essays – or the verbal equivalent – extolling all the brilliant things about me, plaudits for both the large and small things I do that give you warm, sexy feelings. But not everyone communicates in the same way. And praise comes in many shapes and sizes.
Sometimes it’s as perfect as the world’s most targeted compliment… other times it’s as simple as a powerful smack on the arse.