“I know I’m a man, but this story is written from a woman’s perspective, and I’d like you to publish it as my alter-ago Candy Sexpot please!” – I receive a fair few guest post pitches along these lines. These stories are usually written from a cis woman’s perspective, but composed entirely in the headspace of a straight man. I don’t publish these posts, and in case you’re thinking of pitching me one, here’s why.

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When I move in, it takes a couple of days before I can get my bearings. Before I can survey my domain and think ‘fuck yeah. I am queen of this.’ When I move in, it takes a couple of days before my heart stops racing like it’s trying to escape from my chest. Before I stop thinking ‘shit. What the fuck have I done.’

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A good friend won’t raise eyebrows if they turn up at your house and there’s a fuckmachine assembled in your office. A great friend will offer to babysit your fucking machine while you’re looking for somewhere to live. The latest Kink of the Week topic is fucking machines, so I expect a lot of people will be dreaming of having a vigorous robotic fuckpony of their very own. Here’s my pitch as to why, if you can’t afford one yourself, you should consider buying one on a timeshare with your pervy mates.

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Katherine Ryan tells a fabulous story, in her stand-up show Glitter Room, about the time her ex-boyfriend moved to Japan. He had to go for work, and she didn’t want to move with him, so they split up. Shortly after he arrived in the country, he rang her to express shock that she had stayed where she was, and hadn’t followed him halfway around the world. He tells her: “I thought you needed me more than that.” Katherine replies: “Oh sweetie, I didn’t need you – I liked you. I enjoy having you around, but you are a luxury item.” I’ve been thinking about this a lot lately, and I think I understand a bit more where I fall on the idea of ‘needing’ men (or ‘a man’). Friendships are one thing, but when it comes to sexual and romantic relationships, men are a luxury.

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I think I’ve got it: the cast-iron, rock-solid argument for why you should tell me at least some of what you wank about. Not ‘you’ as in ‘everyone’, ‘you’ as in ‘people I am fucking/wooing/thirsting after.’ I know it is kind of terrifying to let someone deep into your horny, fuckdrunk brain, but this is why you should take your courage in both hands and tell me what you wank about anyway.

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