I write confessional sex stories. Which is a weird thing to say because I’m not really confessing sins or expecting absolution. I’m just telling stories and expecting readers – if they’re kind enough – to click or share or stump up some cash for my books.

Confession is a pretty horrible word – drowning in centuries of expectation. It conjures images of the religious urge to ‘cleanse’ people of their misdeeds via exposure. Telling your stories so that others can judge you: shout ‘shame!’ as you’re paraded through the town. When you call it ‘confessional’, it’s a wonder anyone chooses to write stories about themselves.

But we do.

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I’m back. Only just – this goes live as soon as my plane lands and I drag my sweaty arse through security. But I’m back. So here are two things to kick things off after my break – the New York Museum of Sex and some bollocks from UK MP and general waste-of-time Philip Davies. Ready? Let’s go.

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Most of the ones that got away did so because of timing.

Paul (not his real name, but he looked like a Paul. Or a Peter. Or a Stephen – with a ‘ph’ not a ‘v’) will never know just how perfectly wrong his timing was.

I met Paul in a beer garden. Again, most of the ones that got away escaped from beer gardens. Or pub lounges, if the weather was shitty. Metaphorically slipping out of the window when I was busy fucking someone else in the toilet.

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Most of my exes on Facebook now have children. This says less about the fertility of my ex-boyfriends than the people I stay friends with on facebook, to be honest. Still: of the ex-partners that I am still friends with on facebook, the majority of them have kids.

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Let’s talk about sacred sex, via the medium of delicious toast.

I don’t think bread is sacred. But that doesn’t mean it isn’t sacred to you. Some of you might do the church thing, for instance, where you kneel at the altar and the priest gives you either the literal body of Christ or something representative enough that to pop it in the toaster would be sacrilege. Judaism has some pretty cool sacred bread stuff too, if I remember right from R.E. classes. Or if you observe Ramadan and eat bread during iftar, then as you chew you might marvel in the wonder of what God does for you/is to you/means to you, and have a nice spiritual moment.

I don’t have a bread ritual, though – I tend to just toast it, butter it, then eat it standing up in the kitchen.

Roughly the same applies with sex.

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