CN: Coronavirus, lockdown, anxiety. I know not everyone wants to read stuff that talks about this, so please don’t feel like you have to. I wrote it a week ago and didn’t publish it then, despite the fact that Stuart drew this gorgeous image for it and I felt genuinely ready to put it live. It basically amounts to tediously mad dispatches from the inside of my lockdown bubble, and it’s not great, but maybe publishing it will make it easier to write the next thing, and then hopefully the next one after that.

When people Skype or Zoom or WhatsApp or email you to ask how you’re doing, what do you say? Do you say ‘Oh, I’m fine…’ ellipsis to show the deep breath you took as you processed what your brain was actually telling you before continuing ‘…you know, given the circumstances’? Do you say ‘well the kids are driving me up the wall but at least I’ve got gin and Netflix lol’? Or do you tell the full and unvarnished truth?

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My partner has a teeny constellation of beauty spots just above and to the left of his belly button. They are one of my favourite things about his body. Well, I mean… apart from his dick and his eyes and his hands and his wrists and… look I just really love quite a lot of bits of his body, OK? I am shocked – SHOCKED – that I have not yet waxed lyrical about how gorgeously beautiful moles and beauty spots are, and why I love them so much.

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My partner has a beautiful dick. Really, truly, astonishingly gorgeous. For quite a long time I’ve nurtured a fantasy about cloning his cock with one of the dick-moulding kits, so I can get DP’d by two identical cocks. Seeing as we’re now rich in time and short on projects, we decided to get stuck in. The results of our cloning efforts are impressively accurate, and have laid the groundwork for some filthier blog posts to come a little further down the line. In the meantime, though, if you want to play along at home, here’s how you can clone your dick too.

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I don’t want to write this post. The very idea of dragging the words from my head makes me want to cringe into a tiny ball. But I’m going to talk about butt plug accidents anyway. My reasons will become clear towards the end of the post but before I begin, a warning and a request. Warning: this post contains scenes that are a bit uncomfortable, especially if you’re not into anal stuff and are easily panicked. Request: if you know me in real life, I would genuinely rather you didn’t read this. It’s mostly because I feel I can be funnier and more honest about this incident if I don’t have to anticipate jokey conversations about it in the pub, during which I have to relive all the feelings that this incident triggered in my fluttery, panic-laden heart. So. If you know me, don’t read this. If you choose to read it anyway, pretend you haven’t. Deal? OK let’s go.

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On Sundays, we do anal. It’s not a hard-and-fast rule, although naturally we’re hoping that with enough ‘getting fucked in the ass’ practice for me, ‘hard and fast’ will eventually be the general tone of each occasion. But before we get to that point, we need patience, time, and preparation. A lot of preparation.

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