On Sunday morning when I slipped back into bed, I realised something: your body changes on a daily basis, and so I will never know every inch of it. It is always new.

From the scent of you, to the heat you radiate, to the marks and curves that come and go: I will never know every detail of your body.

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I’ve wanted to write about sensual masturbation for a really, really long time. This rant has taken about three months to percolate in my mind, and eventually boil over – I estimate that’s roughly 2.5 months longer than the total time I’ve spent wanking in my entire adult life.

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Morning boners on a Monday morning? I’m spoiling you. Here’s two things for this week, which includes an ace blog about morning boners, a romantic artificial intelligence engine, and a chance to be interviewed about your sex life. I realise this is rapidly expanding into ‘more than two things’, which I hope you’ll see as a bonus rather than a flagrant disregard for my self-imposed brief. Here we go…

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Let me tell you something about real men: real men cry. They weep giant, fist-sized tears of misery. They collect them in a bucket, which they’ll later use to drown an angry bear.

Pay attention: it’s important. Because just as we’re told that ‘real women’ have curves, so we’re also spun lines about which men count as ‘real’.

Study the signs, remember them. Then burn your laptop lest this fall into enemy hands.

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A few weeks back, I gave the best blow job I’ve ever given. Apparently. I don’t like writing that down so starkly – it’s far easier to talk about how mediocre I am in bed, or how incompetent I am with certain sex toys.

But I’m writing it because the sentence itself will spin round in my head forever. I don’t want anyone to tell me that anything was ‘the best blow job ever’, because I’m primed to root through any compliment until I eventually find a negative. And so this week I’m tortured by this one simple fact:

None of my other blow jobs were as good as that one. 

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