The other day I walked in on the boy asleep on the sofa, wearing just pants and a t-shirt, right hand cupped gently around his junk and wide out in the open. Mmm.

There’s definitely something comforting about touching yourself – not necessarily in a filthy way that means you’ll get hairy palms, go blind and/or go to hell. Just holding yourself to get some warmth, and feel the solidity of your genitals beneath your palm.

I love to do this. On rare occasions when my hands aren’t occupied with a cigarette, a laptop or a cup of coffee, I’ll stick my hand down my knickers and cup myself. Silk or lace up against the back of my hand, coarse hair and warmth on my palm. It’s not hot like a bent-over fuck but it’s nice like a warm bath or coming inside from the rain.

I do the same with my tits. Boys I’ve known have occasionally commented that if they were girls they’d play with their tits all the time. Rarely do they stop to consider whether those of us with tits do that anyway. Running our hands over the underside of our breasts, slipping a hand inside the bra just to grab a bit of extra warmth. It’s thumbsucking for grown-ups, and I love it.

Cup me

That rather long ramble was merely a shameful excuse to tell you that this happened the other night, and it kicked me so solidly in the gut with lust that I couldn’t help but write about it.

I was in bed, and awake early in the morning. Having slipped out to go to the loo, I’d stumbled back in and smooshed around a bit, trying to find the warm patch I’d had to leave behind. As I snuggled down, the boy with me stirred. He’ll do this at any time of night, no matter how asleep he is: movement from me equals him turning, reaching out, grasping for me in the dark. Usually he flings a limb over me, or runs his hand up my stomach before his forearm settles just underneath my tits, pushing them gently up so they rest on him.

I love this. I love this more than I can say. I love this so deeply that it makes it harder for me to go to sleep, because I’m busy enjoying the feel of his big arms around me, throbbing warmth into whichever bits his sleeping brain reaches for first. The occasional tired moan or snore into my ear. Amazing.

But the other night he didn’t reach for the same places. As I got back into bed, feeling cosy and soft and on the verge of tipping back into sleep, his hand explored downwards. I leant up with my back against his chest, and his right hand ran softly over my stomach, coming to rest in exactly the comforting crotch cup that I use myself. Inside my knickers, with the silk against the back of his hand and his palm up against my skin, he gave a very soft sigh and rested there.

I stayed awake for thirty minutes, trembling slightly, holding myself as still as I could so that he wouldn’t move. The feeling of his hand cupping me felt more intimate, more arousing, more significant than a pinch of my nipples or even a fuck. It was made hotter by the thought that it might have happened before, but neither of us knew it. Touching me in the dead zone between waking and sleep, running his hands over me without knowing where they were going, and warming each other while our minds were dreaming elsewhere.

When he woke up his hand was wet.

Well done, humanity, you have done me proud. When The Guardian printed this problem page question from a lady who fantasises about being passed around a group of old, obese men who struggle to get erections, I expected the comments section to be a sulphur-stinking pit of hellish mockery.

Because that’s generally what happens when someone admits to a fantasy that doesn’t fit with one of our traditional stories. I was going to say ‘an uncommon fantasy’ but to be honest, given the horror this woman feels about admitting to her fantasy I’d have to go out on a limb and say this dream may be far more common than we think.

To my surprise, though, the comments were mostly sensible.

“Why on earth would you feel guilty? And why do you think of yourself as ‘sick’? Those are strong statements. Your sex life is fine and If you don’t want to share your fantasy with your fiancė then don’t.”

“Of all the fantasies I’ve ever heard, this has got to be one the of the most easily realizable.”

Hot fantasy about old obese men

One of my favourite wank fantasies involves a pair of older guys. Ideally (because I love my backstory) in a position of power or authority over me. Traditional scenes begin in an office, where I play up to patriarchal stereotypes by wearing an incredibly short skirt and bringing coffee into the business meeting being held by these two men.

One of them is usually relatively young – thirty or forty – and he’s staring at my arse like he wants to bite it. The other guy is older, perhaps fifty or sixty, calls me ‘sweetheart’ and leers inappropriately through the stretched fabric of my tight shirt as I bend down to put the coffee tray on the table. One of them, inevitably, slaps my arse.

The older guy (my boss) remarks on how obedient I am, and asks me to show his friend just how willing I am to please. He leans back in his chair, unzips his flies, and pulls out a thick, twitching, semi-flaccid cock. I drop to my knees in front of him, and as he croons ‘that’s it’, I slip his dick into my mouth.

He’s big and looks bigger – looming over me with his paunch and his jowls and his filthy, smug grin. He knows I feel obliged to do this to him, and that’s part of the turn on. The other part being, of course, the ability to show off his toy to his friend.

As I suck him harder, he pulls my head down so that my lips are around the base of his cock, his thick head pushing hard up against the back of my throat. Occasionally he makes small grunts to show just how much he’s enjoying it, or mutters ‘good girl, just like that’ through gritted teeth. But in between these interjections he keeps talking to his friend.

“Good, isn’t she?”

“Absolutely. I should get one for my office.”

“You can… ungh… you can have a turn when I’m done if you like. She’d be only too happy to oblige.”

The friend sits there watching, stroking at the erection that’s pressing against the crotch of his suit trousers. But I don’t fuck the friend – I never get a chance. Because as I picture the thick, desperate hardness of the older guy’s dick pushing solidly against the back of my throat, and imagine the strangled grunting sounds he makes as he comes, and conjure up the feeling of his thick, hot spunk gushing down the back of my throat… that’s usually the moment when I come.

The younger guy rarely needs to fuck me in order to complete the fantasy.

Being ashamed of fantasies

So, to all the Guardian readers who refrained from making comments along the lines of ‘ewww’, when someone confessed to fantasies of obese older men, I salute and thank you. I guarantee you that this particular fantasy isn’t limited to one individual, and that there are many more people who like that sort of thing.

To the woman who wrote the letter in the first place: don’t be upset. Most people have at least one thing that gets them horny in secret but that they wouldn’t want to shout from the rooftops. There’s no need to be ashamed of if you get off on something unusual. You’re not hurting anyone by doing it, you’re just pushing the specific set of buttons that happen to have been wired in your brain that way.

As one of the Guardian commenters so excellently put it:

“There is nothing wrong in a fantasy, like emotions, they are not good or bad. they just are. We can’t control them but they do no harm to others (it is our actions that may hurt others, not the thoughts in our heads), so whatever they are they are nothing to be ashamed of.”

This week I walked in on a boy wanking. Late at night, I woke up to go to the loo, spotted the light on in the living room, and thought I’d pop in to casually grope him before sleepily wandering off to bed. You know how I love watching boys crack one out – there’s a beautiful desperation about the urge to come, and I relish seeing that on his face. But of course, the most beautiful wanks of them all are Schroedinger’s Wanks – the ones I would change just by observing them. The wanks I am destined never to see…

(more…)

Autumn is one of the best seasons. Keats wrote of autumn as a season of harvests and fruits and whatnot, but to most people autumn’s delights fall mainly into the ‘Halloween’ or ‘nearly Christmas’ camps.

However, autumn is my favourite season. Partly because I spend most of the summer being uncomfortable in my clothes and yearning for the time when I can wear jeans and a massive hoodie without people staring in the street. But mostly because there are some things about autumn that I find desperately sexy. Here are three of them:

Wet men

I see wet women fetishised all the time – whether it’s the ubiquitous wet T-shirt competition, or that bit in Spiderman where Kirsten Dunst gets a sexy rainy snog in a see-through dress. But when it comes to wet men the only iconic hotness I can think of is that bit in Pride and Prejudice where Mr Darcy emerges glistening from a lake (now available as a statue!).

In short: wet men are underrated. There are not enough pictures of wet men. But now that autumn’s here, the rains cometh. And with the rains come the tousled shaggy locks of scruffy hipster boys, the raindrops glistening on the heads of hot bald guys, the clinging t-shirts on the men who got caught in the rain.

And best of all, the drips of water running in rivulets down their faces and onto their necks, eventually trickling below the collar line and making me want to lick them.

Men in jumpers

This is probably not even sexual. I just fucking love a good jumper. Not a tacky ‘look how ironic I am’ Christmas jumper, but a big, shaggy bury-your-face-in-my-chest jumper. I’d never dictate to a man what clothing he should wear, but I can reveal that despite my aversion to hugs from strangers, I am far more likely to want to press myself up against you if I can guarantee that the hug will feel like falling into bed.

I take it back: it probably is a sexual thing.

Sex to warm up

You know how it is: October rain, a chill breeze blowing through the house. You can either turn the heating on and line the pockets of BigEnergy Co, ensuring fatcat profits for their shareholders and a slightly crapper Christmas present for your Mum this year… or you can fuck to stay warm like the cavemen used to.

I prefer the second option.

Cold hands running over my clothes, feeling almost painfully intrusive when they eventually reach my goosepimpled skin, then the gradual warm up as your hands get hotter and are allowed further down my body. Running my own hands inside your big sexy jumper to feel the heat of your back, your chest, your stomach, and then the moment when they finally get warm enough that I can place them on your dick without you yelping.

The ultimate beauty of autumn sex is that while you’re pounding and I’m straining and gasping and gripping you tight with my legs, neither of us notices the cold. It’s only afterwards that we realise, as you lie panting and hot beside me, and I can feel the droplets of your sweat cool far too quickly on my chest.