I get email – lovely, sexy email from boys who have sent me a cock picture. [Note: I no longer use the cock pictures email address – please don’t send me your pictures as chances are I won’t have the opportunity to look at them all or reply – this post explains why]

I wake up almost every morning to at least one new image of a rock-solid dick trapped in boxers, gripped in sweaty hands, or – if I’m really lucky – dripping huge white goblets of jizz all over anonymous fingertips. Delicious.

However, unfortunately a lot of these pictures are accompanied by an email that says one of the following things:

What do you think?
Tell me what you do when you see my pic.

Or, in a few rather memorable cases:

Give me a mark out of ten?

I’m not going to rate your dick

There are two reasons why I’m not going to rate your dick. Firstly and most importantly, by what criteria am I going to rank it? Length? Width? Rigidity? Beauty? Any individual cock can tick one, many or all of these boxes. But I’m not going to say that this dick is better than that dick on the basis of a blurry cameraphone snap – that just wouldn’t be fair.

Some pictures I’m sent are beautiful because your cock is positioned in just the right way – gripped tight in one hand and stretched out from your body. Some are beautiful because you’ve got the lighting just right or you’ve trapped it beautifully in the waistband of your boxers so I can see it bulging out against the fabric. Others win my approval because they include your face, staring sultrily (yes, that is an actual word) down the camera lens, and I can imagine the horny face you make when you twitch and come. Finally, some pictures are top of the ‘wank bank’ list because the cock in question is either exploding with, or covered in, your own sticky jizz.

I am far too biased

The second reason I’m not going to rate your dick is probably apparent from the paragraph above: I am a passionate fan of cock of all shapes and sizes, rather than a discerning conoisseur. While other dick-appraisers might give and deduct points for various things, like a wine expert rating flavour, consistency and scent, I’ll be running around the bargain section of Tescocks throwing all the different cheap penis-wines into my trolley. It’s just not a fair test.

There are loads of things that can enhance the beauty of an individual cock picture, but for me the only things I really care about in any given snap are:

1. It has a dick in it.
2. It is sent to me.
3. It has a dick in it.

Thank you one and all

In case the above has made me sound like a horrible bitch, I don’t resent your asking: I understand why, upon taking the trouble to get all hard then take a hot picture to send to a sex blogger, you’d want a little something in return. I feel bad that not only do I not have the time to reply in depth to everyone that emails me, my replies are often incredibly brief and more than a little tardy.

[Edited to add: having received so many penis pictures that they now all blur into one, and received a not insignificant number of emails bollocking me for not giving people the response they require, or not giving them a swift enough response, I now have to stop. Or rather, beg you to stop. Please stop sending me your pictures.]

You all get ten out of ten.

It’s the night before Christmas, and creatures are definitely stirring. There’s a curious rustling of bedsheets and the occasional muffled grunt. Not just in my house, but in homes up and down the country. Because there’s nothing more festive than a surreptitious wank.

Think of the children: not the young ones, obviously, but the grown-up children. Unmarried sons and daughters like me in their mid-twenties (OK, late twenties, fuck you) for whom Christmas marks a return to the family home.

The old traditions, like hanging stockings by the fire and leaving a mince pie out for Father Christmas, have been replaced by new ones such as getting tanked with the siblings on Christmas Eve then falling through the front door at one in the morning slurring ‘ho ho ho’ at the rest of the family.

We’re home for the holidays, and we’re sleeping on futons, sofas, floors or single beds that remind us of our young adulthood, when wanking wasn’t just a casual hobby but a heartfelt vocation.

Location, location, location

That’s how it is for me. Because of my parents’ selfish insistence on having lives that don’t revolve around me, my bedroom’s no longer my bedroom – there are no longer posters or books or piles of tatty clothes decorating the carpet. It’s now a tidy office, with my old single bed squashed awkwardly in the corner. But sweet baby Jesus it’s sexy – it’s sexy because it reminds me of being a teenager, with all the angst and guilt and fetid, desperate masturbation that went along with it.

I can’t lie in that bed without being reminded of the number of times I buried my face in the pillow and silently, subtly, frigged myself to an awkward and potentially embarrassing climax.

Not lonely, but alone

I guard my family Christmas quite jealously. No matter how in love I’ve been, or how hot for a particular boy, none of them has ever been invited home for Christmas. Not because I’m worried about tension or embarrassment, but because they might do something unconscionable, like suggest we open Christmas presents before lunch. My family traditions are important: without them I wouldn’t be festive enough to jingle a single bell, let alone deck the fucking halls. From the annual Christmas Eve piss-up to putting sprouts in people’s stockings to recreate the Bottom Christmas Special, my traditions are far too sacred to cast aside. And one of the greatest traditions of all is the week-long wankathon.

Teenage kicks

As I lie in my old single bed, fingers slickly rubbing my clit, the old images come back too. Here I think less about gang-bangs and spanking and more about formative experiences with the boys of my youth. I think about that time when a boy touched my tit in an alley, then proudly showed me how his erection pushed at the fabric of his jeans. I think about the first blow-job I gave, knees red raw from kneeling on the ground in the woods and arousal so deep it was soaking through my knickers. I remember the guys who touched me, the guys I touched, and the ones whose laps I’d sit on. As I edge closer to a shuddering orgasm I think of how they’d wrap trembling arms around me, letting me rub right up against their twitching erections.

I can remember these things anywhere, of course, but nowhere are they more vivid than in the bed I’m sitting on now. If I wanted, I could go back to the woods, walk down through the alley, and see the same things I saw then through fresh eyes. I could probably even knock on some doors and say hi to the 28-year-old versions of those teenagers. It wouldn’t be the same, of course. They all have jobs and lives and mortgages. Some of them even have families. I’m sure most of them have richer and filthier fantasies than having a horny, excitable me grind incompetently on their prick. I doubt all of them remember the times when they made me shiver by touching my nipples or the times they asked me, in croaky half-whispers to ‘just touch it. Please.’

But maybe some of them do. Perhaps somewhere fairly close by, in a street very like this one, one of the boys I knew back then is doing the same thing I am. He’s lying in the single bed he slept in at age eighteen, idly rubbing his now-grown-up cock and remembering how it felt when I touched it through his trousers.

So, don’t feel alone this Christmas, even if you’re single, or temporarily parted from your lovers. As you stare at the ceiling in a home that’s no longer yours, rekindle your affection for youthful masturbation and treat yourself to a lovely festive wank. Just try not to rustle the duvet.

When it comes to sexiness, there are two different types of touch:

• Being touched to turn me on and
• Being touched because it turns you on

One of these, I find, is very much hotter than the other.

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I’m sitting on the sofa next to a boy who is playing Halo 4 on the Xbox. This is almost the best way to spend a Sunday. I write, he stares in deep concentration at the TV, running his fingers quickly over the controls, occasionally murmuring ‘shit’ or ‘motherfucker.’ It’s fantastic -relaxing and horny at the same time. But it’s not quite as good as what’s about to happen.

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