He’s at the toilet, pissing heavily into the bowl. I’m standing behind him with my arms wrapped round his waist, gripping him ever so gently so I don’t put him off or change the direction of the stream. Both of us are staring down at the task in hand. The fat head of his flaccid cock gripped between thumb and forefingers. When he pushes out the last few drops, he grunts a little at the back of his throat. The same way he sometimes grunts when he comes inside me. When he’s finished peeing, he turns his head towards me and whispers in my ear ‘what do you want?’

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This one guy sometimes sort of… pats me on the arse. Really gently. Just with fingertips, a very light stroke-slash-pat. It’s so tentative and soft. As if he’s brushing his hand over my bum to test whether it’s actually OK to touch me – the way a shy cat might prod your thigh with a single, nervous paw to test out whether yours is a safe lap to settle down on. In a way I love it, because I think what we’re seeing here is an adorable nerd with very little experience of casual intimacy discovering the gold-plated joy that comes when you realise you’re allowed to touch someone’s arse just because you fancy it. But it also massively does my head in, because I love having my bum grabbed and slapped and manhandled, but someone brushing delicately over it is frustrating: like giving a starving girl two Pringles and then running away. Our dynamic is not one which lends itself easily to switching – somehow I always find myself in charge. So I’ve been pondering how to go about getting spanked, but in a dominant way. The ultimate topping from the bottom. I think I have it.

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When we walk in the door of the strip club, I can guarantee that the people his eyes are drawn to are the dancers. The one on stage half-naked, the ones hanging out by the bar flirting with customers, one or two emerging from the curtained-off booths at the back of the room. My eyes, on the other hand, are firmly fixed on the men – him included.

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A while ago when I was struggling for blog ideas, Betty Butch suggested a round-up of the hottest posts I’ve ever written. I love this suggestion, not just because it allows me to openly engage in the kind of shameless self-promotion I’d usually have to shoehorn in subtly, but also because ‘hottest posts’ is such a subjective measure that it gives me the chance to pick from a few different types.

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I wrote this last week when I was excited to go to a festival, pondering whether this might be the first time I ever got laid at one. I always have this romantic fantasy of finding a festival boyfriend – someone who I can snog while the bands are on, who then disappears into the night, not seen again until (perhaps) next year. But then every time I go to a festival with the aim of getting laid, I fail. But failure here is sweet and this is why. 

He catches your eye in the beer tent, your festival boyfriend. Gives you a smile and a nod. Mouths ‘cool shirt’ and lifts his plastic pint in a casual salute. You smile back, flushing hot with nervous energy, and wonder if you should go over and say hello. But you’re struggling to catch the attention of the stoner who’s working the bar, and you’ve got to get back to your friends. Besides, by the time you turn round, full hands sticky with cider, he’s gone. Your festival boyfriend has disappeared into the crowd.

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