There’s this big house that I’m wandering around, and occasionally I stumble across people wanking in different rooms of it. It’s full of sofas, and cushions and huge-screen TVs. What’s playing on the telly is almost-porn: one of those films which features tits and fucking, but also just enough plot that you’re not quite sure if it was pitched as a broader release. I am horny as fuck, and I desperately need cock.

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Bear with me, I’m rusty as fuck. Something I could have said equally to him as to you. It’s been a long long time since I wrote up a fuckstory that was about anyone other than my ex. So bear with me, please, I know I will not get this right.

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This post was initially written with a particular guy in mind. He doesn’t read the blog, but he may at some point want an idea of how I like to get fucked, so I thought it might be hot to write him a story that I can give to him at some point. But then I ended up writing pure porn and I realised it was way too intimidating for that kind of discussion. It definitely does work for a blog post, though, because it’s filth. So here goes: what I like in bed.

We’ve banged a few times now – just enough to get to know each other a little, but not so much that I’ve exposed all the detail of the ways in which I really want you to fuck me. You see, although I know that communication is good, I also worry that if I go all-in with my comms before we’ve even fucked once, the pressure to tick everything off the list might make you feel like you’re wrangling to get the top score on Mario Kart. So I haven’t really told you this yet, I’ve just enjoyed the simple, casual fucks: the noises you make and the way you touch me and the sensation of your dick sliding in. But we’ve done it three times now, so here the fuck goes: here’s what I like in bed.

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I was never really one for sexting, in the times Before Him. In recent years, the closest I’ve come to a horny text is sending a sext from the bedroom if I’m post-bath soft and wanting dick, or messaging to let him know that I’ve finished wanking and he’s welcome to come on up. One of the things that scares me about new encounters is – absurdly, bizarrely – the worry that they might need me to stretch my thumbs and engage in written conversation in between dates. Yeah, I know: I’m a sex blogger. I should be good at dating communication. But perhaps it’s the fact that I’m meant to be good at it that leads to so much dread. Where expectations run high, failure is almost guaranteed.

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There are tonnes of things to mourn at the end of a relationship. Not least, in my case, a really awesome holiday I had planned for April this year. Lockdown put paid to that, but the ferry tickets still exist, and the rescheduled dates sit in my diary taunting me: a cycling trip with fondue and fucking and fun which will now likely never come to pass. There are infinite possible worlds in which we didn’t break up, or in which we broke up in far less painful ways, where some of this stuff might have occurred. But in this world, the one that exists for me, here are a few fucks that will never happen.

Note: the third story in this trilogy involves sex-while-asleep. It’s pre-negotiated and fully consensual, but I know some people aren’t into that, so this is just here to let you skip over it if you’d like to. 

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