Remember last Wednesday’s blog post, where my partner injured his hand and then gave me a cute compliment? That unscripted compliment wasn’t the only good thing to come out of his DIY disaster. As he pointed out soon after he’d mangled his palm, in a voice tinged with horror and distress: that was his wanking hand. He is not a man who goes without a wank easily, and I’m not a girl who misses the opportunity for a new kind of mutual masturbation. So we set to work…

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I am not hoping for the apocalypse. Let that sink in, fully and completely, because although this includes a dirty story about gang-bangs and sexual servicing, it is not an ‘ apocalypse fantasy’ in the purposeful sense: I do not ever want it to come true. I don’t want the world to end, and I don’t want anyone to die. But sometimes, when I am calm and happy, I entertain myself by daydreaming about the end of the world. In my fantasy, all the people on the planet have disappeared except for a select few. And those select few: they fuck me.

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When I was young, fucking outdoors was a mundane necessity. The phrase ‘get a room‘ ironically got far more of an airing when none of us really had any rooms to ‘get’ to. So we fucked in parks. Behind bushes. Occasionally in tents or sheds. Anywhere you could reasonably slide off your clothes without risk of getting caught by your parents or the police. It didn’t seem adventurous: it was just the only option. Now, though, necessity has given way to spice. Fucking outdoors is an adventure.

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A long time ago, a beautiful man I knew wore a kilt to a party. Like many men who wear kilts to parties, he immediately made a joke about whether he was going commando. His statement was an ambiguous ‘maybe’ followed by a nudge and a wink that invited us to wonder. Never one to pass up an invitation like that, I spent the entire rest of the night wondering. In detail.

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