I’ve never described myself as a masochist. Masochism implies a desire for pain that is pleasure in and of itself. But I don’t get wet from pain. It isn’t the smack of someone’s hand on my naked backside that gets me hot: it’s the dirtiness, the horniness. The fact that whacking me with the flat of his palm might make his dick hard. The pain itself is a by-product. To be endured, not enjoyed.

But sometimes endurance is the whole, miserable, masochistic point.

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There are plenty of advice articles on how to fuck. They’ll give instructions on what to do, where to touch, and – if you’re lucky – how to find out exactly what will make your partner scream ‘HOLY FUCK YES’ in the middle of an orgasmic spasm.

But I’m a connoisseur of a role that’s often painted as ‘passive’: I like to fuck, but more than that I like to get fucked. And there are many different, active ways to get fucked: it’s not just a case of lying there like a cat that’s got some particularly salty cream. Let me take you through a few filthy examples…

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I’ve never been a particular proponent of the idea that you have to come to enjoy sex, and if I’m truly honest I’d say the thing which matters most to me is that my partner comes. Which might seem horrifyingly subservient, until you realise that desire comes not from an old-fashioned desire to ‘satisfy’ him but because – not to put too fine a point on it – I like how it feels when he empties his balls into me.

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Six guys in t-shirts or shirts. Naked from the waist down. Me in a soft cotton top. No bra, no knickers, no trousers, no socks. We are the opposite of topless. And we’re perfectly dressed to play a game.

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You know the old folk song that goes like this?

O dear, what can the matter be?
Dear, dear, what can the matter be?
O dear, what can the matter be?
Johnny’s so long at the fair.

I wrote it with some dirty song lyrics.

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