“It’s hot when two girls get off, but it doesn’t work the other way round.”

“Excuse me?”

“You know. Like women watching a guy play with another guy’s dick. It doesn’t have the same effect.” 

I’ve had this conversation too many times. Far too many times. There’s a longer blog to post another day about the fact that straight-guy sexuality is so tightly woven into our culture that often dudes struggle to get their heads round the fact that, you know, they can be objects of lust just as easily as they’re subjects. But I’ll bore you about that another day.

For now, in response to the person who said this to me, allow me to describe an interaction so hot it makes my toes clench, even just remembering it.

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This is a fantasy about a porn cinema that I wrote ages ago, for reasons I can’t remember. I like things that are simultaneously sexy and grotesque – like the blow job/dripping sandwich fantasy. That’s my way of saying the following story might be weird. And maybe disturbing. And creepily voyeuristic. Alternatively it might not be, and the fact I’ve waited six months to publish it has been a complete waste of my mental energy.

If you asked me to write my own future, I would write the following story. Then you’d wish you’d never asked, and I’d have to burn it, and we probably wouldn’t be friends any more because the whole thing would get awkward.

Anyway. Some erotic fiction. Or a disturbing vision of my distant future. Don’t judge me. Let’s go. 

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How did I chat people up before? When I was single, and I had to put some effort in beyond just saying “Your dick. My mouth. Now”?

I think I probably started with a hint: a story about this one time at college, leading to a detailed breakdown of who did what. But where there were strangers, now there’s one guy. Where there were hints, now there’s directness:

“Your dick. My mouth. Now.”

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I’m still catching up on work, blog and life after Eroticon, so to tide you over with something fun I’ll give you a quick and dirty poem. I wrote this in part during Ashley Lister’s workshop, then tweaked it slightly on the train back.

It’s rough. But so am I.

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WHY HAVE I NEVER WRITTEN ABOUT RIDING CROPS?! I need to rectify this immediately, because riding crops are not only super-hot, but they also represent one of my earliest sexual memories. And by that I mean there was one time I spotted a riding crop on TV and couldn’t understand why I got all the funny feelings.

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