My favourite arcade game used to be the 2p waterfall. I don’t know if you get them everywhere, or just in the kind of shit seaside town I grew up in. A combination of permanent drizzle, a shingle beach, and water you have to have rabies jabs to swim in meant that traditional outdoor activities were far less tempting than the arcade.

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Confession: I used to hate lube. Not all the time, I could see it had its merits. When you’re bumming, for instance, there is no natural lubricant up your arse, so a fuckload of the sticky stuff is as essential as a safety rope if you’re climbing a mountain.

For hand jobs, I could get on board with lube as a means of making the whole thing more special – just the right kind of tingling lube at the perfect moment, or a good dollop to enable better use of a masturbation sheath. Fine.

But for sex? I wasn’t sure. I feel like a total nob for admitting this but lube used to seem like a sign of personal failure.

I haven’t talked about this much before, and to wrench a nugget of total honesty out of my cringing heart, I hadn’t really discussed it with my partners either. Occasionally, if I was horny but a bit too drunk to slick my knickers, I’d pop to the bathroom on the way to the bedroom. Pull down my pants, spit on my hand, and rub it in the right places: fake what I couldn’t make.

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The following post contains some filthy sex chat about erotic asphyxiation – I’ve put it below/behind the cut so you don’t have to read if that kind of thing disturbs you. Likewise, if you don’t understand that it can be well dangerous, please don’t read on. I realise you can probably work this out for yourself, but occasionally I get linked from Reddit and people leave comments assuming I’m instructing everyone to treat sex like it’s a no-holds-barred Ultimate Fighting championship, and I get stressed. So this message is here as much for me as it is for you. 

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Sometimes, like many humans, I have fantasies that are grotesque and dark and weird. And sometimes I have days where I can think of nothing else to write, so with a sense of weary resignation and vague self-disgust, I tell you one of the odder ones. This disgusting fantasy is a not-quite-non-consent story that, I think, is an escalation of the fantasy dinner party. So if you like this kind of thing but the below gives you shudders, you might prefer that story instead.

For the record, it would horrify me if it happened in real life: that’s kind of the point of it. But as a film I play in my mind when I’m masturbating, something about the atmosphere and the attitude makes my cunt twitch.

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This post wraps some of my darker fantasies (about predatory fucking, sex and death, as well as other odd things that come into my head) with warmer things. Please take that as a content note, and don’t read on if that kind of stuff disturbs you.

And you know how jokes work waaaay better if you explain them in detail? Yeah? If you don’t want the explanation just skip to the hot sex story below.

If you want the explanation then here it is: I wanted to write something specifically for Eroticon, because I couldn’t decide which of my blog posts (or extracts from my book </plug>) to read in the session on the final day. So I wrote this, and it’s a bit more personal than a normal post because I wasn’t intending to put it online. Then some people told me to, so here it is. It’s a darker interpretation of the ‘questions I have asked my boyfriend‘ post from ages ago, and I wanted to try and get across the feeling of being so utterly comfortable and safe that you can embrace your darker and more terrifying thoughts without fear or shame or… well.

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