There are plenty of things in life I love right now, which I’ll inevitably tire of in the future; painting weird patterns on my nails, eating coleslaw directly from the tub, occasional incompetent gardening. But there is one thing I will never ever tire of: hearing new masturbation tricks.

The following story was told to me by a smoking hot stoner guy – the same guy who taught me blowbacks could be a form of breath play. I’m going to tell it to you in his own words, as closely as I can remember. If you would like to picture him speaking, understand that however you see his face, you must give him big hands and broad shoulders: strong, hefty arms in a loose t-shirt. Picture it now: imagine him reaching down to grip his cock.

Got it? Then let’s begin.

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It’s Sunday morning: you’re possibly hungover. You’re probably keen to fill your face with the greasiest, stickiest breakfast you’ll get to have all week. I feel you. Here are the best three post-sex breakfasts, as judged by the fucks that came before.

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For over a year now, Stuart F Taylor (aka @chainbear on twitter) has been drawing illustrations to go with my blog posts. They’re stunning things, each one custom drawn to go with a particular post. Whether it’s a specific sex act (like spanking) or an abstract concept (like edging yourself to orgasm), each and every one of them is a work of sexy art.

Stuart’s going to be taking a very well-earned break for a month or so, so I thought it might be a nice opportunity to give you a run-down of some of my favourite sexy illustrations that he’s drawn over the last year or so. Problem with picking favourites though, is that I love every single one of them so it’s pretty much impossible to choose – head to the image galleries (SFW one + NSFW one) and check out the others.

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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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