There’s a look that says ‘I want to do this so badly.’ It’s similar to the look that says ‘I’m going to do this.’ The expression that says both ‘please’ and ‘thank you’ at the same time.

It usually comes from above.

I’m on my knees, or – as is the case in this story – lying on the sofa. Tired and horny and lazy and just that bit too Sunday-night-knackered to move. And he gets the look.

It’s straight-faced. Dark. A shadowy playfulness just behind it, but no hint of an actual smile. He stares directly at me, saying nothing. I look up, eyes wide with anticipation. Sometimes I’ll ask ‘what do you want?’ but far more often, I don’t. Because I know exactly what he wants: he wants to pull out his thick, warm cock, and fuck… well, not me specifically, but something. Anything.

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I’m pretty obnoxious and annoying sometimes. I can be far too loud in some situations, and far too quiet in others. Sometimes I sit nervously in a corner checking my phone because I’m too shy to introduce myself. At other times, I drink a couple of pints in rapid succession to calm my nerves and end up saying things I wouldn’t say if I was sober. Both of these traits, along with many others, have caused me to miss out on opportunities to get laid. But none more so than one thing: smoking.

I smoke. And I kind of want to add ‘too much’ to that, but realistically smoking at all is usually too much when seen through the eyes of a non-smoker. When I was dating, the sheer number of people who’d write ‘I can’t stand smokers’ on their dating profiles, or tick the boxes that say ‘smoking is a dealbreaker’ means my pool of potential shag buddies was severely limited.

But smoking has also helped me get laid. Not because men see me across a crowded beer garden and go ‘oh look, her who’s too pissed to light the right end: she’s the one for me’, but because for the best part of my formative years, smoking was considered cool.

Which means that I have a really fucked up relationship with smoking and sex.

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I like the feeling of come hitting my skin.

I particularly like the feeling of it squirting hard against one of my nipples as he presses the tip of his cock against me.

It’s not just the force and power of the liquid, but the accompanying twitches of his dick. Being able to squeeze it tight in my hand and feeling the rush of liquid hammering along the shaft.

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We’re grown-ups now: it’s not the done thing. You can’t fuck in a crowded room at a sleepover and expect to get away with it. We have more fun, don’t we? Those group sex parties and swingers’ clubs and all the places we can legitimately fuck in the open? Except we don’t, not always. And sometimes the delight of having secret sex in the dark is overlooked in favour of open sex with an audience.

I used to do this a lot. When I was young, I mean – not now. Now we have money for hotels, and big houses, and far far fewer friends. And – what’s that other thing? – oh yeah, restraint. There’s little need now to pack horny couples into a living room and hope their sex doesn’t jog the couple shagging on the pillows next to them.

That’s either a shame or a blessing. If you think it’s the latter, then please don’t read on.

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I find exercise for its own sake incredibly tedious. Running, cycling, picking up weights then putting them down again: I get why some people like it, but I’m not one of those people. Moving muscles for a purpose: picking up heavy boxes to move house, running for a bus, cycling because you just need to get somewhere – fine. But moving for the sake of moving isn’t something I’ve ever been excited about.

As with biceps, triceps and whatever ‘glutes’ are, same with kegels. The idea of doing special exercises to strengthen the muscles in my cunt leaves me a bit cold. I’m having a go right now as I write this, probably making odd quizzical faces and feeling glad I’m not in an open plan office, and the sensation I get from it can best be described as ‘meh.’

But during sex? Or a wank? That’s when those kegels really come into their own.

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