Sex news this week: lots of people have been tweeting about Twitter’s safe search, which is now ‘on’ by default for a number of users (including me, which is WEIRD). If you’re following sex bloggers, porn performers, and other people who tweet adult content, here’s a quick guide on how to turn off Twitter safe search, and a little bit of info on NSFW etiquette and my own rules around tweeting sexy pics. As a bonus I’ll also give you some tips on how to support your local neighbourhood sex bloggers/adult content providers who might be getting a little bit downhearted by changes to adult content…

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Language is important, and words matter. I’ll assume you’re with me this far, because you’re reading a sex blog rather than looking at naughty pictures on one of those other websites I’ve heard about. Words are fucking sexy. They can also be truly appallingly inadequate, and nowhere is this more clear than when trying to describe something hot only to find you have none of the right tools to do it properly. Today I would like your help in renaming one of the sexiest parts of human anatomy: the penile raphe. What exactly is the penile raphe? Allow me to explain.

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He’s on the phone in the living room and I can hear one half of the conversation. I understand about twenty percent of it. The other eighty percent is a delicious mixture of authority, skill, and words I don’t really understand that are directly related to his job. A job which I know he is pretty fucking good at. I boil the kettle. I grind coffee beans. I prepare him a coffee so delicious that when he gets off the phone he’ll acquiesce to my request: please please please can I suck your dick now? He’s in ‘work mode’ and it’s intensely sexy – I want to start from flaccid, and have the joy of sucking him hard.

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Last night I walked into my flat, dumped a backpack overloaded with swag and very sweaty shirts onto my bed, and then hauled my exhausted body to the bathroom. Everything was weirdly dark, save the flicker of a few candles. On the windowsill my other half had placed a bottle of wine, a glass and a bluetooth speaker blasting ‘We Are The Champions’ by Queen. How does this even happen? What bizarre luck leads to someone doing such a lovely thing, for me?

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Is there anything in life more tedious than a conference call for a job you hate? You’re half involved in something you barely care about, and most of the people involved wouldn’t notice if you simply logged out. But – like fantasising about teachers during lectures – you can spice up even the dullest conference call with the addition of a dirty story…

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