I’ve never been a big fan of massage oil – it gets all sticky on my hands. While it’s delightful to stroke and prod and knead someone else’s body (particularly the arse – God how I love rubbing oiled-up hands on someone’s arse) I’ve always been a bit put off by the fact that when the massage stops and the slippery fucking begins, there’s nowhere to wipe my hands.

Until now, because I have one of these amazing tactile fluidproof sheets, and holy shit do I love it. The following post isn’t a review, it’s just an account of some wet and delicious sex I had. It’s also written pretty much in one take, because I got horny while I was writing it and it was a choice of either editing it for ages or just putting it live then having a wank and a nap. Sorry.

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Before I begin, allow me a minute to put off 50% of you: this is not erotic fiction about what to do on your wedding night. It’s not a post about a romantic fuck at the end of your special day, or how to arouse your partner on the wedding night even though you’ve been together five years and you’re bored of the sight of their bollocks by now. If that’s what you’re after, then please pick up your warm white wine and move on to another buffet: this wedding night fuck is dirty.

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Most of the ones that got away did so because of timing.

Paul (not his real name, but he looked like a Paul. Or a Peter. Or a Stephen – with a ‘ph’ not a ‘v’) will never know just how perfectly wrong his timing was.

I met Paul in a beer garden. Again, most of the ones that got away escaped from beer gardens. Or pub lounges, if the weather was shitty. Metaphorically slipping out of the window when I was busy fucking someone else in the toilet.

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This blog post – part 2 in a series of… hmm… I’m not sure how many yet – talks about some mental health stuff, including Dark Thoughts and general misery. If that’s likely to disturb you please don’t read on. 

When you’re mad, you’re allowed to say the word ‘mad’ – at least in your own head. You’re allowed to tell yourself: ‘don’t think like that, it’s mad. That’s what got you here in the first place.’ When you’re mad, you’re taught to examine your thoughts carefully – writing them down if necessary – so you can pick over the alien carcass of insanity that your brain has spat out. Pulling the meat (‘I’m worried I can’t have sex’) from the bones that you’re meant to identify and discard (‘If I can’t have sex I may as well die’).

I am being medicated into compliance. 

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Here’s fun: SSRIs. Also referred to as ‘anti-depressants’, although sometimes used for things on top of/combined with depression. I’ve talked a bit before about my anxiety – specifically the way in which anxiety affects how I fuck. It’s a massive pain in the arse, and it’s not exactly the kind of thing I can easily dismiss by choosing not to care about it.

Still. I’m here, and I’m not too bad most of the time, so I’m lucky.

But I’m also on pills, and I fucking hate them with every fibre of my being.

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