Today an article went up on the Guardian that made me desperately sad. In the wake of a woman being murdered by her partner, with whom she was said to be in a BDSM relationship, Emer O’Toole explains that we should examine the impact of BDSM – as if the murderer’s label of ‘Sir’ is in any way more significant than the fact that he was an abusive, evil, murderous prick.

I’m going to warn you, this story gets more awful and troubling with the context so you might not want to read on.

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“Don’t you fucking dare come,” he says, with a growling, horny tone and the power to make me do it. Holding a wand toy right tight and hard against my clit, cock firmly in place, pulsing against the walls of my cunt, and giving me something to grip down on as I try to fight the waves of unavoidable orgasm.

Sometimes the sexiest thing in the world is being ordered to refrain from something that you know is inevitable. The strain of having to bite your lip, tense your muscles, arch yourself away from the source of pleasure so as to hold something back for just a few seconds? Amazing.

But not always.

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When Valentine’s Day comes around I’m struck by the uniform nature of seduction – if we’ve decided to spend the 14th having a sexy evening in, we’re expected to conjure romance and sexiness using lingerie, rose petals, and a strategically timed raise of the eyebrow. Words like ‘intimate’ and ‘sensual’ are hurled around with casual abandon, as if these are things anyone can just conjure out of thin air. As if all sex starts with a soundtrack and a flurry of silk sheets and voile.

I can’t help but think I’m expected to charm guys into bed with grace and dignity, ideally leaving a waft of some expensive perfume leaving a trail from the doorway to the bed.

That is not my seduction style.

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“Dear GOTN, despite the fact that you’re a grumpy arse for most of the year, I’d like to invite you to my birthday party…

Ooh! A party! How fun!

“It will be held on Saturday at 8pm…”

Yay! I’m free on Saturday! I can go!

“At this address…

I’ll find it on Gmaps. Oooh, I’m so excited!

“The fancy dress theme will be…”

Shit it, I’m not going.
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You know how you’ll go through phases in terms of what you fantasise about? Well, maybe not everyone does, but I do. One week I might be obsessed with the idea of locking eyes with a stranger on the tube, staying on the train with him until our carriage is empty at the end of the line, until – with a quick jerk of his head and a filthy smile – he invites me to sit down on his cock and ride him to the final stop. Other weeks I might need more guys to make the fantasy complete – three or four willing gentlemen who pop round my house to gangbang me on the sofa – that kind of thing.

Right now, though, I am obsessed with historical fucking. Snatched moments between princes and parlour-maids, gentlewomen and stable hands – frilly skirts being hoiked up to the waist and corsets yanked down to expose jiggling tits as someone’s fucked against the wall.
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