It’s pitch black in my bedroom. Weirdly, so much darker than it usually is. Perhaps a streetlight is out, or maybe I’ve finally managed the perfect seal on my blackout curtains, so not a sliver of London night sneaks through. Either way, it’s dark. He’s lying naked next to me, big hands sliding smoothly down my body, soft lips on mine, cock growing hard in my hand. And although I’m going to try and tell you parts of this story in the sexy/atmospheric way in which I’ve begun this post, you’ll have to excuse me if the odd burst of glee breaks through, because on this special night I managed something truly remarkable for me: I gave a guy a hand job to orgasm!

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Sorry to be a pain, gang. I am writing yet another fucking blow job story. Do you like blow jobs? God, I hope so. I think I’m becoming something of a one-trick pony. If that pony’s trick is sucking cock. Join me my friends, my loves, my ever-patient pals, as I regale you with a tale of yet another fucking blow job.

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‘No’ is a complete sentence, sure. But if you get partway to shagging someone, saying ‘no’ can be genuinely difficult, especially if you want to give them an explanation for why you’ve changed your mind. I’m going to tell you about one of the most awkward ‘no’s I’ve ever said. It’s not the most awkward ‘no’, just one of them. It starts on the south bank of the Thames, around autumn 2020.

It’s hard for me to judge the tone of this piece, and editing it proved tricky. But just so you know up front: this story has a happy ending.

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You might think that bad dates are – by default – an undesirable thing. The clue’s in the name – they’re bad dates! But although I’ll happily swerve terrible first dates where the person I’m with doesn’t ask any questions, or dates where they reveal ten minutes in that they’re a not-so-secret Tory, there’s one kind of bad date that will always have a special place in my heart.

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How late is too late to start fucking? If you’re not sure of the answer to that, allow me to rephrase it: at what point in your life must you stop seeing your body as something that can bring you sexual pleasure? When I put it like this I hope you can see that the answer is ‘never’ – you’re never too late to start fucking, never too late to enjoy your body. Society feeds us so many lies about sex that it takes a lot of work to unpick them, and the idea that we should at some point give up on our sexual selves is an especially pernicious one. We’re told that you’ll hit a certain age and suddenly stop wanting sex (wrong!), that other people will stop wanting you (wrong!) or that beauty is synonymous with youth (also wrong!). Perhaps most bizarrely, we’re given the impression that our futures are fixed when we’re younger: we decide what – and who – we want to be when we grow up, and these early choices will determine our fate forever. SO WRONG! Unfortunately, just yelling ‘WRONG’ at full volume doesn’t help to calm the nerves of anyone who’s worried that they may have missed the boat. So let’s tackle the age-old question: how late is too late to start enjoying sex?

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