Confession: I have never successfully used a pair of love eggs. I say ‘successfully’ because I have used love eggs, I have just never managed to get one iota of joy out of them.

It’s easy to write about sex toys I love – glass dildos or massagers or butt plugs or what have you. It’s trickier to rant about the things you hate, because it isn’t particularly sexy. But this love egg incident is the most Easter-y story I have, so pull up a bag of mini eggs and bear witness to my sex toy downfall.

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It’s hard to talk about rejection without sounding like you’re looking for sympathy. What’s more, it’s almost impossible to make rejection sexy. So on this sex blog, I very rarely talk about times when I was dumped, or when a hot person greeted my clumsy ‘fancy a shag?’ with a ‘no.’

But I think it’s important to talk about rejection. Firstly because I don’t want to give the impression that my life has been an unending sex-fest with anyone I choose. I hate to think I’d feed into the myth that men will fuck anyone who asks, because it’s total bollocks, as most people who’ve tried to fuck men will tell you. Secondly, there are often great things that come out of rejection: friendships made, lessons learned, disasters averted.

So, with all my love and thanks to each of them: here are three guys who’ve rejected me.

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I don’t always know what I’ll find sexy – it’s all about having the right mix of kinks and quirks and attitude. While there are some people who I can immediately identify as ‘my type‘, it’s often hard to pin down in advance what I’ll find sexy.

So when people imply there is a universal yardstick against which we measure ‘hotness’, I’m forced to question whether they even understand what makes something sexy.

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What do you do after sex? Chat, maybe? Fall asleep? Sometimes a fuck is so energetic that when you’re catching your breath afterwards you barely have the energy left to high-five. Perhaps your post-sex ritual involves a large bacon sandwich and a coffee with two sugars.

Whatever floats your boat: despite having been super-judgy about it in the past when I was young and wrong, the post-sex ritual is as individual as the shag itself. Some couples need peace and quiet, others need coffee, but for me there’s one thing I always do once the spunk has settled: a kind of sexual post-match analysis.

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I’ve always been the one who gets to hear people’s secrets. Maybe I’m great at keeping them, or perhaps I just have the look of someone who’s keen to hear all the dirty details. Maybe both – I hope so.

Even before I started sex blogging, I’d have friends email or text to say ‘I did something super-hot yesterday and I’m not sure who else to tell so…’ We’d chat about it together, swap stories and share experiences, and give each other the best non-judgy advice or support we could muster.

Then I started a sex blog.

I still chat to friends about sex secrets and details, but I’m lucky enough that I have an outlet for it here. You read and respond and share and chat, and we have a special club where we can talk about this stuff. It’s awesome. It’s reciprocal. It’s simultaneously a shared joy and a shared burden – depending on what we’re talking about.

It also means that lots more people confide in me privately.

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