The evening I lost my virginity I lay awake in bed staring at the wall, willing myself to feel special. I assumed that with that magical penis-in-vagina moment, something fundamental about me would change. I couldn’t put my finger on what, exactly – I didn’t expect sparks, or revelations, or for the world to burst into glorious technicolour like it did in the Wizard of Oz. I just thought I’d feel… different.

I didn’t, and looking back at that moment as an adult that’s a blessed relief. Imagine if there really were a significant change bestowed upon someone just because they happened to have completed a particular sex act. If it shone out of them like a traffic light, blinking ‘green’ for ‘has fucked’. It’d be quite disturbing, not to mention really awkward over breakfast with your family.

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I’ll admit it – I’m shameless. Sometimes I write things because they make me horny, sometimes I write things because I know they make other people horny, and sometimes… well… sometimes I email other sex bloggers and ask them to write things because I really want to hear them describe something hot in intense detail.

When someone first used a Doxy massager on me, I was struck by the idea that the orgasm wasn’t so much something that I’d contributed to – by grinding against things or thinking ‘happy orgasm wave thoughts’ – but something that was being torn from me. Like a hot, juddering, almost involuntary muscle spasm. Part of that, I think, comes from the fact that the person holding the Doxy doesn’t have to do much – they can just hold it tight up against my clit and watch me squirm and squawk like a cat trapped in a laundry basket. I want something that does the same thing for guys. So, having researched and settled on the Rev1000 – a thing that looks like a sci-fi sink plunger, but which promises hands (and effort-free) orgasms, I did the obvious, shameless thing: I contacted a guy who’d used one and asked him to tell me all about it.

This is Andy – AKA RuffledSheets, who was lovely enough to oblige my whims. I’m massively grateful to him for indulging me, so please do check out his blog, follow him on Twitter, and check out his thoughts (and hot NSFW pics) after the jump.

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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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Hovering near the top of my ‘missed opportunities’ list, somewhere just behind ‘never getting round to that gangbang dinner party’ is a snowy afternoon in the early noughties.

Remember that time in your life when you were most carefree? Happiest? Most content in your body and intensely, hornily desperate to use it? Well, mine was around about then. Just before I’d started shagging, but long after I’d discovered boys. My weekends and evenings were spent huddled in whispering, weed-smoking, cider-swilling groups, competing with each other to contrive more imaginative ways we could get touched up by our equally-horny peers.

I miss those times.

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