The most sensible strategy, if you want to win someone back, is probably a combination of loving words and powerful actions: promise change, show how you’re working on that, tell me you love me, and remind me of all the things that I can’t help but love about you. That’s a pretty good strategy, right there, if you’re wedded to the idea of having one. There are two others, though, and enough time’s passed on each that I reckon it’s OK for me to tell the following stories. The first one is romantic, the second is horny as fuck.

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Right now there is someone I am missing. And because of the kind of stories I usually write, I imagine you think the next thousand words are going to describe a kind of urgent, aching desperation for them. Fair enough, I write that stuff so often. The intensity. The horn. The trembling need for somebody that borders occasionally on similar tingles to ‘fight or flight’. I want to fly to him, then fight him naked on a big soft bed before tumbling into sweaty giggles. That sort of thing. I do it so much that my fingers almost instinctively want to type that story, but this one’s different. The way I am missing this person right now is softer and calmer than that.

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I don’t think I’m a very fun person at the moment, let’s start there. I used to be this irritatingly bouncy, joy-filled fucker who skipped from social event to social event with the words “isn’t this BRILLIANT” on my lips. I loved my friends, found pleasure in so many little things, and although life was often underscored by a pulsing beat of anxiety, usually I could keep that at bay with the promise of a pint in the sunshine and a decent playlist in my headphones as I stomped down the street to reach it.

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“I just need you to know,” one guy told me, before we started fucking, “that I very rarely come during penetrative sex. In fact, I can count on the fingers of one hand the number of times that’s happened.” It didn’t matter who he was fucking or where his dick happened to be, he had very rarely ever come inside. You’d hope that someone as body-positive and sex-knowledgeable as Girl on the fucking Net would instinctively have some bon mot at the ready to put him at ease and reassure him that delayed ejaculation (or an inability to ejaculate full-stop) is common, and nothing to be ashamed of. And I did but… Although my rational brain was more than happy to explain that I don’t actually need champagne fountains of jizz in order to be sexually satisfied depressingly – embarrassingly – my heart fluttered with something a little different. When he told me how few people had managed to get him to come inside them, something deep in my soul chimed in with: ‘I bet I can do it, though.’

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Fucking doesn’t usually work by just ticking off your desires in order, like crossing items from your shopping list once you’ve put them in your basket. But talking about ideas in the downtime, or the afterglow of the previous shag, can help plant seeds for the future. We don’t have enough time together, me and this guy. Not nearly enough. And because we are acutely aware of this fact, it turns out that both of us have been making mental lists of possibilities. Lying on the bed after our first cunt-ruining fuck of this 24 hour hangout, he reveals that he’s even made notes on his phone. Scattered ideas from flash-frame images he’s wanked on since the last time we hung out.

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