I wear sexy boots because I imagine they make me look better when I’m bent over and being fucked. I wear boots because they make me feel powerful. And I wear boots because without them I am just a person, and a person is a frightening thing to be.

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I read this week’s guest blog three times before I even replied to the guest blogger. Then I ran into the room where my partner was sitting and read it aloud to him. Then I read it again on my own. Then, finally, I emailed him back to say ‘HOLY SHIT YES PLEASE.’ As he explained in his email, it covers fetish and voyeurism but at its heart it’s about relationships. Knowing each other, trusting each other, and doing those things that you just know your partner will love… Jason explains why his wife wears leather.

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“SHORTS,” my brain screams, irritatingly. “LOOK. MEN WEARING SEXY SHORTS.” Try as I might to shut it up, it refuses to be silenced on the most important issue of the day. “LOOK,” it insists, even as I try to distract myself by remembering my times tables, “THERE ARE SEXY LEGS ALL OVER THE PLACE. SHORTS. LOOK AT THE SEXY SHORTS.” So I comply. I drink it in. And I melt with lust.

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I stood on the escalator the other day behind a woman in slightly-too-tight clothes. Her bra straps dug into her shoulders and back, pressing against her flesh. Pinching at her skin. Highlighting the unquestionable solidity – the thereness of her. She was beautiful.

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My dude and I are walking down the street on the way to catch a train. It’s fairly late, and the streets are filled with tanked-up football fans and loved-up students off their tits on MDMA so naturally, there are police. Just in front of us, a pair of young police officers get out of a panda car in their stab vests. She’s mid-twenties, with short blond hair and the kind of muscle tone you’d need to restrain a suspect. He’s slightly older, and has a solid heft to him that I’d imagine would feel achingly good on top of me during a struggle-fuck.

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