I’m a big fan of build-up and anticipation. This period of time just before Christmas is often more fun than Christmas itself for me, because while it exists only in my mind it can pretty much always be perfect. The coolest Christmas presents look brilliant under the tree when they’re wrapped, but in the afterglow of the opening frenzy there’s always the worry that the amazing thing you picked out to give your special someone will end up disappointing them. Without the shiny paper it’ll be mundane and obvious. Potentially even embarrassing. The same is true of sex fantasies.

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This post discusses forced orgasm, which is sometimes a part of consensual non-consent play. I assure you I’d only ever want to do this to a guy who was 100% up for playing this role, but if forced orgasm is not your thing, look away now.

I want to watch a man being milked of his spunk. While he bites his lip and holds back, and screws his eyes tight shut to concentrate on something – anything – else. A guy who is being forced to come, at the same time as he’s been ordered to try not to.

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This week’s guest blogger – Jamie Bowden-Smith – is a historian of the late 20th century and runs the Gay News Archive Project, republishing the pioneering LGBT+ newspaper of the 1970s.  He tweets at @thisisrjg and if I am 100% honest with you, he is one of the people I have met through Twitter that I would most like to go for a pint with. He has both a passion and a knack for articulating the delicious details about what makes something hot, and in this blog he applies his knack to something very close to my own heart: the sexiness of smell.

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Last week I was away for a couple of days at the sex industry trade show Erofame – I’ll tell you all about it in an upcoming post. While I was away, inevitably I started missing my partner. I missed him generally, of course: I wanted to be able to chat to him about all the cool new sex toys I was discovering and share stories from the event. But more specifically I missed his cock, and I looked forward immensely to coming home and sliding right down to the base of it.

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A long time ago, a beautiful man I knew wore a kilt to a party. Like many men who wear kilts to parties, he immediately made a joke about whether he was going commando. His statement was an ambiguous ‘maybe’ followed by a nudge and a wink that invited us to wonder. Never one to pass up an invitation like that, I spent the entire rest of the night wondering. In detail.

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