I took him by the hand and led him through the kitchen, then along the hallway and to the bottom of the stairs. I stood up on one step, smiled at him, then wrapped both of my arms around him in a giant hug. “This is what it feels like when you hug me,” I told him. “And this is why I love your hugs.”

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The last couple of times I had sex, I cried afterwards. I know, this blog post sounds like it’s going to be a little bit horrible: it is. Sorry about that. Sometimes life is full of hot fucking and joyful blow jobs, and sometimes… well, sometimes it is stress and panic and crying after sex.

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Sometimes the best compliments are the ones you least expect. Mine came out of the blue about 4:30 on a rainy Saturday afternoon, while we were having a massive argument. Well, not exactly. We were fuming in the silent aftermath of a massive argument – each getting on with our own thing and wondering if we could pull this shit together before the evening began and we realised we wanted to be friends again.

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“I gave in around six in the morning, and came all over my stomach thinking about fucking you bent over the bed and digging my fingernails into your tits.”

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I miss you. Every morning when I wake up and see you there, I miss you. I miss you while we’re exchanging emails about the minutiae of our lives. I miss you when we sit together on the sofa, our eyes locked on the telly, to keep each other out.

I miss you when we fight.

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