Even given a multiverse of infinite worlds I still struggle to comprehend a possible one in which I could give less of a shit about your kids.

Don’t get me wrong, I wish no harm upon your – or indeed anyone else’s – children. It’s just that given the choice I’d rather you didn’t tell me about them in unrelenting, tedious detail.

I know single parent dating is hard, but this rule applies most emphatically, to those guys that I fuck.

Why? Well, kids just aren’t sexy. Your ability to raise offspring, while no doubt held in great regard by some women, has no bearing whatsoever on my own affections towards you.

Talk about them if you like – I’m aware that in the cacophonous mêlée of your life you may well need to vent about certain things. Feel free to mention them, tell me how precocious and cute they are, or regale me with an amusing anecdote involving the time one of them said something so adorable it made everyone at that family wedding spew Cava through their nose in a spontaneous gesture of delighted amusement: just don’t bang on and on about them as if they’re the only interesting thing about you.

I highly doubt I’ll ever have kids, and if I do I’m sure the world will not be big enough to contain the gigantic flying fuck that I’m willing to give about them. My kids will be as special to me as yours, no doubt, are to you. But right now, please don’t expect me to care.

Further, please understand that too much child-based conversation could seriously hinder my ability to find you attractive. Yes, you are virile and strong and manly: your sperm has been biologically successful on at least one occasion. But that does not impress me. If you can shoot it over your shoulder I’ll be impressed. Hit a bullseye at 20 paces and I’ll fawn in gushing admiration. Dribble it into a woman? Not so much.

Your reminder that sex produces small, vomiting, expensive packets of noise actually has a similar effect on me to the effect that it might have on you if I were to mention castration: it kills the mood. It reminds me that there are horrible, awful, cunt-ripping things that can happen to me as a result of our sweaty, joyful union. And those are things that, believe it or not, make me dry up faster than you can say “episiotomy“.

Again, I will restate for the people who will have skimmed over my original disclaimer: I wish no harm upon your kids. I’m not anti-child. I appreciate that in order for our race to exist beyond the next generation we do need some of these creatures.

So I don’t hate kids. Parents I know assure me patronizingly that I’ll definitely want one some day, and at that moment I’ll understand the soaring joy of having them. I will one day realise that it’s all worthwhile – giving up my social life, burying myself in shit and vomit, spending all my cash on ridiculous buggies and toys that make animal noises when you drop-kick them across the kitchen, etc.

They’re right, of course, one day I may well want a small girlonthenet so I can train her to continue my glorious works. But in the meantime, as I have no kids, I have no opinions to contribute to this conversation about yours. Even if I did have opinions, you probably wouldn’t want me to contribute them.

Usually a conversation consists of one person talking about something and the other chipping in with an opinion or a story of their own. Sadly I have few appropriate child-based stories of my own and lack of experience means my opinions are worthless to you.

I can’t count the number of times I’ve offered a suggestion to a parent on how to deal with the toddler-based problem they have just told me about, only to be greeted with “you wouldn’t understand, you’re not a parent.”

Well no, demonstrably I’m not. And so you talking about your kids is a pretty one-sided conversation. A one-sided conversation that leaves me slightly bored, occasionally belittled and deeply unaroused.

Look – children can be very cute sometimes. They’re a bit like small versions of adults, but more stupid, which means they say funny things and have cute tiny hands and wear outrageous clothes and beg for ice-cream and all that jazz. They have toys that I pretend I don’t want to play with but secretly quite enjoy (train sets and Play-doh: fuck yeah) and they do tend to liven up otherwise tedious family gatherings.

So I don’t hate kids, and if you’re a boy I’m fucking I certainly don’t hate your kids – I just don’t want to be engaged in a long discussion about them. Just as you’re probably deeply disinterested in the minutiae of the strategy meeting that I had today at work, I am not interested in the minutiae of tiny lives you nurture when you’re somewhere far from me.

Your kids are fine – I don’t hate them. On the contrary I wish them health, wealth, happiness, success, and a long life followed by a noble exit. I just wish they’d do it fucking quietly.

I’m not sure she’s really bisexual – she just likes the attention.

There’s no such thing as bisexuals.

All women are a bit bi really, aren’t they?

All of the above statements are utter bullshit.

The main reason they’re bullshit is, of course, because they write off people’s sexual feelings as things that can be easily dismissed rather than things which can shape someone’s entire life. No matter what you believe about sexuality, I’d hope everyone can see why this is the sort of thing that only a total arsehole would do.

However, more subtly, they’re bullshit because they assume that it is easy for us to put ourselves in someone else’s position and make judgments about what it is that floats their boat.

Being a bat

Philosophers and people who are generally interested in this sort of thing will be familiar with a paper on the nature of consciousness called ‘what is it like to be a bat?‘ It’s by a dude called Thomas Nagel and is an excellent intro to the problem of inner qualia – that feeling that it is like to be a thing.

I have massively simplified the issues here for the sake of analogy, but please do read the paper – it’s ace. 

I can know that bats ‘see’ using sonar, and I can (if I study a bit more than I have) understand exactly how they do that. But the problem is that no matter how detailed my studies I will never be able to experience the feeling of what it is like to actually be that thing.

More simply: picture something sexual. A slim guy being bear-hug-fucked by a much larger guy, for example. You’ve got an image in your head now, right?

I can look at a number of physical things to try and work out what’s going on – I can see if you’re turned on, I can measure your erection/wetness, and if I have kickass equipment I can even see exactly which parts of your brain are active – the synapses that are firing.

But no matter how much I study I will never be able to fully experience the feeling that you have. I won’t see the same image, nor understand exactly how you feel about this particular instance of guy-on-guy action.

Sexual feelings and consciousness

People have physical reactions to sexual things, which we can measure and replicate. They’re deliciously and delightfully scientific, which is why scientists love them. If you want to find out what someone likes the most simple way to measure it is to show it to them and see if they get hard.

But the problem with people is that they also have opinions and emotions which, to be frank, are a pain in the arse to measure. So what’s the best way, in day-to-day life, to establish what someone likes? Well, we fucking ask them.

And when we ask them, we do have to take what they say at face value. I no more know what’s going on in your head than you know that right now I’m wishing you’d slide your trousers down and start slowly stroking your growing erection.

I don’t know what turns you on. The only possible way I can know is for you to tell me. And you can tell me anything – you like being fucked by men, you like rubbing your cock against fully-clothed women, you like rolling around in a mish-mash of people of all different sizes, shapes, colours and genders – I believe you.

Am I bisexual?

Depends on whether you feel like one. Sometimes I like to fuck women, but it’s quite a rare thing for me to find girls that I genuinely fancy. I have a very specific type of girl, and there are some women who make me giggle and drool and stare longingly at their tits, wishing I could pick them up, have them wrap their legs around me, and push them up against a wall while I bury my face in the smooth warmth of their cleavage.

So I fuck women sometimes. But I’m not bi – I’m straight. I feel straight. I don’t wake up in the night craving passionate lesbian embraces, I wake up in the night sweating and panting and reaching for the nearest cock.

You might have a similar mix of sexual preferences, but think that the occasional fucking of your non-preference gender does make you bi. And that, kids, is absolutely fucking fine. Tick whichever box you like on your equal opportunities form, because only you know exactly what’s going on inside your head.

If you tell me you like a particular sexual act or type of person not only will I believe you but I will march loudly through the streets to defend your right to do it with any consenting adult you choose.

People can listen to you and advise and discuss and disagree, but no one has the right to tell you that you’re ‘not a proper bi guy’ because you’ve never been anally fucked. No one has the right to say that you’re definitely gay because you’ve only ever fucked people of the same gender, despite the fact that you have wide-ranging masturbatory fantasies that include both genders banging you until your body aches. On a personal note, no one has the right to tell me I’m bi because sometimes I look at ladies’ tits.

People can know what you do and are and say, but no one knows the feeling that it is like to be you. It’s unique and individual and brilliant and personal – assuming that I know your exact sexual feelings is like assuming I can navigate Oxford Circus using sonar.

So the next time someone tries to tell you there’s no such thing as bisexuals, or that all women are ‘a bit bi’ or that so-and-so is only bi for the attention, ask them what it’s like to be a bat. Thomas Nagel would like to know. And so would I.

Things it is not OK to do after sex

Ask a serious question

It’s not just women wanting to pillow-talk: guys do this too. From “do you love me?” to “how was it for you?” any question that’s going to require diplomacy or the accurate articulation of coherent thought should be ruled out.

Yeah, OK, your partner might well love you after you’ve banged twelve shades of awesome into their quivering, lustful body, but it doesn’t mean as much as it might under more considered circumstances. When I’m panting with post-sex exhaustion I’d happily declare my undying love to a passing springer spaniel.

Cry

This one probably goes without saying. Unless, through the weeping, your partner can just about make out the words “I’ve never had it so good.” or “Now I know what heaven feels like.”

Cuddle

It’s been suggested that cuddling releases Oxytocin – sometimes referred to as the ‘love hormone’. I am not entirely sure if this is good or bad science (feel free to correct me – I’ve had a read around and it looks OK) but whether it is or not, I think I do tend to develop stronger emotional bonds with people who snuggle me. Strong emotional bonds aren’t something I’m massively keen to develop, so cuddling: no.

Also, you know, we’ve just shagged – I’m probably quite hot. Get the fuck off me.

Secretly knock one out

Unsatisfying shag? It’s probably impolite to let your partner know by waking them up with furtive duvet rustling at 2 am.

Things it is OK to do after sex

Openly knock one out

If the sex was unsatisfying, why not tell your partner that you loved it enough you could go for some more? Sit on them, grab hold of the nearest sexy bit, and use your other hand to masturbate yourself to frothy completion.

Fart

I make a mild effort to not appear disgusting in front of boys – this effort increases the chance that I will get to fuck them again. But I couldn’t give a flying wank how disgusting they are in front of me. Everything they do is part of their sweating, rugged, testosterone-oozing charm.

So if we’ve just had sex, don’t do the far-away concentrating look and clench your arse-cheeks until you go red in the face. Fart away, gents – I’ll be far too shagged to care.

Chat shit

Deep and meaningfuls are right out, but you know what your partner might appreciate? Some joke you heard at lunchtime. Or a rant about people who stand on the left when they’re on a tube escalator. Or an ignorant opinion you picked up from the letters page of the Evening Standard on the way over.

If you want to talk after sex, make sure you say something they don’t have to put much effort in to listen to.

Go for a beer

Whether it’s problems with rigidity or issues with balance, being drunk makes sex slightly trickier. Why not switch the order of your evening and have a fantastic shag followed by post-fantastic-shag congratulatory beers?

Fistbump

We’re both pretty pleased with ourselves right? Right. We both got laid, right? Right. Let’s celebrate our mutual victory in time-honoured fashion.

High fives are also acceptable.

Number 16 was a rare find – a genuinely good mate with whom I spent many a brilliant hour getting utterly pissed and chatting about anything and everything.

The first time we had sex was a complete accident – I don’t think either of us had entertained the notion until one night, after downing enough tequila to fell an elephant, we ended up snogging mid-karaoke in a dirty pub at 2 am.

Oh. We’re doing this, are we? OK.

That initial shag eventually led to a comfortable routine – beer, more beer, yet more beer and then a pissed stumble back to his flat where we’d swap stories of past sexual conquests, smoke an obscene number of fags, then undress each other and fuck like we were playing tennis.

I don’t want to describe a specific incident, but I would like to make an observation – number 16 made noises.

The sex itself was vanilla – frantic, hot, pissed and desperate. We’d both decide we’d had enough of drinking and went into his room to strip off. And while we were stripping he’d talk, and while he was cupping my tits in his hands he’d talk, and when we were fucking he’d talk. And it was so. Fucking. Good.

He spoke to me, he moaned, he said ‘oh yes’ when I did something nice. He sucked in big gulps of breath while I had his cock in my mouth. He sighed. He moaned a bit more. He went ‘ugh’ when he came.

Number 16 said things and talked dirty. He told me he was hard, that he loved how it felt when he was inside me. He told me how wet I was. He asked me if I liked it. He groaned and sighed and climaxed with vocal, lusty relief.

Good lord the world could do with more vocal boys. Vocal boys make me feel so good. I love the challenge of doing things to make them go ‘aaah’ and if I get that feedback I’m going to keep doing it again and again. If I could request anything from the gentlemen of this world it’d be to turn up the fucking volume.

You don’t have to shout it from the rooftops, you don’t have to scream and cry and wail like a mourning widow. But don’t lie there in silence, humping me stoically with a face of concentration like you’re solving a particularly difficult crossword puzzle. Come on boys – make some noise.

___

We’re still mates. He has a girlfriend now and is almost like a proper grown-up. They go on holiday and have dates and are serious with each other, and when we get together for beers he tells me about her and I’m pleased that he’s got the secure happiness which, let’s be frank, I can’t give to guys.

But I still look at him and want to tear him apart.

I see his sexy, filthy hands gripped round a pint glass and remember how he’d take his rings off before plunging his fingers into my cunt.

How he’d hold my hair back so he could watch me taking the length of his cock into my mouth.

How he’d squeeze my tits nice and hard, and tell me that I liked it.

I mostly remember the noisy sex – what he sounded like.  What he’d say to me, how he’d moan and sigh. Best of all that wonderful, audible moment when he’d shudder and – with a muffled cry – come deep inside me so hard I could feel it.

Language is a beautiful and ever evolving concept. There are some sexy things that are beautiful to say, some sexy language that can be hilarious, and some that can just be satisfying and brilliant in conversation down the pub. But why does so much sexy language have to be completely unrepresentative of the act that it purports to describe?

Lick her out

Hi, teenaged boys. When you generously give head to a lady it is extremely unlikely that you are actually going to be licking her out. Hopefully you’ll be moving your tongue around with varying degrees of pressure in the vague arena of her clitoris.

But if you are actually ‘licking her out’ that sort of implies that you are scooping unwanted gunge from the depths of her ladyspout, which is not only odd but will probably make the sexual experience drier and therefore less enjoyable.

Blow job

Spread word throughout the land to all inexperienced teenage girls: you do not blow on it. In fact, I think we should make it a national priority to rename the damn thing a ‘suck job’.

Because (and do correct me if I’m wrong) I believe you actually suck on it.

Fingering

Wow. Your finger looks nice and thick and satisfying. Almost as satisfying as a cock. Except of course it doesn’t unless you happen to be a genetic freak with gigantic cock-sized fingers who should definitely drop me an email.

‘Fingering’ implies that you only use one of them. It also sort of implies that the fingers are the most important part, which of course they’re not.

Any self-respecting pervert knows that what this should really be called is ‘using your hands to fuck me and generally mess around with my genitals in a variety of interesting ways until I squeal and bite through your shoulder.’ Although I guess that has the downside of being impossible to contain within a tweet or sexy text message.

Smash her back doors in

If there are breaky noises then you are definitely doing it wrong.

While we’re on the subject you might ‘get laid’, but you never ever ‘smash it.’ No matter how you generally rate a good fuck (based on romance, enthusiasm, inventiveness, or simply the ability to remain erect despite having a decent view of my face with the top light on), I don’t think anyone alive enjoys it more if it’s accompanied by the sound of a shattering pelvis.