This guy has a really neat dating trick that makes me feel comfortable and relaxed in his company. It’s one which means we get to progress towards knowing each other way faster than I have with most other men in the years since I broke up with my ex. He does it consistently and brilliantly, and each time he does it I’m taken by pleasant surprise. Wanna know what the trick is? It’s easy. Absurdly, ridiculously easy, but quite rare. He asks me questions. That’s it. He asks me about my life, and when I say something interesting he asks a follow-up. If he realises he’s been speaking for too long, and the conversation is becoming a monologue, he says “enough about me. How about you?” That’s it. That’s the trick.

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OK listen. As a blogger who relies on social media to do important work (keeping up with Sex News, responding to journo requests, promoting blogs and audio porn, and shamelessly bragging whenever I get railed by a hot guy), I cannot fully disappear from Twitter until someone turns out the lights. While people who matter remain on the platform, I’ll still have to maintain a presence there – scheduling posts to go out so that people in different time zones get the chance to beat one out to them too. But let’s face it, it’s run by a fascist toddler and is now so choked up with spam that it’s borderline unusable. Plus, as a sex blogger, I have now been so shadowbanned that even the grown-ups who follow me are unlikely to see my extremely high-quality tweets. I need a new social media home, otherwise where else will I post my scorching hot takes? So I’m calling this for now: fuck BlueSky, fuck Threads, you can find me on Mastodon. Here’s why.

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This man has spent the last twelve months greeting me with eager smiles each time I see him. When I walk into the shop, he looks up and sees me then beams a fully radiant grin. I return it with gusto, and he smiles even more brightly. Something about this guy’s warmth makes me want to get to know him better. But something in every fibre of my being recoils at the idea of being bold enough to actually ask him out.

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This gorgeous piece is written and read by Robyn of Robyn Eats Everything. 

Do you want a photo of me? Do you want a shot of my body, my face, my expression as I climax? Do you want something to look at while you’re alone, desperately wishing I was there with you? Do you want something to help you imagine touching me anywhere you want to? Do you want my body to be all yours, right there in your hand? Do you want a photo of me to wank off to, darling?

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The other day, I fell for a stranger. I choose my words here carefully. ‘Fell for’, not ‘fancied’ or ‘desired’. ‘Fell’, like you would if you slipped on a banana skin. Fall as in pratfall. But also fall as in ‘fail’. Perhaps this fall wasn’t a trip or a stumble (cue laughter track) but something more dismal, like a ‘fall’ off the edge of a cliff in a climactic episode of Eastenders. When I told this story to friends over WhatsApp, with a winky face and what I thought was a killer punchline, half of them reacted with sympathy. One asked if it was meant to be funny or sad. It was meant to be funny, but I guess if that isn’t obvious I should ponder why my friends are responding to the comedy of my life like it’s a tragedy. Maybe I should look a little closer. Let me tell you a story about falling for a man I’ve never met.

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