As a massive hedonist, I want you to find your joy. No one else in your life can ever have your happiness as their top priority (which is right – only you can truly know all the things that will bring you pleasure), so it probably needs to be a high priority for you. Around this time of year, some of you will likely have broken – or be about to break – one or more of the punitive resolutions you set yourself on the first of January. Restricting pleasure or causing yourself pain in the name of self improvement. I’m not qualified to tell you how to live a healthy or virtuous life, but if you want to make resolutions you can stick to, I have a few tips from the hedonist gutter that might help you set ones you’re less inclined to break.

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I told this story briefly, while at the festival last year: ‘I sucked a dick at Glastonbury’, I tweeted, with undertones of ‘achievement unlocked.’ The response was a combination of welcome high fives and entirely unwelcome shame: eww, blow jobs? At a festival?! I hope you used wet wipes first! Some people are so weird. But to each their own. I don’t tell sex stories without knowing that sometimes I’ll press people’s shame buttons. Some people’s instinct to say ‘eww’ when they hear that some random slag got facefucked in a field in Somerset is as natural as my instinct to brag about it in the first place. I sucked a dick at Glastonbury last year. And as I pack my bag for this year, I’ve decided now’s the time to tell that story.

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This stunningly filthy butt plug story is written and read by Molly of Molly’s Daily Kiss, and originally appeared on her website. 

“When was the last time you wore this?”

I glance back over my shoulder. He is holding up the blue glass to the light, turning it one way and the other, studying it. He senses my eyes on him and turns his attention to me, an expectant look his face as he waits for my reply.

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He’ll be home any minute so she has to do her hair. Curled and set, brushed out neatly before being shaped around her face so it looks like it was effortless. She selects her best outfit, one she knows he’ll find appealing. Emphasising her curves just enough but not too much. Making her look like an angel. Nails are polished. Legs already smooth – earlier that day she ran herself a bath and her skin is now powder-soft, like new-fallen snow. Bathed and moisturised and shaven and plucked and perfect. Man, I’m so glad I’m not a 1950s housewife!

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I have a habit of staring. Not at strangers – that’s too creepy, even for me. I have a habit of staring at my boyfriend. He’s astonishingly beautiful, and I like to look at beautiful men during moments of downtime. When they’re not deliberately making an effort to be sexy, just going about their daily lives with no idea how stunning they actually are. Sometimes they catch me doing this.

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