If someone were to ask me what I bring to the table, sex-wise, I wouldn’t mention specific parts of my body. My body is fine, my hair is fine, my clothes are basically clothes. I like to think I’ve got a pretty filthy grin, but apart from that my physicality is nothing to either write home or pen a strongly-worded letter of complaint about. So if we’re having sex, what I’m bringing to the party isn’t my body, it’s my attitude. To be blunt: my enthusiasm.

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Katherine Ryan tells a fabulous story, in her stand-up show Glitter Room, about the time her ex-boyfriend moved to Japan. He had to go for work, and she didn’t want to move with him, so they split up. Shortly after he arrived in the country, he rang her to express shock that she had stayed where she was, and hadn’t followed him halfway around the world. He tells her: “I thought you needed me more than that.” Katherine replies: “Oh sweetie, I didn’t need you – I liked you. I enjoy having you around, but you are a luxury item.” I’ve been thinking about this a lot lately, and I think I understand a bit more where I fall on the idea of ‘needing’ men (or ‘a man’). Friendships are one thing, but when it comes to sexual and romantic relationships, men are a luxury.

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I think I’ve got it: the cast-iron, rock-solid argument for why you should tell me at least some of what you wank about. Not ‘you’ as in ‘everyone’, ‘you’ as in ‘people I am fucking/wooing/thirsting after.’ I know it is kind of terrifying to let someone deep into your horny, fuckdrunk brain, but this is why you should take your courage in both hands and tell me what you wank about anyway.

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This week’s guest blog includes discussion of sexual violence. It’s by the brilliant @EuphemiseThis, who’s written here in the past about gorgeously sexy things – having her first threesome, being spanked by a couple, and lots more. But today she’s here to share a recent experience with a man who was not who he said he was. One of the things that has helped save countless people I know from abuse is the bravery of people speaking up about when it happens – sharing stories and alerting others to people who may be a danger to them. Huge thanks to her for sharing her story here.

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They call it the walk of shame but you know damn well it’s a victory march. The morning after you’ve got laid, as you drag your fuck-tired body to the bus stop, or the tube, or the café round the corner which will furnish you with a bacon butty for the long journey home, you know: this is not shame, it is glory.

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