Today’s guest blog was dictated by Bev (who is in her 70s) to her son (in his 40s), and I’ve tried to only very lightly edit the story as she told it to him. As you all know, I am constantly thirsty for guest blogs from older people about the sex they have and want, because we don’t get to see nearly enough of their stories in popular culture. If you took the lead from films and TV, you could be tricked into thinking that there’s an expiry date on sexual pleasure. You and I know that is not the case, and that it’s important (not to mention horny) to read and share experiences from people who don’t often get sexual representation in mainstream TV and film. To this end, please give a really warm welcome to Bev, and join me in sending her tonnes of love and best wishes for a speedy recovery so she can enjoy her post-chemo hook-up…

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What’s more satisfying – making someone laugh, or making them come? Don’t think too hard, just answer the question with your first instinct. Laugh or come? Which is more satisfying? I asked this question a while ago on Mastodon and the results were extremely close. Within a few percent of each other. I found this really surprising: I’d expected it to go a very specific way, with a dramatic win for one side. I’m not even like those people who tried to nitpick the poll by saying ‘why not both?’ (because the whole point of the question is that it’s an either/or, ya bellends, really obviously we’d all go for both if that were an option). Anyway. I expected the poll to go decisively one way, because to me there’s no contest whatsoever.

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In the moment I broke up with my ex – the moment itself, when I said the words, “I can’t do this any more, I’m so sorry” or whatever it was – I knew that at least one of my friends agreed it was the right decision. She’d sent me an email, the week before, which started with the sentence “I didn’t think you were ready to hear this last year, but now I feel like it’s time…” It was one of the best emails I have ever received. It was kind, caring and helpful. It did not trash my ex or instruct me to break up with him, it just reminded me of the conversations I’d had with her over the last few years, and what those conversations amounted to from her perspective. She held up a mirror to the picture I’d been painting in a way that made me see the image as clearly as she did. To this day, I am grateful to her for sending that email. Without it, my life would look very different today.

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My bedsheets smell like last night’s fucking. Well, fucking which lasted the whole of yesterday if I’m honest. Then once again this morning at roughly 5 am. We barebacked: my favourite kind of fuck. Rock-solid, exquisitely-shaped, diamond-hard cock sliding inside me, bare. Leaking precum. I could feel every single atom of his dick against every ridge of the inside of my aching cunt. His flesh meeting mine, stretching me out. Sensing, as he slid into my body, just how desperately and urgently wet I was. We bareback fucked to a soundtrack of tunes that he selected and I utterly loved while I clung to that man like my life depended on it and begged him to never stop doing what he was doing. He looked into my eyes and whispered: “you’re fucking incredible” and kissed me with a kind of gentle awe. This is a real thing which happened to me yesterday. This man fucked me like he meant it. And oh God, put me out of my misery now please: if this man turns out not to mean it, I will shatter.

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I want you to connect with this blog post. I want that with all of them, but this one in particular. Dive in, let go, have fun. Don’t wonder where it’s going or what might happen next. I want you to connect with this story.

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