I start this fucking weird day (a day which I hope will contain at least some weird fucking) with two cups of coffee. And then a third, to be on the safe side. But you can’t get high on coffee… at least I can’t. I’m meeting this guy at eleven am, and we’re going to fuck in his hotel. At eleven. In the morning. I am stone cold fucking sober, and sober sex is a pretty new kink.

(more…)

He puts my hand up against his crotch, tells me ‘press here – not too hard’ and twitches his pelvic floor. His muscles flutter at my fingertips and in the palm of my hand, his dick jumps. Throbs. I press my hand tightly against him and stare. Openly. Impolitely. Greedily. I look down his body, see my own hand cupping his cock, and feel the pulsing throb as he works those muscles.

(more…)

This gorgeous piece in which someone’s friends help fuck a guy is written by Quinn Rhodes of OnQueerStreet.com – check out his website at that link. Content note for some consensual non-consent and CBT – cock-and-ball torture, not cognitive behavioural therapy.

(more…)

There’s a guy who pops up occasionally in celebrity gossip articles, or tweets, or various pop culture ephemera in which I have only a passing interest. I have absolutely no idea who he is. However, I do know that he wears extremely tight trousers, has piercings and tattoos that have sunk hooks into my very soul, and lips that I would fight wars to have wrapped round my nipples. So. I don’t know this man from Adam, but here’s what he can do to me.

(more…)

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.

(more…)