I could count on the fingers of one hand the number of times someone’s removed my bra with dexterity and skill. It just doesn’t happen very often. There’s a reason for this: bra hooks are pretty tricky to handle! When I was younger I think I bought in to the propaganda that a guy who was ‘good in bed’ would be able to magically unhook my bra one-handed while we were making out, without any fumbling whatsoever. But that’s bollocks. Nowadays, I think that the hottest way to remove a bra isn’t to fumble with it, or even dispense a little quick-fingered wizardry. The sexiest and most efficient way to remove my bra is to just tell me to take it off.

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When we start to kiss, I’m on my tiptoes. Stretching up to meet his lips, soft and floaty and slightly off-balance. We exist in this tiny, horny bubble in his kitchen, surrounded by jangly tunes and the smell of something spiced for dinner. I’m on tiptoes when we start to kiss.

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This gorgeous erotica about fucking over a mirror is written by Spencer Pritchard. It is read aloud here by Matt Johnson. 

I can’t quite remember where this falls in to the timeline of those two weeks in each other’s arms. My brain has shaken that particular tin of memories around so much, it doesn’t seem to have an order anymore. Just a beginning and an inevitable (and unwelcome) conclusion. The middle is a sweaty, panting, sticky mess of nights out with cocktails, a lazy Sunday getting lost in the city, verdant parks, pizza in bed, too many restaurants… All punctuated by your naked body, your incredible and explosive orgasms, and the strength of the bond that connected us.

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Yesterday I asked Twitter to give me a hand with blog topics – I have a few drafts but none are quite ready, and I was in a bit of a funk and feeling meh about writing in general. Not only did they come through in a powerfully brilliant way, with tonnes of questions that I may well tackle later, but one question in particular leapt out at me and begged for a longform answer. So with apologies to those of you who asked ones I have not answered (I’ll try, I promise), today I’m going to have a crack at this one from Quinn Rhodes: where does foreplay end and sex begin?

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This fabulous piece about anticipation, and flirting when you can’t fuck, is written by Quinn Rhodes of OnQueerStreet. It is read aloud here by Matt Johnson. Content note for dick-focussed smut. Quinn would also like to acknowledge the irony of writing a piece yearning for this kind of sex when COVID means that many people are limited to no-contact lusting.

Right now, I feel disconnected from my body. It’s partly lockdown and partly my depression, but I find it hard to remember that sex feels good until I’m literally pushing a vibrator against my junk. In theory I know that I like being touched and I like sucking dick, but in reality my arousal feels clinical and detached. It feels like my body has forgotten how to be so horny that I can’t think about anything but sex, and I miss it. I miss the overwhelming desire and anticipation I used to feel before a fuck.

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