So, here’s an odd statement, which the guy who emailed me was kind enough to allow me to publish:

I sometimes want to try things out – I have zero or little experience and I worry about that. Would be wrong to use a girl as just like to practise on and improve?

The word ‘practice’ bothers me, and not just because of its context-dependent spelling of ‘s’ or ‘c’. This gentleman was asking, after my article on virginity, whether it was OK to find someone to practise sexual things with (kissing, oral, and other delicious non-penis-focused activity) without having to have actual sex.

The answer to this question is a wholehearted ‘yes’, but also a wholehearted ‘no’, because of the way it was phrased.

Not having sex is totally fine

If you meet someone and want to do sexy things but without having what you’d class as ‘full sex’ (i.e. train goes in tunnel) then that is not only fine but, if the other person you’re with is a fan of kissing, oral, frotting, etc, utterly delightful. There’s a deep and gutwrenching joy in having things that aren’t ‘full sex’, and although I am personally a bit of a penetration fetishist (I find it hard to get off if I’m not being pounded, or at least under promise of being pounded in the very near future), there are hundreds of other things that are fun.

However, the word ‘practice’, makes me shudder with discomfort, because it implies some things that make me sceptical of how you actually feel about your partner.

There is no sex Olympics

The key question, really, is what are you practising for? Is there some sex competition that I didn’t know you could enter? Are there skills and techniques you need to know in order to pass a shagging exam? Is this hard work going to pay off ten years down the line when you meet someone who refuses to sleep with you unless she can see your Doctorate in lovemaking? No? Then what you’re doing isn’t practice.

It’s an uncomfortable word because usually we practise on something that isn’t the real thing. We learn to drive with supervision, in cars that have a spare set of pedals so our instructor can slam the brakes on when we almost power headlong into a roundabout (and Colin, if you’re reading this, I’m really bloody sorry). We practise exam questions on past test papers. Above all, the results of our ‘practice’ don’t really matter, because the marks aren’t real or final.

But in bed, the person you’re with is real. They have real nerve endings, real emotions and desires. To reduce them to a GCSE test paper, in which the marks (i.e. their feelings) don’t really matter sounds deeply disrespectful. This, coupled with the word ‘use’ was what gave me shudders in this guy’s email.

There’s nothing wrong with having consensual sex fun with someone that doesn’t involve penetration, but there is definitely something wrong with viewing any individual sexual partner as just a stepping stone towards the amazing sex that you’ll eventually have with someone else. Heavily implied there is ‘better’. You practice on the not-quite-real person, then have better sex with someone… well… better.

Eww.

Sex practice doesn’t make perfect

Most importantly, the idea of practice implies that if you do enough of it you’ll eventually become ‘good’. This is one of those bullshit beliefs we hold because so many advice columns, sex books, and articles about ‘Ten Ways To Blow Her Mind In Bed’ insist on peddling the myth that everyone likes the same thing. That you can be, objectively, a ‘good shag’. This – and I cannot stress this enough – is bollocks.

Sometimes you’ll have sex with someone for the first time, and loads of your trademark moves will genuinely blow their mind. They’ll sigh, and writhe, and moan in delight as you rub, lick, suck, and fuck them into a glorious and delicious climax. But this is rare. Most of the time you’ll do some things they like, some things they love, and many things that make them want to say ‘left a bit’, ‘a bit softer’, ‘no, wait, a bit harder’ until you do something exactly the way they like it.

I’ve slept with a fair few guys as well as a few girls. Each and every one of them was slightly different, with some of them doing things in ways I’d never have anticipated but turned out to love. Others did things that worked well for their previous partners but turned me right off. I’m sure the same is true of what they thought of me, and generally with those people I was with for longer, we got better at pleasing the other one and knowing what they wanted. No amount of practice can prepare you as well as the knowledge that everyone’s different. So practice doesn’t make perfect – it doesn’t even make ‘good’ – the best revision you can do is to talk to the person you’re with, and listen when they tell you what they like.

Don’t ‘use’ anyone

You don’t owe it to any hypothetical future partner to be the best you can be in bed. It’s not the case that you can pick people who don’t matter to help you perfect your techniques so that you can wow the love of your life at some point. Firstly because the love of your life may well want something completely different, secondly because whoever you’re practicing with may turn out to be the love of your life, and finally because it’s just a shitty thing to do. If I had wild and sticky sex with someone and subsequently found out that they were just ‘using’ me for ‘practice’, I’d kick them out of bed before you could say ‘I am not an unfeeling shag-robot.’

I don’t think this guy is deliberately being mean, or callous. After a few emails back and forth I think he’s just under the impression that he needs to be the best he can be. But you can be at your best not by learning techniques or practising your cunnilingus skills, but by being empathetic, caring and considerate of what your partner needs and wants. Not a hypothetical future partner – the one you’re with in exactly that moment.

Last week I wrote about cheese-sandwich sex. The kind of easy, everyday, sex-for-need that you have when you just need a quick fuck. Today’s exceptional guest blog is right at the other end of the spectrum: this is 12-course gourmet sex. The kind of sex you dream about, have, then think about for the rest of your life.

Both the story and accompanying picture are courtesy of @HigherKinks, who you should follow on Twitter if you love hot pictures, and the gleeful, lusty delight with which a pair of perverts go about enjoying each other.

Joyous abandon

One look from a lover can last you a lifetime.

She was kneeling in front of me, naked. This happens a lot.

She was breathless too. Not from thrashing about, I realised – though there had been an agreeable amount of the bouncy stuff prior to this particular moment – but from something more subtle. A tiny gasp, reminded me that some joys are so exquisite to contemplate, that you momentarily forget to breathe. This doesn’t happen as much.

She looked up at me, eyes wide, lip slightly bitten. And that was when I saw the look that I will carry with me into dotage. It was the look of someone who digs you, seriously fucking turned on. Like, stupidly, impossibly, nothing-will-ever-feel-quite-the-same-again turned on. But it was more than that even. It was a look also of acceptance, of longing, of trust and of urgent desires that needed to be quenched. Some folk call it the look of love, but unless you’ve been in this exact scenario I’d invite you not to consider me a twat for suggesting that. (Oh, and there was a gentleman sucking my cock two inches from her face. I maybe should have mentioned that). She moaned at the sight and orgasmed on the spot. This had never happened before.

Some context for you.

New Years Day. Two lovers with no obligation to anyone but each other that day. No work. No kids. No stress. A lot of fucking, obviously. There had been pillow talk.

“We could call him..”
“He says he’s a bit tired and hungover…”
“We don’t have to do anything, just hang out…”
“Yeah.. he’s texted. He’s on the way…”’

It wasn’t much of a gamble. He was her friend, someone we liked and respected, and was good company. But we weren’t sure anything would happen. Or even if we’d want it to. After an enjoyable evening, and perhaps sensing a moment alone was needed, our friend went to the toilet. We looked at each other. We both knew what the other was thinking. She grinned the grin that says “Can we?”. By the time he came back downstairs, she was kneeling over me on the couch, skillfully rolling her tongue around the end of my penis while I babbled something about inviting him to join us or something – I can’t remember exactly what I said because he agreed inside 2 seconds.

From this point on, my memory is jumbled. A highlight reel of joyous abandon and giggling depravities. We undress her. I watch her beguile his cock, watch him eat her out. I get so excited I have to slide myself down her throat as she stretches under us and for the next few hours it just feels like we are drawn from one intoxicatingly filthy scenario to the next like a little boat magically propelled to different islands, each lovelier than the last. That might sound twee, but one of the fantasy islands we visited was the island where the lady gives head while her lover fucks her steadily to orgasm in the ass. Always wanted to visit that one.

In between bouts, we smoke, drink and lounge around, marvelling at my girl’s beautiful body and the pleasures of consenting, carnal adult activity. We talk about other folk we’d like to fuck, of experiences and delights yet to be had. We get so randy we fuck all over again. It was a stupefyingly good night. We took lots of pictures. Like tourists on holiday.

But here’s the thing. When you find someone you love, who you never want to stop shagging, it’s amazing. But when that person sees no reason for you both to not fuck other people together too? How can I explain this to the nerd generation? It’s like levelling up while playing the best computer game ever.

I’ve been having a lot of typical sex lately. You know, the sort of sex you have when you just fancy some sex but have no particular desire to put a cherry on top. Basic sex. No-frills sex. If exciting and boundary-defining shags are the equivalent of a twelve-course tasting menu, then what I have been doing is eating cheese sandwiches for breakfast, lunch and dinner for a whole month.

And guess what? It’s brilliant.

I love cheese-sandwich sex to almost exactly the same degree as I love twelve-course fancy sex.

My typical sex

It starts with a suggestion by one or other of us. Not a gentle touch or a barked command, or anything designed to elicit a specific sexual reaction. I’ve had shags that have started with playful sofa-fighting, and ones which I’ve kicked off by simply pulling my knickers down and offering my naked arse to the gentleman in question. Typical sex isn’t like this, it begins much more simply.

“Fancy a shag?”

“Yep.”

There’s a pristine beauty and simplicity to it. It’s not overworked, which means that if the second person doesn’t fancy one they’ll know it’s not the end of the world to decline. Nor is it overly-prescriptive. “Fancy a shag?” leaves you open to developing a particular type of shag if you like. I could respond with “yes, will you fuck me over the bath?” or “no, but I’d love to suck you off while I rub my clit through my knickers.” In short, ‘fancy a shag?’ tells me that you’re horny, and asks if I am too. All the rest is up for grabs.

Once it’s been established that both of us fancy a shag, we touch. Although I’m generally a fan of variety, in this specific scenario, when I am in the ‘typical sex’ mindset, I get off on the predictability of it. He grips me around the waist and immediately slides his hands down to my arse. There’s a delicious familiarity there – the exact size and shape of him is satisfyingly unsurprising. The exact degree to which he squeezes me has been carefully calibrated over years of ‘a bit harder’ and ‘oh God yes that’s it’ until he’s got just the right pressure to get me dripping.

The same familiarity comes, of course, from his dick. I know how quickly it gets hard, what motions will best help it to get there, and exactly how to open this specific pair of trousers (seducing someone new is great fun, but I never seem quite as suave as I’d like because I fumble with unfamiliar trouser openings). His dick has a very specific weight in my hand, and I’m an expert on just how to hold it and squeeze it to ensure that the typical fuck takes its course.

There’s no detour here for blow jobs – I’m describing my typical shag. And typically I don’t have time to take him slowly into my mouth, because we’ll both be too keen to start fucking. So fuck we do.

And the best part is that as soon as we begin, it’s all about the end. This is an ‘everyday’ fuck – something at least as fun and functional as masturbation.

He’ll fuck me with quick, efficient strokes – touching the bits that give him extra shivers through his dick. I’ll push back and squeeze around him so I can feel as much as possible inside me: so that every atom of my cunt is pushing into part of his cock. There’s no pretense that we’re trying to impress each other, or even making an effort to get each other off: we’re doing it because we need to, and because each of us is as keen as the other to feel those first twitching waves of orgasm grip us in the pit of our stomachs.

‘Typical sex’ doesn’t mean ‘boring sex’

It’s a fuck you have because you both need it. It’s even better than wanking because it’s a mutual pleasure, and is therefore sociable: like monkeys picking fleas off each other or you scratching an itch that I just can’t reach on my own. And the moans and ‘oh yes’s and sighs at the end don’t just signal joy or sexual ecstasy – there’s a definite tone of relief. We’ve soothed and satisfied each other.

That’s why I love the everyday fuck. I love it easily as much as I love the special ones, the exciting ones: the ones with extra people or special toys, or words that make me growl with lust. Because while twelve-course meals are undoubtedly exciting, sometimes you just want a cheese sandwich. Something you eat while standing up in the kitchen, dropping crumbs onto the counter and forgetting to put the butter back in the fridge. It’s everyday, it’s typical, it’s nothing fancy, but that doesn’t mean it isn’t delicious.

Autumn is one of the best seasons. Keats wrote of autumn as a season of harvests and fruits and whatnot, but to most people autumn’s delights fall mainly into the ‘Halloween’ or ‘nearly Christmas’ camps.

However, autumn is my favourite season. Partly because I spend most of the summer being uncomfortable in my clothes and yearning for the time when I can wear jeans and a massive hoodie without people staring in the street. But mostly because there are some things about autumn that I find desperately sexy. Here are three of them:

Wet men

I see wet women fetishised all the time – whether it’s the ubiquitous wet T-shirt competition, or that bit in Spiderman where Kirsten Dunst gets a sexy rainy snog in a see-through dress. But when it comes to wet men the only iconic hotness I can think of is that bit in Pride and Prejudice where Mr Darcy emerges glistening from a lake (now available as a statue!).

In short: wet men are underrated. There are not enough pictures of wet men. But now that autumn’s here, the rains cometh. And with the rains come the tousled shaggy locks of scruffy hipster boys, the raindrops glistening on the heads of hot bald guys, the clinging t-shirts on the men who got caught in the rain.

And best of all, the drips of water running in rivulets down their faces and onto their necks, eventually trickling below the collar line and making me want to lick them.

Men in jumpers

This is probably not even sexual. I just fucking love a good jumper. Not a tacky ‘look how ironic I am’ Christmas jumper, but a big, shaggy bury-your-face-in-my-chest jumper. I’d never dictate to a man what clothing he should wear, but I can reveal that despite my aversion to hugs from strangers, I am far more likely to want to press myself up against you if I can guarantee that the hug will feel like falling into bed.

I take it back: it probably is a sexual thing.

Sex to warm up

You know how it is: October rain, a chill breeze blowing through the house. You can either turn the heating on and line the pockets of BigEnergy Co, ensuring fatcat profits for their shareholders and a slightly crapper Christmas present for your Mum this year… or you can fuck to stay warm like the cavemen used to.

I prefer the second option.

Cold hands running over my clothes, feeling almost painfully intrusive when they eventually reach my goosepimpled skin, then the gradual warm up as your hands get hotter and are allowed further down my body. Running my own hands inside your big sexy jumper to feel the heat of your back, your chest, your stomach, and then the moment when they finally get warm enough that I can place them on your dick without you yelping.

The ultimate beauty of autumn sex is that while you’re pounding and I’m straining and gasping and gripping you tight with my legs, neither of us notices the cold. It’s only afterwards that we realise, as you lie panting and hot beside me, and I can feel the droplets of your sweat cool far too quickly on my chest.