Remember those urban legends about parents who’d find cigarettes in their teenagers’ bedrooms and force them to smoke an entire packet to put themselves off forever? That’s how I feel about dick pics. I’ve seen so many of them that even the most beautiful dick, framed and shot by the world’s greatest photographer, does little for me now unless it’s attached to someone I already have a raging crush on. But recently someone sent me a different type of picture, far better than a dick pic. So hot that opening the file felt like a punch in the cunt.

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It’s the way his forearm looks when he strums the guitar – highlighted beautifully with tattoos and framed by a tight t-shirt. Or perhaps it’s the thump of the bassline in my crotch or the scent of sweaty people throwing down in the mosh pit. Maybe it’s the fact that for the first time in what feels like a lifetime I am dancing like I don’t care how to dance. Either way I know that when the music starts to play, I’ll be thinking that I wanna fuck the band.

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Isn’t it weird how something really simple can make the difference between feeling terrible and feeling amazing?

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This might sound weird: I like it when men take things from me. Not large things, like my dignity or my house. Or even small-ish things like my life savings. I like it when they assert a kind of casual dominance – taking inconsequential things from me, with an attitude that tells me I couldn’t possibly object.

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I sit still. Very still. So still I am almost holding my breath. I can feel the cool tile underneath my legs, his warm arms around my shoulders. My nipples are taut and hard. I can feel his erection pressing into my back, as I stare into the darkness and bite my lip. And I sit still.

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