For a brief period in my otherwise sofa-based life, I used to go running. Stop laughing at the back. My boyfriend at the time was really into his running, and his enthusiasm for this activity infected me to the point where roughly three times per week I would put on my trainers and gamely wheeze my way along a river while he ran gracefully in front. It was absolutely horrible. Still. Occasionally – VERY occasionally – I managed to get into stride. For a few brief seconds, I’d bounce lightly on my feet, propel myself with power, and breath like a normal person. During those times I got a teeny flash of joy, and a revelation – this is what it must feel like to be GOOD at this! I got the same feeling recently, when going on top during a shag. The perfect rhythm, the right amount of bounce, and a sense that this is what it must feel like to be GOOD at this.

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This week’s guest blogger – Jamie Bowden-Smith – is a historian of the late 20th century and runs the Gay News Archive Project, republishing the pioneering LGBT+ newspaper of the 1970s.  He tweets at @thisisrjg and if I am 100% honest with you, he is one of the people I have met through Twitter that I would most like to go for a pint with. He has both a passion and a knack for articulating the delicious details about what makes something hot, and in this blog he applies his knack to something very close to my own heart: the sexiness of smell.

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Last week I was away for a couple of days at the sex industry trade show Erofame – I’ll tell you all about it in an upcoming post. While I was away, inevitably I started missing my partner. I missed him generally, of course: I wanted to be able to chat to him about all the cool new sex toys I was discovering and share stories from the event. But more specifically I missed his cock, and I looked forward immensely to coming home and sliding right down to the base of it.

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I am not hoping for the apocalypse. Let that sink in, fully and completely, because although this includes a dirty story about gang-bangs and sexual servicing, it is not an ‘ apocalypse fantasy’ in the purposeful sense: I do not ever want it to come true. I don’t want the world to end, and I don’t want anyone to die. But sometimes, when I am calm and happy, I entertain myself by daydreaming about the end of the world. In my fantasy, all the people on the planet have disappeared except for a select few. And those select few: they fuck me.

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When I was young, fucking outdoors was a mundane necessity. The phrase ‘get a room‘ ironically got far more of an airing when none of us really had any rooms to ‘get’ to. So we fucked in parks. Behind bushes. Occasionally in tents or sheds. Anywhere you could reasonably slide off your clothes without risk of getting caught by your parents or the police. It didn’t seem adventurous: it was just the only option. Now, though, necessity has given way to spice. Fucking outdoors is an adventure.

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