Tag Archives: illustrated
The ones that got away
Most of the ones that got away did so because of timing.
Paul (not his real name, but he looked like a Paul. Or a Peter. Or a Stephen – with a ‘ph’ not a ‘v’) will never know just how perfectly wrong his timing was.
I met Paul in a beer garden. Again, most of the ones that got away escaped from beer gardens. Or pub lounges, if the weather was shitty. Metaphorically slipping out of the window when I was busy fucking someone else in the toilet.
Butter for lube
Today I’m thinking about butter. Which is, I know, not the ideal lube. Especially if you’re vegan.
But today I’m thinking about butter for lube.
Guest blog: The glory hole story – one woman’s experience
This week’s guest blog is about something very close to my heart, which features in some of my hottest fantasies: the glory hole. While I’d love to be able to tell you utterly filthy stories about anonymous rendezvous with people through glory holes, I’ve sadly never had the pleasure. So Laura – from School of Squirt – is here to share a story of her own glory hole evening. And holy shit it’s hot. Don’t read this at work, unless your work is totally comfortable with you getting so turned on you immediately run to the office toilets and start hacking holes in the cubicle walls.
Most of my exes have children on Facebook
Most of my exes on Facebook now have children. This says less about the fertility of my ex-boyfriends than the people I stay friends with on facebook, to be honest. Still: of the ex-partners that I am still friends with on facebook, the majority of them have kids.
Sex and sertraline part 2: fucking on SSRIs
This blog post – part 2 in a series of… hmm… I’m not sure how many yet – talks about some mental health stuff, including Dark Thoughts and general misery. If that’s likely to disturb you please don’t read on.
When you’re mad, you’re allowed to say the word ‘mad’ – at least in your own head. You’re allowed to tell yourself: ‘don’t think like that, it’s mad. That’s what got you here in the first place.’ When you’re mad, you’re taught to examine your thoughts carefully – writing them down if necessary – so you can pick over the alien carcass of insanity that your brain has spat out. Pulling the meat (‘I’m worried I can’t have sex’) from the bones that you’re meant to identify and discard (‘If I can’t have sex I may as well die’).
I am being medicated into compliance.