All hail people with cool fetishes. Splosh fans: I’m talking to you.

In case you’re not aware of the utter and delicious beauty of splosh, it’s essentially a fetish that involves getting extremely messy in gunge, custard, cream cake, and anything that takes your fancy.

Smearing it all over yourself, sitting in it, pouring thick gloopy liquid over your face and neck, and generally making the kind of mess you haven’t been allowed to make since you were two years old and smearing banana all over your high chair.

Amazing.

YKINMK but fuck me splosh is sexy

I have a mental list of fetishes which I’ve never partaken in, yet which I find deeply hot and really want to have a good go at. Splosh is one of them. Pony play is another. Furries…? Maybe not for me, but I’d love to watch someone who was really into it have a satisfying wank through a blue fuzzy costume.

Splosh is top of my list though, because not only does it often involve custard (second only to rice pudding as one of my favourite things) it also has an awesome air of genuinely gleeful play. When I ‘play’ it’s usually pretty dark: serious, straight-faced stuff where guys will stand sternly over me and I’ll pretend to cower as they whip me with belts and tell me I’m dirty and wrong.

Splosh, on the other hand, feels genuinely ‘playful’. Like, the actual point is that things just feel good, and damn whether you’re presenting yourself properly or maintaining the proper straight face: your face is probably an inch thick with cream anyway, so no one will notice. What’s more, it has overtones of the kind of messy sex that I rarely get to indulge in but that makes me properly happy.

I like sex where I get fucked up. Hair messed up, clothes stretched or ripped, eyes red from watering and jizz dipping from whatever bits of my body are available to squirt on at the time. Messed. Up. I like kneeling in the mud to give stealthy outdoor blowjobs, drooling spit down my chin and the front of my clothes after a throatfuck.

So when I met a guy who was into messy sex, I wanted to do something awesome.

Messy sex

“If you’re on your way over, drink some water,” I told him. “One hour before, then again half an hour before. Get really desperate.”

This dude was into mess, and the idea of getting to cover me with piss pushed a fair few of his buttons. He turned up at my door horny and bursting, so I led him into the bathroom.

“Kneel down,” he told me, between slightly bitey kisses. I stripped to my underwear and did. Staring up at him with a grin I couldn’t suppress. Maybe he wanted me to look more nervous.

“Are you ready?”

“Of course.”

I waited. Then a bit more. Then more. He held his stiff cock in one hand and a bottle of water in the other, and with my tits out and a weird grin plastered across my face, I couldn’t help but feel a bit of a dick.

“It’s hard to piss with a boner,” he told me, unnecessarily.

We fucked instead.

But because we’d failed so hard at the messy-fucking-while-covered-in-piss plan, I wanted to do something a bit cool for him at a later date. He loved messy things, and wanted to watch me get covered in something – piss, mud, custard, it didn’t really matter. The key thing was that he’d watch me as I tore my clothes, poured gunk all over myself, and touched myself until I was smeared and covered with slime.

Sweat, spunk and custard

Initially I thought a paddling pool might be a good purchase. But apart from the fact that I have no rooms big enough to accommodate even a small one, I think I’d end up worrying about splashing stuff outside the pool and ending up spending half the day after shampooing the carpet. The only option: a wet room. I looked online for hotels nearby that had proper wet-room bathrooms. I wanted to make a proper fucking state of things and be able to hose it all down with the shower head so the cleaning staff wouldn’t know, or hate me.

I found one or two, and began saving my money. For the room as well as a whole crate of Ambrosia custard – the stuff that comes in cardboard cartons and pours all thick and gloopy. I knew exactly what this guy wanted: he wanted to touch himself while he watched me, in knickers and a tiny top, pour custard from the cartons onto my face, my neck, my tits. He wanted to watch me writhe on the bathroom floor and squish around in it, getting sticky mess all over my body, and slipping in the splodgy stuff.

Watching from nearby, he’d sit touching himself, getting harder as I got dirtier. Pulling his dick out of his trousers as I opened the first carton, and gripping tighter as I poured. Frantically rubbing at himself as he watched the mess slip down my skin, and tangle up in my hair. As I sat in puddles of it and felt it squish between my thighs and in my crotch.

When I was good and sticky he’d stride across the bathroom, barking orders that I shouldn’t touch him: I was far too filthy.

‘Put your hands behind your back,’ he’d tell me, as he pushed his cock into my mouth. He’d grab my mess-streaked hair with one hand, keeping the other hand far away from the dirty creature he was holding, and face-fuck himself to completion, pulling out at just the right moment. Squirting come onto custard, then rubbing it in with the one hand he was willing to get dirty.

Then he’d push me back onto the floor, where I could lie satisfied, feeling humiliated, degraded, sticky and spent. Licking my fingers and squeezing my legs together, and running my hands through a mixture of sweat, spunk and custard.

If you’re wondering why this story is peppered with ‘would haves’, it’s because the guy dumped me before it happened. I still haven’t fulfilled this fantasy, and I often think of it with one hand down my knickers, and a sense of overwhelming regret. Still, it’s hard to get really sad about a break-up when you’re surrounded by delicious cartons of leftover custard.

The hardest thing about using words to make a living is that they’re so pathetically small. The bigger the thing you’re trying to describe, the smaller the words feel when you select them. Describing sex is pretty easy, because it’s so intensely personal. While the word ‘dick’ might mean little to you, when combined with a few more everyday words to create the sentence ‘I spat on his dick‘ – to me it becomes intensely special and deeply arousing. Sex is easy.

Love on the other hand is much, much harder. While I profess to detest overly-sentimental, romantic shit there’s something to be said for a well-placed ‘wind beneath my wings’ or ‘sugar to my coffee’.

They don’t come close to describing the swelling, hair-pulling, scream-into-a-pillow magnitude of the sensation of being in love, but they exist to show us just how hard it is to adequately describe the feeling you have when you’d happily take a bullet for someone at the same time as calling them a ‘dickhead.’

Sex and anxiety

It’s four pm and I’m shaking with panic. A five pm deadline and two for first-thing tomorrow. For the first time ever, one deadline has whizzed past, and now it stares at me from two days ago whispering: “everything you love will crumble, and you, my friend, will fail.”

It cackles.

I sit at my desk ignoring the piles of washing, clutter of papers and an inbox that screams ME! PICK ME!

I breathe quickly and shake, as I stare at the mounting tower of ‘oh God where the hell do I start?’ and worry that I’ve fucked up my life.

So far, so desperately unsexy.

The truth is that much of my life isn’t sexy. I’m sure most of you realise that I don’t spend 90% of my time wanking, with only quick breaks to stock up on cheese sandwiches to give me the energy for my next angry fuck. There are clearly some with that misconception, though it’s mostly dudes who send me dick pics at 8:30 am on a weekday then a follow-up at lunchtime saying ‘r u wet yet?’

Most of the time I’m boring. A lot of the time I’m anxious. And some of the time I’m so busy twitching that I can’t even think about fucking.

My body says ‘you know what would really help you to calm down? A nice relaxing wank’, which sounds lovely but then my brain chips in with ‘but what about all these things? Look at them! Teetering in a huge pile that will one day collapse around you!’ So my body replies ‘OK you’ve got a really good point. Give me ten minutes to hyperventilate and curl in a ball on the floor while I consider this.’

After ten minutes of ball-curling and ragged breaths, just as I’m back in the zone of the functional, the phone will ring and the whole mess starts all over again.

If someone else told me this I’d offer to help them. But if someone offers to help me then my brain gives me more of its pesky chatter and I’m left spinning:

Don’t help me. Your help takes up time. I have no time. NO TIME. The time I am going to spend being helped by you is time taken away from the allocated time I have to do the things and there is NO TIME and one day I will have used up all the time and I’ll be dead and what help will you be then? Hmm?

This is all well and good when it’s my Mum on the phone but when it’s Amazon customer services the whole thing gets a bit awkward.

This long-winded build-up is here to show that when I say I’m stressed, I’m not talking about some mild worries or a couple of nagging concerns at the back of my mind. I mean full-blown, heart-hammering panic which prevents me from reading any text, email or tweet without a kind of swelling nausea because oh God I’ll have to say something now and what if what I say is hopelessly wrong?

It isn’t easily cast aside, overcome, or subject to the kind of help offered by well-meaning friends.

But it can be dampened, and it can – very occasionally – be swept to one side.

Like when he comes home from work and I’m ill and tired and my eyes are brim-full of desperate tears. He says ‘how was your day?’ and I shout ‘FINE!’ over my shoulder, because if I take my eyes off the screen then I’ll have failed and another deadline will fall by the wayside.

So he disappears. And then later, when I’m ragged and miserable and slouching with the weight of everything, he pops back in and says ‘how are you?’ And I say ‘fine’ like I’m not really sure if I am, and I stare at the piles of paper.

He doesn’t ask if he can help – he knows he can’t help any more than he can remove my head and stir around inside it to fix me. So he squeezes me with his massive arms, and lets me bury my face in his neck. It smells horny and masculine and all the things I want to fuck.

Sometimes it doesn’t work – the closeness makes me feel trapped and the idea of pausing even for a five-minute shag sets my heart back to hammering. But sometimes it works, and he strips off my knickers. And as he pulls them off – at just the right moment – I can rip off the terror and anxiety and throw myself into just… wanting.

Feeling the rush of arousal and wanting him to fuck me.

In the middle of a pile of paper. In a tangled ball on the floor. In a mishmash of trembling limbs across my messy desk. It’s a delicious and rare relief – to push out the worry about working and replace it with a desire for him to take me across his knee, belt hard sharp smacks across my arse until it’s glowing red, dip his fingers in my cunt and call me a dirty girl, then flip me over and fuck me while I cry with shaking desire.

It’s not need – it’s so much better than need. I ‘need’ food, and money. Without these things I’d struggle to survive, so reaching out to grab them is instinctive: like sneezing when something tickles your nose.

I don’t need him: I want him. And here’s where I bring it back to how inadequate words are. Just as they’re pitifully bad at conjuring the exact nature of a full-blown anxiety attack, so they limp pathetically across the page when I try to conjure the chest-aching love that I have for this man. Not because he stops me from panicking, but because he doesn’t try to. He doesn’t push or question or offer solutions: he just is. There. Solid and warm and patient and oh-so-deliciously ready to put his swollen cock in me at exactly the moment I want it the most.

It’s a want rather than a need because he doesn’t ‘fix’ me or ‘save’ me: I’d survive/cope/live/work without him. If he weren’t there the panic would still be around – washing over me one minute and fucking off suspiciously the next, leaving me worrying when it’d come back and contemplating whether it’d be all the stronger for having had a short break and… damn. There it is again. It’s been twenty minutes since I started writing this and where does the fucking time go? I didn’t even get to tell you how he… never mind. I’ve got shit to be getting on with.

Here’s the obligatory link to Mind.org, which you have to include on anything that references mental health. And if you think you might have anxiety problems, and you’re thinking ‘ah but I’m just a naturally stressy person though and I’m just so busy and shit’ then here’s a thing I wrote for The Cocktail Hour which might be useful. Or might not. I don’t know. Oh God sorry I’m such a twat. And here’s a thing by Dean Burnett in the Guardian about social anxiety, which is sparked by slightly different things but no less tremblingly awful.

A while ago I was on the tube and I could barely look away from a couple who were… well, there’s no better way to put it: frotting. Not just gentle, subtle touches and rubs – enthusiastic, tongues-in-mouths, full-sex-but-with-clothes-on. I’m a big fan of public affection, but this probably went a tad further than I’d applaud, given that kids could have entered the carriage at any moment, but nevertheless the sheer casual lust was an amazing thing to see.

Because trains tend to make me horny, I associate public transport with some of the hottest moments of my life. I sincerely hope that both the people in this couple remember their tube journey for a long, long time. If nothing else, it’ll make up for all the stares and tuts they had to endure from frowning tourists on their horny journey. I hope they got home and tore each other’s clothes off with a desperate passion, and had wild sex in the middle of the hallway, then made cups of tea for each other and blushed with the knowledge that everyone on the Central line knew that was exactly what they were going to do.

Although there are clearly some things which are beyond the bounds of most people’s tastes, and acts which you’d never want to do when kids might hop on at the next stop, it made me wonder just what the cut off point was for ‘OK, you’re just horny’ to ‘I’m going to have to throw you off the train now, madam.’ A kiss is surely fine. A touch barely noticeable. A hand slipped up a jumper or under the hem of a skirt? Sure. A hand down top, squeezing nipple perhaps less so. And surely a hand job on the train is – if not illegal – then certainly contravening a number of railway byelaws.

So in honour of the frotting Central line lovebirds, here are some 100% made up stories about things that I have absolutely never done on public transport.

Getting horny on the night bus

It’s… how late? About 3:30 am I think. The night bus rolls with the weight of the drunks and the disgusted-at-drunks. He’s sitting beside me and I can’t stop touching him. I’m not a millionaire, and Zone One living is laughably out of reach, so you can guarantee that if we hop on a night bus in central London it’ll be a hell of a long ride home.

He smells perfect. Like sex and whiskey, with a hint of the warmth of whatever deodorant he wears, the remnants evaporating from him as I bury my lolling, drunken head into his shoulder.

His bag is on his lap.

I run my hand up to the top of his thigh and he leans in to me, inhaling the smell of my hair, and no doubt the remnants of my own boozy night as well. His dick gets harder – pressing strongly against the crotch of his jeans. He shifts his bag to cover things, as I unzip him and reach inside.

Touching on the train

The train is almost empty. One or two seats occupied at the other end of the carriage, but around us there’s silence. The sleepy, lazy arousal caused by hours of sitting next to each other on a plane – wanting to touch but too close to others for comfort.

I bury my head in his shoulder, pretending to be asleep. He watches the door at the end of the carriage for a guard. Whispers things in my ear. Things that start with a fantasy about exhibitionist fucking, and end with my favourite words:

“…touch me.”

And I do. With my jacket draped over his lap I can run my hand over him. Slowly. Shifting gently. Gripping him tight through the fabric of his jeans and feeling his cock pulse under my palm.

“Is anyone looking?” I whisper. I feel him shake his head. Swallow. That gulp of nervous lust that wants me to do it. To touch him. To run the tips of my fingers around the head of his dick. I unzip him and reach inside.

Fucking on the coach

Again, sleepy. Drunk. Horny. Could keep my hands off him if I had the inclination or willpower, but I don’t. With his big arm around my shoulders, I press myself into the warmth of his chest. I can feel his heart beating, and hear his breath catch as I cup his crotch.

I squeeze gently – just cannot get enough of that throbbing, growing sensation as his dick twitches, hard in my hand. There’s no one else at the back of the coach: it’s quiet. The lights are off – the driver kindly letting us sit in darkness to more fully appreciate the bright lights of the M4.

I squeeze harder. He swallows. His breath catches again. He lays my coat out on his lap – an invitation to do exactly what I want: unzip and reach inside.

I yawn. Feigning tiredness for an audience that’s not there, and wouldn’t care even if it were. I lie my head on his lap, put the coat over me, making a tent to hide what I’m about to do.

I unzip.

I take the head of his dick in my mouth, and I lick him slowly. I can feel him tense as I do – bracing his feet against the foot rests, grabbing a handful of my clothing to steady himself. My head rests awkwardly on his stomach as I take him in. All soft wet lips and no momentum – no pressure. I can’t make him come, I know I can’t. He’ll need more: speed, rhythm, the clench of the back of my throat around the tip as I swallow every inch of him. But it can’t happen here – there’s too much danger. People at the front of the coach who might hear rustling.

So I lick. Gently. I let wetness dribble from my lips right down the shaft of his cock and I rub it softly with my fingers. He holds his breath. Pushes back against me – ever so slowly. That desire to slide more in, that physical whimper of need. A twitch that says ‘pleasepleaseplease.’

With a silent request that’s so deliciously desperate, how could I possibly not? One quick shift, as if I’m sleeping lightly, and the rustle of my jacket covers the change in position.

I slide further down onto him, until I can feel his swollen cock blocking the back of my throat. I hold my breath and stay there, still, as he shifts his hips slightly to push it more firmly into me – his favourite part. The only thing that’ll bring him to the edge. I can feel him trembling with a desperation to make some noise – any noise that will encourage me to keep going. I imagine the cries in his head: “please please don’t stop. Harder, more, deeper. Please.”

But we’re on a coach, and there are people at the front, and I don’t want to rustle so I take things slowly. Wet lips, slow movements, running my tongue around the head, and occasionally – very occasionally – swallowing the full length of his dick and causing those deliciously tense, silent whimpers.

The streetlights flash past the windows, and we cover nearly sixty miles. Finally – as the coach turns from the motorway and onto the crowded streets of London, he grabs the back of my hair and gives it one final push. Dumping hot squirts of come into the back of my throat, and giving me shivers of aching arousal.

I hold it in my mouth for a while. Just a few more seconds, savouring the illicit taste of that awesome fuck. Then, reluctantly, I pretend to wake up.

 

This post is also available as audio porn. Click ‘listen here’ above or visit the audio porn page for more sexy stories read aloud. 

The clinking sound of metal-on-metal gets me horny now. Ever since we got a spreader bar (far later in my life than I’d have expected to, given my intense delight in anything restraint-based). I rarely see him get it out, because before he does he’ll make a specific order:

“Bend over and close your eyes.” or “Lie face down on the bed.” or “Face the fucking wall.”

And I stand, trembling, waiting for him to lock my ankles in the stocks, and put me in an off-balance position.

I used to think that the point of spreader bars was to keep my legs open: giving easy access and a view that makes him hard. A display that’s a cross between arousing and humiliating for me: open and ready for him to touch, to stare at, to fuck. But it’s more than that: it’s not just about access but control.

With my legs spread wide by the bar and my wrists cuffed to it, every muscle in my legs and back is tense with the effort of staying balanced. Sometimes I’m on the bed, crouched with my face buried in the bedsheets and my back arched in a way I could never hold on my own, arms stretched beneath me reaching down to the bar. Twisted in a way that highlights my discomfort, and helps me embrace the shivering relief of pleasure as he fucks me with quick, long strokes.

Sometimes, though, I’m standing up – wobbling on uncertain tiptoes, relying on him to hold me still – hold me stable – while he fucks me.

There’s something about being slightly off-balance.

Strength, power, and spreader bar throatfucking

I’d like to say that I don’t care if he can fuck me with power and strength: that a gentle shag is as fun as an angry one. But I’d be lying. I like feeling weak and small and vulnerable. Trembling and wobbling and knowing that the only reason I’m upright is that he’s got a fistful of my hair.

He pulls my head back and forth. Quickly at first. Getting the full, satisfying length of his cock in my throat. Down right to the base so I choke, holding me there for exactly as long as I trust him to, then pulling me back. With my wrists and ankles restrained I can’t move away. I must stay until my eyes water and he deigns to pull me back – spluttering and drooling and covering him in wet spit.

Then more slowly. Holding me at the right position so I can just wet the tip. Licking around the head. Hair straining against his hand and the backs of my knees starting to wobble. And as they start to go he pushes me back down, until my face is buried in his crotch and he’s throatfucking me with care and precision.  The back of my throat contracting against him as he calls me a good girl.

I feel more solid on my feet, but it’s harder to breathe: a trade-off that he has the power to balance perfectly. He switches me between fast and slow – trembling and choking, secure and nervous. Happy and happier.

When he starts to fuck me, the tremble sets in again. I want to grip my ankles, or lift my hands to hold onto something: the bed, the wall – anything. But each stroke of him fucking me makes me tremble harder, feeling like I’m teetering on the brink of collapse. Muscles tense, cunt tightening, knees twitching and about to crumble.

He likes the twitching, I think. He can feel my muscles tense as he grips me, and he can feel me pushing back to take him further inside me – part satisfaction and part safety: the harder I push back the easier it is to stay stable. I think he likes the clinking sound of metal-on-metal too – it means my hands are still cuffed to the spreader bar, and the rapid tinkling as my ankles wobble and my legs start to really shake means I’m close enough to coming that he can speed up to bring himself there. Fuck me harder, faster. The swift, angry strokes that give me both release and permission. I can come because I know he’s about to. The twitching climax as I come on his cock brings him to a harder orgasm.

He grips my hips to keep me upright as he empties himself inside me.

He keeps his hands on me even after he’s done – maintaining balance, unlocking me from the spreader bar, and letting me gently down onto the bed, or the floor. I can feel his spunk dripping down the inside of my thighs, and his big hands on my hips and wrists and ankles. Perfectly balanced, and strong enough to keep me from falling.

 

This post is also available as audio porn. Click ‘listen here’ above or head to the audio porn page to find more sexy stories read aloud. 

I’m more than willing to suspend my disbelief to enjoy a good TV show. I’ll ignore loud explosions in deep space, grin and bear anachronisms in historical dramas, and even nod through a paradox or two. But one thing I refuse to believe is that at no point in his long long life has Doctor Who gone back in time to fuck himself.

I mean COME ON. He used to look like DAVID TENNANT, for crying out loud! And Matt Smith: all gangly limbs and twinking nerdery. You would, wouldn’t you?

One of the things I enjoyed most about the book The Time Traveler’s Wife (if you haven’t read it then it’s about a dude who accidentally time travels) is that in it, when his teenage self meets another teenage self, they wank each other off. It’s not described in detail, but it’s straightforward enough that it made me go ‘omg realistic portrayals of identical-selves masturbating is exactly what has been missing from all time travel.’

So, in that spirit, here are a few of the sexual encounters that would happen if I had a time machine.

Time-travel threesomes

I don’t really want to have sex with myself, if only because I don’t tend to fancy women that often, and I suspect I am exactly the kind of person who would annoy myself by being obnoxiously loud and eating all the nice crisps at parties. So I don’t think me and me would make a good couple. However what we WOULD make is an excellent threesome double-team.

In the past I’ve turned down amazing sexual opportunities because I’m too jealous of the other girl involved, or because I’m scared that the guy I’m with will enjoy the other person more and be permanently disappointed with my own mediocre vagina. However, with a time-travel threesome, I wouldn’t need to worry about that, because I am basically the same person.

I’d pick and choose some of the less exciting fucks I’ve had in the past, and spice them up by introducing my future-self halfway through and watching the guy’s eyes widen with delight as he realised all the tingling possibilities. I’d join an ex or two in some double-penetration, strapping one on so I could fuck me while I was being fucked. I’d head to the first time I used a strap-on at all, and sit heavily on that guy’s dick at just the moment his prostate pushed hard squirts of spunk out of him. I could pop back to last night, when I ground heavily onto my partner’s dick while he wanked me off with a Doxy. Past-me could still do that: I wouldn’t want to ruin her fun. But while she was doing it I could be biting his nipples or letting him suck mine.

Being the first

Is this creepy? I think perhaps this is creepy. In my head it’s super-romantic, but I don’t think we need to worry about creepiness given that time travel is impossible, so if you’re thinking of writing angry letters, please save them for the day when we manage to break all the laws of physics and invent an actual Tardis.

It’s 2002, or thereabouts. A guy who – in 2002 – I’ve never met, is masturbating furiously and desperately wishing he could hurl away his virginity. Late one evening on his way home from a friend’s party, he runs into a woman. Old enough that he wouldn’t usually look twice, but young enough that he definitely would. She invites him into her Tardis, and because he is probably only 18 at this point, I will spare you the pervy details.

What’s important though is not necessarily what happens then, but what happens years later, when he runs into me for what he thinks is the first time.

“Wow. You… you look really familiar.”

“Really?”

“Yeah. You look like this person I knew once, ages ago.”

“Oh really? What was she like?”

“It’s kind of a funny story actually. It’s how I lost my virginity…”

Fixing mistakes

Picture the scene: it’s three AM outside a shitty nightclub – in one of those vaguely Mediterranean ‘party towns’ that are magnets for young people who want to get drunk and sweat on each other. Two girls who are far too young to be there are sitting on the laps of two guys who can’t believe their luck. The guys are young too – not yet mature enough to realise that if you really want to get laid you need to avoid drinking twelve shots of AfterShock. They’re all snogging, and having a whale of a time.

One of these girls enjoys it so much that she tries to take the guy somewhere quieter to fuck.

“Give me a sec,” she whispers erotically, then runs to the bins and sprays rainbow-coloured vomit  in a decorative arc over the pavement. She wipes her mouth.

“I’m done. Let’s go.” The guy nods, looking a little queasy himself, but clearly game. The girl leads him to what she thinks is a secluded spot. They snog again, briefly, before he backs away. It might be the taste of her sick-washed mouth, but our heroine decides it’s probably just because he’d rather do other things. She pushes his head down between her legs, pulls her knickers to one side, and he licks at her with eager enthusiasm – this is clearly a dude who’d rather taste cunt than cocktails.

In the faint distance she can see the nightclub lights illuminating her best friend and the other guy, snogging on a chair. Her cunt twitches with pleasure but she’s far too pissed to notice.

At this moment the sky splits, and a time machine appears. An older version of the girl leans her head out of the time machine and – in the manner of a Mum yelling at her kids to get inside for dinner – she shouts:

“You fucking idiot! Everyone can see what you’re doing! You’re not in a secluded spot at all, you’re in a field right next to a busy road! Go home and sober up or in ten years’ time you’ll have to write a blog post about how much you regret this whole sordid incident!”

Time travel sex – watching and wanking

Of course it wouldn’t just be about joining in or changing the path of history – that’d kind of imply that my sex Tardis would mostly be about regrets. I’d probably spend most of my time popping back to my favourite moments. That first ever threesome with two guys, which fulfilled a list of long-held sexual desires so spectacularly that I still remember it in a sleepy, dreamlike way. I’d watch as they kissed each other, and look out for the expression of shining delight on my face. I’d take mental photographs of every beautiful moment: as they fucked me, as they fucked each other, as we all tangled together in a huge pile of happy fucklust.

I’d visit a few fetish clubs to watch myself get beaten.

Head to old bedrooms in which I frotted tirelessly against exhausted ex-boyfriends.

Watch a few of the hottest boy snogs I’ve ever seen.

It would be like having a live-action replay of some of the best fucks, and the most beautiful people I’ve ever known. Hot and horny but also tinged with wistful nostalgia.

Maybe one of the best things I could do if I had a sex Tardis would be to leave little notes for myself on the morning of each hot encounter, saying:

“This one, tonight: this one’s special. Drink it in. It’ll never happen the same way again.”