It’s pitch black in my bedroom. Weirdly, so much darker than it usually is. Perhaps a streetlight is out, or maybe I’ve finally managed the perfect seal on my blackout curtains, so not a sliver of London night sneaks through. Either way, it’s dark. He’s lying naked next to me, big hands sliding smoothly down my body, soft lips on mine, cock growing hard in my hand. And although I’m going to try and tell you parts of this story in the sexy/atmospheric way in which I’ve begun this post, you’ll have to excuse me if the odd burst of glee breaks through, because on this special night I managed something truly remarkable for me: I gave a guy a hand job to orgasm!

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When we walk in the door of the strip club, I can guarantee that the people his eyes are drawn to are the dancers. The one on stage half-naked, the ones hanging out by the bar flirting with customers, one or two emerging from the curtained-off booths at the back of the room. My eyes, on the other hand, are firmly fixed on the men – him included.

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If you want me to ask for a spanking, all you need to do is text before our date and tell me exactly that. If you want me to suck your dick? Likewise. Just issue an order and I’ll drop to my knees the second it’s convenient to do so. But if what you want is to have me eating out of the palm of your hand, the most dominant thing you can do is not fuck me.

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For some reason, when you become intimate with people, they often feel like they have a right to say critical things about the way you look. Men have often felt this way about my body over the years: making comments about my weight, the various places in which hair grows and whether I remove it, the way I dress or carry myself, my use (or rejection) of make up. As if our intimacy constitutes a contract which grants them the right to correct me. Or perhaps, more kindly, like they believe I will welcome the opportunity for self-improvement that they’ve so thoughtfully opened up. Please, for the love of infinite fuck, understand this: I will never welcome these comments. You should never say these things. Your negative comment on my body is never welcome. My body is my body. If you don’t like it, don’t fuck it: that’s the deal.  

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One of the things I’m finding hilarious about dating again, eleven years after the last time I was single, is that no matter how compatible or otherwise my date and I might be, there is one fact on which we always agree: OK Cupid is shit now. This isn’t a problem with an obvious, easy solution, I just think that when you realise something truly good is gone, it’s important to allow yourself time and space to mourn. OK Cupid sucks horrible arse these days, and I know I’m late to this revelation but I’m super fucking sad about it, and I wanted to have a little rant.

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