Katherine Ryan tells a fabulous story, in her stand-up show Glitter Room, about the time her ex-boyfriend moved to Japan. He had to go for work, and she didn’t want to move with him, so they split up. Shortly after he arrived in the country, he rang her to express shock that she had stayed where she was, and hadn’t followed him halfway around the world. He tells her: “I thought you needed me more than that.” Katherine replies: “Oh sweetie, I didn’t need you – I liked you. I enjoy having you around, but you are a luxury item.” I’ve been thinking about this a lot lately, and I think I understand a bit more where I fall on the idea of ‘needing’ men (or ‘a man’). Friendships are one thing, but when it comes to sexual and romantic relationships, men are a luxury.

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OK so hear me out: ten condom fucks. Fucks which require a large number of condoms. Fucks which start at about 2pm, are interspersed with drinks and chatting and playing Beat Saber and slow-dancing sexily in the middle of the living room. Fucks which ebb and flow between oral, penetration, and naked touching, meaning each time you decide you’re gonna get down to it, you slip on a new condom. Fucks which mean you have to scatter condoms throughout the apartment so there’s always one easily to hand. Ten condom fucks.

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I think I’ve got it: the cast-iron, rock-solid argument for why you should tell me at least some of what you wank about. Not ‘you’ as in ‘everyone’, ‘you’ as in ‘people I am fucking/wooing/thirsting after.’ I know it is kind of terrifying to let someone deep into your horny, fuckdrunk brain, but this is why you should take your courage in both hands and tell me what you wank about anyway.

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I’m drafting this post at my ex-boyfriend‘s flat. There’s something pleasingly empty about his flat. It’s tiny: his choice. It’s neat and clean and there’s hardly anything in it, besides a fridge full of treat food and drawers full of soft pyjamas and hoodies to which he encourages me to help myself. When I’m here, it feels deliciously like I’m on holiday from the rest of my life.

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We used to do this thing, back in my old flat, where he’d lube his dick up and slide it between the cheeks of my arse. Just… thrusting back and forth, where my bum meets the top of my thighs. I love the way it feels, and the sense that he’s so horny he’ll fuck anything to relieve the ache in his dick. Sometimes he’d slip his dick forward and up a bit so it was tight between my labia. Almost-but-not-quite entering my cunt. Often this made me so wet we didn’t need to replenish the lube, and he’d fuck my ass with the stuff left over from before, plus all the quim I’d drizzled out onto him. But we never tried it like this before: me on my front, one hand reaching down between my legs to press the head of his cock tighter against my clit, until I felt him come with my fingertips.

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