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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It’s everything I hate in a sofa, this thing: brown; leather; thin metal legs; angular armrests that you can’t properly lean against and a seat that’s too narrow for spooning. I hate this sofa so much that when my ex and I hung out together, I used to sit on the floor. Give me well-worn carpet and a numb bum over sticky brown leather any day of the week. I hate this sofa for every single thing… except fucking. This sofa features in almost every filthy post I’ve written on this blog in the last four years. This sofa launched a thousand fucks.

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Since I broke up with my ex, quite a lot of people have sought to reassure me that “you’ll find someone else.” It’s incredibly kind and well-meaning, and tempting as all hell to lean in to the idea. Go shopping for men, you say? Sounds fun! Pick one who’s better? Sweet! Hey presto – happiness awaits! I get why people offer this advice, and I don’t want to bat it away with a sarky response because it comes from a place of kindness. It’s understandable and admirable to try to comfort someone who’s hurting. But I don’t really like “you’ll find someone else”, and I thought I’d have a crack at explaining why.

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It’s Masturbation Month! Those of you who don’t work in the sex industry might not be familiar with it, although I’d wager if you’ve bought a sex toy at any point over the last 12 months you’ll have been reminded of this auspicious time with a well-placed marketing email or two. While I’d love to write a round-up of sex toys that you should buy, it’s always more fun for me to write hot stuff that features toys than a plain old shopping list. So instead of a shopping list, here are twelve filthy stories: each one either a true sex story or a piece of erotic fiction. If you can guess which of these are true, and leave your guesses in the comments, whoever gets closest to the right answer will win a GOTN badge. And if you fancy reliving these stories (or coming up with some of your own!) I’d very much appreciate you clicking the links, buying from my sponsors, and helping to support my work here on the site. Without these fabulous sponsor companies, GOTN wouldn’t exist.

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