In my wallet I have a coin that can’t be spent anywhere. I had six of these, once, and I can’t remember where I got them from. They look a bit like two pound pieces, but they’re designed as arcade tokens of some sort.

A long time ago I gave half of them to my boy. “These are yours,” I said. “Because you like shiny things, and because I have no idea what to do with them but they’re too satisfyingly pretty to waste, there’s something deliciously symbolic in each of us having a few.”

“OK,” he said, conveniently forgetting to add “why must you always be so weird, darling?”

Apology tokens

Later that week I got pissed. A horrible, ugly kind of pissed, the way I used to get at University when hangovers were just something that happened to other people. I made exactly the kind of fool of myself that you would expect, and that I still blush to remember. Loudly obnoxious, I made inexcusably crap jokes in front of his friends, flirted wildly with at least two of them, and said some thoughtless things to him in casual conversation that gave him a tight hurt deep in his chest.

“I’m so sorry,” I said the next morning. “I’m awful, and I will never do that again.”

“Shit, don’t worry,” he replied, because he is infinitely magnanimous and lovely like that. “Happens to the best of us.” And then he took one of my tokens.

So began a game of give-and-take. When he’d fuck up in some way, or upset me, he’d give me a token. When I fucked up, I’d hand one to him. The actual tokens were meaningless – you couldn’t buy anything with them, and they weren’t recognisable to anyone outside of our twosome. But between us they meant loads: I fucked up, I’m sorry, I love you.

It’s my fault.

Fighting and reuniting

I hate fighting. The arguments I had in past relationships were usually drawn-out affairs, in which both I and my partner would sit in spiky, accusing silence for hours, waiting for the other person to throw the next hurtful comment. When the comment came, so did the knee-jerk response, and the ground of the argument shifted from “you haven’t done the washing up” through “remember how you behaved at my friend’s wedding” to “why have you never truly loved me?” over the space of miserably bitter nights.

Because – especially for an argumentative harpy like me, who sees debate as a matter of both professional and personal pride – it’s hard to say ‘I’m wrong’. Giving ground feels not like a natural compromise between two sensible adults but like – *gulp* – losing.

Hence the tokens: it’s easier for me to give him a token than to admit a mistake. Easier to hold my hand out and ask for a token when I think he’s fucked up. It’s a way of transferring blame that doesn’t mean having to say any actual words that hurt each other.

“You’re a cunt.”

“You’re a bitch.”

“You’re wrong.”

I can just hold out my hand and hope he gives me a token. Or I can pass him one of mine, and meet his eyes, and he’ll know without me having to say it that I mean ‘fuck fuck fuck I’ve done it again and I’m so fucking sorry.’

Your fault/my fault

There’s only one token left in my wallet now, which I think means that on balance I’m a bad person. But I can’t quite be sure because this system died a long time ago. Did we just forget? Were there so many months without arguments that the system fell by the wayside? Or did he, knowing I had just that one left to hold on to, forego the chance to ‘win’ so that I wouldn’t feel too terrible?

One of the heart-achingly wonderful things about him is his power to stop arguments. As I shake and rage on my stubborn high horse, he can step forward, put out his hand and say “let’s stop fighting now.” Never “just admit you’re wrong” or “shut up and we’ll have dinner” – there’s no blame or anger, just “let’s stop fighting now.” A heartfelt desire to be held, and loved, and an understanding that although the problem remains, the fight itself is over. It means no row has to bleed over into tomorrow, and the next day, and the next.

It’s one of the best things about him, and a skill that I – as a stroppy and defensive bastard – would utterly love to be able to master. It’s one of the things I boast about when I’m boring my friends with stories about how lovely he is. Relationship diplomacy at its best, and a tactic that has proven valuable during every fight we’ve ever had.

Except, inevitably, this one.

You’re not having the kind of sex you want with someone. So you talk. And you say “hey, I really like what we’re doing, but could I make a few requests? Suggestions?” And in all the happy stories and agony aunt columns we imagine a fictional partner who responds with enthusiasm and empathy and all that good stuff.

But real life isn’t always like that, more’s the pity. Here’s a guest blog from Brit Bitch Berlin about a gentleman she’s rather charmingly nicknamed Thor.

Re-Educating Thor: Sex without commitment

I had been sex-dating this guy for a few weeks, and was a bit unsure whether I was just so awed by his ripped body that I wanted to continue, or under some weird “gotta try everything once” kind of spell.

There was something about wrestling with his beautiful body, as well as perhaps enjoying the pleasure and power of wielding a butt-plug on a guy twice my size, and a decade younger, passive and bowed to my will.

However, I thought it was time to regroup, as our conversation had been limited. Very limited, till then. On the other hand, he had already enriched my vocabulary (and those of my friends, who are still reeling) by two words: butt-plug and cockslap. Did you know that you can buy butt-plugs that have diamonds inset in the heft?! And ones with a foxtail attached? Finally something for the girl who truly has everything.

Anyway, despite joyfully embracing new knowledge, I did also want to talk about boundaries and levels of intimacy. I was happy to try out new stuff with Thor and his hammer but I needed a level of intimacy that also included (for example) laughter, giggles and sensuality. I also needed to talk about contraception, because it is really tedious having to push a guy away repeatedly before he dons the plastic cape. I mean, c’mon, we are not in Kindergarten here. And unless he proposes (with a butt-plug-ring?) and swears undying fidelity, he will be wearing rubber. Ironic really that someone so into having foreign objects (made of rubber) inserted into orifices has such a problem with putting one teensy tiny flimsy layer of rubber over a small part of himself…

So having finally lured him to a public place where they served food and drink, after eyeing each other hungrily for a while, our conversation went a little bit like this:

Me: So, shall I just lay it on the line?

I would like to enjoy nights of passion with you, without being exclusive, but also with a certain level of intimacy. That means we sometimes do stuff outside the bedroom, like go out to eat, and get to know each other a little better. For me, good conversation and great food often equals good sex. Feed me well, and I will be a happy bunny between the sheets…are you getting that I am really into food?

And, I need you to use contraception always, without me having to push you into it.

Also, I don’t like it when you hit me in the face. With anything. Even if it is a soft part of your body. (OK, OK I made that bit up) Even though it doesn’t hurt. It’s not about that. It just doesn’t doesn’t turn me on. Also, when you spit on my back while you are fucking me? I don’t get it? OK your turn, what do you want?

Thor: Um well, I don’t really know…I haven’t really thought about it much. I guess I just want to relax and have a good time, without any pressure or commitment.

I felt like I was truly talking to Thor of Asgard, who had no concept of “our customs.” I guess he probably felt the same. I wish I could tell you we went back to mine and had hot sex. We didn’t. Suddenly his porn-bitch was talking back. And that was not part of the script. Oh and Asgard needed to be saved. Again.

Between you and me, I had planned to try and “make” my own personal sexual man-toy out of the raw materials at hand. It was either that, or head for Celibate-City. I failed. It’s ok. Maybe, just maybe, he will think twice before… or at least ask beforehand.

We all agree that sex is a lot of fun, and that anything consensual that makes it fun is fine. But what exactly is the POINT of a lot of these activities…? What does a man get out of, for example, cumming or spitting on a woman’s back? Isn’t it much more intense and pleasant to cum inside her whilst pleasuring her at the same time? When I was discovering my sexuality first time around, back in the 80s, men took pride in actually pleasuring you! It was about getting each other off. But now it seems like a lot of the time somehow I’m left out of all the fun. I felt like raising my hand and saying “Umm, hello, I am still here, can I have some stimulation too? Other than the visual eye candy of a man frantically wanking himself off, right in front of me??”

Call me an intellectual, but my brain needs feeding too. And not with reruns of “facefuck III”.

If you enjoyed that guest blog, you can see more of her writing at BritBitchBerlin or follow her on Twitter or Facebook. But in the meantime I’d be curious to know what you think of the above story. I think it’s a classic example of two people wanting very different things, but not realising just how different those things are until they have this conversation. I wonder if a lot of what we think is selfishness is often just a symptom of incompatible desires. If you’re a guy and you have time, I’d also love to know the answer to the question “what do you get out of cumming and/or spitting on a woman’s back?” – because, you know, I think I can guess but it would be lovely if you could explain it in a bit of detail for my personal research.*

*wanking

Today’s guest blog began when CavaSupernova got in touch with a link to her story. I love a good story. And my favourite stories come with a mix of filth and emotion. This story was slightly different. Filthy, yes. Emotional, fuck yes. But also the sort of thing that makes me want to reach through the screen, seek out the villain of the piece, and shake him into a thousand tiny pieces.

There’s a world of difference between exploring your hot sex fantasies with people, and using sex as a way to hold power over someone. With wisdom and a far calmer tone than I could manage, CavaSupernova‘s story explores the latter. I don’t want to give too much away, but please be aware that this might be triggering.

Open relationships and threesomes

I love threesomes. I do. I love, love, love them.

I’ve made a few stops on the FFF to MMM spectrum, and for me, there’s no end to the fun. Try being in the middle of a girl sandwich; one’s teasing your nipples with her fingertips as she watches the other licking your cunt, and your back is arched to breaking point you’re so turned on.

Or a nice MMF spitroast, one horny guy doing you from behind, while you suck the other’s rock-hard cock. Or maybe you’re at an orgy and some guy’s just tied your hands behind your back and his wife’s asking you to sit on her face while her man does you from behind.

Mmm, hot. To the power of three.

Or not, as the case may be.

In early 2010, an anonymous letter landed on my doormat bearing a dynamite revelation: “Your husband is fucking men behind your back. In your bed.” Turns out my bloke had been cruising guys online for a couple of years and having threesomes with them.

A 16-year relationship, 11 of them married, down the pan. Within the week I bailed out, within the year, we were divorced.

I’ve already blogged the full story, but there’s one specific aspect under the microscope here because it screwed up my head big time during the dazed months that followed:

What right had I to get upset?

How can a chick who loves threesomes – who has had sex with other men in front of her husband – get her arse out when her spouse does the same thing?

A closed relationship

Me and my husband – let’s call him B – had a sort-of open relationship. It mainly expressed itself when, after a night out caning it, he’d invite some similarly wasted male acquaintance or other back to ours. We had never talked about or designated ourselves as non-monogamous. It just happened.

The threesomes were so knicker-wettingly intense I get hot even thinking about them now. B just had a knack for picking gorgeous, intelligent men, with great bodies, no inhibitions and an awesome line in dirty talk.

Back to 2010. I was devastated when that letter arrived, descended into gibbering, teeth-chattering shock. But as the news sunk in, I began to feel like a hypocrite and then I started to hate myself for feeling so bad. “You brought this on yourself, you stupid, stupid idiot.”

Open any glossy women’s magazine and there’s some ‘expert’ telling you how non-monogamy will nuke a marriage. Make it disintegrate in a mushroom cloud of jealousy and recrimination.

By their logic, I’d paid the price for smugly assuming the rules didn’t apply to me. I deserved everything I got.

Simple, right? Well, no.

B and I had a tatty, grim shambles of a pairing. It had gradually, imperceptibly, come to revolve around his drink problem and filthy temper, my endless dread of his next outburst, and the fear that I’d be next whenever he started smashing stuff up. It’d happened so slowly I didn’t even notice; got used to his shit without even realising it.

This abuse was tipping into violence. He tried to strangle me twice, enjoyed shoving me around and slamming doors in my face; laughed it all off as ‘just messing about’. After Doormat-gate, it took months to dawn on me that his ‘betrayal’ wasn’t about the sex. His ‘adultery’ was just another element in a campaign of emotional and verbal abuse. This abuse caused our split.

The high times, ironically, had kept us going. My ex had a cuckolding fetish, loved seeing me with other guys, really got off on it. He often asked me to go out and pick up men, so I could tell him all about it. I drew the line at that, but it was pretty hot just talking about it.

He also fancied the blokes, hence the Gaydar habit. If we’d had a happy relationship, I’d have been cool with him getting it on with men, though. A chance to watch a guy suck another guy’s cock? That’s my ultimate ‘makes me hotter than the sun’s internal core’ fantasy.

The problem was never openness

Without threesomes – one of the few ‘fun’ activities we shared – we’d have split earlier, not later. The agony aunts were wrong; anger and abuse destroyed us, not kink.

I also realised my ‘open’ marriage was anything but. We weren’t remotely open with each other. We didn’t talk. We didn’t establish parameters. So, if you’re attached, and want to experiment, do your due diligence and go into it with your eyes open. You could end up having the time of your life: I did.

Now I’m mended, the self-hatred’s finally evaporated and I love threesomes more than ever. Angry, manipulative men, though… I’ve given those up for good.

If you identify with any of the more shocking things in CS’s post, or if you’re in a relationship that scares you, you can find out more and get advice here. And if you like her writing, check out CavaSupernova’s excellent blog or follow her on Twitter.

As a sex blogger, I am legally obliged to provide some sort of fodder that hits the keyword “Valentine’s Day”, or Google will have me shot. But if you want a syrupy-sweet and romantic entry or a rant about twee, tedious predictability of the day itself, you’re better off looking at previous years’ entries. Because today I’m going to talk about House of Cards.

House of Cards on Valentine’s Day

No, this isn’t just an excuse to remind other fans that Season 2 of House of Cards will be released on February 14th, it’s simply because House of Cards presses so many of my ‘holy shit that’s so hot’ buttons that it is almost impossible to list them all.

I’ll give you my top ones, though.

1. Powerful, evil men

From Andrew Scott’s playfully terrifying Moriarty to the drawling, bass sarcasm of Professor Snape, there’s an entire book to be written about how deliciously sexy evil can be. I’m definitely not the only one who thinks this. Plenty of submissive-leaning people on Twitter replied to my achingly hot story about number 14 by telling me, in no uncertain terms, that they were off to rub themselves raw, and I’ve been in certain circles where one cannot mention Kevin Spacey’s name without causing at least three people to collapse in a puddle of their own lust.

Why is Kevin Spacey so sexy? I think it’s because in House of Cards he is a ruthless, vicious, scheming man. A bastard’s bastard. The créme de la créme of cunts. And with every new machination, each twisted smile or liberty taken, I want to hug myself with merciless joy and have him devour me like the wolfish Beelzebub he is.

2. Hate fucking

Not all the sex in House of Cards is hateful, but there’s certainly a hell of a lot more of it that is powered by rage, revenge, and politics than you’d get in your average drama series. Sometimes it’s nice to see the perfect couple getting together on screen. But at other times it’s fantastic to be reminded that sex can be had for many reasons: not all of them good.

An on-screen fuck is so much hotter when you know one or other of the characters has an ulterior motive.

3. Zoe Barnes (played by Kate Mara)

I very rarely fancy women, but I am happy to make an exception for Zoe Barnes. She’s indescribably stunning, as well as being sneaky and devious and cunning and all that good stuff too. She also has a quality that I am exceptionally jealous of – in anything she wears her tits look spectacular. I want to hug her so that our chests smoosh together, then pick her up and fuck her against a wall.

The perfect House of Cards relationship

Hauling this entry back from drooling celebrity lust and onto the crucial topic of Valentine’s Day (see, Google? I am playing your wicked game), the most insanely hot thing about House of Cards is the relationship between Frank Underwood (played by Kevin Spacey) and his wife Claire (played by Robin Wright). They’re  both incredibly powerful people, but together they seem to be striving for a kind of give/take equality that I’ve rarely seen before.

Neither of them seems as concerned about fidelity as you’d expect from a high-profile married couple. They both make mistakes, sexually and personally, but what’s utterly fascinating is that they have this ongoing deal: I support you, then you support me. They know that it’s not always possible to excel simultaneously, so they take it in turns. Frank takes the limelight while Claire supports him from the wings, then they swap, and he dedicates his time to making sure that she gets the best exposure.

Every now and then they share a cigarette. The cigarette is, like all smoking on TV these days, a metaphor for their relationship. One of them will start it, then halfway through pass it to the other one. Breathing in, then out, then handing it over.

Love me like Frank Underwood

Don’t get me wrong, these characters are both pretty horrible people, so I wouldn’t recommend any of you turn into Frank Underwood any time soon (unless you are joining me in ‘filthy evil men’ sex games), but their relationship looks a lot like the sort of thing I want. A partnership of the most interesting kind, where you’ll step aside for your partner when they need to succeed, fight for their goals as passionately as you fight for yours, knowing with total certainty that they’ll do exactly the same thing for you a little way down the road.

And, of course, lust painfully after each other as you get dressed for a night out – because along with the support and the love, there’s always a little promise of fiery rage around the corner.

 

Addendum: If this entry wasn’t Valentine’s-y enough for you, here are some previous V-day entries ranked in order of how much I like them.

Love is like being tied to a rock that you also sort of want to have sex with

The most romantic thing I’ve ever written

Unwilling monogamy (not strictly V-day, but about love)

For Valentine’s Day I want a blowjob