Content note: suicidal ideation, suicide planning and other extremely dark themes. Please do not read if this is likely to distress you. Check out some of the past Halloween erotica instead – in the past I’ve done a vampire, a werewolf, a succubus, a siren, a reanimated corpse and even the monster that lives under your bed. This time, I thought I’d have a go at writing a ghost story. As I say, there are very dark suicidal themes here, so please don’t read on if you’re not in the headspace for that. Any sexy stuff that happens is fully consensual, though it might be the only part that is.

I’m not dead: that’s the first thing you need to know. Don’t expect a twist ending where you shudder over my demise. That’s not to say I won’t come close: I have welcomed death. In fact, I fell so deeply in love with death that I almost embraced it forever. The second thing you need to know is that in the end, love will save me.

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One of my favourite songs by The Beautiful South, Prettiest Eyes, tells the story of a lifelong love by the lines it has drawn on the face of the singer’s beloved. “Line one is the time that you, you first stayed over at mine. And we drank our first bottle of wine. And we cried.” Life makes its mark on you, if you’re lucky enough to keep living it. The lines you draw tell a story about how you’ve lived. In the spring of 2026 I drew these lines.

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Describing a sexual experience can be difficult and delicate in itself, but it’s even more challenging to go beyond that and show the ways in which individual sexual experiences can have a broader ripple effect – on the way you feel about yourself, your body, your relationship to others and the world. This week’s guest blog is about hearing audio porn for the first time, and touching yourself to something that feels truly intimate. But it’s also about so much more than that. Huge thanks to the author, YHD, whose writing absolutely took my breath away.

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When I was in my late twenties I used to write blog posts about bullshit societal expectations of women at that age. How we were expected to be slim, ‘feminine‘, hairless, petite and sweet-smelling (especially in the ‘cunt‘ region). Then, for a brief period in my thirties I was nagged to be one thing above all others (PREGNANT!). Now that I’ve sailed past childbearing age without even a cursory click on a ClearBlue ad or video about IVF, the sales messages have settled into a comfortable, familiar horrorshow of content for the ‘older’ lady. And they seem pretty united in bad news: I’ve got far too much skin everywhere, and my face is falling off.

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It’s embarrassing to admit that I don’t like myself very much. Far more embarrassing, though, to tell you all that sometimes I think I’m OK. The latter carries way more shame, I want to whisper it in small-font italics. Sometimes I think I’m quite good, actually. Occasionally the tall, loud, brash, opinionated mess that makes up ‘me’ doesn’t feel so obnoxious. I like myself when I’m with you.

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