I’m dating again. Not with great gusto so far, and my most promising dating opportunities are ones that sit outside the swipe-focused stuff anyway. But I am having a go with a few different dating apps to see if there are any that don’t make me want to chuck my phone in the Thames. This time, I’m giving myself side quests to try and avoid the malaise that characterised my last go on this merry-go-round. The problem isn’t always down to other users, to be honest, although inevitably it’s annoying to be greeted with a bunch of likes and messages from guys who have clearly not looked at a single word of my profile, seeing only my pictures and thinking ‘eh, she’ll do‘ then firing off a lazy-ass ‘hey.’ The bigger problem these days is the rampant capitalist hellscape of apps that tempt you in with the promise of connection then demand you open your wallet if you want to actually talk. But still. We’re doing this. And part of ‘doing this’ in a way that makes it fun means allowing myself to write about the experience. That way, when aspects of the dating journey annoy me, rather than curl up and weep in a corner I can roll my eyes and remind myself that at least it’ll make good content. So. Here goes: four reasons I will instantly swipe left.

Note, as always, that like most of my other dating advice articles, this one is tediously straight. 

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The original Doxy was the first sex toy I ever wrote about on this site, and ever since I tried it I’ve been obsessed. I’m not the only one – since it launched it’s become a staple in the drawers of many sex bloggers, readers, and plenty of my friends as well. I’ve mentioned it so many times that even a horny writer like me started struggling to find new ways I could say ‘this is fucking awesome, I love humping it’. Lucky for me, then, that recently Doxy has had a complete overhaul and relaunched some of their toys – redesigned and improved – providing the perfect opportunity for me to fall in love all over again. Let’s talk about the new Doxy Die Cast Max.

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Today’s guest blog spoke to me. It’s written by the fabulous Muya, who is here for the very first time to ask the question: why have I never had an orgasm with a man? The experiences she describes, and the chase she embarks on, is something that resonates with me deeply – I hope it resonates with some of you lot too.

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There’s one word no one’s ever used to describe me. Well, OK there are probably plenty. No one’s ever described me as ‘svelte’ or ‘pious’, after all. I’ve never heard ‘classy’ except through a thick layer of sarcasm, while I’m in the throes of strawpedo-ing a bottle of Lambrini. But the particular word I’m thinking of is something I have always wanted to be. I’ve longed for it, yearned for it, aspired to become it, and spent my whole life failing. Until recently.

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Let’s start with the obvious: hard and heavy and thick and copious, deep down the back of my throat. After a few rounds of me teasing you with my lips and tongue and hands and spit and all the bells and whistles. Building you up and up and up in time to the music, then letting you plateau for a while in that moment, on the beat, with movements that are almost-but-not-quite fast or forceful enough to tip you over the edge. Once, twice, then three times before you ask me: “Do you want my cum? Are you ready for my cum?” and I mumble my assent through a mouthful of dick with eyes that flash ‘yes please’, so you let go. Pumping it – like I said – hard and heavy and thick and copious. Right down my throat so I almost gag and choke. But instead of gagging, I make a point of guzzling. One big, hard swallow with an almost cartoonish gulp, amplified so you can hear. Then another one, just in case you didn’t.

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