I love a sex story that comes dripping with glee and enthusiasm, and this week’s guest blog does that so beautifully… I won’t waste too much time on a long intro, I’ll just let you get stuck in: this week’s guest blog, by CK, is about sex with older men.

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Somewhere, a guy has a photo of me sitting topless in an office chair. Not just an office chair, in fact: the chair he sat at from nine til five, every day for over two years. My face, turned slightly away from the camera, is grinning with post-coital happiness.

How long after you’ve fucked someone in their office can you publish a blog about them without worrying they’ll get fired? Should you wait until they’ve left that job and moved on to another? Until long after you’ve broken up? Until after they’ve given you the go-ahead? Perhaps all three. Perhaps just one or two. Perhaps it doesn’t matter, because here’s one of my favourite sex stories…

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It’s a question I’ve asked myself frequently. While it’s possible (and, indeed, hot as all hell) to watch yourself fucking in a mirror, there are some angles that are impossible to achieve, unless you happen to be shagging inside a circus attraction. What’s more, videoing something and having a permanent record of your shag, which could easily be copied/accidentally uploaded to whatever The Cloud is, isn’t always something I’m keen on doing.

So how do you do it? Well, here’s what we did.

For starters, we had three things: a phone, an iPad, and a raging horn. We set up the iPad and the phone to facetime each other. This tactic can be used not just for watching yourselves fuck from new and improved angles, it can also be used to watch one person having a wank. I know, you may prefer to be in the same room, but if like me you want to get as close as possible to the sensation of watching someone who doesn’t know you’re there, then setting up a phone in the corner of one room while you perv furtively in another can be a truly excellent bet. The other person has to know it’s there, obviously, but if they concentrate hard enough they can try and forget: making sure they’re focusing on their own pleasure rather than playing to the camera.

So, facetime. The only realistic way I could find out what I looked like getting fucked from behind, without having to actually record it. He held the phone, and I propped the iPad on a pillow in front of me before getting on my hands and knees…

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Do you remember the kids’ fable of Brer Rabbit and the briar patch?

I’ll refresh your memory: Brer Rabbit was a bit of a dick, and Brer Fox decided he didn’t like him much. He made a trap in which to catch Brer Rabbit, and Brer Rabbit walked straight into the trap. On catching him, Brer Fox (who thought he was cunning) wondered aloud what he should do with the rabbit now he’d caught him. Brer Rabbit shouted:

“I don’t care what you do, as long as you don’t throw me in the briar patch!”

“Anything?” said the fox, and at this point I think he could have benefited from a few lessons in critical analysis and not trusting sources with a huge vested interest. “You’d really want me to do anything rather than throw you into the briar patch?”

“Yes,” said Brer Rabbit. “Hang me, shoot me, eat me, just don’t throw me into the briar patch!”

So our hapless fox, who I remember feeling intensely irritated by as a small child, did the opposite of what the rabbit had requested, and he hurled Brer Rabbit into the briar patch. Brer Rabbit, who was also a bellend, danced for joy. Burning all of the bridges marked ‘potential future escape scenario’, he crowed that the briar patch was actually his favourite place to be.

“I was born and bred in the briar patch! Hahaha!”

What the fuck has this story got to do with flogging? I’ll tell you.

I rarely play the ‘briar patch’ game. Leather belts, canes, anything whippy with a biting sting is not to be trifled with. I’ll be up-front about my limits, and clear as day when I give feedback. If I’m being bratty and getting playfully punished, a thin cane gives a genuine reprimand. I’ll grit my teeth, bare my arse, and bite back yelps with each stroke.

The flogger, though? It’s my briar patch: I wasn’t born and bred with it, but ever since I started loving BDSM, it’s always been my happy place. My favourite flogger is heavy and thick – purple suede (obviously), with enough fronds that it falls like a thud. There’s a sting if you place it in certain ways – with the tails whipping round to catch me on the hip rather than the bottom. But if you can place it perfectly, right in the middle of one of the cheeks, I will moan and squirm like you’ve just kissed my clit.

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Confession: I used to hate lube. Not all the time, I could see it had its merits. When you’re bumming, for instance, there is no natural lubricant up your arse, so a fuckload of the sticky stuff is as essential as a safety rope if you’re climbing a mountain.

For hand jobs, I could get on board with lube as a means of making the whole thing more special – just the right kind of tingling lube at the perfect moment, or a good dollop to enable better use of a masturbation sheath. Fine.

But for sex? I wasn’t sure. I feel like a total nob for admitting this but lube used to seem like a sign of personal failure.

I haven’t talked about this much before, and to wrench a nugget of total honesty out of my cringing heart, I hadn’t really discussed it with my partners either. Occasionally, if I was horny but a bit too drunk to slick my knickers, I’d pop to the bathroom on the way to the bedroom. Pull down my pants, spit on my hand, and rub it in the right places: fake what I couldn’t make.

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