Tag Archives: what is not wrong with you
The power of hugs, and the myth of the male protector
I took him by the hand and led him through the kitchen, then along the hallway and to the bottom of the stairs. I stood up on one step, smiled at him, then wrapped both of my arms around him in a giant hug. “This is what it feels like when you hug me,” I told him. “And this is why I love your hugs.”
Going on top: It’s my party and I’ll grind if I want to
For a brief period in my otherwise sofa-based life, I used to go running. Stop laughing at the back. My boyfriend at the time was really into his running, and his enthusiasm for this activity infected me to the point where roughly three times per week I would put on my trainers and gamely wheeze my way along a river while he ran gracefully in front. It was absolutely horrible. Still. Occasionally – VERY occasionally – I managed to get into stride. For a few brief seconds, I’d bounce lightly on my feet, propel myself with power, and breath like a normal person. During those times I got a teeny flash of joy, and a revelation – this is what it must feel like to be GOOD at this! I got the same feeling recently, when going on top during a shag. The perfect rhythm, the right amount of bounce, and a sense that this is what it must feel like to be GOOD at this.
I probably want your boyfriend to finger me
I strive to be a good person. I want most people to walk away from interactions they have with me thinking ‘oh, she was nice.’ Whether through anxiety, paranoia or genuine desperation to be liked, I try quite hard to not piss good people off.
But I also probably want your boyfriend to finger me.
Sexy shorts are the summer gift that keeps on giving
“SHORTS,” my brain screams, irritatingly. “LOOK. MEN WEARING SEXY SHORTS.” Try as I might to shut it up, it refuses to be silenced on the most important issue of the day. “LOOK,” it insists, even as I try to distract myself by remembering my times tables, “THERE ARE SEXY LEGS ALL OVER THE PLACE. SHORTS. LOOK AT THE SEXY SHORTS.” So I comply. I drink it in. And I melt with lust.
Collars and leashes and refreshing your kinks
When I was young, I wore a dog collar. A literal, actual dog collar of the kind you could buy from any old pet shop. Black leather, studded: the kind you’d use if you wanted your dog to look slightly menacing. I desperately wanted my boyfriend to clip a leash through the metal loops and pull my face onto his cock while I sucked him. But he never did.