Is there such a thing as ‘feminist porn’? I’m genuinely surprised to learn that some people think there isn’t. It’s quite a philosophical question, encompassing as it does the definition of what ‘porn’ actually is, and prompting me immediately to wonder: if there’s no such thing as feminist porn, what would self-pleasure look like if the whole world was feminist?

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“Who’s this?” I ask him, hand shaking as I hold the phone, complete with text that I definitely wish I hadn’t read. It’s the first time in my life that I realise I’m jealous. Until then I had never expected to be. He shakes his head in reply, mumbles, and tells me that he fucked her.

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Damn right we’re gonna talk about Fleabag. This post contains spoilers, so catch up on Fleabag on iPlayer if you’d like to see it before you read on. But unless you’ve been living under a rock, you probably already know that the audience of Fleabag is dripping lust into sofa cushions across the country, because we’re desperately willing her to fuck a priest.

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How good do your genitals smell right now? Go on: if you’re in a place where it’s OK to do so, have a quick scratch and sniff. Really breathe it in. I bet a not insignificant number of you are delighted by the results. I’m certainly one of them: my vagina smells great at the moment.

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This is the next post in a series of erotic fiction about emotional fucks, where I’m having fun writing fictional characters who do filthy-hot things that may or may not be very ethical. This post involves a character fantasising about a spite fuck. Her fantasy involves things that – if they actually happened in real life – would certainly not be consensual. If that’s not your cup of tea, please don’t read on, but if you like sex stories that include twisted revenge and powerful anger, get stuck in.

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