“I Can’t Find It!”

Oh god, I’m such a fucking potato.

Himself and I were on a date at the cinema last night. One that was a bit fraught, considering most of what we’d planned went a bit wrong. Down to the fact that, as we were heading towards the exit afterwards, we were confronted with a massive downpour. Eventually, we made it onto a bus.  It was late. We were tired and cold. So conversation wasn’t exactly flowing. It was more of a “let me cling onto you like a loving limpet” kind of moment.

I mentioned something about making a t-shirt with an inside joke between us on it. Like, I don’t even know why exactly. I just did because when we’re both tired it’s like our brains sync up to hammer on the ULTRA RANDOM button. So, I mentioned this particular inside joke. And I said something along the lines of “but which one would you put on a t-shirt for me?”

He thought it through for a second. Then his face lit up.

“Where is it? I can’t find it! Oh God, IT’S GONE.”

Have you ever, in the heat of a sexy moment, blurted out something so ridiculous it just follows you around perpetually? A something that occasionally gets brought up by your partner and makes you wish you’d never ever spoken, ever in your life? This is what that is for me.

Lemme rewind.

*spoopy, squiggly flashback effect*

This happened about three years ago. I may have written about it then, but fuck it, I’m writing about it again. We were in the midst of some ferociously good foreplay, the kind that makes you lightheaded and giggly and slowly replaces any kind of logical linear thought with the words WOOHOO SECKS YAS GOOD on a loop.

So it was that I went in to give him a blow job. Well, I wanted to. And I was going to. But… weirdly enough, I couldn’t immediately find his cock. Which was quite the achievement considering he was rock hard and also RIGHT FUCKING THERE.

I panicked. I legit panicked because my brain can be a cheeky little shit sometimes. Especially in the heat of a sexy moment. But this was peak me being a shambles. In a thick haze of lust and libido, my brain had successfully convinced me, for a few seconds at least, that my boyfriend’s cock had vanished into thin air.

Three years on, and I still am a bit mortified by it. Just a little. The words, mostly. I actually had to ask him what context this happened in, as I couldn’t for the life of me remember.

Well, I do now. And yeah, after a bit of a duff night, remembering it was a slight bit of a laugh which I needed. An embarrassing one, but a laugh nonetheless.

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Step In The Right Direction

It’s a Saturday night and I’m parked at our desk, scheduling the week’s tweets for Dreams of Spanking. Half of me is sweating on how to phrase the tweet for a particular scene, half of me is sweating because it’s a flurry of hot as hell spanking action dancing in front of my eyes (and a little bit of me is also sweating because of the stifling and indecisive mini-heatwave going on). I get that familiar wriggle, that one where my body’s temporarily wrested the control from the weevil in my brain and is making me very aware of the spark of a need catching fire. The need to be spanked, to feel his hand and hear the sound and let my body luxuriate in the feeling that it is being listened to.

Pleasingly, and surprisingly, it’s my body that keeps hold on the controls. It may or may not have something to do with the fact that, at some point, I hear the front door thump shut and see Irish Ladd jump in the back of a taxi with his mates who’ve come to pick him up for a night out. Empty room to the left of us, empty room to the right. Stuck in the middle, with plenty of opportunity to not give a single fuck about the noises being made.

So I grab that opportunity by the collar and strip off, leaving on just my t-shirt. I drape myself over the bed, telling him as best as I can what I need right then.

And he obliges gladly. He starts off slow, but I love a good slow start. Plenty of time to build up, really get the heat flowing. And it flows, setting my body alight in a way only he can. Making me wet in a way that I’ve not been for such a long time, opening me up and rendering me giddy with the need for an orgasm.

“Wow, you’re… you’re really wet!”


“Yeah… amazing…”

I can tell this time’s different from the way my voice is no longer controlled, measured. In its stead is a natural huskiness, a pleasure-cottoned slur of sound and words.

“… Can you get another finger inside me?”

He can.

He can, without effort, get three fingers deep. Three fingers which I pulse around as I frig myself to an orgasm so thunderously gorgeous, so wet and sloppy and wonderful that when he tells me that my come’s drenched the sheets, I’m ever so slightly amazed at remembering how good it feels to be completely in my body and out of my brain.

Heck, I’m still amazed right now, as I’m writing this. Amazed, and more than a little bit giggly. Step in the right direction? I can but hope…

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I’d asked him, just before I left for the shops to get something I’d managed to forget to buy twice already that day (ceterazine, because my subconcious really wants me to break out in an angry field of hives, apparently).

“Will you light some candles and make the room a bit… sexier while I’m gone?”

Or something of that ilk. As I walked to the supermarket, weaving through the aisles until I’d found the allergy pills I’d been looking for, I pondered on our sex life from as of late. The other day, after a joyous and wrecking wet orgasm given to me by his skilled hands and fingers, we’d (for the first time in a while) fucked – without me so much as having an inkling of Bad Shit™ on the brain or outside interruptions mattering for all of it. This, of course, felt like a glorious thing for me. And with that in mind, I felt in fine fettle as I opened the door, to be let in to a dark, candlelit room by my naked boyfriend, hiding behind the door so as to not be seen by the people who I’d just let in to the house.

They were old friends of the Irish guy occupying the room next to us, friends who’d come down for the weekend to stay over. During the course of the next 48 hours (and to my knowledge, still as I’m writing this post) they in turn met up with some more mates for a pre-drink session in the empty room downstairs, went off clubbing and slumped back in at 3.30 the next morning, sat in his darkened room shooting the shit for most of the next day, left for another party sesh and arrived back at the same time.

And it was as those mates trickled in, loudly and very much present, that I asked my boyfriend to massage me, before spanking me with one of my thick knitting needles.

Now, I’ve mentioned countless times before (or maybe I haven’t, in which case – forgive me for thinking I had mentioned this and also, the more you know) that I’m kind of daftly afraid of people hearing us having any kind of moments of sexual pleasure. Our room is quite securely locked, so there’s no way anyone can just walk on in. Nor are the walls as… well, cardboard as they were in our previous place. I can hear murmurs – and occasional snores – but there have not been moments where the walls have vibrated because someone’s watching a Vin Diesel movie somewhere in the house.

There are only two things that could be of worry to me here – one being my own weird, twisty, turny brain. The other being our IMPOSSIBLY SQUEAKY BED.

Funnily enough, it was the first, not second one that caught me in this case. And it was entirely down to the fact that, whenever we’re engaging in any kind of spanking (which is rare, exactly because of this – and also many other factors) I become hyper-aware of noises. Specifically, the noises being made by hand hitting flesh, reverbrating around the room. I have absolutely no idea if anyone can hear the slightest from outside, but the idea that someone may hear us is enough to scare the bejesus out of me.

So, imagine being scared by the idea that one person currently in the vicinity may hear you and your boyfriend having spanky sexy funtimes. Now, imagine about ten people consistently meandering up and down the stairs, lingering outside your door and having merry conversations while you’re trying your very best not to freak out and to enjoy what’s happening to you. But you can’t really enjoy it because you slowly but surely become convinced that, somehow, everyone in the street can hear you.

Got that mental image?


Now imagine the same, but with the spanking replaced by my muffled groans into our duvet as he uses the Doxy on my clit in a way that still makes my head spin when I think about it.

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Unknown source, via Tumblr.

I wanted him.

Right then.

Right there.

Arousal overwhelmed me, sudden and sharp. It may have something to do with the story I’ve been writing. It may have just been good ol’ fashioned primal need, grabbing me by the collar just as I was attempting to wind down the day and fall asleep in his arms.

Or a combination of both, who knows. Either way, my pussy was soaking wet, my clit ached and throbbed and my mind had blanked on pretty much everything that wasn’t sex or breathing. Sure, we were both completely out of energy and worn out from work, in need of softness and rest and the comfort of each other’s bodies. But him inside me, his cock thick and hard, filling me up and making my head swim… I craved him.

Fuck being dog-tired. Fuck the traces of early morning shifts and days spent on our feets. I wanted him to grab me and ride my worn-out bones.

My need to be fucked by him took me by surprise. But not as much as his want to fuck me.

The tiredness didn’t stop us. We fucked, slowly, delectably, our fingers entwined as we rode through the haze of fatigue. I brought myself to an orgasm in his arms, confessing to him about how when I masturbated on my own I close my eyes and grind my hips pretending he’s fucking me.

It was the best night of sleep I’d had in a while. The post-sex haze, the feeling of his warm glow against my skin…

Never mind that the sex was so good and the afterglow felt so gorgeous I actually overslept and had to run like the clappers for the Tube.

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Vanilla Cream

I like to come prepared.

That’s why, before Lube You Lots hits this blog in earnest, I want to make sure I’ve got a few lubes tried and tested and ready to be blogged about. Well, that and the fact that preparing for this venture is proving a pretty good way for me to reconnect with my own libido. Not to mention my boyfriend’s body. And the fact that he’s pretty fucking awesome at giving me head.

Test subject? A vanilla cream-flavoured lube by System JO.

I asked him to use it on my cunt as he licked me – later on, after orgasms and giggling, I attempted to reciprocate the favour by spreading it liberally onto the head of his cock (only the head, at his request) before giving him a vanilla cream blow job… and then I had a moment of intense self-doubt about my blowjob skills because of course.

But other than that…

It started with him spreading the lube on my thigh, as a way of getting an idea of what the lube would taste like in co-ordination with bits of me. I had to convince him to not actually squirt out the entire thing on there and drink it like it gave him life – granted, it’s pretty damn tasty lube – so he changed tack.

I’d forgotten just how much I love his mouth on my nipples. As he dabbed a few drops on each nipple, I was already in the process of losing myself to the sheer bliss of arousal. No thoughts in my head, just the feeling of his tongue licking the hardening rosy buds. I was faster. I was there, with my whole body.

And then he shifted, kneeling on the side of the bed and motioning me to lie in front of him with my legs resting on his shoulders. He spread the lube out on my cunt, slicking it even more and mingling the taste of me with the taste of vanilla cream.

The lube felt good.

His mouth? Damn near divine.

I writhed, my hips bucking against him. I felt greedy, needing him to take me to the edge of release as fast as he could possibly lick – but he took his time. Made me relax into my growing arousal. Used his fingers to help out his tongue.

When I got my craved-for orgasm, I got it in the most intense, body-shaking way I’d experienced for a while. It was one of those orgasms – the ones that render you incoherent and giggly for a good while after. And possibly in need of a sandwich or something.

After that, after the orgasms and the moment where I somehow convinced myself I’d forgotten how to blow job (?????), we lay cuddled up on the bed, engaged in what I can only call a Lube You Lots debrief.

Cliffnotes version? Vanilla cream lube = great success. More flavoured lubes in our sexual future? Hell yeah, more flavoured lubes in our sexual future.

And the possibility of having this one drizzled on top of some ice cream, idk.

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I don’t know how it happened.

Me, lying on the bed and trying to get words down for a project I’m working on. Him, sitting behind his computer at the desk, doing little bits of admin. He gets up to give me a hug.

And suddenly we’re kissing. No, not just kissing, actually. Making out, like two thirsty teens, drinking each other in with lips and hands and tongues.

“Was that why you came over here for?” I ask.

“No, I just wanted to come and hug you. But this is good too.”

“Better, even.”

And it is better. It’s glorious. I am overcome by something I haven’t felt in ages – the red hot glow of spontaneity.

I am crap at initiating sex. It’s partly because I think that, with enough pre-amble and getting in the mood, I will one-up the sneaky hate spiral somehow. Perhaps what’s going through my mind at that point is that if I affirm to myself enough that I want to have sex, and that I’m going to have sex, it’s going to happen without the bit where my brain’s seemingly had enough of my bullshit.

I am crap at initiating sex because, as of late, I’m confusing initiating sex with doing Masterpiece fucking Theatre. Masterpiece Fucking Theatre, if you will. I’m treating it as a game in which I sit my brain down and tell it all the reasons why sex is a thing that will be happening. It’s a game that gets very tiring, very quickly, because my brain does not often feel like listening. Well, that part of my brain doesn’t, anyway.

Maybe it’s because my brain knows it’s a performance.

Don’t get me wrong – I really do want to have a more active sex life, unimpeded by the general banal mulch of depression. I want to work on that because… well, I bloody love sex. Otherwise I wouldn’t be writing this blog.

What I mean by “a performance” is that I am trying way too hard to trick my brain into being quiet for a while. I am giving my brain a one-man-show, consisting entirely of reasons why I should be allowed to just go for it and have sex with my boyfriend. It’s not an efficient way of living your sex life, and it’s also not an efficient use of the creative/trickster energy* inside you.

But last night… my brain was quiet. It was quiet as we made out and groped and moaned. It was quiet while we both wriggled ourselves out of our trousers and underwear, and it was quiet as I spread for him and took him in.

My brain was quiet, but my body wasn’t. It was basking in the glory of being faster than the hate spiral. It was basking in the sheer delight of a good, frantic fuck.

I had used my trickster energy right, at last. Instead of a performance for my brain, I just let my body react faster than it. It was a moment in which I realised just how much I am willing to deny my body its moment in favour of appeasing whatever’s going in my mind – be it positive or negative (or just plain confusing).

And I don’t want to stand for it any more.

I want my body to feel good, because it doesn’t often get the chance to just bask in its own glory like that. It doesn’t often get the chance to give in to what it wants faster than my brain. I know what I did last night, and I know that it came about from a place of sheer spontaneity – which is good to know and is noted. But I can’t help wondering if I’ve now made it all too clear to the hate spiral that this is a way to trick it…

Still, it was good to be faster than the hate spiral for once. There was something delightfully giddy about wearing a jumper and t-shirt and nothing else, grabbing at the fabric as my boyfriend frigged me to an orgasm that left me beautifully woozy in the head.

I needed that.


*Trickster energy is a concept taken from Elizabeth Gilbert’s excellent book, Big Magic. It’s all about living an awesome creative life, and will most likely be the topic of my Write Sex Right column in December.




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Let be

black and white clothed male, naked female with bootsThe blows landing on my arse cheeks reverbrated through my body, down to the core of my pussy. I was getting wetter and wetter by the second, no matter what kind of rhythm he was playing out on me. We giggled, yes. He made me laugh by pretending my arse was a pair of bongos, yes. But fuck me, it turned me on until I felt like I could melt.

He went on for what seemed like forever, and if I could have had it my way I would have had him spanking my cheeks for all of eternity. But a greater urge took me over, the urge for him to just grab me and have me right there. We’d tried doggy style as a position before but only a couple of times and never with great success, but in that moment it was the only way I wanted him to fuck me.

And this time, it worked. This time, I could feel his fingers digging into my thighs, his balls slapping against my cunt as he drove his cock into me over and over again. It was something else. It made me feel utterly dirty and I loved every second of it. Even when we switched positions and fucked with him on top of me, I still loved it because I love him and I love sex with him and it doesn’t matter what we’re doing or how we’re doing it or what kind of stupidly impossible position our knees and arms find themselves in.

Later, after orgasms and moans and creaks of the bed, I lay in his arms not thinking but just being. It had been too long since I’d just let myself be. The last few weeks and months I’ve spent so much time living in my own head, thoughts rotating like a manic hamsterwheel which I couldn’t for the life of me bring to a halt. Even if I’d have just jumped off, it would have pulled me back in, as if I was  magnetically tethered to my own unstoppable brain. Letting myself just be wasn’t a thing I was able to do. My Sertraline ran out, which really didn’t help because it hasn’t taken me long to figure out that my brain off medication is not a happy place to be – the two or three weeks of brain fog and sadness that come when you start taking it (or in my case, start again) is something I’ll gladly go through in favour of the infinite loop of black gloom that manifests without it.

I’d spent so much time in my head, I’d forgotten what being fully and utterly in my body felt like. But in that moment, with him and with the connection our bodies made, I remembered what it felt like to just be.

And I don’t want to ever forget that again.

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Morning sex

foreheadkissI can probably count on one hand the amount of times we’ve had morning sex. Then again, as y’all know, I have an actual sieve for a brain so I may be forgetting one or two occasions. But it’s in all honesty not something we tend to do – or even have time to do.

It started with a little throwaway comment about how, last night, I’d felt his hand idly brush over my mound a couple of times. I went all Morticia Addams about it (Last night, you touched me inappropriately… do it again) and after he first grabbed one of my breasts and then my side, I had him where I didn’t even know I wanted him.

Morning light filtered in through the curtains. His fingers danced across my clit, my labia, my perineum and before I even realized, I was slick with wetness and writhing against his hands. Birdsong resonated in the distance as we kissed and I growled because I wanted him inside me and my greed for him had temporarily blinded me to physical logistics. On top? Side spoon? From behind? Bueller? I had no idea.

But luckily he had. He rolled on top of me and I spread my legs to accommodate him, grabbing his cock and sliding it inside me. Moments of self-consciousness spat at my ecstasy – are we too loud? Are we making the bed creak a bit too obviously?-  but I took it in stride, and we fucked, oh so gloriously fucked as the sun became brighter and the birds fluttered around and another day took off in earnest.

There’s something about morning sex that makes me want to have more of them. Maybe it’s the fact that, post-fuck and still in the middle of the post-orgasmic-bliss, you get up and get dressed, and maybe there’s coffee and toast and Frasier on the telly or a quick shower and a flight out the door to meet the rest of the day. Maybe it’s the fact that, wherever you find yourself later in the day, flashes of memory of how you started the day will invade your thoughts and you’ll smile to yourself and think Yeah… we did that.

Or maybe it’s both.

All I know is that, as the day went on and we did the things we normally do on a Saturday, I caught myself smiling a couple of times, almost able to feel the weight of him on me.

And I want more of that.

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Giggle giggle giggle

All the signs were pointing in the right direction – the right direction being the giant flashing neon sign saying OMGSECKSYAS. Me – practically pulsating all over with horn to the point where I’d stripped off and was sitting naked on the bed, headphones in and Mia Khalifa gleefully showing off her breasts before sucking cock by the poolside on my netbook. ILB, fresh out of the shower and sitting very nakedly next to me, idily stroking his cock.

Sex was going to happen. I was so very, very sure of it, as I writhed against his hand, making the kind of gutteral, hungry noises that you could only make when someone’s somehow managed to reach something in you that desperately needed to be reached – a feeling that needed to be sated, needed to be satisfied lest you explode in a burning ball of fiery want.

My climax came hard, fast – faster than normal, like a short sharp spark that courses through you for the briefest, most glorious of moments before evaporating, leaving you a crumpled ball of giggles and dire need for a drink.

“Do you want to have sex? I want to have sex with you.”

“Yeah, yeah, but just give me a minute to get my breath back.”

Fairly normal thing when you’ve had an intense orgasm like that but aren’t quite ready to let the night go into sleep, right?

Only then we got a bit… distracted.

It started off with a bit of dirty talk, a bit of “I’m so fascinated by your pussy” and then… then we somehow found ourselves talking about classic Simpsons episodes. I’m not entirely sure how we got there – god knows, my mind is like a sieve and my short term memories are the boiled water draining off the macaroni – but soon we were giggling like two silly buggers, me stretched out naked with my legs wrapped around him and him sitting up.

Oh god, and we were so close. So very close to abandoning it all and fucking like two people possessed, losing ourselves in each other until time fades into nothing and all there is in the world is the two of us. So very, very close and yet so far.

But really, it was kind of the best way to lose thread of where we were going. Because if sex wasn’t going to happen, there was no better way to get distracted than by having a really good, geeky giggle about stuff that I can’t even remember talking about.

Sex will happen at some point, I’m sure.

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Sex and Depression: An update

A couple of weeks ago, I managed to get a double appointment with the new GP at our surgery. This double appointment came at the recommendation of the GP herself, considering that the first time she saw me I was babbling everything out at once and tearing up something awful. Obviously, I needed a bit more time to explain what I was feeling and, ever so kindly, she made the time.

I’m back on SSRIs, because as I was talking to the GP it became crystal clear to me that I had, essentially, sacrificed my mental health for the sake of an orgasm instead of finding a way to let the two co-exist. And I can’t have just one or the other. I don’t want to have glorious, toe-curling and mindboggling orgasms but then spend the rest of my day drifting into terrifying dark places in my head. In the couple of months in which I wasn’t on SSRIs, I had the most vivid, concentrated and, quite frankly, shocking anxiety attacks of my life. They were tiring as hell, both for myself and ILB.

So, I admitted to the GP that I wanted to be back on SSRIs, but was afraid it might impact my libido again. It’s always going to be a risk, but it was one I was willing to take and work my way around. So, she prescribed me something called sertraline and so far it’s working for me. I’ve had a couple of weird moments – even suicidal ones – but those will pass and I now know that I have a GP who I can talk to and who will take her time to listen to me and my worries.

And I have a loving and understanding boyfriend who means the world to me. And if anything, I am confident that we can work our way around the sex thing. If I’m honest, so far it’s not been on my mind. Sex has been like a foggy kind of thought, overtaken by other things like anthology editing, writing and the day job. I want to make sure it doesn’t stay foggy, but I’m not entirely sure how to do that. It’s like I’m feeling extra self-concious at the moment, not knowing whether I want to give in to loving touches and deep kisses or just crawl under a blanket and hide from the world.

But I’m sure I’ll find a way. I always tend to do.


PS – We did end up having sex on Valentine’s Day – but that brought a whole different set of problems… of the ribbed and dotted kind.


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