we’re out on a date in a restaurant nearby. my chair faces the window looking out on the high street, bathed in that evening spring glow.
my mind is flitting. too much work mulch, not enough “focus-on-the-love-of-your-life”. my mind flits and my eyes flit, and then i spot them.
a pair of pigeons. sat on a roof in my direct line of sight. they’re cuddling, it looks like. in that birdy way, their cooing heads occasionally forming a little heart.
i point them out to him and we watch, for a while.
then a third pigeon shows up. sits at a distance, watching.
“They’re shagging, aren’t they? We’re basically watching pigeon sex happening.”
they’re shagging. in that evening spring glow – a beautiful, tentatively warm day – we are sitting in a restaurant watching two pigeons having sex on a roof.
briefly. before either of us can say anything else, the third pigeon intervenes and an actual fucking soap opera breaks out on that roof. feathers fly. one pigeon is unceremoniously pushed from its perch. it’s over in seconds but it takes us a short while to process what the hell we’ve just been observing.
and then the food comes and we talk and laugh and my brain stops flitting and starts shutting the hell up for a change. it’s nice. so very, very nice to reconnect in this most basic way considering we haven’t really had the chance to do so in the past few weeks.
A couple of weeks ago, the ever-excellent Dangerous Lilly wrote honestly and openly about something that can seem like a curse when you make your crust (or at least some part of it/or do it for whatever reason you do it) from writing about your sex life. Low libido is something that can feel frightening if you’re a sex blogger – I know this because it’s something that affects my sex life as well.
Lilly mentions being thankful that she’s no longer the “sexy” sort of blogger who writes erotica, takes sexy photos and writes about her sex life. I wanted to write my take on it from the point of view of someone who, technically, is that kind of blogger (in that I write about my sex life and write erotica).
To start with, this hasn’t got anything to do with my antidepressants. It has, for a part , a root in my depression. In the last few months, it’s been a constant unwanted companion. I like to compare it to the feeling of constantly lugging around a backpack: on the worst days, it’s full to the brim and feels much like carrying around a selection of bricks. On the better days, the feeling’s lighter. Less bricks, but they’re still there. The backpack is never empty, but on the better days it doesn’t feel like you’re in constant danger of toppling over.
The root of this upsurge lies in things like residual trauma from what happened with my mother last year, the stress of coming into a new job in a new area and letting my body get used to it, the lack of sleep caused by housemates who like cooking at three in the morning and having loud and (from what I can hear – which is quite a lot) frankly quite dubious sounding phone calls that last all through the night. Not to mention the pressure I put myself under, a pressure which for the last few months mainly centered around my fiction output and the balance of trying to edit two anthologies at the same time.
That last one especially did a number on me. The editing period of the second anthology leaked over into the Christmas period, which is a very high-pressure period in the day job. I spent many of my days off wanting to do nothing more than fajita wrap myself into my duvet and not come out. Of course, this causes discontent with the authors you’ve accepted into the anthology because if you don’t keep them in the loop (which, I am shamefully bad at this) they’ll start to question what the hell is going on. And it made me heavy with a weird kind of guilt. Because I was already pushing myself harder than I’d ever had, and I knew that I needed to take it slower on my days off. But there’s the lingering knowledge that something’s not being done. Something people are needing you to do. And you know that if you drop yourself right in and don’t stop and take a minute to reassess how you’re going about, things will go wrong. But the feeling of letting people down weighed on me so much.
We’ve had sex a couple of times in the last few months. The last time, a few weeks back, I nearly cried with joy at the feeling of him inside me. Sometimes my body and my brain are actually in agreement over how much I want it and need it and want him and need him. Sex and talking about it is such a major part of my life that it leaves me slightly baffled and plenty worried that it’s just not been on my mind much as of late. And when it’s not on my mind and I’m not having it as much, this blog does not get written in. And that same guilt I mentioned above adds a leaden weight to the brick in the backpack.
I am essentially feeling guilty for not having sex, or not thinking about sex in a way that I can write about it on this blog. Which is also not exactly a blessing for my already low libido as it now feels like every time I catch myself thinking I fancy pouncing on my boyfriend, it is immediately followed by the thought that I’m thinking this because I have to for the sake of the blog.
In case you weren’t aware, I fucking love my boyfriend and sex with him gets better and better every time because we keep discovering each other over and over again. The fact that my body and my brain are doing a great big Gallic shrug at the notion of letting me experience my boyfriend like that is as upsetting as the little voice that tries to convince me I don’t actually want to have sex for any other reason than content.
He told me we were escaping the house for a night. Staying at a hotel so we could, hopefully enjoy both the calm and each other away from the usual hubbub of loud housemates and walls which, to give you an example of how thin they are, once allowed me to deduct not just that our housemate in the next room was watching Family Guy but also the exact episode he was watching.
So I went off to work with a little spring in my step – not to mention, a rather optimistic bottle of Sliquid in my backpack.
I say optimistic because the next few hours kinda managed to wreck me just a little bit. It wasn’t so much work as it was the bit after. Let me set the scene for you, and please don’t forget at all times to picture the nipple-achingly, ear-freezing February cold which acted as the environment for this.
Me, wobbling to the bus stop with feet throbbing and back groaning. Bus stop crowded with people waiting for the same bus, something I know for a fact as this is what always happens on a Saturday evening. This, and the fact that this bus – scheduled to run every 6 to 10 minutes – has seemingly gone invisible. Other busses come – in fact, three consecutive busses to the same destination arrive in short order – but mine does not. I am using my backpack and a shop window as a makeshift seat because there is none there.
Finally, my bus materialises, prompting the older guy standing next to me to merrily declare “It’s coming! It’s coming!” before accidentally punting me in the face with his bag as he walks forward. I mutter darkly, committed to shrugging it off as fast as possible, and send ILB a text as I settle on the first of two busses.
The bus ride to the station where I am due to get the bus to the hotel takes about ten minutes. The wait for bus two, in the freezing cold of the bus station with absolutely no indication as to when this bus is coming, takes about forty years. Or at least it feels like that because cold plus linear time progression equals a mightily big headfuck. Twenty minutes feel like an hour. My teeth are clattering and I can’t really feel my fingers. The woman who sits down next to me, blowing warm air into her hands and shivering, gives me a knowing look as the bus we’ve both been waiting for arrives for its check-ups before going back the other end of the route. We both will it on, her silently, me loudly.
Once on the bus, I send ILB another text. And another, when we get stuck in a minor traffic jam. And another because it suddenly occurs to me that I have no idea how long I’ll be on this bus for. Tired. Weary of bones and dark of mind. Concerned because halfway through the tannoy stops announcing where we are and I can’t see anything through the fogged up windows.
As we get nearer and nearer and the time ticks further and further away, I feel a sort of despair growing deep in me. It settles in my gut when I finally get to the stop where I need to be, and start walking to the hotel. I’m beyond tired – so wrecked that the thing that’s keeping me alert (apart from the cold) is me pinching my house key into the pad of my thumb. I break into several little runs to cross to the right side of the road, running again when through the weary haze I briefly become convinced I’m being followed.
I say it’s an optimistic bottle of Sliquid because we don’t end up having sex that night. But it doesn’t actually matter. What matters is the feeling of finally walking through the door of that hotel. What matters is spotting him behind the keycarded doors, knocking and seeing his face and all those little things that had accumulated in the past hour and a half falling off me as he pulls me to him. What matters is that, despite my silly comments and moaning, this man accepts me into his arms and leads me to our room for the night, where a small box of chocolates sits on top of a card and next to a pack of Oreos.
What matters is him. He accepts me for who I am, loves me because of it and not in spite of it. He feels no shame about my disabilities or my mental health. He does these little things like buy me a pack of Oreos because he “felt like bringing out his inner J’onn J’onzz” and he knows that’ll fill me with giggly glee because we’re just two giant nerds who found each other and love each other like Martian Manhunter loves his bloody Oreos.
And I love him so much. Freezing cold and tired feet be damned. We may not have sex that night but as our naked bodies meet under the covers, his warmth making me glow again, I feel at home even away from home.
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.
In the glow of the early morning, we lay snuggled together on the bed. Naked, both of us, revelling in each other’s body heat. Soft music soundtracked the moment, coming through the wall from the next room. Something mid-noughties, probably produced by Ryan Tedder from the sound of it.
It was bliss.
He was hard against the small of my back, his erection tempting me to touch. Yes, I wanted him and yes, I needed him. So I spread, still spooning, my wetness inviting him in. It was remarkably easy – almost too easy – for us to stay in this position while he made love to me. I remember thinking this felt almost like something out of an Emmanuelle movie; imagining the camera circling around us as I rode on top of him in a reverse lazy cowgirl.
ILB and I have been together for three years now, and there is not a day that goes by where I count my blessings because I feel so lucky to have him as my person. And despite all the woes that have been plaguing me when it comes to sex, this felt so right. My brain was empty, floating on a cloud of lazy lust and happiness. I reached to find my clit and began frigging myself as we fucked another affirmation of our love into the universe.
It felt right.
It felt almost unreal.
Like there was nothing else in the world apart from us, together in this cocoon of arousal for each other. And with a nice modern pop soundtrack to boot, natch.
I wanted to stay this way forever. My mind briefly flashed to a throw-away thought I had last night, about us having sex only to be interrupted by a call from ILB’s family in regards to the impending birth of the latest addition. I’d laughed it off last night, because that would have both been so much like us and so absurd to boot. The phone wasn’t going to ring right now. There was nothing to interrupt us in this moment. There was only us and that was what mattered.
*KNOCK KNOCK KNOCK KNOCK*
My eyes flashed open, and I sat up in shock. Not naked. Not currently enjoying spiritually gorgeous anniversary sex. Someone’s knocking on our door.
Yeah, it comes to something when the best sex you’ve had in a while turns out to be a dream and is then interrupted by a surprise casual inspection from the landlord.
There really isn’t another way to describe it. Those two words – thanks, Tay Tay – are pretty much exactly how I would like to convey to you that my mind has been doing something not at all funny during sex. And it has been doing so for longer than I’ve cared to admit on here in the past.
We haven’t had a lot of sex recently. In fact, since Eroticon, we’ve only had sex twice. Granted, both times the sex was bloody magnificent. In fact, I wish to God I could grab those two moments by the scruff of their neck and point them towards my depression, yelling SEE, SEE, I AM GOOD AT THIS AND FRANKLY I DO NOT CARE MUCH FOR YOUR ATTITUDE TOWARDS MY SEX LIFE, SIR.
Or something, I don’t know.
It’s worrying how my depression likes to stick its claws in me during sex. Sometimes it even does so during masturbation. And it never changes its tactics, either – what it likes to do is create something called a sneaky hate spiral. Now, what I would like you to do is to take a moment to open that link in another window and have a quick read, so you know the basics of what a sneaky hate spiral is.
Done that? Good. (Also, if this is the first time you’ve read Allie Brosh, bookmark that shit because she is boss).
Now, I am willing to bet you a quid that you have, more than once, experienced a sneaky hate spiral. In fact, I am willing to bet you another quid and possibly a pint that you’ve experienced at least one this past week. As Brosh says at the start of the comic, sneaky hate spirals are merely the confluence of a series of many unremarkable annoyances.
But how does this translate to my experience of sex (be it partnered or solo)? And how does it link up with my depression?
Well, let’s break it down, shall we?
A general sneaky hate spiral starts simple enough – confluence of a series of many unremarkable annoyances, remember?
Sure enough, the ones I have been experiencing during sex do so to.
All it takes is one thing to set it off. One tiny little thing. And it doesn’t need to happen during the buildup to the sexual interaction. (For example) It can be as simple as waking up after only three hours of actual sleep because your neighbour (lovely as he is) decided it to be a grand idea to watch all 137 minutes of Fast and Furious 7 on a volume so loud, every time Vin Diesel speaks (which, considering the movie, is a bloody lot) your bedroom wall vibrates with his basso profondo.
At four in the morning.
And you’re due at work later on.
One tiny thing can set it off. This one thing is usually followed by a lot more tiny things.
Pins and needles in your leg as you walk up to the Tube station.
Someone rather shamelessly elbowing you in the ribs while trying to get on the train before you.
The one customer who just can not resist asking you a stupid question.
Remembering the reason why that fucking awful Wiz Khalifa song from Fast and Furious 7 is stuck in your head.
Hearing it at least three more times in various places throughout the day, including probably while waiting in the queue for something.
Slipping and skidding on a puddle of water while running for the bus.
Narrowly missing that very bus.
It starting to rain again as you wait for the next bus, making an average nine minute wait feel like a year.
Imagine it being like an ever-worsening hail storm. With a bro rap ballad tribute to the memory of Paul Walker as your constant soundtrack.
The tipping point
Now is where it turns to the sexual interaction bit. It has not yet turned on me, but boy howdy is it ever about to.
Allie Brosh describes the turning point of a sneaky hate spiral as a minor but slightly jarring incident, initiated by some force of nature that cannot be blamed or scolded – like gravity or sleeplessness or wind. In these specific sneaky hate spirals (which, as you will see, are kind of also sneaky thought spirals in my case) it won’t actually be an unscoldable force of nature which pushes me over the edge.
Unless my own brain is actually an unscoldable force of nature, in which case, motherfucker do I need to be studied.
The scariest thing about the sneaky hate/thought sex spirals? The one thing that really, really freaks me out about them? They also happen (and have been doing so far more often) without any of the buildup. Like a broken record, it skips to the tipping point. The one thought which takes me right out of my body and back into my brain, drawing me into a seemingly never-ending, numbing loop of dark, bad memories and thoughts which you really don’t want to be having when you’re in the middle of ANYTHING sexual.
It happened the other night – I’d been feeling a peculiar mix of frustration and singular-focus anger, with a scoop of anxiety waiting in the pit of my chest (and a dollop of having my period pretty badly) I wanted some kind of release, so I trawled the tube sites and (much to my surprise) pretty much instantly found a video that seemed pretty much destined to get me off – Doxy armed and ready, I was even more surprised to discover that the vibrations stayed strong even through the fabric of my pants and my pad. It felt nice. It felt, for the first time, like I was in the zone and nothing could stop me.
And then my brain did.
I toppled over due to just one teeny tiny thought. A thought which, although incredibly stupid in essence, made way for other – less – stupid and gradually more destructive thougths.
You want to know what the one thought to ruin them all was, dear reader?
THE THOUGHT OF THIS FUCKING SONG EXSISTING.
Yes, people who read this blog. It was Trumpets by Jason Derulo – or at least a flash of its GODAWFUL lyrics which set me off on a spiral of thoughts which started with “Jaysus, that’s a crime against music.” and ended with me having flashbacks to a rather sexual MSN conversation which happened several years ago.
Even the fact that I not only had ILB masturbating nakedly next to me but was watching a scene featuring James Deen, a ridiculously sexy tattooed lady and a yoga ball did nothing to get me back. Verily, the trumpets did not go TOOT TOOT TOOTOOTOOTOO TOOT.
When I do manage to bypass the spiral – however infrequent that may be at the moment – the sex is gorgeous. My medication is helping me along fine and is causing no real problems (except when I run out) and, most of all, I have a wonderful, caring, loving and understanding boyfriend who doesn’t run from my disabilities because he understands them (and he, also, has his own battles with the black dog of depression) and is not ashamed of me for having them.
I am, however, ashamed of having this as a problem.
And you may think of me whatever it is you want – it is a real problem to me. A real problem which keeps me from enjoying an active sex life. Because creeping in between those disconnected, silly thoughts are evil things. Words I recognise come from a space within me that opens up whenever I feel like I have a grip on my day. Creeping in between thoughts of stupid song lyrics, embarrassing conversations and irritations are the words of my depression – the words which put me down, over and over and over until I am nothing but a stripped bare mess of tears and ferocious noises I don’t even recognise as being human.
But they are human because they are coming from me. And the fact that my depression makes me feel this way in my most intimate moments, with my partner or solo, makes me the person utterly terrified.
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.
All things concerned, it would be really easy to just write a post dismissing the entire of 2014 as utter crap. It was a year of violence, death, horrors and injustice that we will no doubt still feel deep in our bones as we stagger out of it into 2015. You can bet that at least half of the year-end (and shows – don’t watch 2014 Wipe if you want to have a nice and placid day without weeping into your pillows) will remind you of what 2014 was.
And if I was going to write a post dismissing my 2014 as entirely utterly crap, that would be plain lying because it wasn’t. It wasn’t a happy year, but it was a year full of things that, in thinking about them, fill me with happiness, however small. I saw my mother for the first time in ages, I walked the streets of my old stomping ground and sat down on a bench to eat a waffle in them, I edited an awesome anthology, I went to a wedding that will take quite a bit to beat and, for two surprisingly sunny days in March, I attended Eroticon Mark 3 and had a whopping great time. And, most importantly I planted seeds for things to come.
So, instead of writing a long post about looking back on the past year, will you, dear reader, accept a short post on looking forward to some things to come?
– I will be editing another anthology, for which I’m still taking submissions until the end of the month – it’s all about sexy spies and delicious detectives. Read the call here and, if you decide to, submit your story (word count between 3000 and 7000 words) for Spy Games.
– I’ll be published in a couple of anthologies, some of which I’m not yet allowed to tell you about but three of which you might have heard me chattering about on Twitter. You can read (or in fact, listen) to some stories what I’ve done written in Rose Caraway’s Dirty Thirty Vol. 1, Best Erotic Romance 2015 and Appetites: Tales of Lesbian Lust. More info on those (and others) will be on its way in the next couple of months.
– I’ll be attending Eroticon 2015, which, yay!
– This blog is celebrating its 4th anniversary on February 15th, and I might do a thing that relates to it…
– And I will be… well, I will be many things. I will be working my arse off on new short stories. I will be telling you tales of sex, love, relationships and things that go a bit wrong. I will (still) be utterly baffled at things that I see happening at work, out and about and on the TV and internets. I will be taking better care of my own body and soul. I will be reading voraciously, I will be watching a lot of films and I will be (most likely) writing about them on Dork Adore. I will be visiting my mum more often. I will be having plenty, plenty of orgasms and we (ILB and I) will (hopefully) be having a truckload of sex. I will be turning 25 at the arse end of this year. And I will be doing plenty more things that you may (or may not) hear about.
Hi, 2015. It’s nice to have you here. Finally.
PS – The lovely Jenne from Clitical (the go-to site for all the facts about female masturbation) featured me in Clitical’s Erotica Authors Spotlight – which you probably will have missed in all the party hubbub yesterday. Check it out!
I love Christmas. Don’t get me wrong, because I really do bloomin’ love it. I love it even more now than I did as a kid, because I spend it with a lovely bunch of people and it’s always ridiculously fun. However, I also think that the holidays are a hyper-emotional minefield. How emotional it gets depends on many, many factors, but there will probably be a couple of moments where you just want to give up and cry your eyes out.
I had that moment. I just didn’t expect it to come on Boxing Day, watching Miranda on catch-up.
Miranda, I should explain, has always been a hyper-emotional minefield for me to watch. And yes, I can hear you all laughing at the notion that Miranda, a half-hour sitcom about silly things happening to a tall woman with a penchant for spontaneously bursting out into a medley of Heather Small’s greatest hits, has made me cry on several occasions. Cry. Yes, cry. Because if you look past those silly things happening, Miranda’s chemistry with (and not-so-secret-love-for) chef Gary is the thing that fucks me up time and time again.
Watching Miranda and Gary sometimes brings back painful memories of unrequited loves from the past. Of times where I was fully convinced that I’d be “good as a mate” and nothing else for the rest of my life (not kidding, this was actually said to me by the first boy I ever loved – and yes, it hurt like a motherbitch). I knew what “good as a mate” meant. Scratch the surface of “good as a mate” and you’ll discover the stinging truth – you’re not good-looking enough for them. You’re not smart enough for them, not witty enough for them or whatever it is they’re thinking that spells out “you’re not enough”.
When I watch Miranda, and when I hear some character making an off the cuff remark about Miranda and her life/job/looks/love life, I hear the surface being scratched. I hear the layer peeling away and I feel the sting.
To me, it’s the same with watching Laura Linney’s character in Love, Actually finally get a chance with the man she’s been desperately in love with for two years (and a bit) and then… well, losing that chance. It’s painful for different reasons, but it conjures up much the same in the way of memories. And does the added job of making me think a heck of a lot of “what if’s…” (actually, that entire film is probably worth its own blog post…).
But Miranda and Gary are most likely going to end up together. Even if, at the end of this second-to-last episode and after getting engaged, they end up apart. You know that, because of the laws of silly sitcoms. A happy ending is probably in the future. And knowing Miranda Hart, she’s probably going to not want to leave everyone with an aftertaste as bitter as an EastEnders Christmas special.
That still doesn’t change that, after watching this episode, I had to go for a walk to compose myself. Never mind that it was pissing with rain out there. I had to go and erase memories and yearnings and thoughts that I didn’t want to be dealing with. Thoughts as recent as way back when I started this blog, and yearnings as far away as being a teenager obsessed with escaping reality. A teenager who just wanted someone to, for once, not give her the Good As A Mate spiel. A teenager who sat slumped in the bathroom, crying after coming home from a class holiday to Barcelona because she’d spent the last week forced to watch a guy she had desperately loved love someone else right in front of her.
When I came home from that walk, drenched in rain and hurting in my heart, I opened the door to the living room and took a good look at the scene in front of me – Christmas tree lit, ILB’s parents cozily watching Christmas television and warmth all over the house. I grabbed a mince pie and centered myself. Now is now. Miranda is a lovely, silly sitcom with a happy ending in the making. Karl (Love, Actually‘s mysterious, enigmatic graphic designer) was a colossal idiot for not asking Laura Linney’s character out on a date before she left to tend to her brother. And I am in love with a beautiful man, who is in love with me, too.
Now is now. Joy is joy. And I am in this moment, in this season of heightened emotions, filled with joy.
It played out like a scene from a story I hadn’t written yet. It was a dark, wet Thursday evening and we were cuddling on the bed. Tired, both of us. Aroused, one of us – probably. We were both clothed, done up in layers of chunky knitwear and hoodies because despite the heating being on it still felt desperately cold. But I didn’t care because he was holding me and his arms around me made the need rise through my body.
I said something throwaway about slipping his hands down the waistband of my jeans. The thought of him fingering me, just right there with all of our clothes on and with the lights making everyone who passed able to see into our bedroom seemed amusingly illicit. Like a fantasy that 18-year-old me would have spent hours wanking over, a fantasy that I hadn’t even considered back then.
So he slipped a hand down the waistband of my jeans, down the elastic of my knickers. His fingers played with my pussy lips, to the best of his abilities considering the limitations the waistband put on his hand. I wriggled against him, not content with the waistband’s insistance on keeping my other half’s hand from fucking me properly with just his fingers. I couldn’t remember the last time I’d had an orgasm but Christ on a bike I wanted one right there and then.
I slipped my jeans down gradually, allowing him more room for play but still it wasn’t enough. The jeans were like denim restraints, not letting me open my legs wide enough and restricting access. So, I ended up doing what I used to do every time I wanked – I pulled my trousers down to my knees and positioned myself in the most awkward way possible just for the sake of an orgasm.
An orgasm that was, all things considered, well worth the small-time acrobatics.
We lay there for a while afterwards, my head quiet and my body content in its brief respite from any tension. And I wondered if I really should write a story about something like this. Something that may just start with “He slipped his hand down my waistband…” and takes it from there.
Of course, then I had a massive coughing fit because I was in dire need of water. I do know how to kill a sexy moment…