Love, sex and interminable pop-culture references

Category: Sex (Page 1 of 4)

ILB’s posts about sex, on this here sex blog

The Amorous Milk

Some people call me the milkman because I always deliver pain.
Others think it’s because I’m a renegade milkman.
But the real reason they call me the milkman is…
I carry a bottle of milk with me.

It was seven-thirty post-meridian and I was just standing outside the Zoroastrian Centre on Edgware Road when I got a text.

It wasn’t full of doom and gloom, but then again, it wasn’t overly exciting, either. Alicia had run out of milk and wanted me to pick some up on the way to her flat. There was an M&S on the road, so it wouldn’t be difficult. Simple task, of course, and nothing unusual. I’m always buying milk. How would I be able to drink my tea otherwise?

But this made me unreasonably excited.

The relationship between Alicia and I was wonderfully uncomplicated. We would meet at her house (often on my way back from work); we would talk and eat; we would flirt and eventually have sex. We would sleep, spoon, maybe have sex again in the morning, and then we would leave for our respective lives. There were, of course, variations on this theme: on our first night together we watched Moulin Rouge! beforehand; on our second, she randomly drummed the main beat from Bibbidi-Bobbidi-Boo on my stomach. But the general idea was the same.

Image from Disney's "Cinderella" (1950) showing a magic spell. The magic looks a bit like jizz.
Neither Cinderella or the Fairy Godmother look like Alicia. Cinderella’s hair here is similar to hers, though.

What made this simple request special was that this was the first time she had ever asked me to do anything domestic. Maybe neither of us had ever considered this. I was her lover, not her maid; I offered to help her wash up after dinner, but she had consistently refused. I occasionally went to the fridge to get chilled water for immediately after sex. Once I put some stuff in the bin. But that was about it.

Here, I had an actual errand. Go to the shop. Buy some milk. Bring it with me to her flat, so I could have tea with her before sex, also with her. I’d never had to buy milk in any sort of relationship before. Rebecca’s mum always had a supply available and Louise preferred lemonade (although she also had some for me when I requested coffee).

Is this what being a husband is like? I wondered, as I stepped into the warm light of M&S (noting the contrast with the Harrow darkness outside). Providing milk to your lady with the promise of hot sex afterwards? Calm down, ILB. You’re overthinking things again. Just turn up with milk and a penis and that’s all she’s really expecting.

I chose semi-skimmed, paid and set off down the hill to Alicia’s flat. As usual, she opened the door wearing a nice dress and a smile. I nervously, but with an air of utter confidence, presented her with a bottle of milk in lieu of a hello. She smiled, gave me a kiss on the cheek, and beckoned me inside.

We had a lot of sex that night.

This was preceded by some apple crumble she had made with custard. I don’t like apple crumble or custard, but I was very good at pretending. Plus, I had tea to drink to get rid of the taste.

With milk.

Mothman

The first Nite Owl runs an autorepair shop. The first Silk Spectre is dying in a California rest resort. Dollar Bill got his cape stuck in a revolving door where he got gunned down. Silhouette… murdered. Mothman is in an asylum in Maine.

rorschach’s journal

It’s after nine in the evening and pizza has just been delivered. Apparently, this was a big part of the university lifestyle that I never got to lead. Three years up in Nottingham and pizza delivery only occurred to me once or twice. Here in Oxford, it happened after every essay was completed.

But they wrote more essays than I did, so.

This is the last communal pizza they will share in this flat. I’m an extra piece – an additional complication that they hadn’t factored in. To whit, although I’m sharing in the pizza, I’m trying to prove myself useful by getting a moth out of the window. The moth is winning this epic struggle.

“How much longer are you staying here, anyway?” I ask as I attempt an arabesque in order to find the moth behind a cupboard. She flies away and I inujre my leg.
“We have to stay for a certain amount of time,” says E, “or we don’t graduate. Very few of us actually do that time, but we have to stay for…”

At which point the girl who nobody likes walks in. She exchanges a sour look with E, the Seamstress and the moth. I may as well not exist at this point.

There is a very long pause. Without a word, she crosses the floor, exits into her room and closes the door.

Everyone breathes out. I attempt to cup the moth in my hands; she escapes and I only succeed in slamming my hand against the wall.

“What was all that about?”
“We don’t know what to do with her,” says the Seamstress darkly. “It’s been long enough and I’ve no idea exactly how to repay her for…”

I don’t exactly know what they need to repay her for. It remains unsaid. I notice the moth hovering around a light; I try to vault over a pouffe to get some leverage, but I trip over it and fall. I continue the conversation as if I’m styling it out.

“I’m not a fan of the concept of revenge,” I say, finally taking a bit of pizza. “But there are things you can do to make her feel a little uncomfortable.”
“Play music,” suggested E, “really loud. Something she doesn’t like.”
“Maybe just leave the moth in here,” said the Seamstress, “seeing as how ILB can’t get her out.”
“Go into your rooms,” I said, “and pretend to have really loud sex. and she’ll get jealous.”

They both laugh at this, although there’s something in the laughter which shows they’re aware that we have, in fact, spent quite a large chunk of the day doing just that. To save my blushes, I hop across the room to open a large window on which the moth is now resting. I even try to coax her out. She’s having none of my bullshit.

The evening is filled quite pleasantly with pizza, graduation discussion and free-flowing conversation. This, clearly, was the university experience I missed out on; I may have done some interesting things in my time, but here I feel much more comfortable.

E eventually says she has to go to bed, but we all know she’s just wanting to leave us alone. With an empty pizza box discarded on the side table, we stand there in silence, looking at each other, for a few very heavy seconds.

The moth flies in between us at one point.

We retreat into her room. Clothes end up on the floor. A condom wrapper joins them soon enough.

The rest of the night is full of kisses and orgasms.

But I’m aware, at the back of my mind, that we are never truly alone.

THE MOTH IS ALWAYS WATCHING.

Revelations: Wibbly-wobbly, timey-wimey…

We knew it was getting late, but neither of us could have really told you what time it was. Needless to say we were moping a bit; I really didn’t want to go home. I never did, but I always ended up on the coach. I was kind of ready, anyway – I had my box ready. Shoes could go on last.

By this point I had usually been there for approximately twenty-four hours. In that time, we may have had sex two or three times. Maybe even four, depending on how horny we were and how much trouble we had sleeping. I stopped counting after the first few times, but once we tried to estimate how many times we had had sex and it was, in her words, “definitely over a hundred.”

That’s a lot of sex, now you think about it.

Anyway.

Whatever the reason, at this point we both had an itch that needed scratching and so, while I’d usually be dressed and ready to go at this point, this time we were both naked and on her bed. Ready for the main event.

I can’t recall exactly what made us horny, but I was certainly incredibly hard and she was certainly incredibly wet. Planting a smooch on her lips, I steadily – but with a definite amount of urgency – slid my cock into her. We let out a collective sigh as I settled into place. So familiar by now, and yet so good, every single time.

“Hey! It’s time to go! Are you two ready?” came the call from downstairs.

We shared a look, and with a huge amount of regret, and a Herculean effort on my part, I pulled out. My penis was shining, coated in her wetness. A few seconds wasn’t enough for either of us to have come… and we both knew this.

“Hey, it’s okay,” she lied, trying – although not particularly successfully – to hide the fact that she was disappointed. “We’ll have to finish this off next time you’re here.”
“But that’s, what, two weeks?”
“We’ll survive.”

Two weeks later and I damn well made sure that we had the time.

Link button to the Revelations meme site

Wonder

Every time I come back from Eroticon, I find myself wondering the same thing for about a week or two afterwards.

I will have just spent the better part of two and a half days surrounded by openly sexual, body-positive people there with the collective goal of sexual freedom and openness of sexual expression. Typically, there will be no-holds-barred talks in which people use words like “cunt” liberally and nobody gives a f… a drat. By the end of the event, we’ll all be worn out, brimming with new ideas and usually a little horny.

How many of us have had sex since the event iself?

I haven’t, of course, but then I don’t. This isn’t really about me, though; it’s about you. Did I hug you at ‘con, or high-five you, or kiss you on the cheek? Did we share pleasantries, stories or a fist bump? Was there mutual recognition or re-connecting, or was there a new connection we shared? Then you were part of my weekend.

And since then, have you had sex?

I wonder.

How was it? Was it uncontrollable – a lustful fountain of fuck, so much pent-up energy being built up and let loose? Or was it careful – slow, deep, firm, and calculated? Maybe even planned? Perhaps the sex you had lasted hours, with plenty of foreplay and aftercare bookending the experience. It could have been the other way around: a random, unexpected shag on the sofa that hadn’t even been on your mind before it actually took place?

Or maybe you haven’t had sex with anyone else, but have done with yourself, concentrating on whatever best serves you with your fingers wrapped around your pulsing cock or thrumming your buzzing clit like a bass guitar?

Part of me wants to know. Part of me doesn’t. And then there’s the little voice in the back of my head telling me, it doesn’t matter, it’s not your place to know.

But still I wonder.

Because now I’ve met you, and I really want to know.

An Explosion of Heat

What does an orgasm look like?

Anyone?

It’s an interesting concept, albeit one without a definitive answer. GOTN ran a competition about it once, as did Erotic Meet back in the day. One of those things where it varies from person to person. Maybe you have a specific image in your head when you orgasm; perhaps an orgasm looks like something from the outside.

But what does an orgasm feel like?

That is, perhaps, a more difficult question to answer. Like anything, it does change according to the individual – but it is certainly more complex than “do they have a penis or a vagina?”. Sex is deeper than such a binary concept. Everything changes according to situation, method, mood, and even time. Every orgasm is different, so even if you experience a similar feeling each time, it may be more possible to try to describe one orgasm than… well, you know where I’m going with this, don’t you?

I know it’s hot. It’s been getting hotter all week, even if it’s a little breezier today than it has otherwise been of late. Going outside means getting hotter, but there’s no reason I can’t do so inside.

It had been four days since my last orgasm, and although I will admit that’s not a huge gap (and there have been much longer ones…), it’s still sizeable enough to be noticed. I’ve had an odd weekend, to put it mildly, and even wondered if I’d completely lost my sex drive until he made himself known. This afternoon I found myself alone, so after a cheese omelette, cup of tea and a Pokémon film, I decided to put him to the test.

It didn’t take long to orgasm. Usually it takes a while (stamina, innit?); this time, however, it wasn’t a huge task. A bit of Emmanuelle, a few minutes’ fantasising and a couple of sexy words, and I was done. A very satisfying orgasm.

The very moment I came (hitting my wrist, thigh and my ankle, if it matters) was like an explosion of heat. I didn’t just warm up; I flared up. Heat burst out all over my body, more apparent with every beat of my heart. Taking in some deep, ragged breaths, I leaned back and let myself bathe. Basking in my own heat, feeling it emanate from my very core.

Beatriz da Costa, also known as Fire, from DC Comics. Possibly having an orgasm.
Beatriz identifies.

I was a mess. Hair everywhere. Tears leaking from my eyes. Cum all over my hand. Blazing with fire.

I wasn’t even all there. All I felt was the heat. For a while, I was just a fireball.

A few minutes later I managed to gather myself together, clean up with a handkerchief I need to put into the washing machine (mental note for later) and pull myself back into the real world.

Things to do, more cups of tea to make, you know.

I’ve been reliably informed that it’s getting much hotter outside. But who needs it? As I’ve demonstrated so gracefully, with my chair, my porn and my dick… I’ve got all the heat right here.

Hot, hot, hot…

I wasn’t even aware the evening would be even hotter than the middle of the day. But, then again, this would have been more of a surprise had I not chosen to abandon all shock and awe. By this point I was just going along with it.

In any case, the evening was incredibly hot. All the windows were open, and the door to the back garden too. The distant rumble of the city could be heard, but the sound of the insects enjoying the summer heat was something I felt much more calming.

I could barely move. My own heartbeat was throbbing in my ears and, if I took a steady breath in, I could swear I felt the planet rotating.

Everything was sticky. Hot. Untidy. Heavy, almost. I lay there, eyes closed, sweat beading on my forehead.

Naked, of course.

“I’m assuming you don’t want any more coffee?”
“Mmmmmm…” was all I managed. I hadn’t even been aware she had entered the room until then. (I would have jumped in surprise, but I didn’t have the wherewithal to jump.) “No more coffee, though. Maybe a cold drink.”
“Lemonade, then.” She crossed the room, pulled a couple of glasses out of somewhere and pulled a couple of lemonades.

Sip.

“It’s good, thanks.”
“Very good?”
“Yes, very good.”
“So you’re up for another round before you fall asleep?”
“What?!”

I mean, I knew she was horny. I just wasn’t expecting her to be this horny.

“Do you want to go again? I could do with one more, if you feel me?”
“Really? But it’s boiling hot! And I’m exhausted!”
“Your penis says otherwise,” she pointed out, indicating it with a finger. In all fairness, she wasn’t wrong.
“Yeah, well, my penis says a lot of stuff,” I demurred. “It’s had a lot of fun today, but now it just wants to…”

I didn’t say anything else, because by that point I was already inside her.

“Not fair,” I whimpered alongside her gleeful bounces. “It’s too hot to resist.”
“Nobody resists me,” she laughed. “Hot or not.”
“Hot,” I moaned. “Definitely hot.”
“Uhhhhhhhh…”
“Mmmmmm…”

Ten minutes later, as we lay entwined, a very welcome breeze blew in through the French windows.

“That feels nice,” I said.
“Doesn’t it always feel nice?”
“I mean… the breeze.”
“That’s what I meant!”
“Oh.”

And with that (and a shimmy I wouldn’t have been able to manage, even if I hadn’t been so hot), she slid from the bed, a mixture of our juices leaving a glistening trail across the floor.

“Where are you going?”
“More lemonade, of course, silly,” she grinned as she collected our glasses. “I could do with one more, if you feel me?”
“One… more?”
“One more lemonade?”
“Oh. Yeah, yeah. That’s what I meant.”

Because it was, as I may have indicated, very hot.

Revelations: Body Count

[Post number 1,000 on this blog. I’m a chatty ILB.]

The new year, as ever, heralds the usual changes. I still haven’t gotten into the habit of putting a 3 rather than the extra 2 at the end of the year; January (the most depressing month) drags on, and the cold exacerbates a whole plethora or interesting viruses. I’ve no idea which one I have right now; it’s keeping me off work, which is certainly A Thing.

Memes have changed too. After thirteen years, Hedone has decided to close down her perennial meme TMI Tuesday, one of the things that kept me blogging throughout the last, difficult year. Thank you very much for keeping this one going, H. I appreciate it.

And so now we have Revelations, a new meme by Molly. It is, basically, a blogging prompt meme with a rather broad scope, but I couldn’t resist joining in with this one.

So… body count.

What’s a body count?

I’ve got a query about the term “body count”. I have always used this to refer to the number of deaths in a piece of media – from a few in Leprechaun to a round one hundred in Shoot ‘Em Up. Does Prince Harry’s 25 constitute, for example, a body count?

Sexually, what even is a body count? Does it have to be full penetrative sex to count? What about oral sex; what about kisses? Is there a special category for those whose name you don’t know, or whose body you have forgotten? Is the term useful, or a little objectifying?

What about cybersex? I’ve had a LOT of that. Do they count?

What other terms do you use? “Notches on your belt / bedpost”? Or do you simply keep a tally on the wall like Lavonia Shed in Beneath the Valley of the Ultravixens?

I suppose, like with so much of sex and sexuality, this is one of the things in which you make your own rules. I’m going to sum it up like this.

ILB’s List of Lists

I have kissed twelve people. Of those twelve, I have had sex with eight of them. Four of those have been partners (ie. girlfriends, fiancées, wife). While this looks deliberate, my affiliation to the four-times table is not, despite four being my lucky number. It should please the maths nerds, however.

They are:

01. Rebecca (a girlfriend, then a fiancée)
02. Louise
03. Alicia
04. Lilly
05. snowdrop
06. The Oxford Seamstress (a girlfriend, then a fiancée, briefly)
07. Catherine (a girlfriend)
08. Jillian (a girlfriend, then a fiancée, now a wife)

[NB: The above are, of course, pseudonyms. I know all their names – both Christian name and surname – in all eight cases, although only a few I’ve ever really used!]

I’m of the opinion that, when talking with the sex-positive crowd (and I might bring this up if I can get a table at Eroticon), the number of people you’ve slept with is either going to be scarily high or scarily low – there are very few in between. But then, again, what is high and what is low? Magazines and websites will tell you things, but are they really true or just dead tree clickbait?

Is my eight high or low?

Impossible to tell. While this is a low number, I’ve definitely had a lot of sex. Bear in mind that, of these eight, only one was a once-off thing (everyone else was two or more), whereas four were long-term partners. I must have had sex hundreds, possibly even thousands, of times… even though, having not had sex for eight years or so, my memory of the act itself may be slightly hazy!

And then let’s think about my situation. For the longest time, like practically EVERY TEENAGER EVER, I was absolutely 100% sure that I’d never have sex. Nobody had been interested and I hadn’t even been kissed until I was 17! 17 itself was a very tumultuous year for me, with my first kiss, first sexual experience, first girlfriend and first sex all happening in the space of a few months!

The fact that anyone found me attractive enough to have sex with was certainly hard to believe… it still is two decades later! Looking at it now, after my first relationship catastrophically went wrong, the fact that SEVEN MORE PEOPLE ended up sleeping with me seems completely insane!

So what’s my body count?

Impossible to tell. Yeah, I’ve had sex with eight people and I do suspect that, to quite a lot of the sex blogging community, that isn’t the highest of numbers. But I’m very grateful for all the sex I’ve had, from the first experience with a janky branded condom, to sex on the studio floor while listening to Brian Patten, to trying to get my girlfriend off the ceiling in the Bristol hotel room.

Every sexual experience has helped to shape me, to inspire me, to beguile me. Yes, I do miss having sex, but the amount of sex I did have feels like a lot more than my single figure may suggest.

And to everyone reading this who I may have had sex with at some point…

…I’m sorry about that.

Sarah vs. Sex

It was one o’clock in the morning and we were just coming out of a fairly heavy round of drinking which may or may not have started with a musical jam in the little studio space our university hadn’t advertised as owning. We had made sure to put a little drum kit in there, and moved the piano to the same room, so it was at least possible to jam. Tom had his guitar; Em, her trombone; Sarah, her saxophone. I didn’t always remember to bring an instrument, but tonight, I had a bag full of percussion.

That, however, had been a few hours ago. For the past while, we had been drinking. I, of course, was completely sober – everyone else had their own varying state of intoxication. My job was to get everyone onto the number one bus from Old Market Square appropriately. Helena had come over rather giggly.

“I don’t love him,” Sarah was saying, “I really don’t. I keep telling myself that, that I don’t love him…”
“Have you told him that?” cut in Rachel. Helena giggled.
“…no, but really, I don’t. But I want to see him. Just once. I have to see him again.” Helena giggled.
“Are you sure that’s healthy?” pressed Rachel, who was looking serious. “Your ex cast you completely adrift…” (Helena giggled at this point) “…and you want to spend time with him, just to see him again? Does anyone think that’s wise?”

Nobody raised their hand. Two years prior, I’d stood in almost this exact spot, locked in a messy kiss with an ex I had decided I ‘just wanted to see’. I was wiser then, although there and then I would have kissed Sarah, Rachel or Helena, if only she could stop laughing long enough.

“I just want to see him,” Sarah shrugged, as if this ended the discussion.
“All right, you want to see him,” conceded Rachel. “But make sure you don’t do anything stupid.”
“Like what?”
“Like… sex.”

Helena giggled.

“Yeah,” said Sarah wistfully. “I miss sex.”

don’t say it don’t say it don’t say it don’t say it don’t say it don’t say it

“I haven’t had sex for two years,” I said out loud, “and after a while, it gets easier.”

now go stand in a corner and think about what you did

“TWO YEARS?” yelled Rachel, who had just explicitly told someone not to have sex. “Nah, that’s impossible. Couldn’t do two years.”
“I do it, like, two times a day,” said Mouth.
“I used to have a lot of sex, said Em, “but then I dumped my…”
“…two weeks is a bit of a stretch…”
“…all these boys, I mean, why should I choose one?…”
“…(Helena giggling)…”
“…these beds are too small, when you’re not living in hall, it’s easier…”
“…three times a day if I can, I mean, if I’m free and lunchtime and…”
“…still don’t know why she did it, I mean, I was still right…”
“…told him I was gay, I mean, I am gay, but I still told him that…”
“…so needy, we had sex a few times and he thought I liked him…”
“…I miss sex.”

“Are you quite ready?”

We’d managed to make our way onto the number one bus without anyone noticing. The driver was looking annoyed for having been held up, but this was the terminus, and according to the timetable, he wouldn’t be leaving for a while. I dug around for my return ticket in the third pocket of my combats while Rachel and Sarah carried Helena, who was now experiencing paroxysms of hysterical mirth, into an empty double seat, where she lay weeping with laughter.

None of my housemates were awake when I got back. I had lectures in the morning, too. Vaguely wondering if Sarah would, in fact, sleep with her ex the following week or if Helena would ever understand the concept of “quiet”, I stripped off and sank into my bed.

“Yeah…” I said to the darkness. “I miss sex too.”

TMI Tuesday: Pain and Pleasure

You’ll be a dentist
You have a talent for causin’ things pain
Son, be a dentist
People will pay you to be inhumane

Time for another meme to blow the cobwebs away. I have a few things to write this week, but let’s start with this.

This is TMI Tuesday again and it’s about pain and pleasure during sex… which isn’t something I have a lot of experience with. It’s also a complete retread of a previous set of questions by former (but now inactive) sex blogger Bi Likes Sci-Fi (who I remember!).

I may have to dig into my memory for this. It’s a challenge, at least.

1. Which do you enjoy more in bed: pain or pleasure?

This is a complete no-brainer: pleasure.

I’m hypersensitive, and although I feel a lot of things, I’m particularly sensitive to pain. I can’t stand it. This may sound odd from a former self-harmer who occasionally walks into walls and has spectacular falling episodes, but I really can’t handle pain.

You also may have to take into account that most of my sexual upbringing involved softcore porn, which always highlights pleasure above anything else. That was, in my mind, what sex is.

2. Do you like being tickled during sex, and where?

No, I can’t stand it!

I am incredibly ticklish. Mostly around my midriff, under my arms, on my neck and the soles of my feet. I can tickle myself, too, which is something you’re not meant to be able to do. Being tickled completely disables me; I flail and crease, but I can’t do anything else.

47 and H will attest that I make noises when tickled – something between a laugh and a scream. I will admit that it is amusing, but probably more so for them than it is for me!

3. Have you ever used feathers during sex?

Once.

My girlfriend, now my wife, once bought a feather to stroke me with (the term they used was “sensation play”), although not a real one – rather a vegan alternative they got from a sex shop.

I quite enjoyed being stroked, but as a more relaxing sensation than a sexy one; eventually, however, it strayed into Tickle Territory, and I had to call stop with a fair amount of urgency!

4. Do you like to be blindfolded during sex?

No.

Not me, anyway. I’m not sure I could handle being in the dark so much – I’m afraid of the dark, and I’m too curious. I’d want to solve the mystery.

I have blindfolded people, though. I once went through a whole session – fingers, tongue, cock, orgasms – with my ex as she was both tied to the headboard and blindfold (with two bits of different cosplay outfits: check me out, Mr Resourceful), and she was really enjoying not knowing what was coming next!

Different strokes for different folks, I guess.

5. Have you ever used cold or heat as part of your sex play? What provided the cold or heat?

With my ex again. We used some massage melt products by Durex (there’s a review here if you’re interested!) and they were Cold AF. But I’m not sure that really counts.

I’ve also once lit candles and dropped hot wax onto my wife, but again, that was for decoration purposes rather than heat play. And very colourful it was too.

I don’t recall having ever used, for example, ice, or hot stone, or anything. As I said before, I’m hypersensitive, and none of my eight sex partners have ever indicated that they have ever wanted to use such a thing.

Or, if they did, they never said!

6. Do you enjoy being spanked, giving spankings, or both?

Neither, although I’ve got a few stories about this.

My ex-lover Alicia used to spank me very hard while getting railed by me – both as a way of telling me to keep going and for want of something to do with her hands, I suppose. The pain was, of course, almost too much to take, but she was so enthusiastic and the sex was so good I didn’t really care. Catherine, my ex, did much the same sort of thing in a way that left a distinct handprint on my arse.

I even took a picture of that once.

The only real forays into planned, fully consensual spanking I’ve ever done have been with my wife, although as I’ve said, we haven’t had sex for a very long time and this has also fallen by the wayside a little. I don’t like dealing pain almost as much as I dislike receiving it, but they went though a phase wherein getting spanked was the main way to help them feel relaxed.

So I did so. Mostly with my hands, but I even used a few implements now and then. Mostly freebies from Eroticon, BUT STILL…!

7. Do you have a safeword? Have you ever used it?

“Stop!”. It’s very effective.

Bonus: Tell us in 3 to 4 sentences the most painful or pleasurable sexual experience you have had.

Late night in Bristol. Lots of pent-up energy. Girlfriend on ceiling. 😏

KOTW: Yaaas, Queen

So it’s eleven o’clock at night and I’m on my knees. Joni Mitchell is playing on the stereo, as appears to be customary now when we have sex. Each of my hands is placed on her hips, steadying my balance, and I’m beginning to work my own like a piston.

The seamstress is making agreeable noises. I can feel her muscles tighten around my shaft, and the familiar quiver that means her orgasm is coming soon. Keep going – maybe a little faster. I feel like I’m in porn.

There’s a mirror in the room.

It’s not very well lit, this room. Nowhere in the house is – it’s an older house, relatively small and without central heating, but a nice one. I think back on it, now, fondly. It’s not even the seamstress’ room, either; it’s usually her brother’s, and still would be were it not for the fact that he now lives elsewhere and it’s become the de facto room in which we sleep, and cuddle, and fuck. In any case, the only light is from a bulb without a shade hanging loosely from the ceiling. It casts a faint yellow glow around most of the room.

There’s not much to it, but as I rear back to deliver the last few blows, I catch sight of myself in the mirror.

I really don’t like the way my body looks. I never have and I never will; there are all these weird bits that I’m never going to sort out. But, at that moment, on my knees with my hands on her hips and my cock deep inside her… and the semi-shocked, semi-concentrating look on my face… I look better than I have in a very long time.

I’m doing well.

As the seamstress screams an oath and begins to have her third orgasm of the night, I give myself a wink and a double thumbs-up…

…and then return to the task at hand.

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