The Almost Sex

It’s the middle of the night, after another one of those inopportune days. Between preparations for Christmas, accommodation-induced paranoia, feeling generally under the weather and just a whole lot of other shit, I’ve found it hard to sleep.

So has he.

He’s still awake when I ask if I can switch to his side of the bed. “Sure, sure.” he says, in that voice that always manages to soothe me, and wriggles around. There’s a moment where he’s on top of me, and he’s so warm and comforting that I just want him to stay there forever.

We kiss, softly.

We relish each other’s heat. His hand strokes me, idly. I want to ask him. I want to beg him to make love to me. Not because I need orgasms, but because I need more of that heat. I need to feel the connection, I need to feel okay again.

I don’t end up asking him.

But as we lie, spooning, like always, his hand still strokes me – leaving traces of warmth along my thighs and buttocks.

There’s been a lot of almost sex in the past few weeks. There’s been the feeling of his warm cum, painted across my naked back. There’s been teasing. There have been orgasms, had whilst touching and caressing each other.

Although, in a way, isn’t that also sex?

That hot, giddy, silly, ecstatic, loud, moaning, grunting, dizzying, HOLY SHIT kind of feeling … do you need penetration for that? Do you even need orgasms for that?

I don’t know. I don’t think so. All I know is that almost sex is quite nice too… and I’d like more of it. Almost.


Listen To Your Body

Sometimes, in sex (and life, of course), the body and the brain do not see eye to eye. Sometimes, the brain will want things of the body that, however willing, it isn’t able to do right then and there. And the body will rebel against the brain.

I felt exactly that last night.

It wasn’t bad sex. Not at all. It was good, decent, god-we-needed-this sex. But it was marred by my body wanting nothing more than a good night’s sleep. I’d been ill for most of the week, with Wednesday night being a particular low point as I struggled to do just about anything other than keel over in immense pain.

So, my body wasn’t exactly fit to be fiddled.

But my brain tried to convince me of the opposite. It just went sex sex sex more sex shagging shagging fucking COITUS.

And who am I to deny my brain?

I should have thought better of it, to be honest. Should have listened to my body instead. And from the impression I got, as we were lying on the bed afterwards during the come-down, he wasn’t feeling on top of his game either.

“We should practise more.” he said. I agreed. And then added “But with a slow build-up, right?”

He nodded, before telling me that he wanted me to masturbate along with him because he wanted me to have my orgasms as well.

Needless to say… I slept very well last night.

And When The Rain Begins To Fall

It started out with a bit of fooling around. I was reading a book, he was editing a website. He’d gone downstairs to check the availability of the kitchen and came back to tell me that it was occupied.

He clambered on top of me and suggested making bunches of French toast. I said something Jilly-esque about bunches of French people.

“Nah. I’m more in the mood for Belgians right now.”

With that we started making out, and just as the thought of “Hmm, I could go for sex right now” popped into my head…

“Do you want to have sex?”

I think the word you are looking for, darling, is “YES”.

After a brief escape to the bathroom, I came back to find that he had obeyed my request to get naked, so I found it only fair to return that request.

He licked my pussy, flicking his tongue against my soft folds and making me writhe in relief. I needed that, to be inside my body after being so far removed from it for a whole week. He relaxed me so expertly, and the eventual feeling of his cock inside me sent a flood of more relief over me.

We made love while up in the skies, the Gods decided that rain would fall. While we came for each other, the heatwave started breaking.

And when I woke up two hours later, hungry and suspiciously craving chocolate with nuts in it, it had indeed begun to rain. Fiercely, that.

He came into the room and smiled at me. “I should make some dinner, really.” he said.

And it’s silly how my heart behaves at the most unexpected times. Looking at him, still naked and somewhat erect, my heart just filled with so much love.

The rain burst out onto the pavements, and I thought of how I loved it so. Both the rain and loving him.


One of my preferred post-coital activities, other than greedily nomming down a Nutella sandwich, is spooning.

You’ve heard me moaning about how badly I wanted to be spooned last year, and now that I’m in a relationship with a man I love dearly, I can’t get enough of it. We do it every night, much to my joy. Not that we’re such rampant fuckers that we have sex every single night (but our sex drive seems to be increasing as the summer lurks) but we’re people of simple pleasures who like to enjoy spooning and shooting the shit about our day and assorted geeky stuff.

While, of course, being stark naked.

Because, let’s face it, most good things can be highly improved with nudity added to the mix. He tells me that he would often walk around naked if his parents weren’t around, and I’m miffed that we can’t really do that here. Unless of course by some divine miracle the entire household decides to go on holiday somewhere. Then it’s Naked City, population two.

She looks well game. Him, not so much.

She looks well game. Him, not so much.

Ehem. Back to spooning. In an intimate context, it can be one of two things : either an intimate embrace in which one person is backed against another or the spoons sex position, which is basically the same except you’re fucking.

(Quick fact for you. When the smaller person in the couple (which in our case would be me) is being the big spoon, you are “jetpacking”.)

As I’ve said, we spoon every night, but we’ve never tried spoon fucking before. Not that I haven’t been tempted to ask him, but I’m struggling to see how it would work logistically. How would he place himself? How far would I have to spread my legs? And so on and on. I mean, I like the idea of fucking whilst being so close together, but I’m also keen on kissing and looking into his eyes during the sex. I need visual stimulation and that’s exactly what this lacks. Admittedly, the notion of it being a prime G-spot-hitting position appeals to me, but only so much.


I think we’ll just keep it at naked, snuggly spooning for now.

Although I am open to other positions…




Pleased To Meet You

So this is going to be one of those posts where I’m going to talk about something that happened to me that was not related to sex. But in a way, it was really sexy. Right, bear with me because I’ve got quite the day to relate to you.

As those who follow either me, my better half or both of us on Twitter know, we went to see James in concert last night.

This involved getting 47 to buy the tickets and then waiting five long months until the day of the show. And you know what it’s like when you wait ages for something to come. Suddenly it’s there, and you do it and then it’s done and you’ll spend some time recalling your fond memories of the thing. While possibly crying because it’s done.

Anyway. James were playing a two night stint at the O2 Academy in Brixton. So off we went, to Brixton, which in itself was an adventure because I shit you not, I have never been that far on the Victoria line. So when we got outside, my first impressions were quite good. It seemed eclectic and there was a store that sold MAC cosmetics and there was a band playing nice music outside the station.

We decided to wait for 47 and guest at the Starbucks next to the station, but they were both running late, so we weaved through the streets of Brixton towards the Academy to queue. Queuing for a concert is… an experience. I’ve not done it a lot in life, so to stand in the early evening sun with about thirty other strangers discussing James was a novelty. The cappuccino I had was making me sick and there was still no sign of 47 and guest.

Right up until we passed the security barriers, when the man himself appeared, grabbing his tickets off us and rushing to get into the building. They make the women and men go in through different doors, which I thought was quite weird.

Cut to inside the Academy (which is really beautiful, I must say) and all four of us are now seated and ready for things to kick off.

First there was Echo and the Bunnymen, who came on stage to Gregorian chanting, and who’s lead singer looked (from where we were sitting) like Noel Gallagher and Neil Gaiman had a love child together. They were dull as, and I spent most of the time trying to figure out what the song titles were. I came up with “Our Deirdre”, “Ginny’s Saving the World” and “Flan”.

Also, I’m not sure, but I think the lead singer was trying to tell us that he was from the North. Just saying.

The build up to the James portion of our evening was different. Even the music in the background was tense, as the roadies set up the stage.

And then James came out and Tim went batshit with his dancing and Saul played the violin and Larry made that guitar his bitch and the entire band was FUCKING AWESOME and I never ever wanted to stop moving and dancing because I swear I thought I was gonna die if I did and then they played LAID and I cried in my head because FEELS.


After that lovely experience, it felt like the entire crowd was headed towards Brixton station. Which was lovely as I am sure as shit never going out alone in Brixton after 6 pm.

We made camp in ILB’s parents’ house and slept far too little. This morning, we went for breakfast, which was lovely as I got to talk to 47 a bit more. A note about 47, dear reader : he is just about one of the loveliest guys I know. And he’s a great friend for ILB. I’m gutted that they don’t get to see each other that much anymore.

After breakfast, we went to pick up some plants from ILB’s grandma, who promptly roped us in for coffee in her garden and continued to question us until it was time for 47 to head to the station.

The rest of the day?

I think I’ve been sleeping.

So, to sum my inaugural James experience up: it was magical. The best gig I’ve ever been to. And I feel very lucky to share a love for this band with my better half.

James song?

James song.

If It’s Sexy Or It Isn’t

There are a certain amount of things that can automatically be considered as sexy in my life.

The way he wraps around me in the middle of the night.

The way we banter, as if we’re speaking in a secret geek language that only we understand.

His kisses. Any of them.

The playfulness, me grabbing his arse, him pretending to roger me from behind.

I love it. It’s all fucking sexy and it makes me love him even more.

Of course, some things are less than sexy. These things can be shelved under “daily irks” or “life” if you will.

The fact that we seem to be the only people who do the washing up here.

Toilet paper appearing as a luxury commodity.

Our landlord’s mother being on the phone for five hours (loudly, without taking breaths. We don’t think she ever breathes. I think she absorbs air through osmosis.)

The entire family being over for the Easter holidays, and taking over the living room.

Our landlord (bless him) waking us up by playing Battlefield 3 on his PS3, on a volume so loud, I could have sworn downstairs had transformed into an actual post-apocalyptic war zone.

But you take that as you will and you adapt to the little irks. Because what matters is that you’ve got each other. And to me, he’s the sexiest thing about my life. Warts and all. The little things are what make life so colourful. And in the end that’s all I want.

The Feminine Mystique Is Bullshit

(Possible TMI warning, but also not because you are currently reading a sex blog so you might expect the forthcoming TMI. Or not. As you will. Just think of this as Schrödinger’s TMI warning.)

I was in bed the other night, mulling over things, as is my wont. As Loverboy slept contentedly beside me, I started thinking about that phenomenon called “the feminine mystique”. Aside from being the title of the book that is widely credited to have brought about the second wave of feminism in the sixties, it’s also the air of mysteriousness that some women like to keep when around their partner.

I don’t know if this is an actual thing or if it just exists in television shows like Sex and the City, but I feel keen on addressing it.

I seem to remember this scene from Gilmore Girls, where Sookie confides in Lorelei that she gets up earlier to do make up so that Jackson, her then-boyfriend, thinks that she really does look like that in the morning.

Then, of course, there’s the famous moment in the first season of Sex and the City where Carrie accidentally farts in bed with Mr. Big. She then spends the rest of the episode absolutely mortified because it happened.

There’s lots of these little moments in the back of my head, and they all mingled into one conclusion. What. The. Fuck?

It’s only my opinion, but I just want to let it be known that I consider this a steaming heap of bullshit.

Hiding bodily functions and morning hair from your partner is like letting them know that you’re not actually human. You are basically confirming that you’re some sort of alien that doesn’t fart and always looks like Heidi Klum in the morning. That shouldn’t happen.

I’m not saying that you should go full-on Terrance and Philip and parp in your partner’s face, but I am saying that it’s perfectly okay to not immediately comb your crazy morning hair or to have a bit of a burp in front of them. They won’t think any less of you. They’ll just be very pleased they’re in a relationship with a normal person.

Thus ended my tiny rant.



I feel compelled to add the following, which may make me sound like an eejit, but hey.

It took me a very long time to realize that Loverboy wouldn’t think any less of me if I did any of this stuff in front of him. It eventually stopped when he (and I kid you not) walked in on me throwing up one night. He didn’t bat an eyelid, which I applaud and love him for. From then on, I realized that it was perfectly okay to be normal.


He tells me he’s got romantic intentions planned, for after his shower. Wondering what he means by this, I settle on his bed and watch Heston supersize a candy shop.

He comes back into the room, blissfully naked and dewy from the shower. We settle in to watch More Sex Please, We’re British. During the breaks, he fiddles with a tea light in a lantern and some incense that he found earlier on. The lights are dimmed and the heady smoke of the incense trickles into the room. I look over at him and can’t quite believe what I’m seeing. The mood lights, the smoke and his face make for one of the most gorgeous sights I have ever seen.

“I wish I could photograph you right now.” I say.

After the documentary, we settle in for a naked snuggle. But I can’t resist his lips for long and soon we are drawn into an intoxicating and seemingly eternal kiss. More than ever I want his lips and I want to hold on to him forever.

“I want to make love to you. I really really want to make love to you.” he whispers, barely audible. I take a deep breath and slip out of my knickers. He settles on top of me and slides inside. And it takes my breath away. It takes my breath away every time, but tonight, it’s different.

He feels so good inside me. Every thrust, every movement is matched.

And I feel like I’m in a different place. The smoke transports me to a Sheik’s harem, filled with plush satin and opium smoke.

“I love you so much.”

The only thing I can do in response is let out moan after moan of pleasure, as my body alights.

“I can’t get enough of you. I want more and more.”

And I give him my all. Lost in the ether of pleasure, I give him every inch of me.

It’s the most beautiful and romantic thing I have ever experienced. And as we bathe in the afterglow, I feel close to crying tears of joy.

“How do you feel?” he asks.

“Emotional. How do you feel?”

“In love.”

And that’s all I could have ever dreamt of, really.



The Importance of Cuddles

He stops.

Instantly I know something is wrong. He sounds like he’s crying, or at least in a world of pain.

“What’s wrong?” I say, panicking.

He winces. “I hit my head.”

Alarm bells go off in my brain. Fuck! What if he’s bleeding?! What if he’s got a concussion? What if it’s even worse? I can’t lose him!

I raise myself up and assess the situation. He says he’s in terrible pain, but he’s not bleeding. I lie him down and ask him about a billion times if I need to get ice or a doctor. He reassures me that no such thing is needed and that he’s fine. Cuddles are all he needs.

I’m still spooked though. But the cuddles seem to make it better. That and a healthy dose of The Nostalgia Critic.

“Sorry I didn’t make you come before I hurt myself.” he says about five times.

“It’s okay, really!” I reassure him. The sudden realization that I’m going back to Brent the day after makes me grab on to him even tighter.

The following morning, we get awoken by my mother calling. After our brief chat (which mainly consisted out of me grunting), I grab on to him and hold him until I can’t hold him any more. He feels better, he says, but now it’s me who’s feeling worse for wear.

After lunch, he walks me to the station and pays for my train ticket. The tears come thick and fast, but he holds me and reassures me that I’m going to see him again really soon.

And then we part and I’m on the train, alone. Memories of a week of emotions and love throb in my head and I sit perfectly still with tears on my face, trying to be a brave lady.

Now I’m home. Well, not really home. House? Let’s keep it at that. Anyway. I’m in Brent, typing this post. Outside, it’s dark and rainy. Inside, it’s chilly. I’m counting the days until I get to nestle in his nook again, under the sheets of his bed in his room in the house where I feel at home.

I could use the cuddles.

Respect The Cock

I have a tiny confession to make.

I can not stop looking at my boyfriend’s cock.

Seriously. I can’t help it. He has a fucking gorgeous cock. At the risk of making him blush when he reads this (it’s a risk I’m more than willing to take), I want to take this opportunity to profess my love for it.

The first time I saw it was the first time I ever saw a cock. I remember not being able to look at it at first, because I was too shy. But as we bathed in the afterglow of our sexy sexings, I glanced surreptitiously at his crotch. It was fascinating. It begged me to reach out and touch, which I did.

I love the way it reacts to me.

I love the way it grows under my touch and pulses when it’s inside me.

I love watching him jerk himself off for me.

Fuck it, I love just having a fiddle with it. It calms me down! Seriously, try it, it’s oddly comforting.

His cock fascinates me. When soft, it’s pretty, touchable and loveable. When hard, it’s the essence of gorgeousness.

The thing I love most though?

It’s him. It’s HIS cock. And I love him so much.

Okay, I realize I just went on about his cock for about 200 words. Shall I do a dance to compensate?

*dancey dance*