Sometimes, when the boy has me on my knees in broad daylight, his hands wrapped in my hair, his fly wide open, his cock in my mouth, I think:
Could we do this in reverse?
I don’t see it, somehow. I can’t imagine assuming the authority to force him to kneel in front of me, push my knickers to one side and to lick me until I scream. What would I say?
It’s not that his kink isn’t my kink. His kink is precisely my kink. I just don’t want to share it.
Cautious as I am, I tend to view adrenaline with a wary eye. I associate it so closely with anxiety that I often forget about its more life-affirming qualities.
For the last 6 weeks or so, I’ve been doing a teacher-training course on top of my usual job. Truth be told, before it started I’d been dreading it. I didn’t fancy the 4 hour round commute into London and back, nor was I looking forward to standing up in front of fifteen adults or being observed.
When I was six or seven, I got a bike for Christmas. I don’t recall much about it, other than that it was almost certainly pink, that I spent a lot of time pimping it with plastic shit from packets of Frosties, and that by the end of the winter I was regularly in the habit of pedalling so fast that the stabilisers didn’t even touch the ground.
And then my dad took the stabilisers off.
I have a work crush: a tall, rangy, floppy-haired designer who wears skinny jeans and a pretty smile. He’s male model hot, sure, but more than that, I’m drawn in by what he’s good at – the fact that in an hour long meeting he can cover an A4 page with beautiful, intricate doodles a million miles away from my wonky hearts and stars. Every so often he pauses in his scribbles to pick up his mug, which, appropriately, is emblazoned with the slogan Hot Tot Tea. He catches my eye and I look down at my notepad and blush. I haven’t mastered the art of checking him out subtly yet.
We don’t make a habit of money changing hands in the bedroom. But since he’s been abroad, it has been known to happen. Just a couple of times.
We’re standing by the bed, and he’s got that look in his eyes: the one that says he’s just about to pounce.
I glance up, catch his eye, and say ‘I need to get some cash for a cab to the airport.’
His smile turns wicked. He digs in the back pocket of his jeans for his wallet, flips it open and drops a couple of notes on the bedside table.
I watch, mock aghast.
There’s a scribbled reminder to myself on my notepad at work. It says ‘Print boarding pass.’
In my 4pm meeting I draw a border round it, then another, then another. I’m running rings around it the way the boy runs rings around me.
In twelve hours time, there’ll be no more sleeps. Already, I’m no longer thinking about deadlines. I’m thinking about sucking his cock.
I want to like morning sex. Really, I do. I just *don’t*.
I’m an evening girl. I do my best work after work, my energy levels peak around 9pm and I prefer a nice glass of wine to a hot cup of coffee. I’m late *all the time,* but latest of all in the morning.
I don’t do kinky blog posts, on the whole. Every so often, someone asks ‘Why ‘of sorts?’ Because you write about other stuff as well as sex?’
Partly. But also partly because I never thought I’d be able to pass this off as a real sex blog when it’s so vanilla compared to a lot of the blogs I read.
Sometimes I think Fifty Shades of Grey has a lot to answer for. Would I have described myself as submissive before I read it? Probably not. Looking back, I can see now that the majority of the erotica I returned to time and again featured submissive women, but it had honestly never occurred to me that I would define myself that way in real life – that was just what I happened to wank to.
I had to canvas my uni friends today to establish what was in my Fresher’s pack. I can remember the good bits (two condoms: one ribbed, one extra strong, a sachet of lube, teabags) but the rest is hazy. Depending on who you ask, there may or may not also have been: a map, a packet of microwaveable pasta in Dolmio sauce, a pen, and a NatWest rubber in the shape of a pig.
I have no idea what happened to the contents of mine, but I do know what happened to Mark’s.
A week or two ago, Alison Tyler posted this, about potentially wanting pieces for a sex and coffee themed anthology, and it got me thinking.
When you think sex and coffee, I think it’s normal to imagine inviting someone back for coffee, the strong, dark stuff that you drink at the end of an evening, and where that might lead. Less sexy, perhaps, is that first coffee of the day – the one that wakes you up, puts you in a position to face the day ahead.
Sex blog (of sorts) 