Wicked Wednesday: on snatched sex

One of the best things about sex is being able to take your time over it. Sex that’s made up of endless changes of position, long, languorous bouts of kissing, thrusts that slow to almost nothing before building back up to a frantic rhythm.

But I’m a sucker too for last minute decision sex, sex that’s planned ahead but that has to fit neatly into the slot assigned to it. Sex that’s tight on time, but heavy on sensation.

Last minute decision sex can obviously happen within seconds of the decision being made, but I like it when you have to work at it a bit, when you have to travel a bit further than is strictly reasonable, when you can barely justify it to yourself, let alone other people.

It reminds me a bit of Christmas: it’s ostensibly all about the day itself, but actually everyone knows that the real joy is in the run up and the day after. It’s about how wide my pupils are as I hurriedly brush on mascara in the car’s rearview mirror, about the way my Chanel No. 5 smells when it hasn’t yet had time to mellow on my skin, the way you can lose yourself in the crowd in a busy London pub, the way that first sip of red tastes …

The way he tastes …

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How nice is too nice?

Twitter is having a moment. It feels like *everyone* is talking about bitchiness, or trolling. Not just the sex/relationship bloggers either, but more widely than that – beauty bloggers, lifestyle columnists…

I’ve witnessed a bit of it, but nothing like on the scale it’s apparently happening. I don’t really get nasty tweets, or cruel emails, but other bloggers clearly do – Laurie at MyPOTL wrote this this week on the subject.

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Nice dress

Changing rooms in high street stores are shit.

They fall, broadly, into two categories: the Topshop type, boiling hot, with those little size cubes all over the dusty floor and a sales assistant who insists that anyone who accompanies you must themselves be carrying a Size 6 peplum skirt and a Size 18 poncho and the more upmarket type, à la Jigsaw, where sure, your boyfriend can sit on a comfortable chaise longue right outside, but the sales assistant is constantly flitting back and forth and no sooner would you have invited him in for a quick blow job in front of the mirror than she’d stick her head round the curtain to ask: ‘Did you see we have it in pink, too?’

It’s a shame, because boys give the best compliments on new clothes.

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What am I worth?

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.

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Red or white?

There are two questions the boy knows there’s little point in asking me. The first is ‘Do you want to suck my cock?’ and the second is ‘What are you drinking?’

Red, white, sparkling or Rescue Remedy, if it’s grape-alcohol based, I’ll drink it. I have my preferences, obviously, but, I’m not, y’know, what you’d call fussy.

While thinking about this post, I did a bit of research into how often I mention wine. It gets some kind of reference in just under a quarter of my posts. So, yeah, it features heavily in my life, both as a single girl, and within my relationship with the boy.

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It’s not about Dave Benson Phillips …

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.

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My inner teenager

Yesterday was a busy day. I got up, went to a writing workshop at a literature festival, caught the bus to London, went to an exhibition at Somerset House, for drinks in a fancy hotel, and then to see McBusted.

*pauses to lose followers*

I’m comfortable with what I like to do in my spare time, just as I’m comfortable with who I like to do it with. I did most of that stuff with a good friend, but I’d have been equally happy to do it by myself. And, if you ignore my terrible taste in music (the last gig I went to was Gary Barlow), a lot of what I do I do to indulge my inner teenager.

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Chemistry

I snuck out of the office to fuck the boy on my lunch hour the other day, which, while I could write about it at length (there’s nothing quite like returning to your desk with a guilty secret and tits streaked with dried come), isn’t the main focus of this post. It is, however, related.

I once had an argument with my mum because I’m a massive defender of the need for chemistry in any relationship. She sees no reason why you wouldn’t ultimately settle down with your best friend if your best friend is romantically interested in you, you like them, and your life goals ultimately include things like a steady, monogamous relationship and children. I think there’s no way you should settle down with your best friend unless, in addition to all of the above, they also give you the horn.

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Better than hugging

Among the stranger conversations I’ve had in the past few days was one with my former boss, when I asked how things were going with her (relatively) new boyfriend.

‘Good, thanks’ she replied. ‘Except he’s a moody bugger and I can’t so much as do the washing up without getting smacked on the arse with a tea towel.’

I have *no* idea how we got there.

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