The BBC Radio 4 programme Just A Minute has been a favourite of mine for a while, which meant I was utterly delighted at Girl on the Net’s ‘Porn… in just a minute’ blog post. At the end of her post she challenges others to have a go at writing their own porn without hesitation, deviation or repetition. I’ve followed the same structure as she did, writing in a 15 minute time limit (no hestitaion), staying strictly to the story without asides (no deviation), and – discounting little words like ‘I’ and ‘and’ – not repeating myself. Here’s my attempt at porn in just a minute – do I deserve the benefit of the doubt?
Streetlights spill their orange glow in pools, and it is by this light that I can see her. The night air is cold. However, it isn’t the November chill which makes me shiver, but the fact we’re actually doing this. In her high-heeled yes-Quinn-please-take-me-right-here-in-the-pub boots, she’s taller than me in my Doc Martens. She uses extra inch or two of height to take control of the situation, backing me against the wall.
Cold stone at my back, and I could feel bricks under my fingertips if I was so inclined. Instead my fingers are curled in her hair pulling her closer to me. Hot kisses, our defence against the frosty darkness. We shouldn’t be getting this close in public; our bodies are twining together in the way they do when we’re alone. Another kiss, on my neck this time. Teeth. Warm breath on my cheek.
Do you want me to screw you here?
My nod is enthusiastic. I would beg if breathing wasn’t enough of a challenge as her nails scrape down my back and she whispers other dirty words in my ear.
Fucking where anyone could see us.
She squeezes my arse. Her hands trace the ruffles of my knickers.
Would you get down on your knees for me?
I’m weak at the thought, and moan – the sound far louder than I am expecting – as she dips a single digit into my slick cunt.
You’re so wet.
She’s pressed against me, and I’m grabbing greedily at every inch of her soft flesh. I whimper softly as she slides her finger out of my vagina. She traces my labia, feeling the arousal which she has crafted. I am a treat for her to consume, she makes this clear. That doesn’t mean I don’t want a go as well. I push up her shirt and push down her bra cups, exposing her nipples to evening bite. They harden, perfect targets for me to tweak. Her whine spurs me onwards.
Fuck me now?
She obliges. In the moment she has created for me, the perfect fulfilment of a long-held fantasy, her fingers pump in and out of me and her thumb rubs my clit. I arch my back, curving into her touch. She holds me tightly, our boobs pressing together.
I love you.
I don’t know which of us says it; my body is wound too tight. As the waves of orgasm break over me, I look up through the urban luminance and imagine stars.
Quinn Rhodes (he/him) is a queer, trans, disabled sex writer with vaginismus. He’s a slut and a sex nerd who writes about his adventures in trying to fuck without fucking up. Quinn can usually be found wearing stomp-on-the-patriarchy boots while falling in love every time he fucks.