Right now I seem to be sharing a lot about how I’m fucking up and trying to do better. While I’m sure no one views me as an all-knowing sexpert, I do often share the highlights of my life rather than the moments that leave me weeping in fetal position. But I’m a flawed human who messes up, and I often mess up around continual consent.
Today, folks, I have a confession for you: I’m still nervous about safe-words. Nope, not about using them – I will always tell a partner if I need them to stop. What I’m nervous about is that I sometimes ‘forget’ I have a safe-word, not in a consent-y way, but in a there-is-a-specific-word-that-lets-your-partners-know-you-want-to-stop-sex-now’ way, and a your-partner-has-safe-words-too’ way.
Today I’m gathering the courage to do something I’ve been thinking about a lot recently, namely an exploration of what counts as “sinful” – because it’s subjective, right? I am going to play around with Molly Moore’s photography meme to do this: please forgive me for subverting its usual boundaries. I’ve really missed joining in with Sinful Sunday.
Sex can be intimate and sex can make you laugh. Today, I’m sharing a real-life snapshot from the sex I’ve had this weekend – wonderful, warm sex with an almost whimsical quality. I’m not sure how hot my description of the moment actually is, but the act of guiding someone into their partner’s cunt was so wonderful that I couldn’t not write about it.
This is another writing-as-therapy blog post, where I again explore emotions through song lyrics. I’ve spent a lot of the last few days flirting with cute humans and trying to arrange sex dates, and thus thinking a lot about how what I want out of a relationships. Do I want candlelight or face-fucking? Piss or roses? Do I have to make a choice at all?