A week ago a postvan pulled up to park outside the house. The guy inside took out a bacon sandwich and bit into it. Something about the way he opened his mouth and put it in was an instant turn on : that absolute hunger.

Reader, I wanked immediately. 

That same week the smell of a young man who walked past me as I took my daily walk: freshly showered with too much aftershave. But at this time, a small welcomed frisson. Another man who glided past on a bike, shouting at his friend. But he smelt good.

A male voice on the phone, just for a change, a little excitement. I couldn’t remember what he sounded like. Gruff, an odd mix of accents. I like his humour. But how does he kiss?

Struggling to fall asleep and trying to remember the last guy who stayed over and not being able to. Even if it was him, he didn’t lie and hug me, spoon me or let me bury my face in his chest. The feeling of some arms around me.  I remember once four years ago lying on my side, in an embrace while he spanked me hard.

A text from the last guy I slept with elicited a shriek. I’d not really been in touch. Out of the blue he asks how I am. The dance of politeness, does he still want me? 



The cry of a fuckboy this morning: “So horny I could explode lol”

I reply this time with “TBH I would just wank it out, we ain’t gonna be allowed to meet anytime soon”

I don’t want him anyway


Clamps on my nipples, to feel something, anything.

A flat peach, the juices running down my chin.

Something penis shaped in my mouth.

The smell on my hands. What does spunk smell like again?

His six pack.

I crave a playful slap across my ass.

Trimming my bush, just in case.

Clean sheets. A picnic, his hand up my skirt. The vibrator under my pillow. 

Laughing at a newspaper article about new lockdown couples : a propaganda piece

Fuck off. 

Wondering who the next guy to go down on me will be.