Groggy Fucks, Lust and Carnal Need

He snores quietly. Sleeping with his mouth closed leaves nowhere for the sound to echo. It's a comforting sound. Muted and masculine.

When he's completely relaxed his shoulders twitch. The ramifications of sports injuries from years ago. Every so often a sharp jolt wakes me and almost as if he's hiding the twitch he continues it in a soft circle of his fingers across my skin.

My body never acclimatised to the noises and sensations. I slept like hell with him in my bed but it was always worth it. Lazy, hazy half sleep. Comfort, relaxation and if I'm honest intimacy, safety and belonging. You know when something just feels right?

Instead of sleeping I'd replay the laughter, the jokes, the fun, the sex. I'm wet just thinking about it now. He'd need to be taught how to wrap his hand around my throat properly but his hand over my mouth he had down to perfection. He'd easily pull me across the bed because he wanted me closer. He'd fuck me hard then kiss me softly. Compliment me because taking the piss is fun but so is being nice to each other.

Lilting lightly in and out of sleep, half dreams and half fantasies, reminders of the beauty beside me I'd turn myself on. Not fully conscious of my actions I took his hand and ran his finger through the mess of wetness between my legs. "Look what you do to me”.

And just like that, he was awake. Hard. Eager to fuck. I love doing that to men. There's a quiet confidence in having a man stand to attention in less than a heartbeat.

In one fluid motion, he was on top of me, a sharp nudge of his legs against mine and my legs were spread. Before I could fully wake he was inside me. The first thrust is always the best. Sliding into you, filling you up and the pause, oh, the pause when he’s buried as far into you as he can be and stops for a second. A mutual, palpable, raw release of pent-up lust being satisfied on both sides.

Groggy, sleepy sex is the best, there are no facades. No words, no people to be. It’s not kinky or flirty or "do this, do that". It’s a silent, evocative, cathartic filling of needs. Two people who want each other so much that they don’t even need to be fully awake to acknowledge it.

Lust takes over. That really animalistic section of your brain comes front and centre and needs are expressed and received without instruction before the conscious part of your brain comes through.

I live for groggy fucks. Instinctive sex. The warm bubble of intimacy and everything it stands for. So much so, that I will myself to stay half asleep where my body innately accepts the sensations. His body heat, his weight on top of me, his breath, his legs under mine, his arms simultaneously holding me and himself in place and his want, his carnal need to be inside me.

Eventually, it ends. I fully wake or he comes or we both decide we’ve gotten what we’ve come together for. He’ll lie back down, I’ll rest my head on his shoulder and we’ll both drift off again. He’ll fall asleep first, he always does. I’ll lie and relive what just happened and pray that in an hour or so his twitching shoulders will wake me again. Just enough for a groggy fuck.

Photo by Annie Spratt on Unsplash

This article is part of #kinkoftheweek. Bloggers from everywhere around the world take the prompt from Mollys Daily Kiss.

This weeks prompt is Groggy/Sleepy/Nighttime sex.

To read other submissions just click on the lips.

The Size of Your Dick is Irrelevant

Peter* has the biggest cock I’ve ever seen. Ever. It's chunky, thick from the base to the tip and there's a fair amount of distance between the two points. It's a wonder he doesn't pass out when he gets hard with that much blood heading for his cock.

Blow-jobs aren’t worth it, I can’t fit a can of soup in my throat. It’s huge. It’s a long thrust which is enjoyable But he’s a very lazy fuck. Because he’s “got the goods” he feels no need to put any effort in barring the thrusting which has more frequently become me on top. - In 10 years of on and off sex, I’ve never orgasmed.

James* has the longest cock I’ve ever played with. He’s 6′7″ with a dick to match. It’s not the thickest just really, really long. The first he pulled it out of his boxers it unfurled itself as it swelled to full mast. He held my head by a fistful of hair and instructed me to put it in my mouth. I nearly safe-worded out on the spot.

He lauded about the fact that many women couldn't handle his manhood and I never shy away from a challenge. We fucked a great many times that night. It hurt like a bitch. By the 3rd round, my poor vulva was in bits but the martyr that I am did it again and drove home. After that night, we never slept together again.

Niall* has the smallest. It’s thick. I like a girthy cock. We played with positions to get the best sensations. I could go down on him for days. His favourite thing to do in bed? Make a woman orgasm. His hands worked in magical ways.

Stephen* had what I imagine most would consider average. - I’m not good with eyeballing lengths. Slim and decently proportioned. Smaller than what I would consider appropriate for his height of 6-foot plus. A lazy lover, the thrusts weren’t full or all that noticeable. I found myself burying my thoughts into the emotional connection to get off. His hands were skilled and his tongue magnificent.

Shane* had a beautiful cock. In our 4 years together he used it well. Average length and slightly thick. Sometimes I came and sometimes I didn’t. He learned well over the years how to manipulate my body - he just chose not to, sometimes.

Frank* I could sit on Franks cock for days. Slightly larger than most. Not by much and quite a thick appendage. Frank has this rule that he can’t come until his lady does. This is etiquette I can get down with. We figured out on day one how to get me to orgasm and I have every, single, time.

Mark* has a similar cock to Frank. Slightly larger than average and a beautiful girthy width. We fuck with a great deal of regularity but I’ve never come. It’s still fun and I always make sure I get myself off afterwards and that he partakes in getting me off. So it’s fun in some ways.

What's My Point?

Each of the men on the list above has questioned me at some point about how the size of their junk compares. I won't lie and tell them that theirs is the best I've ever had nor will I tell them that theirs is the best type -simply because it's not true.

Sexual compatibility trumps the size of your dick every time. That compatibility comes in many shapes and sizes and there are more factors than one can count that piece it together. Personality, sex-drive, kinks and inclinations, skill sets, comfort levels and attraction.

I’ve enjoyed sex with each of the men above the biggest are the last on the list - if I’m honest. Having a huge cock isn’t the be-all and end-all of sex. Are we forgetting the clit is on the outside and most women don’t orgasm from penetration alone?

Does size matter. To me, not in the slightest. And it’s not about connection and emotions - my ex doesn’t top the list either.

What matters is how you treat your partner and the ones who realize that win big.

Franks cock may be bigger than average but his cock alone doesn’t get me off. His hands and my toys come into play - used in unison brilliant orgasms ensue.

Size does not matter.

*All names have obviously been changed for anonymity and I've purposefully left out measurements because I'm not great at eyeballing length and I'm supposed to be able to paint a picture with words.

Photo by Charles Deluvio 🇵🇭🇨🇦 on Unsplash

Collars, Dynamics & Fucking with Abandon

It’s a funny thing, casual sex. Fucking with abandon. Realising you can share your body, participate in pleasure and not really know the person you’re fucking. Mental and emotional connection are not prerequisites for sex. Open your legs with a closed heart. Let them in without actually letting them in and feel fucking fantastic because of it.

Both worlds do it, sex-positive people and kinksters just talk about it more.

There are a lot of "strange" things on the kinky side of the slash. Many steal a glance and wonder. Daring themselves to understand but not quite sure how to.

How can lashings be enjoyable? How can you feel precious when you’re crawling around on a leash? Slut is endearing? Daddy is your boyfriend? A hand around your throat is an act of kindness? It can be hard to understand. Most don’t even try to comprehend. Just toss the ideas aside as weird, strange and fucked up.

But look closer.

What gets forgotten is that person, on their knees, collared and gagged chose to be there. They’re happy to be there. No one forced them. The only decisions maker in their sex life is them.

Sexual Liberation. Free from the confines of what everybody else deems appropriate. There’s nothing so great in this world as to trust someone so much that you‘re willing to share your perversions with them. There’s a bond and a trust built there that transcends most others. Even with people you just fuck.

Collars, beacons of trust show up at every level of connection. More than the simplistic adornment they seem. More than a strap, a buckle, a rivet and a ring; a symbol that holds more meaning than anything else in one’s arson of filthy props.

Collars can mean anything of course. Ownership, love, protection, submission. Just click on the lips at the end of this post to find the different meanings they hold to other kinksters in the world.

In your dynamic, you get to decide what it means.

Because embellishments and bows, spikes and studs on a material of your choice, wrapped around your neck mean whatever they fuck you want.

Mine sits in a box, hidden from prying eyes, locked away with a piece of me that no one gets to see, but a few. Because to me, they mean trust.

I can't tell you why I leave it there, in that box now covered in dust. That collar holds significance in a dynamic that no longer exists and should I meet someone new, someone worth wearing a collar for, I'll buy a new one and we will decide, together, what it means.

But for now, I fuck with abandon.

This article is part of #kinkoftheweek. Bloggers from everywhere around the world take the prompt from Mollys Daily Kiss.

To read other submissions just click on the lips.

One Night Stands Aren't Worth the Hassle

A triple drop of viagra couldn’t have got his cock to half mast. I went down until my jaw ached. He pulled harder and faster than I’ve ever seen any man touch himself. I told the sexiest stories I knew, touched myself like a porn star and nothing. He looked at me defeated and said “It’s no use. It’s not getting up tonight”.

That was my last, intentional, one-night stand… 6 years ago. We watched Jim Jeffries on YouTube and laughed all night instead.

They seem like a good idea at the time. Generally when you're liquored up to the point of stringing mumbles together thinking they're coherent sentences. Lustful fumbling. Unchartered territory and a gin-fuelled fearlessness to conquer. A good chance you’ll say the wrong name. But, hey, that’s what one night stands are - spontaneous.

Rarely do they meet the passionate, orgasm filled coupling we imagine them to be. In fact, the scenario above has happened more times than most men would care to admit.

Good sex happens when you’ve actually learned something about the person you’re fucking. Something about how they like to be fucked. Sober explorations and ongoing dynamics beat out drunken rollabouts ten times over. They're generally an awful lot safer too.

My point?

Bed a stranger at your Christmas party if you like but if you're looking for good sex, mind-blowing, sheet-grabbing, legs-trembling sex, without the strings and confines of a relationship, consider seeking out a more long-term situation.

Save Kissing for the Second Date

Sometimes dating is so bad you want to lock yourself in your room with a bottle of vodka and a switchblade lest someone try and impress you again. As the number of unsuccessfuls pile up like a  dirty laundry mountain that hasn’t been washed in two weeks, you start to wonder if maybe you’d be better off alone.

It’s easy to hate your life when the guy who made you laugh so hard you nearly peed turns out to be dull as day old dishwater and still expects a kiss at the end of the night. Gut wrenching guilt twists your bones when the first disastrous evening isn’t over but they’re trying to lock you into a second date. 

We plan everything to pristine perfection. The location, the time, the activities, what we’ll wear. Safeguard ourselves against bad weather, allergies and bad conversation. We’ve even got a bestie on speed-dial just in case things go so far south you think you might drown.

But they still end up shit. 

Mostly, prospective partners end up being really nice people, just not someone you’d put money on spending any more time with, let alone the rest of your life. And that’s where we get caught. Because telling an utter shit-head to shove it is easy but turning down that really nice girl who’s just not your cup of chai-latte fills you with dread.

Yet, we continue. Donning our chainmail and our war-paint red lipstick, chanting as we charge out to battle “This one won’t be so bad. This one might be the one”.

Through trial and error, we scrape together buckets of tidbits. Things to make our mission slightly easier. A way to manoeuvre the unspoken rules of dating. 

I’ve said it before and I’ll say it again: I love dating. I’m ever hopeful that this one will be my chic-lit fantasy and I swoop in with the naivety of a child watching frozen. All because of a few choice rules I put forth to my prospective princes. 

No Kissing

The dazzling neon sign of a successful date is a kiss. The evening winds down, the staff start to prepare for the following day and a mental terror rips through. Tension that could be cut with a spoon. If one party likes the other and the other doesn’t feel the same; self esteem crumbles.

Kissing is not mandatory.

As much as we’d like to believe it, we’re not in a real life fairytale. 99% of dates end in “Dear God, I never want to see them again”. But the expectations of first dates leave us in disney movies - kissing frogs that don’t end up transforming into prince charming.

No Making Plans for a second date

The laws of socialising are simple. Rejection happens less if the request is made in person. If you lock in a second date during the first then you’re winning. 

We all know what it feels like to be rejected and it feels horrible to watch a rejected soul. We empathise, we understand. Our hearts go out to them. We want to make it better but in this scenario, the only way to make it better is to put their needs above our own and agree to see them again.

Do not fall for it. Let it be known before you meet. That way the awkward situation doesn’t crop up in the first place. If the evening turns out to be a rip-roaring success and you both want to see each other again there’s no harm in waiting a few hours before scheduling in the next meet.

Find and arrange your own way home

By the end of the night you may consider this person to be the best thing since they rebranded gin as the “it” drink in fishbowl glasses. No one needs to know where you live, especially on the first date. Safety first and safety last, especially if you never intend to see them again. 

No drinking

Alcohol is my hail Mary. Put a few pink gins down my throat and I’m everything I’ve ever wanted to be. Confident, ballsy, flirty and chatty. It’s great to get the conversation flowing but it’s also great at helping you make bad decisions and painting your prospective partner as much more interesting than they are.

You’re a badass bitch and can hold a conversation, you are a human being.

And again… Safety.

No staying over. 

It should be a given - especially with the no kissing rule but on those dates that are set up for sex only dynamics it’s best stated. Hotel lobbies are amazing  for chats and conversations especially when the conversation is good and you want it to continue past midnight but sometimes opportunists strike and take note of the fact that there are a whole host of rooms upstairs that cater to customers who want to have sex.

As always the biggest rule for first dates is to trust your gut. If something doesn’t feel right, get out ASAP. 

Dating is not supposed to be an anxiety inducing ordeal but the pressure to perform, for certain things to happen in certain ways, at certain times, strips the evening of all the romantic splendour it could be. Even good dates can be ruined by built in expectations.

So remove them.

There’s noting wild or exciting about these rules but they stop the unnecessary awkwardness so you can get to the actual dating part. Getting to know each other, figuring each other out and just having a good time.

Who ever thought a sex blogger would be telling you to save kissing for the second date, huh?

Social Media

Photo by Huy Phan on Unsplash

Cheating is Not Black & White

When the news hits the media, there’s a good person, a bad person and a bitch. It’s black and white. The cheater is a dick, the victim is the one who’s cheated on and the bit on the side, well that prick ruined everything.

There is no grey area, right?

But no one ever talks about the relationship. No one ever talks about the fact that someone didn’t just wake up and say “I’m going to start cheating today”.

Yes, cheating is a choice. Whether a conscious one or not, somewhere along the line caution is thrown to the wind along with the amount of fucks to give about the relationship. But no-one ever said that it’s an easy decision to make.

Whether it’s a one-time drunken endeavour fuelled by a lack of sex and the prominence of someone willing or an ongoing secret love affair, infidelity doesn’t just happen.

In the aftermath, it’s easy to point the finger, to place blame, to question. Did you not know how much you would hurt your partner? Did you really think they’d never find out about it?

The risk was weighed up. And in a lot of cases, the harsh truth is, the transgression was worth the risk.

Because cheating isn’t the problem.

Cheating is a symptom - not the diagnosis. Infidelity, in any of its forms, is not the source of the issue but it’s a red-hot, smoking alarm that’s alerting you to a much bigger dilemma. The relationship, in its current form, isn’t working.

Everyone points the finger at the act and says “this is why the relationship is broken” but I disagree. The relationship may be physically over because of infidelity but was it a full, healthy relationship before the cheating happened? I highly doubt it.

The person who was cheated on may say that their relationship was fine but the cheater clearly didn’t believe the same. The transgression was easier than facing the problem or the issue wasn’t being seen by both partners. Whatever the case, the reality is, there was an issue that wasn’t being resolved.

It started long before the cheating began. A breakdown in communication, a lack of feeling heard, being taken for granted, no intimacy, sometimes people drift apart for no apparent reason and are stuck.

Sometimes someone arrives in our lives or someone who has always been there is seen in a new light. Chemistry, sexual or not, just makes us feel seen, sometimes it just makes us feel.

And we can’t define or create chemistry. If we could, we’d build fountains of it that just pour a never-ending stream into our relationship.

One Person

The patriarchy, society, the church, all have conditioned us to believe that we have one person, one soul mate. You may only marry one person and once you do, you should stay with that one person for the rest. of. your. life. Period. Full stop. Don’t ask any questions.

But the patriarchy, society and the church also told us that that one person should be of the opposite sex, the same religion and the same colour as you. We’ve questioned these “acceptable conditions”, pushed for change, but not the rule that there should only be one.

Maybe it’s because we want to believe in having a soul mate. Maybe we want a forever person, someone to share our lives with. While it’s a beautiful idea it may not be the truth for everyone.

It’s hard to believe that there is only one right way for 7.53 billion people to form a relationship.

Science and statistical analysis are pointing away from monogamy. History shows that our early ancestors had multiple partners. Men and women. Somewhere in our genetics is the code to stray.

And it’s across the board. Millennial women are more likely to cheat and on the whole, men are more likely. Both sexes cheat, at all stages of life, so it’s not defined clearly on one side of the spectrum.

Polyamory is a thing. Open relationships are a thing. Inviting people into your marriage or relationship is a thing. Maybe it’s time to start looking at these options instead of losing our shit because monogamy doesn’t always work.

It’s a moral quandary

We’ve decided as a whole that cheating is immoral and we all like to think we’re moral people but cheaters don’t expect themselves to cheat until they do.

Pretty much everyone has experienced cheating in one form or another whether it be as one of the 3 key players, having a friend confide in them or having a family member cheat.

It’s everywhere and we just condemn it. So it proliferates in the background away from prying eyes. Maybe if we shine the spotlight on the actual problem we can expose the multiple shades of grey that exist and maybe, just maybe, stop a lot of unnecessary grieving at the loss of a trusting partnership.

It’s not necessarily the end

For many, cheating is a deal-breaker, signalling the end of the partnership and if that’s you, that’s 100% your decision. Transgressions can also be seen as an unwanted sidestep that has both parties delve deeper into their relationship through counselling or a startling reminder that they’re not meeting their partners' needs.

Whatever the next step, cheating plays a pivotal role that generally leads to something more positive. Either people split and move on to a better life or use the experience to strengthen the now-strained relationship.

I’m not saying cheating is right but neither am I saying it’s 100% at fault. It happens. That’s an indisputable fact.

What I am saying and I suppose my hope in writing this article is that it will effect pause. Have you think about infidelity, open your mind around it and maybe see it in all the millions of shades of grey that it really is.


And before I’m bashed for my opinions, yes I’ve been at all corners of the triangle. I’ve watched cheating destroy broken marriages, used it as an outlet to seek something better and had my heart broken by a man I trusted more than I trusted myself.

I don’t think cheating happens off the cuff and I really don’t see it as the main problem. I believe cheaters are seekers. Searching out something that no longer lives in their relationship.

Maybe there are better ways of dealing with the original issue but as human beings not one of us are infallible. Relationships are complicated, intricate and full of enigmas that we may never understand so to tar any person who cheats with the same brush is wrong.

We can’t help who we fall for, so can we really help it if we fall for someone who’s not our partner?

All the social media’s

Photo by Kristina Flour on Unsplash

The Fear of Starting to Like Someone

I love a good date. No, I'll go one further - I enjoy dating even when it's not all that good. Sometimes there are other ways to describe them like comical, or horrible or "dear God I thought he'd never stop talking about the time he travelled the US in a campervan with his parents".

Maybe my life is so intensely boring that I have nothing better to do with an evening, but new people, new experiences and people watching in an extremely close proximity is like levelling up.

Even if this person that I'd been so excited to meet the last few days is an extreme knob-end at least I have a few more traits that I know I won't tolerate in a partner and a few laughs at their expense.

Dating is intense scrutiny.

Let's face it. Millions of micro-judgements. Billions of observations. Trillions of pieces of information all being received, assimilated and categorised to answer a single question.

Do I like this person enough to let them come on my tits, meet my parents and spend time together watching crappy reruns?

What even constitutes a positive response to that question? It's hundreds of moving pieces that need to align in order for something good to come out of it.

Comfort levels, humour, self-assuredness, dominance, manners, honesty, humbleness, sexual chemistry, the list is endless and they're all on a sliding scale. Too self-assured and they're moving into cocky territory move that further up the scale and we're in conceit.

We each have a pre-defined set-point for each of the traits we're seeking. It's a miracle we ever get to a second date or beyond.

But what happens when you do?

What if you get past the initial rifling through their personality, digging through their character to figure them out and realise that you want to see this person again and again and again?

Sometimes you pass all the hurdles, you’re compatible in so many ways, you enjoy your time together and you want more.

You like them and that’s a scary place to be.

Scary because it’s vulnerable. Now that you’ve acknowledged the fact that you caught the feels you have to take all that comes with it. The fear that they don’t feel the same way. It's a puke inducing, run for the hills and hide scenario.

What if they're wrong? What if they're seeing something that's not actually there? What if they did see something but now realise they were wrong and don't want to see you anymore?

Shame. Fear. Rejection. All the gut-wrenching emotions that come from vulnerable situations leave you questioning if this was even a good idea in the first place. Alarm bells are going off.

The potential for being hurt starts rising the second you acknowledge the feelings. Ignoring them is futile because you know they're there and almost ads a layer of shock to the prospective bruised ego.

So, in a somewhat desperate act to stop the hurt, we turn inwards. What can we do to make sure they don’t not like us?

Stay on top of current events so you can have more of an educated opinion.

Pay attention to your diet, because no-one breaks up with a hot person, right?

Make sure to not disagree with their opinions. People like agreeable people.

Always wear sexy underwear, never look not like "a snack" whatever that means.


This protective mechanism is so subtle it’s almost automatic. We hardly even notice ourselves slipping onto their Facebook page to gauge how we compare to their ex. We’ve spent so much of our lives tearing ourselves to shreds that it doesn’t seem unnatural to start seeing our faults again.

We think we’re being objective, brutally honest about the reality of what is. Making changes that should make it considerably less likely that we’ll be hurt. We’re minimising the risk, right?

But dating is subjective. The qualities the last person detested in you are the qualities that the next finds the most appealing. Your quirks and intricacies are what make you - you. A healthy relationship exists between two people who acknowledge and accept the other inclusive of kinks and quirks.

So what’s my point?

Dating is a minefield, vulnerability is a strength and as hard as it can be not to scrutinise yourself the best thing you can do is be yourself. All of it. It takes grit to go back to the dating scene time and time again and courage to open yourself to someone.

Liking someone is an uneasy place to be. Self-compassion is key. Be mindful of the vindictive bitch in the back of your head who's seeing this as a prime opportunity to tear you apart.

If the dynamic parts ways, which ultimately it could, you can rest easy in knowing that you stayed 100% true to yourself and didn’t alter yourself for anyone. And if it hurts, go back to self-compassion. You were a badass in the first place and no one can take that away from you.

You want the person you end up with to accept and cherish you for who you are not for who you pretended to be. So stay true to yourself wherever in the minefield of dating you are.

Follow the Social Medias

Am I Mistress or Mummy Today?

Words just do it for me.

The sexiest book on my shelves is a thesaurus. Thousands of pages, saturated with a mishmash, medley of words. Collections of ways to express yourself.

Each with their own individual nuance, they hold the power to change the context of what you're saying. Directing people to the exact point you’re trying to make.

Words reflect who we are. They evoke emotions and arouse a response in others. Used appropriately they’re enchanting. Making you weak at the knees, wet between the legs and pushing you over the edge when you’re just so close to coming; words are the perfect foundation for domination.

The back and forth between two people who know what’s coming. A battle of words and wills to figure out who's going to be more dominant this time. Dirty talk before, during and after. Words set the scene.

So when he asked me to degrade him I thought I would die. Literally, keel over from the sheer magnitude of how wet I would get turning someone on by using words - albeit horrible ones.

Physical pain is one thing. Sadist is not a label I can attribute to myself. But the mental side of Dominance and submission fascinates me. And to be able to do it with words was heaven.

My kind of dominance

I know how to read a trustworthy dominant and what a gift it is to them that I hand over my trust and submit. I didn't take it lightly that I was receiving these very gifts.

Having him tower over me and tell me in excruciating detail what he wanted to do to me ticked all of my boxes. Meeting his descriptions with indifference ticked his.

There's a tantalising amount of a threat in someone so big they could crush you. The fact that they choose not to is a turn on. Wielding power over something so big just makes you feel all the more empowered.

A flash of aggression would dart through his eyes as I told him I didn't have the energy to train him in. Such a waste of a sizable cock. Lying on my bed with a slew of toys, I would please myself as he stood naked at the end of the bed begging to fuck me.

He was an inanimate object. A dildo with a pulse - his pleasure irrelevant.

He loved every minute and it fascinated me. Here was a guy, I fancied like fuck imploring I let him please me.

I got off holding the power. I was nervous, it was exciting and more importantly, I was wet. Craving his cock inside me but telling him he couldn’t was teasing myself. Languishing in wanton lust.

Mistress or Mummy

His unconscious choice of words directed me in my line of degradation. How I was addressed told me all I needed to know. Mistress was strict, unrelenting and cruel. Mummy cared but just couldn’t understand why he was so shit. Mummy wanted him to be good - he just couldn’t be.

Degrading someone with a pretence of caring is a mind-fuck.

Where Mistress would goad, Mummy would inquire. "Do you really think you deserve this?" became "Why can’t you just try harder for mummy?" "You know mummy wants to enjoy it but you’re not good enough."

Whether he wanted to be degraded physically, mentally or emotionally, my job was to read what was unsaid and deliver.

The responsibility of domming someone

When entrusted with someone's submission, you’re taking on a huge amount of responsibility, a lot of it unspoken. My sub, sexy as he was, was still human under it all. So while he wanted to be degraded, told he was useless and made a mockery of; I still needed to be careful about the level of pain I was distributing.

Holding the space, watching his markers, really listening to his words. Not the literal meaning of what he said but what was behind the words. What did he want, what did he need from me?


I think we all want to believe that we could hold the space, bear the responsibility in any level of submission and be worthy of someone's trust. I took great pride in my work. Each load of cum I wiped from wherever it landed was a testament to my skill as a Domme - my skill as a wordsmith.

Much happier in my submissive state, I wouldn't knock femdom for the world. It was one of the hardest and most empowering things I've ever done but ultimately, the dynamic broke me. Words brought me back.

So, if you're contemplating dipping your toe into the pool of FemDom think about it. Really think about it. What is dominance to you, what does it mean to your partner?

Of the 128 responses I received to an advert seeking a willing male sub, I met and played with none. Our kinks didn't match, our personalities clashed or what we were looking for was two completely different things.

The experience is worth it with the right person, not just for the sake of it. People seem to forget, that while whipping and pegging and clamping and tying is fun what really makes it is the person you do it with.

God, I'm such a soppy bitch.

Find Me On Social Media


This article is part of #kinkoftheweek. Bloggers from everywhere around the world take the prompt from Mollys Daily Kiss.

To read other submissions just click on the lips.

Waxed or Shaven?

Knowing he was going home to rub one out after our first date gave me a massive lady-boner. I wanted in on the action, so I rang him.

I get to play too. I get to wank too.

Imagining him lying there, cock in hand got me wet. The details of what he wanted to do bringing me further - until he asked "waxed or shaven?".

No, just no.

Men, as visual creatures, can be curious. I get that. It helps him get off to know what I actually look like. But my hand did pause in place between my legs when asked.

For a split second, my clit missed the ministrations of my fingers, my brain paused, a jolt of something I couldn’t quite place.

I answered the question and took out my vibrator. My hand was no longer going to get me there. Or more so the question had put a slight tinge on the session.

One orgasm and a two-hour conversation later I fell asleep still unsure about how I felt about it.

It’s a closed question

See? It gives me the options of what I can answer with. In this case, I either removed the hair from between my legs or removed the hair from between my legs. My choice was the method in how I remove it.

Now, maybe he was correct in his assumption that I do in fact choose to remove it but it still kind of grinds on me. Was it an expectation? Would I have been thought less of if I dared to don a full bush?

I don’t know.

I know where I stand on pubic hair

And I don't think I'm alone in questioning the strength of my feminism when I google the price of laser hair removal.

It's our choice - Laser, razor or nothing. Every detail of what’s between our legs is our decision. Waxing/shaving/trimming/sugaring/epilating/depilating our pubes is not anti-feminist and leaving a full bush is not anti-feminine.

Do whatever makes you happy - if that’s what you actually want to do.

It’s not his presumption that irritates but my not countering it.

If we’re working on a premise that men have learned to be the way they are, that society has taught them that certain acts are okay - even when they’re not. Is the fact of the matter not that really, in some cases, men are oblivious to the things they’re doing and saying?

Stick with me, this isn't a cop out for men.

When I fuck up, which is a lot, it generally stems from ignorance. I'm careful in my choice of words and hate the thought of offending someone, As such go out of my way to not. But it still happens.

Educate me and I’ll be more aware. Don’t berate me, don’t embarrass, educate.

So, on a subsequent date, with nowhere to run to or dodge the question I brought it up. I brought it up again as we got into bed. I'm not forcing the idea, I'm not berating him. I'm merely pointing it out.

What if I had been mortified, lying in bed, with a hand buried in a full bush? What if I had felt the need to shave before we had sex - lest I feel too insecure?

I know it's something I wouldn't do. With me, you get what you get and if you don't like it you can sleep in the car. But a younger, much more impressionable version of me would have altered myself to be accepted. So I asked those questions for me.

Did it sink in?

I can't honestly say. But I imagine if he's ever having phone sex with someone else he'll be more careful in his choice of words.

I'm not saying he shouldn't be curious. But maybe next time he asks the question is could be more along the lines of:

"Bush, bald or something in between"?

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How to be More Comfortable in Your Body

I don’t care what size you are. Nor do I care about your skin condition. If you have a nervous disposition it probably irritates me but ultimately I really just don’t care.

But you care and that’s why you’re here.

Being comfortable in your body is a two-sided coin. Happy and Healthy. If you’re happy and healthy then I’m with you, no matter what size, shape, disposition you have.

The reality, though, is that the vast majority of us are neither.

Social conditioning is very real and very powerful. From the second we squeeze out of our mothers’ vaginas we are bombarded with a very particular image of what we should be. How we should look. What we should do with our lives. How we should act. What we should wear. Basically who we should be.

The world is set up in a way that makes us feel worthless, insecure and ashamed of our bodies if we don’t match the impossible ideal.


So we buy the crap they throw at us in the images of who we should be.

The global fashion industry is worth more than Russias whole economy. $1.34 trillion (with a T). Because if we’re happy in who we are we are and how we look we wouldn’t buy teatox programs or boost-it bras or let strangers inject muscle relaxers into our face so we can look youthfully surprised for the next few months.

We are literally being programmed to believe that we must look a certain way and if we don’t we are less than. So we spend years, lifetimes, waiting until we achieve what we must before we go after what we want.

We’ll get the perfect partner (who doesn’t exist either by the way) when we straighten our teeth. — Only then will we have the winning smile that draws them in.

We’ll go on that Caribbean holiday when we lose the spare tyre because fatties don’t look good in tropical Instagram squares.

We’ll be content in ourselves when we smooth out the wrinkles, get rid of the cellulite, just generally we’ll be happy when we look like thinner, smoother, straighter, curvier, augmented versions of ourselves. — with tinted lashes.

We, as women, are so much more than our bodies. We don’t need to address the greys, the skin discolouration or the lumpy bits. Why can’t we just focus more on accepting what we already are? Which is pretty f*cking amazing for what we’ve each been through by the way.

The Caveat:

Before we dive in here, I want to make clear that being okay with your body doesn’t mean you can’t still want to change. Losing weight and accepting yourself as you are aren’t mutually exclusive. It’s not an either-or scenario. You can do both.


You are more than your appearance.

First and foremost — You are you. The human, the person. You have thoughts and ideas, skills and things to share. You have morals and opinions and passion and personality.

Your appearance is one piece of a multi-faceted being that is you. To put yourself down because you don’t meet the physical ideal of what society tells you to be is a disservice to yourself.

It’s what’s going on between your ears.

How you look is not the problem. You function every day. It may not be the way you want to but it happens. A huge proportion of what your body is holding you back from isn’t actually your body it’s your own thought pattern telling you that you can’t do certain things because of your appearance.

You can’t build a body you will accept.

Losing weight will not make you love yourself. You’ll feel lighter and prouder and your muffin-top will be a little bit less noticeable but you’ll quickly hone in and focus on something else. And so continues the never-ending cycle of needing to improve.

If I ask you right now to tell me 6 things that are wrong with how you look I’m sure you could spit them out before I finish typing this sentence. If I had asked you the same thing 5 years ago you would have been the same and if I ask you again in another 5 years. Even if you’ve lost the weight, changed your shape and dyed your hair.. you’ll still have a list of things that need to change or be fixed.

Accepting yourself as you are doesn’t take away from wanting to change things. It merely means that you acknowledge where you are without judgement.


Stop shoulding all over yourself.

You should lose weight.
You should care about what you put on yourself each day.
You should learn how to do the perfect winged eyeliner.
You should clean the house.
You should be more social.
You should take on more at work.
You should be a better friend.
you should make a healthy dinner.
you should go for a run.
You should invest in your sex life.
You should join Tinder.
you should drink more water.

The list will never end. Once you cross one thing off another magically appears. Here’s the rub. So many expectations lead to paralysis. You literally can’t or don’t move.

So just stop. Leave yourself alone. Give yourself a break. Stop with the shoulding and you might just find that it’s a bit easier to do the things on the list when they’re not a source of pain.

Dare to not compare your body.

There’s not a single person reading this who isn’t guilty of comparing. We look at others and see what we don’t. It’s hard to be happy for them (even when you want to be) because their success is a metric of our lack.

So dare to leave it out. Stop yourself before you go there. You’ll be amazed at how great you feel just removing the yardstick.

When there’s nothing to measure up to you can just be. And that lets you work on the things you want to work on — even if that still is losing weight. Wanting to be slimmer and feeling like you should be slimmer are worlds apart.

Accept the reality of what is.

Acknowledging where you are right now gives you tremendous power. Accepting being overweight/heavy/unhealthy is far easier than fighting against it. Acceptance doesn’t mean that you’re okay with it. Nor does it mean that you’re happy with it or want it or choose to be this way. You’re merely saying “this is where I am right now”.

Acceptance gives you a great foundation and a healthier mindset to take action.

Ditch the scales.

Blasphemy I hear you yell at the screen. But hear me out. Your scales are yet another yardstick. And an unreliable one at that.

So you weigh X. How much of that is muscle? How much of that it is fat? How much is water weight? How much is the bloat because Hormones!? When you get rid of the slab that spits numbers at you how you measure your success leans on other things like how well your clothes fit. Actual measurements. How healthy do you feel? Basically, things that actually matter.

Wear things that fit.

On a similar note, wearing things because you think you should, is not the way to go. Muffin-top, sexy bitch that she is, is caused by bands that are too tight. Wearing something that fits eradicates the muffin-top and gives you smoother lines.

Practice self-compassion.

Go easy on yourself FFS. Yes, you screwed up but you’re human. Humans make mistakes. 
Sometimes, a lot of the time really, we bite off more than we can chew and then get annoyed at ourselves. That needs to stop. The only person who can stop it is you.

I don’t promote bubble baths and feeling sorry for yourself. I’m pretty on the fence about the whole self-love thing too but taking your foot off the gas when you’re struggling — best thing you can do for yourself.

Validate yourself.

Stop being a bitch to the woman in the mirror. Stop worrying about what other people think. No one gets to dictate how good you are except you. You decide what type of person you are.

So stop being mean to yourself. Stop picking yourself apart. Don’t let other people opinions affect you. It’s hard, I know but with practice, it becomes a little bit easier.

And now for the hippy bits

Listen to your intuition.

Focus on what helps you feel good. I read somewhere that your intuition never yells, it whispers. So that little nagging voice telling you to stop what you’re doing. The voice behind “I can’t adult today” is telling you to have fun!

Be yourself.

Keep a Log.

I’ve written about changing thought patterns before and that’s what the log does. What do you log? 3 things.

Small wins — because sometimes the only thing you can say you did today was to make the bed.

Gratitudes — because when we’re paying attention to the good things we see more of the good things and feel much better in ourselves

And loving things. — No matter how small. write 3–10 things you love about yourself and your body. When I first started it was “I love my nails on my pinky fingers” (because with my bent middle fingers, I couldn’t love my nails in general)

All in all, being comfortable in your body is achievable. Like a great many things in life, it’s not easy but it is worth it. I’m not there yet, I don’t think there are too many that are, but the small amount of work that I have done has made a huge difference.

Photo by Annie Spratt on Unsplash

What's this Fetlife thing People are Banging on About?

A brilliant idea with a bad interface.

John Baku, legend of a man that he is (ie the man who invented Fetlife), set up the website to find partners who shared his kinky proclivities. Since it’s inception in 2007 as “Friends with fetishes” it has amassed a huge following. Under its current name, as of this writing, it boasts over 6 million active members.

The interface, however, is… bad. Not unusable but pretty terrible. Reminiscent of early web pages - millennials will not be happy - it's not the most intuitive of designs, emojis don't exist and it really just doesn't have all the tecky bells and whistles that one would expect in 2018. But, never judge a peacock by its feathers, there’s a whole treasure trove of delights to be found in this cavern of black and red.

In and of itself Fetlife is not a place to meet people. Let’s get that out of the way now. Just like Facebook, you don’t join to find people but you do go there to stay connected with people that you have met (in real life). Where Fetlife does an amazing job is through providing people with a platform to find the meetups and events that introduce them to prospective dates/friends/play partners.

That being said it doesn’t mean that people don’t try and use it as a dating site. Ladies, if you’re anyway “good looking” by societies standards expect your inbox to be flooded. Men chomping at the bit looking for a sub/domme/woman with a pulse to have their way with.

Rest assured, ignoring them works for the most part and if in doubt block and delete.

Fetlife is not a place to go to get laid

Just because the topics of conversation run on a tangent of sex, it does not mean it’s an easy place to get a leg over. In fact, many, if not most, of the community are more educated around consent and boundaries than the average human being. We’re more aware of what we’re looking for and more likely to not bend on our standards. Plus, sussing out someone looking for sex alone is pretty easy.

Touching on the last point because it’s social media it’s not exclusively for singles. Many profiles will explicitly state that they’re online for friends, pen-pals, events and workshops or just to keep an eye on “kinky and popular”. Other times couples are looking for a 3rd to join their shenanigans or you know polyamory - one can have multiple partners.

A gateway to the community

The kink community exists outside of the site. Fetlife is a resource and a great starting place. A way to delve into the world and gain an understanding before you dive in. But eventually, to really understand, you need to get your hand out of your pants, your ass off the couch and out the front door.

And that’s where fetlife really comes in. It’s where you find the events, workshops, meetups and clubs and in turn find people to friend on fetlife. Your newsfeed becomes an awful lot more interesting when you actually know the people posting.

Like anything else in life you will get out of it what you put in. There’s a whole world to dig around in, explore and discover. If you’re dipping your fishnet-clad toe in for the first time there’s a lot to learn. Fetlife is rife with starter manuals, beginner guides and how to’s, littered with forums and groups. It's a place to ask questions, gain an understanding, see what’s happening and delve a bit more.

Discretion is huge

Some are enmeshed in the lifestyle and use it like anybody else would Facebook but for the large majority, privacy is key. Pictures are posted with no faces, real names are never shared - because, for the most part, we don’t know what Sallys tits look like with no clothes on and Sally’s quite happy getting her baps out in public - privately.

That discretion can bleed over into munches and events. I know the meetups I’ve attended needed a pre-screening before the actual event. Where someone sits you down and explains the rules of the evening.

For the most part, hosts just want everyone to have a good time so it’s no shaming, no photography, no pressuring people into doing what they don’t want to even if you can’t understand why they won't give you their name - respect that choice.

Kink Shaming is a Huge No No

Everybody thinks they’re kinky until they hit fetlife. You think you have a good understanding until you see the never-ending lists of kinks and fetishes. So even if you think you’re the only person in the world with a proclivity for whatever your thing may be - chances are there’s a number of groups, events, munches or meetups dedicated to it.

For safety and legal reasons certain kinks - paedophilia, rape and a host of others are not allowed but rest assured you’ll find something that tickles your fancy.

The general rule is that if it’s safe, sane and consensual it’s fair game.

Kink shaming, however, is not allowed. Many moderators of the forums and events will ban you for shaming. It can be pretty cutthroat but it’s a global network, sometimes with thousands of people to moderate.

Just because you don’t like it doesn’t give you the right to shame others for liking it. And really that should just be a rule for life. Live and let live. You do you, I’ll do me.

A word of warning: While the kink community considers itself as kink-inclusive, sex-positive and a caring group of people. Not everyone understands that nor do they wish to comply. The site is open to anybody to join so there will be asshats, morons, wannabes and abusers on the site.

As with anything, stay cautious, use common sense and listen to your gut. If something or someone doesn’t feel right, go with that feeling.

an outlet of self-expression

For me, fetlife is all of the above, what pushes it further is the expression on the site. The imagery is (can be) amazing, I've found and followed some fabulous kink photographers their work is amazing.

There is a ream of writers too. Set up more like journal entries than blog posts some people use them as a way to pour out their heart. Others to log their journey, and others again to write spectacular pieces of work. Poetry, smut, researched articles, musings whatever your written porn is you'll find it here with enough digging.

It's startling to see what can be achieved when people are given a space where they feel accepted. Creativity is given room to breathe. But given the layout of the site, it can take a bit of time and rummaging around to find them.

Whatever you want it to be

As I’ve already said what you get of it is what you put into it. If you attend the munches, meet people at the events, respect peoples boundaries, proclivities and generally just be a sound human being who uses common sense you should get on fine.

Do your own research, don’t take anyone's word as bible (yes I’m aware that makes me sound like a Kardashian) stay open minded and enjoy it. Don't feel pressured to join, do it if you want to. Even if you don't stay you will most certainly learn something about yourself in the process.

If you want to sign up - go here

You've Put me in a Compromising Position

beep, be, beep, beep, beeep

We interrupt your regularly scheduled programming for an announcement.

Rough & Tumble is going balls to the wall

I really wish there was a female equivalent to that statement. Labia to the wall just doesn’t quite have the same ring to it.


You guys have been amazing (“amazeballs”) Like really, really, great. Over the last 6 months people have actually come to read my scribbles. Some of you have even stayed and become regulars.

All of this to say I think there might be something in this.

I can’t really find many Irish Sex based blogs. I’ve managed to scoop up the @irishsexblogger handles on instagram and twitter. And the interest in my writing has grown steadily over the last 6 months. So I’m doing it.

Balls. to. the. wall.

More content every week

That means 3 pieces. Monday. Wednesday. Friday. Kind of following my gym routine, except my gym routine consists of threatening to go to the gym.

More avenues of exploration

Delving into kink in more detail. Projects of all shapes and sizes. Guest posts and collaborations. Contact me here if you have a cool collab idea or want to be a guest on Rough & Tumble.

Shameless promotion

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Sunday Morning Coffee

A weekly curation of the sexiest things across the Rough & Tumble blog and the internet as a whole. Sign up below.

The Kink Collection

Each week, most likely on a Friday will be an addition to the kink collection. Where I take one kink or fetish and literally deep dive into it’s world. Exploring, attempting to understand playing with it for the week.

There’ll be an instagram thread ran alongside it where I attempt to use a camera to convey the concept too. Follow that here.

Photo by Matt Botsford on Unsplash

One Man, One Collar, One Metric Ton of Lessons

I didn’t want one. I knew they represented something. You thought they looked hot. Even to you who knew nothing of the significance, somewhere locked in the recesses of your mind was an idea, a justification forged from your many experiences of seeing them. What you forget is that they “look hot” for a reason.

Collars Mean Something. In this world, they mean a lot. But to each individual person and dynamic, they hold significance in some form or another. So for you, I tried, attempted to understand, to find a way that it would fit for us.

I grappled with it for days. Rather than leaving it up to chance or letting your subconscious decide its significance I went about my way of sourcing one. One that you’d like and one that I’d be comfortable with. Because in this there were two and if I were to be the one with something around my neck I’d damn well want to be happy with it.

I spent hours perusing online. No doubt, like all the other subs out there I thought my collar would be different. I searched for one that fit our dynamic, something that was “us” but in reality, it was a conduit to me understanding the context of “us”. Because dynamics mean something. Don’t they?

I fell in love with many… but none that suited us.

You being colourblind led me away from the cute pastel blues and pinks.

My sense of self-worth led me away from those emblazoned with “slut” and “whore”.

Basic collars weren’t good enough.

Collars with leashes aren’t my style, nor something that would ever have been introduced into our dynamic.

I did fall in love with one… In place of a ring lay a silver eternity symbol. But while I’ll always be your babygirl I knew this wasn’t forever.

After what felt like a never-ending search I came across one. You know the one because I bought it.

Simple and small. Classic but different. Two rings - one inside the other, us both represented.


I knew you were happy when you figured out my surprise for our upcoming date. Again when we opened the packet in that God-Awful hotel in Portlaoise. It was cheap as chips but a test run. And you were happy - that was the main thing. I’m your babygirl, that’s my job. I aim to please with you, always.

We gave it a meaning that night. My core values in kink - Trust, Honesty and Respect and your idea’s around our dynamic - to care for, protect, cherish, nurture and mould. With that in mind, I let you put it on me.

You were you, moving at a million miles per hour, excited and happy. Kneeling behind me, hardly able to fasten it you were so impatient. You loved it. I was nervous. Terrified because what neither of us made mention of was the fact that, in essence, you wrapping that around my neck like a precious diamond necklace was you claiming me as your babygirl. That’s hard to process in the real world, but in kink, it felt right.

I wore it for each of our dates thereafter, a marker of trust. Each step forward I took in letting go and trusting you I had my collar in place. To the point that I started to enjoy wearing it. Wearing my collar became a safe space. If it were on, I was with you and for 12 hours or so, nothing else mattered.

I can still feel it pulling at the back of my neck as you hooked your finger through the ring and pulled my face towards you for a kiss. You taking what you wanted and me basking in my kiss being that want. That in itself was enough to turn me on.

It was my entire outfit for a night, worn with nothing else but a blindfold and restraints. Taking a leap of faith, trusting you in silence.

It was a literal line of territory that I reminded you of as you held my hand and helped me step into the bath.

Before my vanilla date, I sent you a picture of me wearing nothing but it. A reminder. Even if this were to be my prince charming you’d still be my king.

I’ve worn it less than a handful of times and yet it holds so much significance.

It was lying on my bed today, from taking that picture last week. I’ve enjoyed seeing it each night as I groggily crawl in and wrap up. I associate it with you, my safe space and all the terribly wonderful things we’ve done together. Similarly, it excited me to think that soon I’d be wearing it in my bed. I’d let my mind wander to all the filthy things we could do and run over a mental list of things I needed to get done before you got here.

I’ve mulled over what to do with it for the longest time today. It cost nothing but it meant everything. To you, I suppose, it just looked hot.

You’ve been honest and told me what you can, you respected me enough to know that right now you can’t meet my needs. But seeing it today made me sad. I don’t have any answers, I don’t know how to process any of it.

I don’t hate you and I know it’s not my fault but I suppose those two facts are what makes it so hard to process.

We were never a thing, never could have been but it felt like a breakup all the same. So I gave myself the day.

For all the time I spent over the last few months looking back at our messages (hilarious, sexy, cute) and pictures (filthy, raunchy and gorgeous) and videos (over 18’s only) I couldn’t do it today.

I won’t be that woman.

You were more than wonderful! I couldn’t have asked for anything more in my first foray into this kink world. You’re still the most handsome man I’ve ever met and will forever be my benchmark. My future husband has high standards to meet.

I don’t hope because I know you’ll come through the other side of whatever you’re dealing with and you’ll be even more amazing for doing so. What I do hope is that I get to meet that man and continue our filthy explorations.

So today and for the foreseeable future, my collar goes in a box. Alongside the hotel room keys and all the receipts made out to one Mr D. Draper. I promised I wouldn’t wear it with anyone else and I don’t think I could if I wanted to... If we never meet again I may never open that box again and even if we do, I’m not sure I’d want to. Today closes off my first chapter. I hope you re-appear in a later one.

And remember kink or no kink. I’m always here. A phone call or an hours drive away. I’ll always answer.

What’s next for me?

I don’t know. I’ve met some wonderful people so far, have a slew of events I’m yet to still attend and this world is so big and varied I’ll go wherever the wind takes me. Daddy is off the table though. That shit hurts like a bitch.

Image Credit: me


Open Letters are exactly that. A letter for all to see. Sometimes I write to myself. Other times I write to people who’ve broken my heart. I write letters to random subsets of society, letters to myself and most importantly I write letters to you.

Photo by boris misevic on Unsplash

On Watching a Man Wank

Masturbation is a private affair.

Confined to your bedroom. In the dark. At night. Alone. The only sounds being the light hum of the vibrator, the rustling of sheets as you jerk it, the squelching of hands rubbing over the bits we pretend we don’t have, and sometimes, the faintest whisper of porn, so quiet that someone in the bed beside us wouldn’t be able to hear it.

Even now, as fully grown humans, we shield the fact that we touch ourselves.

Somehow, 69 doesn’t get a bad wrap. Plastered across every man and women's glossy magazine. Hailed as one of “10 tips to upgrade your sex game”. You put their bits in your mouth and they put yours in theirs, all at the same time. Which by the way is an inordinate amount of hard work considering it's not easy to focus on the task at hand when you’re about to tip over the edge of pleasure/trying not to squash their head/can't breathe because there's a cock lodged in the back of your throat.

Of the last 3 guys I’ve asked to masturbate for me, all 3 have agreed - on the condition that I do it too. The idea of them doing it, alone, for my pleasure so unbelievably foreign to them.

Maybe it's societies (bullshit) view that only females masturbating can be a turn on or maybe it's a severe bout of self-consciousness, whatever it is one thing has become clear.

Touching your partner is okay but touching yourself in front of your partner, not so much. Not unless they're doing it too. Then it's not weird. Right?

Why the fuck can we not just whack one out for our partner without some form of reciprocation? Religion? Politics? Politeness? I don’t know.

Don't get me wrong, I did it, I liked it, I got off but it’s just not what I wanted to see. Or more, not from the angle I wanted to see. Not how I wanted to get off. In fact, I didn't even want to get off. I just wanted to watch and get turned on.

Watching a man go to town on his dick is hot. Being a voyeur to his alone time turns me into a dripping puddle of lust. Dominance and submission fighting for the win. A beautiful desperation. A need to come.

I want to see it all. His naked frame draped across the bed. Sheets pushed to the side, perfectly framing the scene on display. An unimpeded hand hard at work. A thick dick between his fingers standing proud, basking in delight at the attention.

His other hand, hastily scrubbing through his choice of filth flickering across the screen of his phone. Searching for the perfect moment, the right imagery to push him over the edge. But never stopping the rhythmic tugging.

There's a practised ease in his movements. How his hand naturally wraps itself loosely around his cock. His wrist instinctually bending up and down at the instruction of the more defined muscles in his forearm. The head of his cock swiftly disappears and reappears out through the top of his clasped hand as he slides it up an down, expertly but not thinking about it in the slightest.

I want to see him lick his fingers, all four, and rub that wetness over the head of his cock. You know when they do that? Running their hand the full length up their cock, gliding their fingers over the head, rotating and returning to their original position to resume the route back down.

I want to see his stomach tense as he nears the end. His heavy balls jiggling between his thighs from the ministrations above. How he tenses his ass and lifts his hips slightly. Thrusting further into his fist. The way his breathing hastens, sharp inhalations and paused breaths. His clenched jaw. Telling signs that he’s coming close.

But the best part, the most important part, is to see his face. That split second when he’s pushed himself over the edge. Time stops. His jaw clenched, his lungs empty, his eyes closed. Release. That brief moment in time between when he feels the stirrings within and when the results of his labour are shown in thick spurts across his stomach.

Because that’s where the money is.

Release, satisfaction and sexual gratification, all at his own hand, shown in a stopped split second in time, on his face.

Image by Olichel on Pixabay

What haunts me and won't let me sleep

“It’s good sex.”

That’s what I tell myself as I zone out, block out, let his words wash over me and out the door. I know, probably better than he does that he’s not lying when he says he thinks he’s falling for me. It’s true that he enjoys our time together. We click.

But I also know that in the morning he’ll leave and as he does, he’ll convince himself he doesn’t really care about me. It’s casual. He won’t call, he won’t text. Until I hear from him again. We’ll do it all again.

“He’s a great guy, we’re friends.”.

That’s what I tell myself about the second guy. It’s nobodies fault. There’s no blame to be placed. We click. The sex is great. But…The timing isn’t right. We’re in two different places, on different tracks in life. We’re bad for each other.

Each of the many men that lie in my bed, that fuck me past the point of orgasm, leave. My decision, their decision, our decision - irrelevant.

Regardless of whether they’re invited for their company or their sexual skill set at one point or another they get up, dress themselves and never come back. They disappear into the ether as if they were never there. Leaving behind nothing but the shadows of what could have been.

"It's fine, it's fiiiiine".

That's what I tell myself, at night, as I pad lightly down the never ending length of my hallway. I swing my head back and forth, keeping an eye on what's ahead but checking there's nothing coming behind. As my heart beats faster my chest tightens, my breath hardly noticeable as I glance into my room. There’s nothing there.

There never is.

Clambering into bed, burying myself beneath the covers. I lie and wait for them to come.

Unwanted visitors, shadows of doubt. Never quite showing themselves but always with something to say. "You’re not good enough" they shriek raking insecurity through my body. "You’ll never find anyone", they whisper as I lie alone. "It’s because you’re a slut" they spit at me.

They force a frenzy of images through my mind - inside jokes, naked bodies, laughter, fun. What once played on my mind's screen in HD, a rose coloured resolution now grayscaled out, cold and empty.

Ghosts of relationships that won’t live to see another day.

I toss and I turn, twisting to face the other way. Hiding, ignoring what won't leave me alone. That’s the thing about being a woman possessed. Even when you want everything to stop, it won't.

Chained to my bed, the bed they all fucked me in, the voices expand and multiply. One for each guy who's no longer there. Building and growing, louder and more intense. Muddling ideas and memories with feelings and thoughts. Endless loops of torture tying me in place. Paralysing me. Tormenting me. Never happy until I relent.

As quick as they started they stop. Their presence no longer palpable. Empty silence. So quiet, in fact, I nearly wish for them to return.

That’s when the real fear sets in.

Because that's the moment I realise, I'm haunting myself.

Photo by Andrei Lazarev on Unsplash

This article is part of #kinkoftheweek. Bloggers from everywhere around the world take the prompt from Mollys Daily Kiss.

To read other submissions just click on the lips.

How to get over someone you were never actually with

All bets are off. It's over. It never really started, but, you know... It was a non-starter.

Queue the Adele songs, supportive friends, bottles of wine and days in bed building Big Ben with your pile of tear-stained Kleenex.

Except you were never together so it seems a bit wrong to be upset. Doesn't it? Can you mourn the loss of a love that never existed?

I want you to listen to me. Grab your cotton-buds, clean out your ears and concentrate.

Official relationship status is not a pre-requisite of a broken heart.

Sometimes, the pain felt at the end of a “non-relationship” is harder and more real than that at the end of a coupling.

Logically we know it wasn’t a “thing”, but to our brains information is information and it’s not the best at differentiating between what could have happened and what actually did. Basically, our brain caught the feels and now that it’s over it’s sad.

And that's okay. Your brain is allowed to be sad. It pumped hormones and chemicals into receptors all over your body that made you feel gushy and excited and like "this-one-could-be-the-one".

Even if, by societies standards, it was nothing, to your body this is a breakup. And you're going to feel like shit for a while.

Potential always looks prettier

You’ve thought about it. Imagined the dates, the cosy nights in, the petty arguments over which movie to watch and how you’d eventually give in and let them choose.

How you’d open yourself up to them, let yourself be vulnerable. The kisses on the way out the door. The dinner you’d attempt to make and the takeaway you'd inevitably order when it falls to shit. Because even fantasy has to have some sense of reality.

My point is this. Because you never saw or maybe acknowledged the shit bits (and everybody has shit bits) you’ve never imagined the arguments. The disagreements where you’re not willing to give in.

What if their parents don’t like you? Or their friends? What if you don’t like theirs? Or they don’t like yours? What if their religious/political views sharply contrast with yours? What if the intense romance fizzled out?

Half the pain is never knowing. Hope is being crushed. Ideas and dreams that will never come to fruition. In reality, a life that will never be lived.

Your feelings are valid.

Kris Gage, the legend that is, wrote this in a post that makes more sense than I ever will, so I’ll let her speak for this one.


There is nothing wrong with you.

You will never fully know a person. What’s in their heads, what’s on their mind. Their reason for saying no could be any one of a trillion possibilities. Whatever it is, it has no bearing on you. Even if they do think you’re a crap person (which is highly unlikely). Doesn’t mean that you are. It means they don’t know or see who you actually are.

And no, it's not your job to show them. It's your job to be yourself, people will like you anyway.

You can and will feel this way about someone else.

Even if, right now, it feels you're going to end up naming your pillow, dry humping it every night and adding it as your plus one to social occasions.

You deserve someone who's got their sh*t together, sees you in your perfect imperfectness and says "I need that in my life - at any cost".

Chances are, this douche, who didn't see how brilliant you are, is a near miss. When you do find your person, you'll lie in bed and think "why in the name of Pink Gin was I ever going to settle for that ass-wipe"?

Give yourself the time and space you need.

No, it’s not the end of an “actual relationship”. No, your friends probably won’t understand. Just take the time for you. See above. Your. Feelings. Are. Valid. If anyone asks you’re taking some time for you. They don't need to know you'll be holed up drinking gin and tonic from a can, watching Bridget Jones Diary.

Acknowledge your Feelings

They’re there, as much as you wish they weren't. If you try to force them down into the abyss that is wherever unwanted feelings go and glue a deranged smile on your face, the feels are going to burst out at the most inopportune moment - Like at the checkout line in Aldi when you remember they loved mushy peas and seeing that tin just reminds you of how you'll be eating mushy peas alone for the rest of your life.

Show yourself some compassion. You wouldn’t tell your best friend to “just get over it” so why would you tell yourself the same?

Figure Out Why.

No. Not why they don’t want you. Do. Not. Go. There. We’re not going there. Okay? But why you were drawn to them in the first place? What did they represent?

Connection. Safety. Fun. Adventure. Being part of something. Feeling cared for? Take note. This is what you want/need in your life. Add it to your list. And then go about finding other - healthy - sources of what you’re looking for.

Write a Settle Letter

What’s a settle letter? It’s a list. This person was not perfect. They are not your ideal mate. So write the list of what you’d be settling on if you had hooked up long term.

Right now, your brain is caught up on all the positives. But if you think about it. Really think about it. There were things that bugged you.

Did they not text back when you asked something significant?

Did they cancel or change plans at the last minute?

Pee with the door open.

Pick every onion out of their curry instead of just ordering it without and bloody onions in it because they didn't want to be "that person" to the server.

Tear them to shreds if needs be. But a settle letter is a little bit less harsh than an "I-f*cking-hate-your-guts" letter. But hey, do you. Whatever you think is best.

Love Yourself

Right now you’re vulnerable. You’re hurt. As above, acknowledge it. Spend the day in bed. Watch Greys anatomy - Shonda knows how to get a tear out of people. Order a takeaway. Whatever floats your boat. Give yourself a set amount of time to Mourn the loss of what never was and rebuild from there.

I know one thing for sure, you're an amazing person. You're here on this site, you have the emotional intelligence to understand you're struggling with this. You're a badass. Now go live your badass life.

Photo by Mikail Duran on Unsplash

Ode to a Broken Vibrator

When my first big love ended I couldn’t masturbate. Scrap that, I wouldn’t. I felt dirty. Disgraced. My horniness a sign of my desperation. “Look at her. Unworthy bitch can’t find a man to fuck her”.

At the end of my second great love. I refused that storyline. Being single is empowering. Masturbation is important.

My debit card took a beating that week. "Investing in sex toys is an investment in yourself" I argued as I looked at the noticeably large chunk no longer in my account. Mortified and slightly proud of the fact that the company gave me a free gift for spending so much.

This is an ode to one of those purchases, who sadly gave up on me this week.

Yes, I’m speaking to a vibrator like its a person, yes I’m aware that it's odd. Let us just say its KonMari. I’m thanking my possessions for their time in my life and passing them on - to the bin.

Dear Vibrator,

Your arrival was provocative. The discreet, unmarked packet bursting with potential orgasms. Toys of all shapes and sizes within. My mind a whir with where to start.

This was going to be fun.

I won’t lie, I was underwhelmed when I saw you first. A 1970s porn scene plastered on your packaging, the little plastic window showing off your shape. You were a sickening shade of pink. Not the most feminist of objects considering you were about to give me a way to get myself off without the help of anybody else.

But hey, I spent the money, you were going to be tested.

I wrapped your straps around my legs and one around my waist. Positioning myself, legs spread, I put you where I figured you should go. Taking the remote in hand, with a hopeful apprehension, I turned you on.


You opened my eyes to a different type of orgasm. Hands -free playing has a lot to offer. Even if I didn't quite know what to do with them.

Ever since, we’ve had great fun together.

Taking my pants off became unnecessary for a quickie. Fitting snugly in my knickers, no cumbersome handles or rubber dicks in the way. I came standing up, on my stomach, bent over the bed, on all fours. The need to not hold you in place opened a great many possibilities.

You weren't the quickest orgasm I’ve ever had but you still beat any man in a race to the finish line. You worked amazingly with men too. The ones who weren't threatened and very few were. You’re pink and small, cute and shaped like a hummingbird.

They were the best orgasms. Bent over on all fours, shoulders pressed into the bed. Hit hard from behind with you working my clit. Orgasm guarantee. Loud, crashing orgasm that pushed any guy over the edge.

Until the last time.

I assumed my position. He suggested I pull you out. I slid you out from the box beneath the bed, placed you between my legs and turned you on. Except nothing happened. I turned you off and on again. Nothing.

"It’s okay" I guffawed. New batteries. You ate batteries like you were never going to eat again.

New batteries in and nothing. Devastated.

I used another toy that day. It just wasn’t the same. handles and rubber penises got in the way. You were always compact enough to do the job without interference.

So, I’m sad to see you go. We’ve had so many good times together. You weren’t without fault but you’ll be missed.

Will I buy you again? Probably not. Two years, what feels like hundreds of batteries and a slow orgasm. But I will follow that thread. More exploration and more hands-free kits for definite.

Thank you.


The girl who broke you, probably from overuse.

THIS is What I Want... And not just a man wanking in the shower.

My third favourite thing in the world is reading about sex, relationships and dynamics. Second, being writing about it and first being... actually having it. Hours are spent  digging through peoples blogs, articles and books for inspiration or something to spark an idea. Generally when I'm supposed to be writing my own stuff.

Instead, I pretend I'm researching, get unbelievably frustrated at the fact that I can't write as well or create an original thought and then get too aroused to write and end up in bed with my toy of the month. 

In my latest bout of procrastinatory reading, I came across an article. Have you ever read something and just thought "YES! THIS!"? Everything about this piece is amazing.

Yes, its a story about a woman watching her boyfriend wank in the shower. But if you really read it. If you understand it. You'll see so much more. Just go read it here.

I'll wait. Just in case you missed the link. Here it is again.

Okay. You back? Are you wet? Or hard? Or aroused in any form?

If not. Read it again. Really read it. 

Because this piece is something from my dreams. This piece is why I'm single. It's what I want from a relationship and I won't settle until I find it.

Watch the dynamic. See their relationship sewn through. I'm not saying you need to perv at your partner wanking in the shower to have a good relationship or even a good sex life. But I'd wager you've not felt like this about your beau in a long time.


Why do I like it so much? Let me explain.


Sexual knowledge

They've spent all day fucking and he hasn't cum. Where are these men? Do they exist in Ireland? (Where can I find one?)

Sex is an enjoyable activity in and of itself. It can last forever and no one needs to cum. It's about the sensations and the connection and the enjoyment of each other. It's pleasurable without the orgasm, so why the race to the finish line?

Finding a man that understands and appreciates that simple fact is like trying to find a sober man on St Patricks day - who isn't the barman. They do exist, but they're hard to find.


Comfort Levels

They're both sitting on the couch, naked. They're so comfortable in each others company that neither feels the need to be hidden under the duvet. They don't even need to be in the bedroom.  

Sex isn't bedroom exclusive. Being bent over the kitchen counter, or the back of the couch, up against the wall or on the landing at the top of the stairs. Nearly anywhere can be made a sex appropriate space. But it's the comfort. The bubble of the dynamic that makes it happen.



Their brief exchange that shows how well they understand what turns the other on. Spoken about so casually. No awkwardness, just a blatant knowing of what the other wants and an openness to actually doing it.

‘Can I watch?’

‘You want to watch me shower?’

‘Yes. And maybe just kind of stare a little bit more while you soap up your dick and …’

‘…vigorously beat one out for your entertainment?’

‘Yes, exactly that.’


I love it! The honesty. The finishing each others sentences. The acceptance of what the other wants. No teasing, no "banter". It's not serious but it's taken seriously.



Her lust and love is visible. She wants this man to enjoy the act as much as she does. She's literally getting off on him getting off without her. But she's aware that being noticed could turn him self-conscious. Might make him alter what's happening or how he does what he's doing. 

If you've read any of her other posts (thanks for still coming back) you'll pick up on the fact that she's very much a voyeur. He's comfortable with her watching but she likes to feel like he doesn't know. 



And the details... From the description of his cock. To the awareness of her watching. How she notices his cock jiggle as he brushes his teeth and understands what him bracing himself means. She takes in everything. Notices how he washes his cock with a little more pressure and splashes water over the side of the bath with his jerking ministrations.

I love details. Everything is in them. Details makes sex varied and expansive. It's always the same thrusting motion. But the details make it different every time. The size and shape of his cock. How turned on you are. Where you choose to touch. The pressure of those touches. How rough are you going to be. Is it a lust filled roughness or disrespectful?


Her way with words

Whether you liked the post or not you can appreciate her way with words. She describes his dick with such eloquence. I can see it. I'm wet thinking about it. I want it. She has good taste in cock. "Tumescent." "Chunkier and more swollen" "swollen and red and thick". Maybe, I just have a particular persons cock in mind as I read it. But how she describes it is a skill.

Not once is the word "big" used. It may very well be a full 8 inches, but we'll never know becuase she understands that size isn't an indicator of anything and similarly telling us, her female readers the exact specifications does nothing. The descriptives gives us something to play with. She lets us use our imagination.



The woman is my hero.

She's impeccably expressive even when it comes to the sexual terminology. She notices the details and loves and fancies her man with a fervour that can't be matched. She writes about sex in a way I can only dream and owns it completely. 

But what I really want is her dynamic. Her lust and love for her partner. Years in and she's still losing herself in how much she wants her man. She's spent years honing her wants and desires and they play out her fantasies as much as they do his. 

That is what I want... Man wanking in the shower is optional.


What to do When your Oral Game Sucks?

I suck at blowjobs. (for the first time in my life that pun actually wasn’t intended). 

Telling someone they’re bad at any sexual act is comparable to kicking a puppy. It’s gut-wrenching, it hits the core of your being and it’s totally unnecessary. Bottom line - never tell someone they suck at anything.

I’ve been told a grand total of once that I give bad head and while it was said without malice and by way of a joke, it still simmers. It simmers because when I say I suck at going downtown in an oral fashion I don’t mean I’m bad at them. I mean I’m not great at them. I’m not great because in about 80% of cases I don’t do it for my own satisfaction. 

My ex would hound me with all the grace of Mrs Doyle mixed with a whiny child. “ah, go ooooon”. 

This, unsurprisingly put the “job” in blowjob. Going down became a guilt-riddled chore. “Well, it has been a long time” “I probably should”. “how can I say I enjoy sex or am a good sexual partner if I don’t?”

So what’s a girl to do?

I read a lot of sex-related blogs. Written by strong, feminist women who own their sexuality. They all love going down. Scenes set in the back of taxi’s, in gyms, in bedrooms, restaurants. Tales of lust, of wanting, of getting extremely turned on by the sheer thought of having a cock in their mouth. No groans of “do I have to?” No fear of not being skilled enough.

That's where I want to be. So I did what any self-flagellating woman would and looked through all the writers work in search of clues. What were these women doing so differently to me? Here’s what I found:


Own your Technique

Each writer wrote extensively on their craft. But regardless of the varying men, circumstances and locations their technique rarely differed. Some deep throated every time, others enjoyed being “facefucked”, some teased and taunted, others got straight to business. Like a calling card, they owned their style and not once did they apologise.


Practice makes Perfect

Not once did my heroines complain of cramped jaws. Never did they mention not wanting to. Pretty much every session, at some point, contained an oral chapter. And it makes sense. “To be the best one must endeavour to practice with intention as frequently as possible.”



Admirable, sex-positive women as they are, it took a while for it to click with me that they always kicked off the action. They weren’t doing it because they were being asked or expected to. They were doing it because the wanted to. Initiating gives you control. It’s all happening on your terms.


Have Fun

Probably the most important on the list. But never was an act of oral pleasing acted on without enjoyment. That’s a big deal to me. If you don’t want to. Say no. Sex is fun. I say this all the f*cking time. Why hasn’t that idea bled over for me?


Now, I know this seems simplistic. Because, well, it is. Sometimes, as in my case here, you have all the dots, you just never join them.

I can honestly say that the compliments I’ve received in the past were in response to work I was proud of. The ones that I initiated, that I wanted to give. The ones that I enjoyed, taking my time, doing what I wanted to do. 

So that’s how I move forward.

What about you? have you ever been deemed bad at something sexual? how did you respond? Did you up your game or stay the course. Genuinely. I want to know. 

Sometimes Self Love is A Bitch

Self-love is not pink and soft and fluffy. It’s not blurred and gentle. It’s not rose coloured glasses and meditation and plates of cheese.

It’s actually a bit of a bitch. An educated, streetwise mother who doesn't take no for an answer and gets shit done.

The internet is littered with self-love articles espousing glasses of wine, bubble baths and saying no. Yet we wonder why we’re drunk, wrinkly and have no social life.

We want to ring in sick, spend our savings on reckless impulse purchases and eat cheese strings for breakfast, lunch and dinner while watching reruns of friends on Netflix.

Because in reality, we’re all just tall children. Running around aimlessly, making demands and throwing strops when things don’t go our way.

Difference is, now that we’re grown up, we don’t have anyone to tell us that we shouldn’t stay in our pyjamas all day without brushing our teeth. Or that it's mean to call Janice a bitch. Whether we like it or not, we’re in charge now.

The sexist boss, the toxic friends, the gym membership that’s not being used. The guy who treats you like shit, the parent who judges every decision you make, the therapist who leaves you feeling worse at the end of the session. These aren't fuckups. They're life.

But it's still your life, so it's still your responsibility.

We’re being pushed and pulled in every direction, hardly taking the time to realise that we’re doing things we don't want to. So we procrastinate, avoid, sleep in, drink more, fuck more, hide - none of which are ways to deal.

Cut away the dead wood. And cut yourself some slack. You can’t control what others say and do, but you can dictate how you react.

Respect yourself, love yourself enough to call it quits. That’s when you say no. Not when your social anxiety is kicking in because you’re not great at meeting new people.