Recently I bought a heap of truly fabulous books, which I’m happily devouring on train journeys and in spare moments before the start of lectures. The books are entertaining, amusing, informative, and in some cases filled with downright beautiful pictures and prose. They also make me think, sometimes questioning the things I believe, sometimes asking myself what I could do to make a difference myself. The books discuss feminism, and they’re brilliant. However, as often happens with books, there is more than one use of them…
I’ve never had sex in a library. I really want to have sex in a library or a bookshop, with a girl or guy who loves words as much as I do. It’s probably top of my I Really Want To Fuck Here list, to be honest, followed closely by ‘on a hillside’, and less closely by ‘in a train toilet’. I want to be fucked while surrounded by books. Occasionally, this desire presents a problem. And by presents a problem, I mean that I cannot stop thinking about it.
Does it sound strange to say that something good has come out of my mental illness? It’s a wonderful thing, really, to be able to look back over the horrible dark tangled mess my life became and be able to see good things have emerged with me. I’m stronger now than I was a few months ago, much more resilient, but there’s something else as well. A much more unexpected side effect.
I have never felt better about my body.
Autumn is sweeping in with harsh winds and cold rain, turning the explosion of fiery leaves that I should be able to kick my way through like a child (if no one is watching) to a soggy sludge which makes the pavements slippery. People all around me are complaining about the weather, or excitedly counting down the days to Christmas. Already; it’s bloody ridiculous. I don’t understand why anyone would want to make these next few months go by so quickly – I try to savour every pumpkin-spiced second of them.
These are the reasons I love autumn.
The following fantasy was written to share with a friend. I remember the day I sent it to him – in short snippets, trying to tease reactions out of him and his body – while I sat with my laptop on my knees and my hand down my pyjama pants. I can also remember the comment which sparked the imagining. Writing out my fantasies has always been a great way to bring them to life for me, and properly loose myself in them, especially when I can share it with a willing participant.
Do I apply the same curiosity to sex as I do to science? No: I don’t believe that I do. The fundamental difference being that I will never be able to solve all the mysteries of the universe, but if I dedicated the rest of my life to it I could probably ask a significant population of the world what they masturbate over. (Though of course those sexual desires are as changeable as our current view of space and time…) But I am incredibly curious when I ask you what you masturbate to…