Alright, Fine, I’ll Write About The Fucking Pandemic

Content note: This post is about the coronavirus pandemic, and also mentions suicidal ideation. If that’s not your jam, no worries! Read some older posts or come back soon, and keep up with me on Twitter if you want to know when I next post!


I haven’t wanted to write about the novel coronavirus pandemic. I haven’t wanted to cash in on that sweet, sweet SEO while people have been dying, separated from their families, scared and in pain. I haven’t wanted to remind y’all of how dire things have been, still are, might yet get. I haven’t wanted to speak out of turn, being a sex blogger and an English student and not a medic or epidemiologist or anything else relevant.

But I’ve reached the Fuck-It Point now, so I’m writing about the fucking pandemic.

It has knocked me for six. I am super privileged in that I haven’t had to shield (though my mum has) and I’m at a fancy-bitch university that was already prepared to take action. There are lots of ways in which coronavirus could have ruined my life, and it hasn’t. But it has ruined my life in two very big ways.

The first is that it has absolutely annihilated the limited sense of safety I had when navigating the world. There’s a one-way system in most shops now that makes me fear the telling-off I might get when I autistically wander off and accidentally violate the rules. Everyone looks to be on their guard and that unsettles me. The only thing that unsettles me more is the idea that the government was and is willing to send people out into education and the workforce in the name of “herd immunity”.

Knowing that the government would let me die for the sake of their bottom line is not news to me, as a trans, autistic, mentally-ill person. Seeing them be so brazen about it, though, and watching them send small children back to school now as tiny, adorable sacrificial lambs to see whether it’s a good idea to open things up or not, that’s terrifying. If they’re brave enough to send PR-friendly little people onto the firing line, what the fuck is next?

The other, more obvious way that this pandemic has ruined my life is: all my plans have been cancelled. Yes, yes, I know, like every other motherfucker on Earth, except – I’m autistic. I don’t like change. Plans changing suddenly makes me feel ill. I spent all of January and February getting my brain ready for Eroticon in March, and then found that the organisers had (rightly, responsibly) cancelled the event. I had outfits planned and a workshop timetable written up and the same hotel as last time booked for the same number of days. And then it was cancelled, and I sobbed.

Eroticon is an exceptional example because, in some ways, I put too many eggs in that basket. When booking my tickets last summer, before anyone could have possibly predicted a global pandemic, I told myself, “Well, now I’ve gotta stay alive ’til March!” and took it as a challenge. It would be rude to kill myself when I’ve already bought a ticket, after all. But its cancellation, amid increasing disruption to my uni life, kicked the wind out of me. It seemed like the universe was recommending I kill myself so strongly that it was also killing tens of thousands of other people, as collateral. I cried a lot about how I had caused the coronavirus pandemic, until I could be convinced to phone my psychiatrist.

I miss seminars. Sorely, sorely miss them. I miss seeing my mum. I miss dropping in on my girlfriend and her cats at a moment’s notice. I miss Pick’n’Mix and loitering in Primark with people who are also game to make fun of their products and by God I miss nights out. (I have already planned my outfit for my first night out after lockdown. It involves a very slutty dress, and Doc Martens, for dancing my absolute tits off. Y’all are gonna love it.) There are so many things I feel robbed of, and the autistic six-year-old who still lives in my brain has spent a lot of time reminding me that “It’s not fair!”

But of course it’s not fair. We live in a world where human lives are treated with less respect than the invisible numbers that make up the stock market. Avoidable deaths are happening everywhere. People are going bankrupt. This pandemic has been more unfair on other people than it has been on me.

And yet! Here I am, complaining! Because I want to remind you that “Other people have it worse” is not the same as “I have it great”. Because I want to tell other autistic people that they aren’t suffering with all this disruption alone. Because, God damn it, I deserve to vent, without explaining myself, just because my feelings are real and valid and eating me alive. I plan to vent more with angsty poetry and singing too loud in the shower, but this was my public vent. Because this pandemic fucking sucks for all of us.


The pandemic and subsequent lockdown that’s going on right now means that I’ve lost a lot of work opportunities (because every other fucker at my agency is snagging jobs before I can). If you want to help me out, please do consider buying me a coffee or commissioning transcripts or captions from me!

I Wrote Some Poetry About Sex

A close-up of some rope marks on a white person's (my) torso alongside a cute little mole, because choosing an image to represent the abstract concept of poetry about sex

Hey, folks! I’ve been having a really rough time with my mental health, and writing whole blog posts is a bit beyond me at the moment. However, apparently writing poetry (mostly while stoned) is not beyond me, so I wrote some poetry about sex. I’m really self-conscious about my poetry – even, like, the ridiculous poem I wrote about Christmas – so please be kind about it. And if poetry isn’t your thing, don’t worry, because I do have a few blog post ideas up my sleeve and I might one day soon have enough executive function to actually write and publish them.


how do you write poetry about people having sex?

 

how do you make magical someone 

(or maybe more than one someone) 

mashing their body against yours – 

 

or how do you speak that magic to strangers, 

without letting some of it be stolen by the breeze 

impossible to translate in its sweetness

 

how do you say, convincingly,

that even as the hot-wax-sting bit your skin

the flame on the candle was beautiful

 

or that feeling fingers stretch your cunt

felt so good, felt so fucking good

that when you came, you felt God 

 

how do you explain, fully,

that you bit her because you love her –

and she loves you in part because you bit her 

 

and that your bruises are like love notes

left liberally across your flesh

along with licks and kisses 

 

how can you replicate in words the dark glow of the dungeon

where you made half your closest friends

and where you once got choked half-unconscious

 

or the sound of cum hitting your skin, the heat of it

the heat of other people’s holes around your fingers

and the way their muscles tighten to hold your hand

 

how do you talk beautifully about the twitch of a dick in your mouth

the texture of someone’s scrotum under your tongue

and the melody of moans you can elicit with your lips

 

how do you bottle the lightning that arcs between you?

how do you capture the magic and the mess?

how do you write poetry about people having sex?

Kissing: The Devil Is In The Details

A lipstick kiss mark, from, you know, kissing

Welcome back to my new miniseries, The Devil Is In The Details! Last time, I went into unreasonable depth about cum – what I love about it, and about everything surrounding its production – and now, we’re taking a look at an oft-overlooked but extremely sexy aspect of fucking: kissing.

Not just kissing, of course – I’m also thinking of snogging (or, for the non-Brits in the audience, making out) and everything that entails. I’m thinking of the transition from bumping your dry lips together to opening your mouth and sharing spit. I’m thinking of the wet warmth of a tongue against my lower lip. I’m thinking of the sounds a person makes when I bite down on theirs.

Kissing is hot because it just is, but also because it serves as the spark that turns the dry kindling of want into the roaring flame of need, giving you fuel to grab a fistful of someone’s hair and yank on it. A good snog is the perfect time to try growling at me for the first time, while one hand grasps the back of my neck like I’m a misbehaving kitten and the other tries desperately to unbutton my jeans. It’s also a great time to shove a hard, unrelenting knee into the gap between my thighs, and to hold it there, perfectly still, while I start trying to grind my fully-clothed cunt against it.

You can kiss softly, gently, reverently, whilst you grab and twist my nipples. You can move from laying butterfly-soft kisses on my lips to laying them on my chin, cheeks, neck and collarbone, all while you drag your fingernails across my flesh so hard that I can’t hold back a whimper of pain and want. You can kiss every inch of my body, as long as you come back to my mouth sometimes. And when you do, you can stick to those soft, restrained kisses, and you can keep pulling your head away every time I try to tilt and kiss you more deeply – even if I let out a frustrated whine. No – especially if I let out a frustrated whine.

I also love aggressive kisses – the ones that go from 0 to 100 in the time it takes for me to process that we’re kissing. I love when someone abruptly decides that they want me now and jams their mouth against mine. I love opening up my mouth and having their whole tongue plunge in, slick and hot and desperate, like they’re trying to lick my uvula. Kisses like these ones should hurt my jaw a little, leave my lips feeling bruised from the force with which they were pressed into my teeth, and leave me dizzy and lustdrunk and thirsty for more. These kisses are well-suited for quickies, because they say, “We don’t have much time, and we need to do this now,” but they are equally well-suited for a long, exhausting, sweaty fuck, wherein they say, “I want you so badly I can barely see straight, and I am going to have you.”

Other kisses I like include the one I get after swallowing somebody’s cum, which can say, “You taste like my dick and I love that,” “You did an excellent job and I’m proud of you,” and/or, “I’m not finished with you yet.” These kisses are best served while I’m still on my knees, with you leaning down from above, forcing me to crane my neck up to meet your mouth. Maybe your fist is in my hair, or maybe it’s wrapped around my neck, cutting off my air supply because my breathing is secondary to your need to taste my mouth again. This is also a perfect time to kiss me tenderly, and then to mess with my head by holding my jaw open and spitting straight onto my tongue, just because you can.

But, if we’re talking about tender kissing, I also like the slow, soft kind of kiss that sometimes happens after sex, or first thing in the morning, when I’m in bed with someone and my hair is a mess. This one is a slowdance of lips, interrupted by gazing at each other’s faces with a blend of fondness and awe – a kiss that says, “God, you’re beautiful,” in between us saying the same thing out loud. This is the kind of kiss you share as aftercare, as a way to say, “We’ve just done some fucked up shit to each other, but only because we really like each other.” Those kisses feel like the warm bath of sunlight on my face, and I love them as much as all the other kinds of kisses – if not, secretly, just a little more.


The pandemic and subsequent lockdown that’s going on right now means that I’ve lost a lot of work opportunities (because every other fucker at my agency is snagging jobs before I can). If you also want to give me a birthday present four months early, consider buying me a coffee or commissioning transcripts or captions from me!