My Stalking Kink, Part 1: The Abstract

Stock image of a set of black binoculars on a plain white background.

I’m not often at a loss for words. Words are kind of my thing. When I came to realise that my autism might make it difficult for me to engage in paralinguistic communication (that is, communication outside of words, like body language, facial expression and tone), I committed to getting really good at words so that I could still articulate myself as well as any neurotypical person, albeit in a roundabout way, and so that I could understand my neurotypical loved ones as thoroughly as possible.

But I am kind of stuck as to how to explain my stalking kink.

Let’s start with a recurring non-sexual fantasy I have: I walk into my flat (‘flat’ being a nice way of saying ‘my bedroom which is also my kitchen’). There is an unconventionally handsome man sitting on my bed. To get there, I know he must have had to get into my building by stealing or replicating one of the fobs all the tenants get, and then by learning the code to open my door or else learning how to bypass it. I am floored and quietly terrified, and I prop the door wide open with my body for the whole interaction. I ask him gently how he got in here, who he is and why he is on my bed. He explains he’s been watching me for an unnerving length of time, has somehow accessed my building’s CCTV to learn which room is mine and the code it requires to enter, and that he hasn’t done anything weird whilst waiting me to return from Advanced Stylistics. (He does not explain how he knew I had Advanced Stylistics on my uni timetable today.) He tells me he’s been watching me like this because he’s in love with me.

I tell him very carefully that I’d be interested in getting to know him but I would appreciate it if he didn’t enter my bedroom without my knowledge or permission again. He accepts that even though he knows an alarming amount about me, I know very little about him, and we can’t dive into the passionate lifelong partnership he’d been imagining just yet. I ask him to leave so that I can unwind for the evening and process the fact that I just found a strange man on my bed. He obliges, but the energy that comes off him as he walks by me and out of the door suggests that it is taking every ounce of self-restraint you can fit into a human body to prevent him from pinning me to the door and making me his by force. A couple of hours after this encounter, he somehow intuits that I am too stunned to cook, and a Deliveroo driver knocks on my door with my favourite kebab from my favourite takeaway place, fully paid for. I learn that he even tipped the driver handsomely, as I would’ve done (if I’d had the money).

You may be starting to understand, reader, what I want from my stalker fantasy.

In essence, I want to be wanted so thoroughly that it overrides all social convention, but not so doggedly that it prompts my stalker to disregard or transgress my boundaries (except for the ones I haven’t made explicit, like “Don’t enter my room without my permission,” or, “Don’t watch me through my webcam”). I want to be so desired by this person that they drip precum when they smell the washing powder I use. I want them to masturbate to the selfies in which I’m fully clothed as well as the ones where I’m not. And I want them to have the patience and the self-control and the desperate need for me to like them that’ll make them proceed, however clumsily, at my pace when we finally meet.

I want to be lusted after and obsessed over and pursued.

It’s… a lot.

Next week I’ll talk in more detail about the paradoxical nature of fantasies that involve some element of non-consent (you want it, but it’s not what you want if the other person knows that you want it, but if they do it and you actually don’t want it then your want isn’t fulfilled, etc.) and the week after that I might explore the roots of this particular kink and when it is (and isn’t) useful to identify the parts of your psyche that birthed a fantasy.

In the meantime, though, I’d recommend listening to songs like The Horror Of Our Love’ by Ludo and ‘The Word You Wield’ by Say Anything, if you want an insight into some of the darker places my mind goes when I reflect on this fantasy of mine, and commenting or getting in touch if you have a similar fantasy, or a different take on the stalker vs. prey dynamic!

My Cervical Erosion Adventure, Part 2: Vag Mechanic Boogaloo

Stock image of a labcoat, worn by a person whose head is not in frame, with the pocket lined with pens and a stethoscope slung around the person's neck. The background is out of focus and beige.

Content note: this post mentions blood, describes a minor medical procedure and discusses non-consent in a medical setting. If any of those are difficult for you, feel free to give this one a miss, and join me next week for a new Smut Saturdays post instead!

Also, please forgive me for the title; I couldn’t help myself. As you can see, this post is a continuation of one from last week, available right here, but hopefully it’ll make sense as a standalone piece too. (Except for, y’know, the title.)


After I explained to my doctor that I had recently learned that my post coital bleeding wasn’t “normal”, and my doctor explained to me that bits that were meant to be inside the neck of my cervix were, in fact, on the outside, I was referred to a treatment centre to have it looked at.

I am not a shy person, as evidenced by my Twitter full of nudes and the existence of this very blog. I am not averse to jumping onto a clinic bed and having a stranger examine my bits (though, like most vagina-owners, I am a tiny bit averse to the ol’ speculum. That thing is a bastard). Being autistic and anxious, I hate appointments in general (travelling to new locations? Introducing myself to new people? Wearing outdoors clothes?!), but I wasn’t any more upset about seeing the Vag Mechanic than I would be about going to the optician. I showed up to the treatment centre early and was beckoned into my appointment after about ten minutes of apprehensive knitting.

The nice Vag Mechanic lady sat me down and asked me a number of very predictable questions about my recent sexual partners, my periods and my oral contraception. Then she asked, “And do you experience any tearing upon penetration?”

I explained, somewhat sheepishly, that I did a bit, sometimes, but only when things were rushed. She had some stern words to say about foreplay and lubrication, but we agreed that since the bleeding I’d been experiencing didn’t always correlate with the hurried sex and tearing sensation, it was likely cervical ectopy, as my doctor had suggested. I was taken into the next room, shown a curtained-off corner where I could have some privacy, and instructed to strip from the waist down in my own time, whilst the Vag Mechanic went and got a nurse to observe.

Once I was on my back with my legs in stirrups and a nurse standing on the right-hand side of the bed, the Vag Mechanic started unpackaging a speculum whilst the nurse chatted with me, presumably with the intention of keeping me calm and somewhat distracted from the impending plastic jaws that were about to wrench me open. (If you have a vag and you haven’t experienced a speculum before, please be aware that I’m largely being dramatic, and am hypersensitive to a number of sensations because I’m autistic; speculums (or speculae?) are, at worst, distinctly uncomfortable for a few moments as they’re being inserted and a few moments as they’re being removed. Do not be deterred from attending important gynaecology appointments because I’m a gigantic baby.)

The bastard thing went in, and the Vag Mechanic pulled a light on an arm down between my knees so that she could have a proper look, which wasn’t a surprise. What was a surprise, however, was the screen to my right, directly next to the nurse at my bedside, which displayed footage of what looked like…

“Is that my cervix?” I asked excitedly, pointing at it like you might point at a very cool zoo animal. The nurse informed me that it was. “And that’s live?” Yep, it was a closed circuit live feed of my very own cervix. Being the sex nerd that I am, I was ecstatic.

The Vag Mechanic slid a cotton swab into the opening of the speculum (and, by extension, the opening of the me) and used it to point out to me on the screen where some of the tissue was red and raw-looking. She prodded it gently and blood oozed out, confirming that it was indeed cervical ectopy.

I expected to have the speculum withdrawn, to be able to sit up, and to have a discussion about the benefits and drawbacks of cauterizing the tissue (the most likely treatment option, according to a quick Google search and literally zero medical professionals that I’d spoken to thus far).

I did not expect her to unsheath a glorified toothpick and begin explaining, as it drew nearer to my bits, that this was silver nitrate, and she was “just” going to “quickly” cauterize it. I hadn’t even had a chance to Tweet about the confirmation that it was what I’d suspected. I lay there, frozen, unable to object or ask questions. All my thoughts were replaced by terror.

And then, to make it worse, the nurse very deliberately moved in front of the screen.

Desperate to regain some control of the situation, I asked, “Have you moved in front of the screen because sometimes it smokes and that freaks people out?”

“Exactly that,” she said. When I tried to crane my neck past her, less spooked by my smoking cervix than by unknown things happening to my genitals in real time, she fucking leaned so that I still couldn’t see it. Before too long it was over, and the nurse and the Vag Mechanic were completely unaware that they’d put me into fight or flight mode.

The moments after that are hazy in my memory, presumably because I was having a minor trauma response. They gave me a piece of paper about looking after my newly-scarred cervix and I made some joke about the line that forbade me from horseback riding. I had to put a pad in my underwear (no internal menstrual hygiene products, so no beloved menstrual cup) to catch the blood that my disgruntled vagina was ejecting along with bits of silver nitrate-y crud. Nobody had told me about that beforehand, either, and some warning would have been nice: apart from the fact that I very rarely have pads in my bag nowadays, I find them intensely distressing on an autistic level on account of the rustling, the stickiness and the scent, so I would have benefited from mentally preparing myself for the bastard things.

And that’s the point, really: I would have benefited from mentally preparing myself for all of it. Mostly, you know, for the cautery.

I don’t want to be ungrateful for what was a minor but important medical intervention that I received completely for free, thanks to the amazing (if strained) NHS. And I totally understand the logic behind “getting it over and done with”, and I understand the nurse’s insistence on shielding me from watching the process happen. Most patients would want to think about their raw cervical tissue being chemically burned as little as humanly possible, I’m sure, and taking the speculum out just to give them an opportunity to worry about it would be cruel. But I’m not most patients: I’m autistic, for one, and benefit from a clear outline of “the plan” from the outset in order to feel safe and in control. Maybe more importantly than that, though, I’m a survivor of sexual trauma, and so I want to know and understand what people are doing to my genitals at all times.

Maybe it was a miscommunication – maybe the Vag Mechanic assumed that my doctor had laid it out more clearly to me, or maybe the nurse thought that the “Generalised anxiety” bit on my notes meant that I’d pass out at the sight of the cautery taking place… or maybe they just made some assumptions based on their previous patients or what they themselves might have wanted… but regardless of why they didn’t check what I wanted, they didn’t check what I wanted. They didn’t explain. They didn’t make my options clear to me. They probably had the very best of intentions, but they took away my agency at a vulnerable moment and that made me feel unsafe.

I don’t think any medical setting, but especially a sexual or reproductive health-oriented one, should ever make a person feel unsafe. Ever.

There is a happy ending to this story in that my recovery was fine, I no longer have the post coital bleeding and I only dread my next Vag Mechanic appointment a bit, but that doesn’t take away from the feelings of fear and helplessness and discomfort and the rest of it that I carried home with me as well as my leaflet. If you found this article because you think you might have cervical ectopy, I want to make it clear that you absolutely do not need to feel this way, and you have every right to tell the Vag Mechanic before you get into the stirrups whether you want the procedure explained to you before, during or after, as well as any other worries or needs you might have. If you found this piece because you’re a healthcare professional who deals with genitals, I urge you to check in with your patients about how much they’d like to be aware of and involved in procedures that you’re going to do – even minor ones like mine.

And if you found this article because you’re a regular reader of mine, I’m always grateful for your support and I’ll see y’all next week with some unapologetic smut.

My Cervical Erosion Adventure, Part 1 – In Which Sex Ed Failed Me Tremendously

Stock photo of a red telephone with a red telephone wire on a plain white background.

Content note: This post refers briefly to blood and even more briefly to sexual assault. It also briefly describes a positive experience in a medical setting. If any of those things are hard for you, feel free to give this one a miss – you are the priority ♥


I had one of the best secondary school sex and relationships education experiences out of all of my peers. I know this because I spent a significant chunk of my time at sixth form educating my peers about safer sex, since, whilst they were being shown shame-inducing close-ups of oozing genital warts, my cohort were rolling condoms onto a model penis and discussing things like peer pressure and the relationship between booze and consent. I was the resident Sex Friend, who answered questions unabashedly (sometimes with diagrams) and collected free condoms on others’ behalves.

I was also living with and ignoring cervical erosion (sometimes called cervical ectopy) for about four years.

I was starting to investigate the sex positivity movement online. I had heard time and time again that penetrative vaginal sex isn’t supposed to involve the painful tearing that pop culture suggests it is, not even when you’re doing it for the first time – but I had somehow autistically assumed that painless bleeding was fine. I knew something funky was going on with my connective tissue, so I assumed that I was sometimes experiencing small tears in my vaginal canal when I was getting dicked down, and that’s where the blood was coming from.

Reader, I carried this assumption with me for four years.

The thing is that the sex positivity movement was trying to convince its audience that sex is awesome (which is very frequently is) and that’s it’s nothing to be afraid of (which is usually the case). I think it was for that reason that nobody I read or watched or listened to discussed vaginal tearing in-depth; they just advised their audiences to avoid it.

In part, I was embarrassed to mention it to anybody because I thought it was a result of user error. I like deep, rough fuckin’, often with minimal foreplay (mostly due to impatience and my wildly unpredictable sex drive meaning that I seize every opportunity to get my nut out). I was noticing mild-to-moderate discomfort as I was initially being penetrated, and then I was carrying on regardless. Some traumatised part of me was convinced that I would be ‘in trouble’ if I admitted that I was being, ahem, less-than-gentle with my vagina, and so I just mopped up blood-streaked cum (mine and/or others’) in private and tried to put it out of my mind.

The only reason I spoke to a doctor about it at all was because I mentioned it to my mum during one of our many discussions about the symptoms we have in common, since she has similarly fucky joints and similarly fucky connective tissue. I brought it into the conversation offhandedly (“And do you get, y’know, bleeding after sex?”) but as soon as I’d said it, my mum was very obviously surprised – and alarmed. She all but insisted I mention it to my GP, who took one look at the section of my notes specifying I was on oral hormonal birth control and started drawing me a diagram of my cervix on the first piece of scrap paper he could find.

He explained that it was quite common for people in my age bracket, especially those using hormonal contraception, to experience cervical ectropion – wherein some of the cells that are meant to be on the insides of the cervix creep out of the neck and sit outside, on the wall of the vaginal canal. At least, that’s how I understood it – and I understood, too, that raw tissue on the inside of a warm, wet tunnel like the vagina was a recipe for infection. Luckily, he said it could be “very easily treated” (but didn’t specify how, exactly) and he referred me to my local gynaecologist (or, as I lovingly refer to them, the Vag Mechanic) to double-check with a speculum that that’s all it was, advised me to have gentler sex, and sent me on my way.

Next week, I’ll be writing about how it got treated and what the nice ladies at the Vag Mechanic could have done better, but this week it felt especially important to talk frankly about living in our patriarchal, sex-shaming culture when you have a vagina. In spite of how much more knowledgeable I was than my peers and in spite of my continual pursuit of sex- and kink-related facts, I was so disconnected from my body that I ignored it randomly bleeding for four whole years.

I was so alienated from my vagina & cervix that some inside bits were on the outside and I didn’t even Google it.

Dealing with the acute trauma of having been assaulted and the chronic trauma of living in this hellscape of a society will take time, but I’m slowly learning to know my body, and I’m hoping that learning to like it will come next.