Shopping list

I would like to have sex with someone else.

I would like them to lick my spine, from tailbone to nape of neck, to kiss and massage my shoulder blades. I would like them to bite my nipples, to run the lightest of fingers along the join between my breast and body, up the underside of my arm. I would like them to work up from my ankles, to have their body warm against my thighs as they focus on my calves, the back of my knees, fingers scouting ahead as their lips and tongue move along my legs. I would like them to grab my hips as they bury their face in my pussy.

I would like someone else to make my pelvis rock, to make me sigh, to make me yearn for more.



What really happened on Super Saturday

I wrote this post several months ago, back when The Chap and I were still together. Since August I’ve been debating whether or not to publish it, but in the end I wanted to share a wonderful memory of a wonderful day.
I hope he’s thinking of me, and of this day, when Wales take to the pitch at Twickenham later.

I’m English by birth, but Welsh on my mother’s side. I support Wales first: loudly, indignantly, and, when they’re playing England, with extra cheek. Today’s pool match will be no different.

Back on the last day of the Six Nations, when the title could have gone to one of four teams, I missed the last five minutes of the tone-setting – and clearly most important to me – Wales-Italy match, and a sizeable chunk of the first half of the Scotland-Ireland game, because of The Chap.

He’d said he was going to arrive “between matches”, so we could watch the less important of the three games together while “chatting”, as he put it.

Except he arrived not long into the second half of the Wales-Italy game, the one I was most interested in, just as it was getting exciting, and shucked off his jeans straight away.

I had tea, cold feet, and nowhere near enough of a winning margin to appreciate that at that precise moment – but after another two tries, when my roars of delight had turned into less adrenalin fuelled but still gleeful squeaking and clapping, he seemed to realise it’d be safe to interrupt.

“Keep looking,” he said, motioning to the TV as he slid off the sofa and positioned himself between my legs. “Watch the match.”

Have I told you how much of a tease The Chap is?

He kissed, blew, nipped and nuzzled my knickers, homing in on my clit frequently enough to make me gasp and blink and shiver, and tip my head back and close my eyes. I find it difficult to deal with that level, that type, of stimulation and with visual signals as well. He knows this. That was half the fun for him, knowing that between him and a rugby game, I’d have little choice but to focus on the greater sensation, that he could distract me completely.

When I gazed down, he was looking at my belly, my knickers, my thighs, anywhere but up at me – but the glint in his eyes was unmistakable.

He slid his hands under my rugby shirt, brushing my stomach and hips, then back down, pulling my knickers with them, looking smug.

“Keep watching,” he insisted, teasing, before burying his face in my pussy again.

At some point Italy scored a try, but my moans had little to do with that.

Then he was pulling off my shirt, reaching around me to undo my bra. Pulling my bum further down the sofa, so that, kneeling on the floor in front of me, he could plunge his beautiful cock into me. Lifting one of my legs up his body, pushing my other knee wider so he could thrust deeper. My arms wrapped around his neck, my fingers running through his hair, somehow managing to keep my balance on the edge of the sofa as he drove into me, my whimpers joined by his long satisfied groans as he pumped his load into me.

He left me to go and clean himself up – me, now prone on the sofa, his come dribbling from my cunt – as the Scotland-Ireland match kicked off.

It was inevitable really. That match turned out to be something of an anticlimax – so we retreated to the bedroom to start our own second half.
Now that was a beautiful match.


We are all broken, that’s how the light gets in
– attributed to Ernest Hemingway

We split up at the beginning of August. But my heart broke last week.

These things never happen at a good time, but this really wasn’t: mid-morning, mid-week, no news stories in need of coverage as distraction.

We’d been talking every now and then, trying to work through our issues. At the very least, I wanted – needed – a proper goodbye if we couldn’t sort things out.

I don’t understand how we went from me explaining as gently but firmly as I could the previous week that I needed to give him space for my own sake as much as his, to his being apparently inconsolable the following day, to then asking where my Sinful Sunday was, to the distance stamped all over his reply on Monday when I messaged to say I’d apparently blown another interview, to him being “great, thanks” on Wednesday morning.

I’m terrible at taking hints, but I realised quickly that meant the attempted reconciliation / farewell was off.

He said it just wasn’t going to work, that we kept returning to the same point.

It felt like he was giving up, for good.

I’d known this was probably on the cards, that at some point we would have to say goodbye for real… and replying to that effect almost did me in there and then.

I spent the rest of the day wearing a groove in the floor between my desk and the toilet, crying just enough to get the pain in my chest and belly back under control, to let me get on with work.

The moment I got home – the very moment I opened the front door – the feeling I’d been trying to keep down all day wrenched itself free from my gut with a roar, pulling my heart and lungs with it.

That was how I spent the next hour, howling as my insides ripped themselves to pieces. You know those distraught Middle Eastern women you see on the news? Like that.

It comes and goes.

I spent Thursday wearing an even deeper groove in the floor, smiling weakly at the people who asked who’d made the fabulous chocolate brownie in the kitchen. I don’t remember much of Friday, other than having a gnawing dread of a long weekend with no plans or distractions ahead.

I’m not ready to let go yet. I can’t. I just can’t comprehend a life without him in it – even though that’s what I’m supposedly in now.

I’m not so much letting light in as letting out a lot of pain, disbelief, and dark feelings about myself.


Any other week I’d have told the story of my favourite work mug – dating from my days as a fresh faced work experience girl in a friendly, hard working, local newsroom.
It was a reminder of who I was and where I came from, and of the people who had taken me on in the first place as a favour – but had asked me back because of my ability.

Whether it got fed up of being used for a shift’s worth of cuppas between washes (an average of one an hour), it had absorbed some of my capacity for hamming it up, or I was just carrying too much from my locker to my desk that morning… It flew out of my hand and bounced across a desk and the floor, narrowly avoiding taking out a colleague on the way.

It actually bounced. The body stayed intact but the handle came off, in a couple of pieces.

I think the colleague I nearly brained with it was more bothered by the breakage than I was. I’ve repaired, adjusted, bodged enough things to know when something’s fixable, and this clearly was. So I apologised profusely to said colleague for the shock, collected the pieces, got out my spare mug, and made us both a cuppa. Of course.

The whole time I was relaying this story to my therapist, she had a wry smile. “But it survived,” she said. “A bit scarred, but it survived.”

Her point was that the mug was more like its owner than perhaps it first seemed, beyond the melodramatic leap for freedom. It had, she pointed out, coped with something that might well have damaged lesser crockery beyond repair. The breakage wasn’t the end of the world, for me or it, and with a bit of time (and Dad’s industrial strength superglue), it was restored.

I am not a mug.

The damage, the scars, aren’t quite as obvious, and don’t make for quite such amusing anecdotes – unless I’m in the right mood – and it’s going to take more than 20 seconds of being held together for the repairs to take.


I feel in some ways like the worst is yet to come. When I do let go, it’ll mean facing up to that fear again, the really deep one that my therapist and I never got around to discussing – that I’ll never find someone (else) who gives me hope for my future; that I’m deceiving myself when I dare to believe I have.
I do know I’m not alone in feeling that way. That helps, a bit.

There’s a difference between being broken and being open. Being open lets the light in. Being broken can distort that light. I’m aiming for being open again. But it will take time.

As I tried to say to him, and I wanted so much for him to say to me: Bear with me?

Wicked Wednesday... a place to be wickedly sexy or sexily wicked

# It turns out the actual quotation is:
The world breaks every one and afterward many are strong at the broken places
It’s from A Farewell To Arms.

A hormonal rollercoaster

There was a point last year when I was convinced I was heading into the menopause.

My periods have always been on the heavy side, at least six days long, and often exceedingly painful.

After a blissful year where I’d had practically no PMT (thank you therapy and feeling happier in general), the hormonal upheaval in the week or so before was building up to being on a par with the darkest days of my chronic depression.

I had at least known when to expect it, and to brace myself slightly. For about the past 15 years, I’ve had a cycle that hovers around 31 days in length. Some months my period would arrive a few days early, others it’d be a few days later. But my body and I knew that somewhere between four and five weeks since the start of the previous period the next would arrive.

Then I started to have PMT mid month.

I remember The Chap wondering what was causing it, especially after I’d said it was two weeks too late to be pre-menstrual. It was out of character for the me he knew, who had the odd wobble but was generally calm and knew how to ride out the storms.
(Ah, the innocence of early acquaintance…)

I thought it was the depression stirring again. I was feeling a bit stressed at the time, so it made sense. I upped my medication, let my doctor know, and made a note to keep a better, kinder, eye on myself.

It happened again the following month. And the month after that, only it was less than a month between periods, and getting a little shorter each time.

When I mentioned to my mum that my periods were getting closer but no shorter, she said blithely, “oh, that’s how my menopause started.” I told her off for suggesting I was old and dismissed it with a laugh – but when the next few periods arrived sooner each time, and the mid-month trauma started to run into the genuine back-with-a-vengeance PMT, her words started to niggle.

I’m 37.
Let me rephrase that.
I’m only 37. I was only 36 when it started.
I’m not in the flush of youth, but I’m certainly not old enough for that – or, at least, not according to the little family history Mum and I cobbled together.

But the thought that it was a possibility… it floored me.

It’s about choice.

I know I shouldn’t really have children; I’ve made peace with the bits of the reasoning behind that decision – including thinking I was never going to meet someone I could and would get over my demons for (then I met him, but tried to sabotage it other ways instead).

I was the one who made that decision though, and tough as it’s been to live with when I hear about the friends who’ve been trying for years finally getting pregnant and having babies, I’ve known it’s the better choice for me.

Besides, there’s always been the option to go back and reconsider as medication and circumstances change.

If this was me going into peri-menopause… In my head there was the sound of a door suddenly and finally slamming shut. It was a world away from the long, slow, process of deciding that the only children in my life will be honorary nephews and nieces, and stepchildren if I’m really lucky.

The screaming PMT wasn’t getting any better, and the sense of devastation wasn’t helping, so I booked myself in for a chat with my GP.

He too intended to be reassuring when he said family history could predict these things, but it also couldn’t – but he did order a full blood hormone test for me. (I love my GP. He’s cautious but he listens, and he’s happy to let me look over his shoulder at my charts and records, and ask lots of questions.)

When that came back, and all my reproductive hormones were registering as just fine… I was almost disappointed.

My gut was still processing all the implications of a possible peri-menopause, but the upper layers of my consciousness had done their usual sterling job of assessing the various possibilities, realising this one could make things simpler in the long run, and adapting quickly to the new world order.

Except there wasn’t one to adapt to.

The tests did show something was slightly awry with some of my other hormones though, and I was asked back for a follow-up six weeks later to see if it had just been a blip.

And so, at the start of this year I was diagnosed with an underactive thyroid. It’s early days; according to the blood tests I had just started to register as under the normal range. It may never get any worse, it may pack up entirely.

I’m now getting regular blood tests to see how the stimulating hormone and the artificial version of thyroxin I take are balancing up. It’s a slow creep at the moment; at my last blood test I wasn’t getting any worse but I wasn’t improving either, and when I talked about the bone-aching tiredness and occasional moments of total brain halt, my GP agreed that we should increase my dosage to give things a slight kick up the bum.

My mother has again been wonderfully supportive-but-accidentally-doom-laden. A couple of her friends have thyroid disorders – both under- and over-active. When I was diagnosed she started asking them about their experiences, so she’d have a better idea of what I was dealing with (if only we’d known a couple of openly chronic depressives when I was 20).

She meant to be reassuring when she told me it had taken most of them at least two years to get back to feeling normal after diagnosis, what with their doctors gradually increasing the amount of artificial hormone they were taking to get them back to baseline. As I’m, what, six months in, it would seem I have a long way to go.

We’ve both wondered how much of my more recent depression – including April’s short but impressive collapse – has been caused by my thyroid’s increasing inability to do its job.

Not long after starting treatment for my thyroid, my menstrual cycle – the thing that alerted me to the problem – settled down for a couple of months at just over three weeks long, before becoming erratic again. SarahLouiseis33’s posts in this thread on Mumsnet, of all places, have reassured me that’s normal – but not something I need to put up with if I don’t want to.

One of the things I’d been pondering when I thought I was heading into a decade of irregular periods, night sweats and increased mood problems (thanks, short family history) was how to alleviate the symptoms. Being sexually active and hoping to stay that way, dealing with the shrinking risk of pregnancy, and really not wanting my cycle to continue on this frankly exhausting trajectory, I’d figured hormonal intervention might be called for.

Really not wanting to add any more pills to my morning and evening routines, I had an IUD fitted. It’s the one with the lowest hormone levels, Jaydess. Its effect is supposed to be limited to the local vicinity – the rest of the body carries on as normal during the cycle. It may well be the thyroid balancing act again, but I’ve also had two almost normal length cycles since it was fitted – and next to no period when it does show up.

This has been revolutionary for me.

The only way I know I’m due a period now is the PMT combined with a sharp pinch in the vicinity of my left ovary (why there I don’t know). The PMT bit is still quite mean; it’s been giving me a particular kicking this month.

But for the first time in about a year all my hormones are approaching some kind of balance again. I’ve still got a long way to go, but at least I know where I’m heading again.

Wicked Wednesday... a place to be wickedly sexy or sexily wicked

Pass it on

I’ve done something very stupid and irresponsible.

There’s no excuse for it: I knew the itch around my bottom wasn’t piles, and I suspected it was more than just a spot, and I should have told him the full extent of the risk involved, and let him decide if he wanted to continue. I didn’t.

For the first time in my life – and as a supposedly responsible and sex positive adult – I’ve given someone herpes.


I got herpes in my 20s. Like a surprisingly large proportion of people in Britain and Japan who have it, I have the version associated with oral sores, just it affects my genitals.

I never held anything against the man who gave it to me, at least not for that. He had no signs – not even the telltale tingle. We next saw each other a few days after transmission must have occurred; it was only then that he was talking about the prickle starting and stocking up on Zovirax to head off the sore. By that point the tops of my thighs felt like they were being stroked by lasers whenever anything touched them, and I had an increasingly painful itch in my knickers.

Two days later the sensation was of razor blades being drawn across the whole of my groin, and the glands in my pelvis were swollen and insanely tender. I knew from A Level Biology years earlier that I had glands there, but they’d never felt the need to prove their existence to me before.

There was nothing I could do to ease the pain, which flared every time I moved.

I had no idea what genital herpes looked like or whether it was possible to get it from a mouth sore. I’d like to say going online put me right very quickly, but while all the information I needed was there, these were the days of dial-up.

As those images of blistered, crusting, extremely sore looking vulvas downloaded painfully (ahem) slowly onto my monitor, it didn’t take me long to realise that what was happening in my pants was going to get worse before it got better.

As soon as I had an afternoon off work, I hotfooted it to my local genito-urinary clinic, where I didn’t have to try to make an appointment, didn’t have to worry about the doctors and nurses recognising me, and had some consolation in the knowledge from my brief foray online that what was going on down there would be considerably less disgusting than it would be for some of the other cases in the waiting room.

The doctor didn’t even have to get my knickers down before she nodded and confirmed my suspicions. There was a lovely blister just inside the crease of my thigh and groin that she spotted as I pulled my trousers off. “I’m still going to have to do the full screen and take a swab,” she apologised, and suggested I grab the sides of the bed. It would help, she said.

That dealt with my hands, but she forgot that being between my legs, she was still in a vulnerable situation; I nearly kicked the poor woman for all her efforts to be gentle with that cotton bud.

She gave me a five day course of acyclovir tablets, a couple of really good leaflets, and the web address of the Herpes Virus Association.

Her understanding and non-judgemental approach gave me a bit of fallback over the next week or so when I told a couple of friends, and the boy who’d infected me, to be greeted with very different reactions.

The boy was apologetic but still a bit put out that I wouldn’t, well, put out. We had a nice, somewhat stilted, short chat, then he went home.

One of my best friends decided to gen up on herpes with me, partly out of support and partly out of curiosity. He also hadn’t realised how easy it was to pass it from mouth to genitals. For some reason, though, he decided that my infector had HSV2 orally, because HSV1 was too weak to have the kind of impact I’d described.

Another friend looked shocked and asked why I hadn’t insisted on a condom. I said again that as far as I knew, the cock in question was virus-free – and, more importantly, had been nowhere near my genitals, but his lips had and they were symptom-free but gearing up for an outbreak. My friend said “ah”, but she didn’t look convinced.


Not having had sex for long periods of time has effectively meant that I haven’t had to worry about it.

In the relationship with the boy who wanted me to agree to sex at least once a month regardless, herpes was clearly just another excuse – but one he wasn’t keen to risk being wrong about.

So when I found myself wondering why I was so bothered about how the man I’ve infected would react if I said he couldn’t touch me, it didn’t take long to work it out.

It’s still deeply ingrained in me that boys who are interested rapidly lose interest or start an argument if I say no.

How damaged am I still that I feel like that – and with a man who’s shown he can take the darker side of me?

We’ve talked about fantasies, things one of us has thought about but the other hasn’t really considered before, the stuff we know we don’t enjoy, admitted when we don’t feel we can cope with an idea. But saying no to sex as a whole still feels so difficult and wrong I couldn’t do it.

It’s not just ourselves we hurt when we don’t speak up, it’s other people.


I felt bad about not being able to say no. I felt awful about not telling him the full extent of the risk I was exposing him to.

Then he started to show the other signs of the virus – generally feeling like crap, being a bit feverish, the glands, unexplained misery, and so on – and I felt worse than I can remember feeling in my entire life.

I’m used to depression. I’m used to knowing on some level that even when they’re telling me how easy it would be to step off the kerb in front of that bus, the demons in my head are usually acting out because they want and need attention too.

If I stop and give them a bit of time and patience, sit in a safe place with them and a pot of tea, they calm right down. They’re all me, and they’re mostly bluster.

They’re nothing compared to real, earned, guilt.

I’ve had it brought back to me – up close and personal – how horrific being infected was.

After the first year, when I had a couple more flare ups – each magnitudes less painful than the last – I’ve had less than one noticeable attack per year. For me, after more than a decade, herpes is little more than a very occasional, slight, nuisance.

I know about being asymptomatic – and combined with my lack of obvious outbreaks, I’ve always figured I had more chance of passing it on while completely oblivious.

But that first outbreak – and the fear I felt during that first year when I got the warning flames-across-my-thighs again, before I realised the strength of the attacks was lessening – I couldn’t knowingly bring that upon someone.

And yet I did.

I feel stupid, selfish, and full of self loathing for being so scared and weak.

Review: Tantus Tsunami vibrating dildo

I am so relieved. I thought I was going to have to write a bad review of the Tantus Tsunami – a toy that looks like it should be perfect for me. It’s got bumps – front and back! It’s got a curve to accommodate G-spotting! It’s got length! And yet after making a really positive first impression, it rapidly became… upsetting.

The Tsunami resembles an ergonomic moulded-to-fit-the-fingers bicycle handlebar grip, with a shaft of about seven inches long and an inch and a half thick at its widest.

Tantus Tsunami in full

It’s the slightly tacky, beautifully shiny, Tantus silicone, and it has a seriously thick base that not only makes it harness compatible but much more stable than the Splash when standing on anything less level than a bedside table.

It comes in three colours: Strawberry, Purple Haze, and Midnight Purple (iridiscent indgo). Tantus sent me the PINK!! one.

I was dreading trying to write it up. I’ve never written a completely bad review in my relatively short blogging life, but I’d tried and tried and couldn’t work out what was wrong.

It filled me, the rear ridges felt good, the curved shaft allows for G-spot manipulation without being in your face, and those front contours – well, they’re my kind of thing.

It excited me – but then after that… It became frustrating, and incredibly hard work. No matter how much I thrust, how fast, how hard, how deep, I couldn’t quite crest the wave that was building.

What was worse, the texture make it somewhat girthy, and the effort I had to put in left me feeling a little numb. Switching to another, more reliable toy to give me the relief I was craving just left me feeling cavernous and irritated instead.

The Tsunami left me high and dry.

It was a horrible reminder of days past when I’d get turned on but then get no further.

But it turns out there are two kinds of experience I can have with the Tsunami. There’s the am-I-doing-this-right version (I wasn’t), where I end up frustrated and desperate for release but having to fight for it every step of the way, and there’s the Level 3 orgasmic where-did-that-come-from shock and awe version that leaves me giggling for as long as it took me to write the first draft of this next part of the review.

Tantus Tsunami close-up detail

Admittedly I hadn’t masturbated for about a week, but that usually has the result of leaving me a little out of practise, in need of a good orgasm but also needing to wake the relevant parts of myself up again.

I was also having a period.

I wear a menstrual cup most months, and thanks to a variety of factors I’m no longer suffering from periods that wake me up at least once a night, and early hours, to empty cups and replace pads – or that even show a trace when I amble to the loo after putting the kettle on of a much more relaxed morning. So with a mug of tea in my paws, I ambled back to bed feeling horny and figuring it was time to give the Tsunami another go, completely forgetting there was a silicone cup nestling inside me.

It was only when I realised there was a significant amount of dildo still outside me, and that it didn’t want to go in any further that I remembered. I had half a mind to disrupt proceedings, to go and remove said cup, but then I also realised I was feeling some rather delightful sensations with the cup and dildo exactly where they were. Just the slightest tug back and forth, and I was mewing. Then groaning. Then wailing like a police car. I hadn’t even switched to a stronger clitoral vibrator, which I usually need to do.

It was so quick and unexpected I wasn’t entirely sure I’d actually come, especially as my mind was still chuntering away with itself about whether or not to go and remove the menstrual cup and so on. But my clit was suddenly immensely sensitive and screaming for relief from the vibrator, and I was giggling in a way I haven’t for quite a while.

I hadn’t even got through the second song on my playlist.

This clearly required further testing.

So I did it again the next morning. Threw in a few more obstacles: made myself hold back a little – which, ironically, resulted in me needing to get out the Lovehoney Magic Wand – but still, BAM! Practically no effort required, and fits of laughter once more.

Admittedly, some of that laughter was sheer relief at having a couple of orgasms in a couple of days after neglecting myself a little, and some of it was laughing at myself for being such a ridiculous giggler. But those first 30 seconds of exultant cackling? The Tsunami.

Tantus Tsunami pointing slightly downwards

As with all Tantus toys sold as vibrators, it’s a solid silicone toy with a hollow in the base for an RO-80mm bullet vibrator. While I’m learning how to make them work for me (I have thoughts of trying to rig two together a bit like a body-less rabbit for the ultimate self-tease), the dense silicone of a dildo deadens the vibration significantly.

The tip of a fully inserted bullet is about level with the lowest of the front peaks. That means just the top half inch – if that – of the vibrator is in the part of the dildo I’m using, and it’s pretty much wasted. If you need to take more of the Tsunami’s length to benefit from the ridges, the vibrator might be more useful; to me it’s unnecessary, but it’s good to have another spare.

The trick, then, for me at least, is not to be greedy.

It wasn’t like I was denying myself much – I still took a good five inches of the shaft. I just didn’t need the bottom inch and a half; insisting on taking it all previously simply moved the effective parts of the dildo too far inside me to have any effect (note to self: just because you can fit the whole thing in your vagina, that doesn’t mean you have to).

I was all ready to write a slightly mournful, puzzled, concerned review. I’m so glad I didn’t have to – and thank you, Tantus, for sending me the Tsunami to review.

The question I’m embarrassed to ask

I can’t help it; I think I love Sex Blog (of Sorts). She writes brilliant, vulnerable, powerful, thought-provoking posts – and she loves chocolate and wine and baking and… I’m going to stop now before I sound like a 15-year-old.

There have been a lot of Charlie-inspired writings here lately, and yes, this is another.

Sorry, hon.

Her post about the questions we’re embarrassed to ask was inspired by Marie Claire; there must be something in the air because the cover of the April issue of Glamour proudly proclaimed “we asked a gynaecologist everything!” They must have edited heavily, because none of the questions I’d have asked were in there. But in her piece, she brought up something that touched an unexpected nerve for me:

The muscles down my left side don’t work properly: does that mean if I squeeze my cunt around his cock when we’re fucking he feels it more on one side than the other?

A couple of weeks ago The Chap asked me if I came the last time we’d fucked. If I had there’d have been party poppers and champagne. He knows what my solo orgasms look and sound like, but something prompted him to ask if it had happened with him.

My orgasms are lovely, glorious, gratefully received things, but I wonder – especially given the frame of mind I’ve been in the past few weeks – if I’m still missing out, if there’s something I’ve yet to tap into.

Over the past 18 months or so I’ve tracked how easy and difficult it is for me to orgasm, keeping an eye out for patterns in relation to my physical and mental health, and the effect of medication and other animals. The lower the amount of medication I’m on, the easier they are – although after the reminder of life with the Black Dog, I can definitely say I’d rather have questionable orgasms than feel this unbalanced and sad and trapped in my head.

My science brain has also been confounded lately by the discovery that my thyroid is underactive, and the totally unsettling effect that’s had on my periods and the rest of my monthly hormone levels. I don’t think my G-spot is particularly happy about the thyroid development; it’s been somewhat touchy for a few months, to the extent that a couple of my previous favourite toys have become rather neglected because they now rub me up the wrong way.

Anyway. Yes, I keep an eye on my orgasms.

They’re incredibly focused and concentrated around my genitals and clit. My legs stop working for a little while afterwards, but short of managing to pull my hamstring every now and then I don’t feel anything beyond a very small radius of the area being stimulated.

The constant is the vaginal contractions. They’re strong – enough, ironically, to make me pee, as well as to stop the flow – and do more to make me shudder than any other part of the orgasm. Imagine having a goose walk over your grave.

Bearing in mind the sensitivity issues I know I have, is it possible that with all the other stimulation going on I came physically, but the message didn’t reach my brain?