Pride in London, I'm heterosexual but.......

Yesterday was “Pride in London 2014” and I took to the streets to see what all the fuss was about. Friends and colleagues had attended these rallies for years and somehow, I had always been busy. This year I decided to go along and see for myself.

Positioning myself in Piccadilly, I was struck by the extent of the crowd. I was also struck by the diversity. Onlookers were not all gay; far from it. There were heterosexuals all over the place – families, couples, siblings, friends and me.

Me.

Am I heterosexual? Because I’ve been kissed and fucked by a woman, does that make me bisexual?

Recently, I contacted a charity for advice and support. They asked me if I would mind doing a quick survey. I agreed.

What is your gender? – Simple to answer. What is your age bracket? – Another easily defined response. What is your sexual orientation?

What is my sexual orientation?

I paused.

My response was that I was heterosexual but……. 

The person at the end of the phone waited for a more complete response. Was the “but” big enough to call me bisexual, we were both thinking although not saying? Eventually, I just left it at that; I was heterosexual.

But this answer was and is incomplete.

I like women. I love big, natural boobs. I like looking at cleavages accompanied by fulsome tits. I love the shapeliness of women. I love kissing, and whether the person I am kissing is a man or a woman is irrelevant if I am turned on. And I am turned on by women but I am far more turned on by men. I’m a person who would prefer a WILF (Willy I’d like to fuck) rather than a MILF.

If I was looking for someone (which in itself is a pathetic phrase because I don’t exactly go out looking)  to have a sexual relationship with, I would certainly prefer men. If I were to join a dating agency, it would be men I wanted. Yet I’d probably want to have sex with men that would revel in my enjoyment of women too. I’d want to spend time enjoying looking at other women – maybe on pornography sites, without necessarily wanting to fuck them. I’d want to share erotica with any sexual partner and I wouldn’t want him to be disturbed by my interest in other women.

I look at women in the street. They are beautiful. I look at them and see a beauty that isn’t always sexual. They are just beautiful. I find myself looking at women, possibly more frequently than men, but that doesn’t mean to say I want to fuck them. I want cock!

So am I heterosexual? Or am I bisexual? Or am I actually as gay as gay and deluding myself that I want willy?

In truth, my sexual orientation is “without label”. I’m a non-person as far as the survey goes. I’m a heterosexual woman who likes tits but I don’t necessarily want to have them in my mouth, and I don’t necessarily want to get down and offer some cunnilingus. I just like looking at women, and yes, I’ll readily wank myself off when doing so.

Yesterday, at Pride in London, there were plenty of beautiful women – stunning women, who happily marched down the streets of the capital city, declaring that they were gay or bisexual. They were proud of their sexuality and they were demonstrating their pride with others.

That was, and is, admirable. And whilst I didn’t join in the march or parade, I wanted to be walking with them with my label-less sexuality there for all to see. I wanted to walk with a banner saying “I am heterosexual, but…..” without having to explain the “but” - because that is who I am.

In the same way, I have never wanted to be labelled in a relationship either. I’m perfectly happy to be in a relationship. I’m perfectly contented to be called someone’s “woman” without the connotations of what that might mean to others. What is important is what the relationship means to one another – the two (or more) people in a relationship. And yes, I want to be the most significant because that is what I deserve, after putting so much into a relationship. But I don’t really want to be called a partner or a lover or a wife or a friend with benefits. I just want to be me – a woman; a heterosexual woman, but……

Yesterday, I watched all these beautiful people (and some more beautiful than others) walking by – laughing, smiling, dancing, chanting, skipping, loving, being.

It was a celebration of gayness, yes of course. However, what struck me most was that it was a celebration of being a sexual human being.

There they were, demonstrating to the world, that they liked being gay but within that broad word there was an underlying statement that they liked sex. They liked being sexual. They celebrated their sexuality. Some even flaunted it.

Lucky, lucky buggers.

And here’s my Utopia. Once we live in a world where people are free from discrimination due to their labelled sexual orientation, then shouldn’t we see “Pride” as a rally of sexuality, where people like the “heterosexual but….” could join in the march too and tell the world that they are sexual beings, that they love sex and that they want everyone to know the importance and value of sex in their lives?

The vivacity, the honesty, the emphatic and constant smiles said it all yesterday – “I am an actively sexual being and proud of it”.

I wish I could have joined in with that label alone.

The Saga of Emotions

She lies, reading the book, engrossed in its content that would be tedious to most. She’s invigorated, engrossed, fascinated by the ideas that challenge her thinking. She consumes the words that feed her interest – hungrily devouring sentence after sentence as her passions flare.

She stands up, reading the book, carrying it throughout the house, turning the pages swiftly, eagerly anticipating the next page.

She pauses, stops, stares into the distance, holds the book by her side and thinks.

She stops thinking. She’s overwhelmed by thinking and the passions that have built up within her.

She returns to the book, acknowledging the stirring feeling that this reading has awoken inside her.

She slips her hand into her trousers, gently sliding her fingers towards the line of life that defines her womanhood.

With practiced precision, she presses the bud, caressing it intimately with swiftness and confidence – undetectable to the untrained eye.

Rigidity ensues. She stands perfectly still, staring into nothingness, holding the moment in its fullness.

No screams of delight. No writhing with sensation. No tears from the tantalising pleasure that has enveloped her.

Stillness.

And then a quirky trace of a smile, quite different from the structured smile that she’s learned to add at the end of the sentence – the one that she uses to introduces herself to the world.

And the moment is over.

She places the book aside. Her job is over. Her time is come.

For now.

……………………………………………….

She walks into a crowded room, a bar, two or three deep with people chatting, shouting, gathering together, drinking, buying drinks, laughing, talking.

She waits.

She looks across the room and sees him.

She catches his eye with a clear and constructive stare. No game-playing, no pseudo-nervous look away only to return her gaze on the one that’s caught her eye. Abrupt, determined, focused. 

Got him!

He walks towards her and offers to buy her a drink.

She refuses. She doesn’t want a drink.

He walks away, infuriated by his misinterpretation.

Confusion works its way across her face. Wasn’t she direct enough? How could her stare possibly be misconstrued? It was perfectly obvious what she wanted.

She walks across the room to where he has dejectedly returned.

Why did you walk away? She asks him.

You refused the drink I offered, was his reply.

I didn’t want a drink. I wanted sex.

No point in wasting time with introductions and small talk. That isn’t her style.

Do you want sex?

They leave the bar.

……………………………………..

Bodies sprawled across the bed. Nakedness in every way. Stark fucking. Feel the heat. Work away towards the orgasms. Cum. Cum. Flop.

Prolong the orgasm by grabbing the blanket into the crotch to warm its journey – allowing it to spread from the inner realm to the thighs and stomach, to the chest and the hands. But hold it away from total immersion. Don’t let it feel. Turn your back on your helper.

Sleep. Post-coital. The perfect state of slumber - lasting an eternity of fifteen minutes or so.

Job done.

Job returned to.

A body sprawled over the screen. Severed. Guts cleanly cut. Two bodies. Three women – two victims, one voyeur.

Focus. Look for signs. Concentrate.

……………………………………………

He wakes, disturbed from sleep by the encroaching light from the laptop. Perhaps she’s looking at porn. Perhaps she’s ready for more cock, his cock – eager and hopeful.

Aghast, frightened, he sees the women – all three of them, knowing none.

Work – she explains. Police. Länskrim Malmö

……………………………………..

Poor Saga.

Fortunate Saga.

……………………………………..

Poor Saga.

She doesn’t feel. She’s oblivious to the thoughts of others. She’s unconcerned with their needs.

She can function. She can interact. She can have sex.

She can’t have Satori.

She can’t feel the orgasm to the extent that it should be felt, when it flows mindlessly and mindfully through your body – to your heart, your soul, where it connects you with the one person who knows your mind, your body, who you are.

She can’t feel the warmth of the escalating desire that connects two bodies together. She can’t understand that moment when the physical act of penetration isn’t just functional but is a magnetism that naturally happens of its own volition, drawing the bodies into one, for a moment of perfect synergy. Nothing can prevent it. The whole force of unity – indescribable beauty.

She can’t look into the eyes of another, knowing that every unspoken word is streaming from the mind into the silent consciousness of making love.

She doesn’t hold that emotion of love.

…………………………………………

Lucky Saga. Fortunate Saga.

Her heart won’t be shattered. Her sexual loss won’t be felt because her sexuality isn’t intertwined with her soul.

Fortunate Saga won’t be touched, threatened, overwhelmed with destructive emotions. She won’t feel jealously, envy, hatred, boredom, anger, disgust because she doesn’t connect in order to be consumed by such evils.

She won’t feel bereft, disrespected, lost because she can’t and won’t allow herself to be embroiled by the negative effects of loving another human being. She can’t because she doesn’t know how to.

The emotions that inflict their presence in some of our minds can’t affect this woman because she doesn’t have those emotions. Is she dehumanised by their absence? Is she dysfunctional because she can’t emote? Or is she protected from a world that causes distress to the rest of us?

Saga is learning. She functions perfectly well but is genuinely inquisitive about how people connect with one another. Should her main concern be the wellbeing of her colleagues when she’s going into battle? Should she allow herself to be vulnerable for the sake of others? Should she give something of herself in order that she can know what it is to feel? Should she think of others beyond the knowledge of functional sex - when she goes into a bar hungry for sex?

…………………………………………….

Saga is fortunate because she is undeterred by the feelings or thoughts of others. She can strip off in her office without understanding the possible effects on the male anatomies that encircle her. And even if she does notice their emerging hard-ons, she simply accepts this as a physical reaction without even contemplating where their thoughts wander as they take a trip to the toilet.

Saga is fortunate because she doesn’t understand what could cause someone to be so destructive through passion – because she’s never experienced it. She understands passion. She has a passion for her work but she can’t multiply this passion. She can’t take that passion into other areas of her life. She can’t use that passion to be creative or to feel and she can’t reward creativity and feeling with more passion, different passion.

She knows her limitations. She understands that she can’t manage people, she can’t interact properly with people – hence the false smile that doesn’t spread to her eyes, hence her ability to have raucous sex without even thinking that the other person might be developing a connection with her.

Saga is fortunate because she’s never experienced destructive emotions for herself. She sees it in others – in the victims and perpetrators of crime, but she’s never experienced the feelings inside herself that could lead to emotional responses.

This is fascinating because it isn’t about her choosing not to have destructive emotions or training herself to be non-attached. She has no choice because she has no experience, and this is where she differs from others. Her coldness is somehow negated by her lack of experience. She is human but she hasn’t experienced the afflictions of that humanity. Those who choose to be disconnected are doing precisely that – choosing. Saga has no choice.

She’s never experienced destructive emotions in her life because she’s never experienced all that life has to offer.

Does that make her fortunate or does it make her poor?

In some ways, I want to reach out to her, lie her down, make her connect with herself beyond the functional wank. I want her to look into someone’s eyes and feel the magnetism growing. I want her to feel when someone is sad or angry or overwhelmingly happy and instinctively know that she has to respond to that. I want her to allow herself to be wrapped in another person’s body – prolonging that wonderful orgasm with a sensation of wholeness that every person ought to experience at least once in their lives.

But if I open that world to her, I open up the destruction too – and the potential of upsetting her inexperienced equilibrium.

Dehumanise. Humanise. Dehumanise..........the cycle continues.

Miley and Me

I don’t profess to have too much in common with the multi-millionnairess Miley Cyrus. After all, she’s half my age, got more money than she could possibly want and has a confidence in herself that sends my jaw dropping to the ground.

However, there are three commonalities between Miley and me.

1.       When her sexuality was awakened she wanted to let everyone know how good she felt – as did I.

Sexuality is important. When it’s missing from your life, the light goes out, no matter how hard you compensate with other means of peacefulness, tranquillity and hopefulness. If, like me, you’d spent years of being a sexual being but never feeling particularly sexual, then you’d understand both Miley and me. Discovering the overwhelming brilliance of sex and the power of your own sexuality is an awakening beyond anything else in life. You want to stop people on street corners and say “I’m alive! I’m sexual! I’ve seen the light and I never, ever want to feel any different”.

I’m alive, alive, alive.

When you discover your sexuality, all other ills or traumas or obstacles in life appear surmountable. The liberation of discovering your sexual prowess can’t possibly be underplayed. It’s enormous.

And whilst we’re on the subject of Miley, can we please remember that she is “of age”. The pressures that are placed on these child stars mean that they have a propensity to mature sooner than their chronological years, and that might mean their sexuality matures quicker too. So yes, she may only be 20 years old, but she’s been around for over a decade.

2.       When she realised the enormity of the glories of sexuality, she wanted to cross boundaries and challenge her comfort zone – as did I.

Once I realised I was a sexual being, I wanted to explore my sexuality. Rightly or wrongly, I felt that I’d suppressed the real sexual me for too long and I wanted to make up for lost time. I wanted to celebrate my sexuality with my lover, and within reason, I wanted to see how far I was prepared to go sexually.

I suddenly realised that if two people were completely in tune with one another sexually, you could try anything, and you could also tell one another how you felt about sexual experimentation.

I started slowly – a naughty photo message, given and received. Tits and cocks at first, then open pussy oozing juices and cocks erupting with cum. I then discovered a love of porn – shared, explored together until I became more confident to discover websites for myself.

And so the journey continued – a discovery of the self and of togetherness. Bottles, dildos, fists all welcomed into my cunt, stretching my mind as well as my body. Kissing and fucking other women in front of my lover – something I hadn’t thought I’d ever experience. Having sex under trees with trains rocking by. Grabbing genitals under tables when penetrative sex was unattainable. Offices sprayed with sexual juices. Having sex in front of other people. Oh, and water sports! Oh how I loved water sports!

And twerking. Lots of glorious, wonderful, arse-splayed twerking, knowing that something rather delightful was “cumming” up behind you.

Yes, I challenged my comfort zone to discover who I was, and I haven’t finished the journey.

If Miley wants to cross boundaries and explore her sexuality, then who am I to suggest she contains it within the privacy of her own home? I didn’t.

3.       When she appreciated the importance of her sexuality, she wanted to empower other women to enjoy, express and own their sexuality – as did I.

Miley Cyrus has been truly reprimanded for her forthrightness. I would agree with some commentators that she has to be careful. I had the pleasure of exploring my sexuality with a much smaller audience than Miley but I felt so invigorated by my sexual experiences that I felt a real and urgent desire to share this with the wider world – hence this blog.

Women of all ages need to be reminded that they are sexually capable, that we shouldn’t be inhibited by the somewhat misogynous traditions of sex, that we should celebrate our sexuality. Those of us who’ve had this awakening have a duty to empower others.

I am a sexual being. I like sex. I like sex in various ways. I love the feeling I get from being a sexual being. I want others to know just how capable their bodies and minds are in relation to sex. 

I want people to experience that satori moment that can only come from sex. Maybe Miley feels the same way.

I want to be sexual.

So was I offended by Miley’s twerking? Obviously not. If I’m perfectly honest, the thing I found most unappealing about her infamous twerking display was the way she stuck her tongue out! (Oh and the music wasn’t exactly to my taste!)

There’s another commonality between Miley and me, come to think of it, and it’s to do with the public persona. Admittedly, Miley’s sexual awakening happened in front of far more people than my own but the same principles applied.

Miley Cyrus was Hannah Montana: the all-American Disney sweetheart who entertained young girls with her saccharine performances of pop. She was a blonde-haired beauty who attempted to be a “normal” teenager in spite of the fact that she was this superstar, and she led a double life. (As did I).

People couldn’t differentiate between Miley Cyrus and Hannah Montana. They thought the actress was the character, and to some extent still do. Because of this, the sexual awakening of Miley somehow became more shocking. It was unexpected. How could Hannah Montana, I mean Miley Cyrus, be this sexy, fit woman who flaunted her sexuality in front of our faces?

My own situation was slightly different. Due to the circumstances when my sexuality was awakened, I couldn’t tell anyone. It was a secret. However, I know that many people in my life would have been totally shocked that the sweet, gentle, caring, loyal woman that they thought they knew turned out to be a raving nymphomaniac with an insatiable desire for cock!

As it happened, I remember meeting a friend about six months into my sexual awakening. We went out for a meal. She sat down in front of me and looked into my eyes and said with a certain amount of incredulity, “Are you having an affair?”

I looked at her, ready to deny everything but realised that it was pointless trying to deceive a woman who had known me for my entire adult life, and was also a very sexual woman. How could she possibly have known? I hadn’t casually mentioned my lover during our conversation. I didn’t think I looked any different, other than possibly putting on a bit of weight. How could she have known?

According to her, I looked more relaxed and liberated than I had done in years. She said I looked sexy, that my boobs looked bigger or at least more pronounced, and I distinctly remember I wasn’t wearing a low-cut top at the time. She said I seemed happy, contented, assured.

And I was.

The transition from the wholesome to the whore! People can’t cope with that, which is why they use derogatory phrases to accentuate the contempt for someone else’s sexuality. Neither Miley nor I are whores. We’re just people who rather dramatically discovered our sexuality and bloody loved it.

Take Madonna, for instance. When she shot to fame, she wore her sexuality on her bodice right from the word go. When she “flaunted” her sexuality, some people were shaken by her explicitness but they weren’t completely surprised. It was expected, and therefore she could get on with exploring and expressing her sexuality without too much dissent. It wasn’t until she became an “older woman” that people started to be more shocked at her antics, begging her to wrap her beautifully toned body in an outfit more befitting for a 50 year old. Says who!

No, the real issue about Miley Cyrus is that people were troubled by her sexuality because of the misconceptions they’d built in their minds about who she was, and were astonished at the contrast between the twerking temptress and the treacly teenager that they’d welcomed into their homes through the glorious medium of television. They were worried that their offspring, who had loved Hannah and had wanted to dress like her and who’d filled their bedrooms with all manner of purple “Hannah” range of goodies, would suddenly want to change their ribbons for rabbits or their T-shirt for a G-string or their Disney ears for dildos.

(Perhaps aforementioned parents should consider the virtue of allowing their own children to be so absorbed by the commercialisation of young children such as Miley Cyrus. If they hadn’t played the Hannah Montana merchandise game, then their children might not have been so fixated on the Miley and would therefore have been shielded from her sexual awakening.)

So, yes, I understand Miley. I understand her predicament and I understand her desires.

Good luck Miley, but do be careful.

Kissing Kittens

I need to clarify a potential misunderstanding to readers and to friends who I’ve spoken to in recent months about something quite dear to my heart; girls kissing.

Recently, I was in a restaurant, when it was pointed out to me that two women behind me were sharing a moment of intense passion through the glorious art of snogging. They were totally uninhibited and were fully connected through the loving act of kissing. (And for those who think I may have made a typo, I really did mean the “art” of snogging and not the “act”. There is an art to snogging. There’s an art to kissing that makes certain kisses utterly revolting because the perpetrator of the kiss has never embraced that art of kissing.)

Returning to the two women in the restaurant, I turned round to see them coming away from their lipstick embrace but still holding onto one another and looking at each other with a certain amount of eagerness that reminded me of the lustiness of passion. The kiss had conjured up a feeling elsewhere in their bodies that required immediate fulfilment.

Within five minutes, they’d left the restaurant, and I hoped they lived near enough to be able to run up a flight of stairs and dive into a passionate session of love-making.

It’s a joy to see people being passionate, well, within reason of course. For some, society dictates to us what we should or shouldn’t feel comfortable with. Our own ideas and thoughts also ‘dictate’ to us what we should feel comfortable with. Some of us stay in this comfort zone throughout our lives. Others amongst us challenge our thoughts and possibly change our opinions on what we wish to see and what we wish to do ourselves.

And so it is with lesbianism and me.

I’m not a lesbian. I’m not entirely sure that I’m bisexual either. I’ve enjoyed participating in bisexual acts and I really, really love looking at women who are sexually turned on, who are dressed in erotic and evocative clothing. I adore seeing a woman pleasuring herself. In many ways, I find this more of a turn on than seeing a bloke doing it for her. And I love looking at other women kissing one another.

In fact, I’d go as far as saying that if I had a choice between watching a heterosexual couple kissing, a couple of men kissing, and a couple of women kissing, I’d probably choose the latter as the most sexually exciting for my own commitment to voyeurism.

Perhaps I am one of these women who is blessed with a slightly increased level of testosterone than is usual for my gender, whereby I can enter into the alpha male fantasy of watching women enjoy one another sexually. All I know is that I am extremely turned on by women having sex and women kissing in public, and it has nothing whatsoever to do with envy or a desire to participate.

In fact, what I really want to do is watch women having sex whilst I have an erect cock in my hand or even better, in my mouth. In other words, and possibly less crudely, I enjoy watching women having sex as a heterosexual woman.

Now that doesn’t preclude me from indulging in such pleasures if the mood and the environment allows. For instance, one of my strongest orgasms once came from merely holding hands with a friend in a very intimate and sexual way. There was no touching of the genitals. There wasn’t even any kissing but my orgasm arose and sat there in my nethers for an extremely long time. One touch at that point and I would have erupted. One touch, and I did!

Essentially though, for my own sexual pleasure as far as penetrative sex goes, I want a man! I love the fulfilment of cock and I love to hold a man in my hand and in my mouth. I have no great desire to enter into another woman’s pussy. It really doesn’t excite me that much. I love to look at pussies. I love to see photos of excited cunts but I don’t necessarily want to touch it myself. Is that weird?

I do want to touch women’s breasts. I love breasts and I love the fullness of my own. I love kissing and I’m not discriminating about who I kiss. If the mood takes me, I’ll kiss a woman as readily and happily as I would kiss a man, but I don’t necessarily want to lift their skirt, or unzip their trousers and feel my way into their panties, in the way that I want to do this to a man.

Some might say that this is all very confusing, and probably indicative of a woman who has latent lesbian tendencies, but I know who I am, and I know my heterosexuality is far stronger than could warrant a life without the sexual stimulation of cocks. I love cocks. I could suck on a cock any time, any day, within reason. However, I can’t deny and I won’t deny that I am gloriously fascinated and delightfully turned on by seeing two women in the fullness of their sexuality with one another.

As I said, this hasn’t always been the case. There were times when I was somewhat appalled at the prospect of sitting in a room with two women snogging one another. There was a further time when I was okay with it happening but somewhat indifferent. There was another time when I actually wanted to join in. There have been times recently, when I wanted to kiss a woman just for the thrill of being kissed and giving kisses. There have been times when I’ve happily stuck my fingers in another woman’s cunt and I’m not saying that I’ll never do that again.

What I am saying is that like everything else in life, sex is fluid (if you’ll excuse the pun), and as it is with attraction, things change, feelings come and go, what is acceptable and appropriate one day might not be as wanted or desired another.

In the meantime, perhaps I am ready for a little more voyeurism than I’ve been affording myself of late, and in order to fulfil a need in my life, I would certainly start with watching women fuck one another rather than looking at men and women having a good old session.

Michael Douglas and Safe Oral Sex

For those of us who’ve been affected by sexually transmitted infections (including HPV – human papillomavirus), the interview with Michael Douglas in this week’s Guardian newspaper was quite intriguing. In it, he implied that his throat cancer could have been caused by performing oral sex.

http://www.guardian.co.uk/film/2013/jun/02/michael-douglas-oral-sex-cancer

Whilst later in the week, he appeared to be retracting these comments, it certainly has created interest and one suspects that there might be a few alarm bells ringing in the heads of those that lovingly and delightfully indulge in fellatio and cunnilingus.

We tend not to talk about this important aspect of sexuality because, for some bizarre reason, we don’t like to admit that kissing and sucking the sexual organs of our partners or lovers is so delicious. So the thought of popping off to the clinic to discuss it in great detail might be somewhat off-putting to many, yet it is something that we really ought to do.

The reality, though, is that many people who are sexually active do participate in fellatio and cunnilingus without any negative health repercussions.

I adore both. I love nothing more than filling my entire mouth with a wholesome, large and erect penis that, with joyous practice, slides down comfortably without the gagging reactions forcing an abrupt end to the proceedings. It takes time to get it right and the old adage practice makes perfect is completely right.

Likewise with cunnilingus. I’ve had lovers who think that the mere fact that they’re prepared to stick their tongue inside my vagina will do the trick and force an eruption of my bodily fluids. But just as we need to learn with our fingers or our cocks, so too do we need to learn with our tongues. It’s not enough to go in and go out again without exploring every corner of this fascinating and enthralling part of the body.

Whether you are the recipient or the provider of cunnilingus, it’s really important to talk it through with your partner. Tell them where to go. Explain as they are doing it precisely what is happening to your body. Get them to lick inside and outside, exploring the form of the body with that delicious line of expectation that hides the wonderment of woman’s hidden parts. To be honest, I’m juicing up at the thought of it. Oh to be licked and kissed like that – pure delight.

Enough of that though. We need to return to the health message. The overwhelming delights of this sexual experience can turn into a horror if you do end up with an infection – at worse cancerous growths.

We need to be safe. We need to respect the safety of others and we need to be very aware that our sexual behaviour can impact significantly on ourselves and the lives of our sexual partners.

My own experience is something that I would like to share with others because it’s a reality and shows just how negligent we can be about our own bodies and their healthiness, either wittingly or not.

As a person who has indulged in polyamorous behaviour, I took a hell of a risk. I knew that my lover had another sexual partner, and at the time, albeit reluctantly, I too was having sex with another person. We continued in that manner without ever once going to a clinic to check that our sexual health was intact, assuming (rightly or wrongly) that our other sexual partners were only having sex with us. To this day, I don’t know whether that is the case. What I do know is that we took unnecessary risks, and with an understandable lack of honesty with our respective partners, we placed them in similar jeopardy.

At the time, however, two issues took precedence for me.

Firstly, I wanted to have sex with this man no matter what. My desire for his “un-condomed” cock was driving my mind far more than any amount of knowledge about safe sex. If I had to share that unprotected cock with another, then fine. That’s what I’d have to do, and that’s what I did – often.

Secondly, I was in a relationship that wouldn’t cope with the truth of me having sex with another. My lover was in a similar situation. My partner and my lover’s partner couldn’t be told that we were in a sexual relationship that didn’t use condoms and had plenty of fellatio and cunnilingus. My lover was adamant that I shouldn’t tell my partner and that his shouldn’t be told either.

So there was a choice. Tell people (our partners) the truth, stop having sex with my lover, start having protective sex with my lover without the joy of aforementioned oral sex or stop having sex with our respective partners.

Circumstances meant that the latter was the option that we took, and for years, whilst maintaining a policy of polyamory (and practice too unbeknown to me) to all intents and purposes we only had one another as a sexual partner.

But even this isn’t and wasn’t safe. The fact that my lover had another lover during this time was totally unknown to me. Wrongly, he assumed that I would find this difficult. Wrongly, he chose not to tell me, possibly because I would have wanted him and me to check ourselves out at a clinic, for all its embarrassment. But even if we were monogamous, we should still have probably got the all clear as we both knew we had been in a relationship with other sexual partners whilst indulging in glorious sex together.

We were utter fools.

The situation changed once more when he decided he wanted more permanent additional lovers in his life. Telling me that he was having protected sex with both of them, I happily indulged in unprotected sex, thinking, stupidly, that I was safe.

Even if he had been wearing a condom with his other lovers, he was still more than likely to be giving them cunnilingus, which meant that I was still potentially at risk of contracting a sexually transmitted infection, as was he. Even if he hadn’t been having oral sex with these other women, the fact that he came straight from them to me meant that there were times when I was sucking the sexual juices of those women from his cock when I gave him an instinctive blow job prior to him showering them off him. Funny really, because I can remember how he grinned as I told him how good he tasted. Perverse? Maybe but not to me.

The point is that if you choose to have sex with multiple partners, then all of those involved need to be seen at a clinic regularly. I know to my cost that this should have happened and didn’t, and it’s something that I bitterly regret and hope that I don’t regret it in the future even more than I do right now and even more so than I did this time last year.

Sexual health is important, and I don’t know whether Michael Douglas and his wife have other sexual partners. In many ways, it’s an irrelevance. One slight non-sexually related infection or benign existence of the HPV in her could have been a causal factor to his cancer. However, if you are having sex with more than one person or if you have very good reason to believe that your partner is having unprotected sex of any form with another, then I implore you to get yourself checked out as you do carry a greater risk. What you might find can be alarming and frightening but it’s far worse than sitting around waiting for whatever potential infection there may be to grow into something far worse and potentially untreatable. An arrogant belief that everyone is safe is wrong, unfair and downright irresponsible.

Polyamory should always come with a health warning – the main one being an emotional health warning with the potential of a massive, damaging and long-living impact on your feelings and self-worth. Polyamory can be safe, though it’s impossible to get away from the fact that you are more at risk of infection by the very nature of probability than you are in a monogamous relationship. Monogamous relationships aren’t immune from infections. It happens.

Just be safe. Check yourself out and deal with the consequences and the downside of the most brilliant aspects of life – our sexuality.

PS – I still fundamentally believe in polyamory.