Image by the amazing Stuart F Taylor

Today I’m obsessed with risky sex. The kind that gets your heart hammering in time to the thud of your crotch, as you fuck with a nebulous yet oh-so-urgent deadline. Get it over with before the others find you.

Risky sex. Like the snatched gropes you have in crowded places, or the slightly-more-than-that which teenagers do on the bus.

Sex you have not because you’re too horny to get a room, but because the thrill of being discovered makes it all feel more illicit.

Risky sex – almost getting caught

The first time I had this feeling was in my first boyfriend’s kitchen. His parents were in the next room – less than ten feet away. We could hear them bickering over the TV remote, and making jokes about the cast of Eastenders. We kissed, because we were shit at conversation, and then our casual groping turned to more. I turned round to look at the doorway, and he stepped forward to press himself up against my arse. Biting kisses into the back of my neck, then bending me over the kitchen counter.

It was one of those that stuck out into the middle of the kitchen – a long, smooth, cold surface dividing the room. Giving me something to rest on. To be fucked against. To grip onto for balance while he lifted my skirt, pulled my knickers to one side and fucked me with short, hard strokes.

Never quite all the way in: we had to avoid the tell-tale sound of his crotch smacking against my arse.

I held still and stared hard at the kitchen door, praying his parents wouldn’t pick that moment to wander through.

You know what I mean: that kind of risky.

Sex in alleyways.

Parks.

On trains – the late-night carriages with only two other people. Sex where you hitch your skirt up and sit on it hard, and try not to move too suspiciously.

The kind of sex they invented CCTV for.

Perhaps forbidden sex with someone you shouldn’t. The grinding, slapping, clenching urgency of a fuck that needs to end before you’re caught.

I don’t know why this tempts me right now – I’m far from adventurous at the moment. Anxious and ill and tired, I sit in my room behind my laptop, with the curtains drawn and a drink that’s always one-too-many of whatever I shouldn’t have: coffee, wine, cider, one of each.

Maybe risky sex is hot because it’s the one thing I know I can’t do at the moment. I’m horny for danger because I’m feeble and scared, and until I feel better the fantasy’s all I’ve got: public sex. Sex with a stranger. Sex with a colleague in the meeting room when you’re not sure the web cam’s switched off.

Maybe riskier.

Vertigo sufferers, look away now, but I’m thinking of dizziness and fear. Genuine loss of control.

Perhaps a scenario where the sex itself pushes me further into danger – like fucking over a balcony on a tower block ten floors up. Bent over the side, head and arms dangling precariously over the edge.

Scared of falling.

Scared of looking, but equally scared of closing my eyes. As if facing the danger will stop the worst from happening.

He’d hold the railings to brace himself to fuck me harder, and I’d lean further out – feeling that swimming, sick sensation in my stomach as I imagine the pace of the drop. The ground looks far away, but each stroke of his dick inside me nudges me a little further forward.

Each jolt might be the one that tips us over the edge.

And he has to come. Now. Quickly. Because my head is swimming and the balcony’s creaking and I’m hanging over the edge.

And we should stop, but we can’t, because we both need to come. Just one more stroke. One more jolt. One twitch more of my cunt to milk the spunk from his cock, and that split second where we cling to each other: panting and sated and happy.

Sweaty enough to slip.