Image by the brilliant Stuart F Taylor

It’s Sunday morning: you’re possibly hungover. You’re probably keen to fill your face with the greasiest, stickiest breakfast you’ll get to have all week. I feel you. Here are the best three post-sex breakfasts, as judged by the fucks that came before.

Post-sex breakfasts

Morning wood & pain au chocolat

They go in the oven at 180 degrees, that’s the first important part to remember. You don’t want the shag ruined because someone smells burning or the smoke alarm goes off and angry neighbours start banging on your door. You lay them out on a tray: two each, four in total. They look unexciting. Pale slabs of nothingness and it’s hard to believe that when they’re done they’ll crisp up and melt in your mouth and you’ll want to groan at the sheer joy of the chocolate/butter/pastry hit.

They take eighteen minutes to cook: that’s the next bit. Not twenty like it says on the packet: eighteen exactly. Set the timer carefully and do not fuck it up.

Ideally you’re still half-naked: you’ve just thrown on a t-shirt long enough to cover your arse as you shuffle to the kitchen to do your breakfast prep. Now you return to the bedroom and slide under the covers, pressing your morning-chilled body against his warm one. He’ll stir in his sleep, before rolling over and blinking those confused, droopy eyelids at you. Run your hand down to his cock, and squeeze it like you want to. Just hard enough that he gives a little gulp, a stretch, then rolls comfortably onto his back.

If he needs more waking up, slip it into your mouth. Run your tongue under the head, use your spit to lube him up and put one hand under his balls to cup them gently. When they’re tight, he’s ready, and at this point he’ll grab your shoulders, gently nudging you upwards until your face is in front of his.

“Morning,” he’ll say, as the wetness of your cunt touches his cock, and he runs his hands down to grip your arse as you sit down slowly onto him. Right to the base. Filling yourself up.

If you time it right he’ll come just before the oven beeps.

Chuck him a dressing gown. Pop on the kettle. Serve just-a-little-too-hot, with a mug of good strong coffee.

Spit-lubed fucking & morning McDonalds

Don’t wake up: this one makes itself. Marinade yourself the night before in a mixture of spunk and sweat. Fuck like you don’t know it’s 4 am. Stop for regular water breaks, occasional discussions of the porn you like, and lazy hand jobs while you compete with stories of weird fucks past and present.

Take his dick into the back of your throat, and revel in the brand-new-and-different taste of him. Bite his shoulders. Tell him to do all the things you like, that you wouldn’t tell a shyer boy.

Work up a sweat.

Pant.

Fuck. Slap. Spit. Fuck. Breathe. Keep going until you don’t think you can go any more. Until you’re worried that your legs will give out before his cock does.

Ask him where he wants to come, and when he tells you ‘your hair’: grin.

In the morning murmur sleepily that you’re hungry. Describe eggs, toast, sausages – anything that’ll get his stomach growling too. Roll over and feign sleep until you hear him creep out of the door.

The next bit of prep is down to luck – like a soufflé that you cross your fingers for. But if it works you’ll be rewarded with the breakfast of champions, presented by a grumpy gentleman soaked wet through from the rain, who stamps back into your bedroom with a brown paper bag and those magic words on his lips:

“Your bedroom smells like sex, mate.”

Tear open the bag and observe your breakfast. McMuffin. Hash brown. Juice. Eat it all with fingers that still smell just like dick.

Scrambled eggs for depraved perverts

This one’s not for the faint hearted: take twelve eggs. Try not to think about that snotlike albumen, and push away the fear that you’ll break them badly and someone will get a crunchy bit. I know, they’re the last thing you want to touch on a Saturday morning.

Grab your courage, and crack them all into a blender. Chat to friends in the kitchen – talk to them like what you’re doing doesn’t turn your stomach. Make pleasant conversation that makes no mention of what you did last night.

Don’t look at the guy you did them with, as he sits in the corner of the living room grinning guiltily at your secret.

Ask him if he wants toast.

While you blend the eggs, let your friend place acres of soft, sweet white bread under the grill. She’ll be getting the butter, so ask her for cheese as well. And a packet of ham – why not?

Oh and milk: just a dash of milk. A measure that’d fill a test tube: the one he fucked you with yesterday. As you knelt on a swivel chair that he pulled towards himself, filling your arse with something it shouldn’t be filled with and your cunt with something it needed.

Pour the runny egg/ham/cheese mixture into the frying pan and don’t think about what you did with the bedpost. Or how his dick twitched when you acquiesced to his request.

Stir the egg mixture. Don’t think about how the whole mess looks like vomit. Turn the heat up so it cooks quicker: there are six of us to feed. Smile at them all, and ask someone to get juice. Give the boy a secret smile like what you did was as normal as pouring orange juice to cure a hangover. Like it was the same as you do every night.

Like you wouldn’t swap a hundred fucks to get just one more weird one.

Slop the egg mixture round the pan, help your friend butter the toast. Moan loudly that no other bastard is helping. Ask ‘who do I have to fuck to get a hand laying the table?’

Don’t smile when he volunteers.

When the whole thing’s ready, dump it haphazardly in front of people and let them devour it. Eat eggs, ham, cheese, and soggy bread in the company of friends, just be careful of your aching cunt when you sit down to join them. Say ‘thanks’ when they tell you it’s lovely, even though you know the truth – you saw it when it was dripping and snotty and obscene. Half a packet of cheese, an whole pack of ham. Twelve eggs and pepper and milk and all made with the hands you used to lube him up before he fucked you.

Smile when he tells you it’s gross, because that’s not what he really means.

The eggs aren’t disgusting – we are disgusting.

Mop up the juices with hot, buttered toast.