Female Friendly Porn
I’m obsessed with my obsession over a man.
In total, I probably only spent 14 days in his actual physical presence but for almost a year and a half now he has totally consumed my world.
I have devoted hours to reliving, embellishing and analysing the moments we spent together, fantasising about a future we will never share, and masturbating to the most unbelievable sex, that we never exactly had. He was him in many ways, but he mostly just became a reflection of my needs and desires.
My addiction to the drama of him and the intensity of my desire got me thinking about ‘female friendly porn’. I mean this phrase both in the sense of the sexual category that features on porn websites and in the sense of the stereotype that unrealistic romance is the pornography of women.
This zine is romance, porn and self-discovery. It’s an attempt to deal with the overwhelming energy that this man brought out of me. Created mostly in the 6 months following our first encounter, I’ve used this creativity as an emotional release. You might even call it a confession.
It leaves me constantly wondering whether I’ve completely lost it…
Because isn’t this kind of desire when expressed by a woman usually represented as desperate and pathetic? That’s precisely why I wanted to share it. I want to own this experience, take comfort in the possibility that it might resonate with someone, and maybe even find something beautiful in the process.
– Natasha, 2018
It’s 7am on a Sunday morning. It’s the 3rd morning I’ve woken up next to you. You’re naked, standing next to my chest of drawers putting your contacts in. You’re getting ready to leave. You have to spend time with your uncle. The scene feels like a one night stand. I feel a bit used. I know it’s stupid, it’s just that I want to snooze with you and make you breakfast. I sit up. You see that I’m awake and you come back to me and lie naked on my lap. I stroke your back. I say: I’m sad you’re leaving. I don’t even know when I’m going to see you again. You reply: Just be happy it happened. Live in the moment.
Since then, everything seems to be about living in the moment. Since I met you, everything’s changed.
We’re watching the world from a train window. One of the few that still opens. I lean into you. You rest your hand under my top and on my stomach.
I can’t move.
I don’t think I have moved.
I feel your tongue as you gently put your finger inside me. I sense the weight of your hand on my stomach. I can only see your hair between my legs. When you return to view you say
Your pussy is the perfect shape and size.
I thrust myself towards you with desire. Did you really think that? I want to hear you say it again and again and again.
I’m half asleep in a hut on a beach. I wear a long black dress that clings loosely but closely to the curves of my body. I lie on my side, comfortably, with my left leg peeking out from a long slit at the side of my dress. You enter the room, sweating. I’m sweating. Who knows why. It’s probably a hot place but these details aren’t important. We’re sweating. Profusely. That fact is the main feature of this moment. You observe me from across the room, dripping. Your eyes wander over my arse and across my nipples. My bare skin shines. I’m dripping in all the right places. You want me…
And I’m back. The post-coital couple still lies sweaty on my laptop screen. Of course they skipped the coitus. It’s an innocent portrayal of college sex brought to you by early 2000s American TV romance. Totally unrealistic and not really erotic despite the content. I’m bored of it. I close my laptop and switch off the lights.
You walk over to the bed, gently spread my legs and unwrap me from the bottom half of my dress. I’m half awake, on my back and so wet. Is this a dream? I want nothing more than you in this moment…
To wank or not to wank. That is the question. I really need to stop thinking about him. A said I should just download pornography. But my own pornography is so much better and I don’t have internet so I’d have to download it on public WiFi. Do I want to be that woman? Kind of. She seems funny. I haven’t spoken to A in ages. I wonder if she’s annoyed with me. Probably not. I can’t remember the last time we fought. Come to think of it, have we ever fought? Tomorrow I have to figure out what I’m going to say to N. Sometimes these long emails can feel like such a burden. I love them but they weigh on my mind when I haven’t replied in a while. I do like communicating with people in this way though. Through written words. It has more depth because you have time to think. I also get the feeling that men seem to be able to communicate better in written words than in spoken ones. Is that too much of a generalisation? His words… You’re still on my skin and on my mind.
Where were we? Bed. Legs spread. You push my black lace thong to the side and I feel your tongue on my clitoris. Everything is so wet. You pulse through my whole body. I have goosebumps. A trumpet is playing…
I gotta do this right. Might as well. There’s no stopping me now. Candle lit. Playlist on. Here we go.
I watch you take off your clothes. You stand before me, naked and shining. Your frame is weighty, solid. You’re all man. I want your weight all over me. I want you to press slow and hard against me. You lie beside me. I turn to face you and lift my hips so I can be wrapped in your arms. Agile, toned arms. Those shapes. I hold them. Your hands run under my dress and you pull me closer to you. I lift one leg over your waist, place one between your legs and grind against your thigh. Our bodies slide together. We sweat more. I’m moaning loudly. You spank me and grab my arse cheeks. Hard. I stroke your back. Your skin is soft. Hard and soft…
You’re still on my skin and on my mind. You actually said You’re still on my skin and in my mind. But like everything else, I’ve adapted reality to be more poetic.
I massage your neck, your shoulders. I hold your head in my hands. Your hair is drenched. Your fingers reach towards the wettest part of my body and you groan with excitement. I kiss your neck. I lick your ear lobes. Wet. Salty. Sweet. We’re kissing now. I don’t know when it started. It’s so hard to concentrate. My desire is so urgent. But hold back. Please. There’s so much I want us to do together.
I sit between your legs. You’re kneading my back with your hands. I want you. I know you want me too, but you wait.
When you finally kiss my neck, I melt.
Months later when you write
I’m slightly frustrated that I never made it up to the space between your cheek and shoulder
I know that I’m still in your hands.
I’ve put on an album that I love. The grass feels soft. It’s chilly but I’m warm. There’s a sun ray that seems to shine only in the space between our lips.
We kiss. Softly.
I’ve sent you a care package, let me know when it arrives.
I asked you to send me hash, not a care package. What does this mean? I call K. We discuss. Conclusion: You didn’t know what to do, you’re trying to be nice. I’ve told everyone the play by play of my obsession now. You’re a running joke, sometimes a punchline. Sorry. I recorded a 7 minute voice message for you last week. In summary I said, you’re like eating hobnobs for dinner. I love hobnobs, but one knob and I’m hobbled. Or, one nibble and I’m knobbled. No one remembers the tagline. Anyway I should be eating dinner not snacking on sugar. So bye. But it takes so little for my resolve to waver. It’s Friday. I planned to stay at home but now I’m nervously calling the post office. There was no package for me in yesterday’s mail but it might arrive in the next hour. I walk 20 minutes to get it. I’m half an hour early for the post. I wait on a bench. I’m listening to our playlist. You know, the one I made, that you have no idea about. E changed the name from ‘Mr. B’ to ‘The Lonely Masturbator’ after the Anne Sexton poem. You’re a running joke, remember?
I open the package. It’s hobnobs. There’s a letter. I don’t want this to be over. When can I come and see you? My heart is throbbing. Is this real?
I open the package. There are two books, some hash, vanilla tea. No note. One book is about a young Indian girl growing up in the UK. One is a philosophical book about Piglet and how small seemingly insignificant things are important. I’m short, I’m British-Indian. Is this about me? You text me Meera Sayal’s book was important to me in my youth, I look forward to discussing it with you.
What. The. Fuck. Are we supposed to be friends now?
So the connection I felt with you those four days, was it all in my head? Now we’re supposed to be friends. That’s scary. That such an intense feeling can be so one-sided. I find that upsetting. This isn’t really the first time I’ve felt like this but it’s the first time it’s made me so reflective. I think it’s because I live alone on an island in the Outer Hebrides. Or is it because I actually really love you? How can I trust myself? Trust the memory of those moments? What is real if the things you feel, are just in your head? I guess that’s real. I’m real. Kendrick Lamar said so. But how real is the you in my head?
You’re covered in me. You say your pussy is the perfect shape and size. I kiss you hard on the lips. You taste of me. Your kisses are by far the best I have ever had. Small, soft, slow. Deep. I’m drowning in your embrace. I get so lost in these moments. Where were we? Who cares, where do I want you to be? I feel your dick hard against my stomach. It’s the perfect shape and size. I slide onto you. You touch the parts I cannot reach…
God, I’m so dramatic. This isn’t a movie. But fuck it, this is a book. My book. It’s allowed. The question is… how perfect do you find my pussy? Or did you just know it would turn me on? How many times have you said that before? I sound like a cliché.
I am a cliché.
I text you late one night, while touching myself. You reply
In the end I take your hair in my hands and empty myself deep inside of you.
You never did that. But now when I think of you, my hair is in your hands and you’re deep inside of me.
You invite me to play something with you. I feel scared, but I so want to share this moment with you. I fit perfectly between your crossed legs. You wrap your arms around me.
I sink backwards into you and forwards into the sounds we make.
At least I think I did.
Woman falls in love with man after 4 days and 4 nights. We’ve heard this story before. Dear Agony Aunt, how do I make him love me? Shave your armpits. No. I’m pretty sure he likes them hairy. Give great head. I should have let him cum in my mouth. Make him jealous. He already knows about the others. Play hard to get. It’s been 3 hours, I haven’t texted back. Fuck this. I’m a feminist, get me out of here.
I changed into lacy underwear before you got here. I don’t think you care. You’re sitting on my bed against the wall, with your legs spread. You ask if we’re going to watch the movie. I never thought we would but it’s cute that you still want to. You’re cute. Cuter and nicer than I ever thought you would be. You have freckles and brown eyes. Your skin is soft and your smile is warm. Your two front teeth are missing from a bicycle accident. Sometimes you look like a boy. Sometimes you act like one. In those moments it’s hard to imagine how hard you like to spank me. And how much I want you to. I straddle you. You place your hands on my arse and it begins.
The rest is a blur. A bit of a blur. Alex James’s autobiography is called A Bit of a Blur. How amazing is that. You liked my music. You said you have the musical taste of a musician. Woman falls in love on the spot. How did you know that was the way to my heart? Go on, show me the way to yours. Let’s just be in love for a bit. I can’t really commit right now either. I’m 25, I left a 7 year relationship 6 months ago and I’m doing a 1 year art course in the Outer Hebrides. Stop listening to me and do the math.
Black is the colour of my true love’s hair. I’ve wanted that song to be true for so long. Do I love you? Probably not. But let’s pretend. I know you like Nina Simone. It’s perfect.
I’m upright, naked, on my knees, and on your bed. My hands are pushing against a wall. My arse is inviting. You clutch my waist, pull me towards you and enter me. I moan loudly. We can’t be loud so you cover my mouth with your hand as the pace grows faster and harder. Loud, deep breaths. I bite my lip. You move your hand to my breasts. Squeeze them. You whisper in my ear between breaths… I love your breasts… you stroke my stomach… I love your skin… you move down to my clitoris… I love your pussy… Your movements are desperate. Boyish even. I like your boyish desire. You pull my hair so my back arches more closely towards you. You push your dick so far inside me it hurts. In a good way. I love you… We climax.
This is how I imagine you’d fuck me when you said in a text In the end I take your hair in my hands and empty myself deep inside you. But the truth is, the one time I positioned myself like that you literally didn’t know what to do.
Am I losing myself or am I deep inside myself? I can’t decide. Is this about you or me? I can’t conjure your face in my mind anymore – could I ever? It’s actually really hard to do that with anyone. I don’t look at pictures of you even though I have all your company images on my laptop. I find memory more meaningful and I find myself constantly lost in memories of you. But I don’t trust my memory anymore. I think I’ve invented parts of you. You. I mean, who are you anyway?
We’re sitting crossed legged on your hotel bed facing each other. We stare into each others eyes. It’s something you did on a retreat. At some point I start smiling, almost laughing. It’s hard. I say, it’s hard to know whether I’m really looking at you anymore, my mind is somewhere else. You ask, what do you think of me? We just met 3 hours ago but I like it. I’m tired of polite conversation. You feel refreshing. You’re just the excitement I wanted. Well we’ve mostly talked business… I don’t really know you but I’ve known of you for a long time… boyfriend of M… political activist… head of the student union… intimidating… musician… too cool for school… I’m trying to unpack that and concentrate on the you in front of me. I ask, what do you think of me? You say, I’m not so good with words.
You enter the room, dripping from the shower we just shared. I’m drying myself with a white towel. You say
Your skin looks beautiful against that towel.
I walk towards you and press myself against your skin as our lips touch and we fall back into bed.
Days later you text me
You’re still on my skin and on my mind.
Months later, you’re still on mine.
I’m going to fuck you now.
You enter me from behind, back arched and head skywards.
I don’t think I liked it when you said that. I didn’t want you that way. But now that moment makes me so fucking wet.
Mr. B xx
I’ve stopped x-ing my messages. We’re talking WordPress not foreplay. How am I supposed to work like this? Does this mean you still want me? I call K. We discuss. Conclusion: perhaps you still want me, but not seriously. Do I want you seriously? That’s not the point. My mums calling. I don’t think you’d get along. You’d think she’s too classist. In fact, you probably wouldn’t like lots of parts of me. But those are the parts that make up me. I guess you’re not the one. I can’t help myself though.
We’re at Valli maami’s house. You subtly place your hand on the small of my back as you follow me inside. It doesn’t take much to make me melt. You have no idea. You like how I look in a salwar kameez. It’s green. Your favourite colour. You sit across from me, next to my dad. You admire me from the other side of the room. You like the lines of my neck and collar bone. I know you’re looking at me. I turn my head, our eyes meet, I smile. Those lyrics come to my mind The way you look at me when you think I’m not looking. I look at you that way too you just don’t know that I do.
I’m a sucker. This isn’t Bollywood. This is unfortunately still my mind though. You would like my dad. I’d love to discuss DIY with your dad. You said that once. How confusing. Let’s have a noncommittal romance where you hang out with my dad. I pick up the phone. Hi mama… things are well… Valli came for lunch… you know pops, everyone loves him… I got these really nice razais the other day… you’d like them… How’s college?… How’s driving?… Ok mama I have to go.
What’s your favourite colour? I have no idea.
I’m loving me through you. Literally. I’ve never made myself cum like this before. The muscles in my arse have been waiting for this moment. I didn’t know they moved like that. But seriously, I’ve never known myself like this before.
We’re walking through my childhood. Ladbroke grove, that flyover. Helmet on, pops in front of me, wind blowing against us. I LOVEEEE MYY BAABBYYY. He used to shout. I LOVEE MY PAPAAAA. I shouted back. How amazing to have lived those moments with him. At least he felt the same way. And now you. Here. I don’t remember the last time I saw that flyover. We’re walking hand in hand. We don’t really know where we’re going. Just a vague sense of south. I like the way you walk. I like the way we’re walking. Time feels irrelevant. London summer is happening all around us. Corner shops with scotch peppers. A plaza with people just basking in the sun. Someone might burst into song. I hope it’s reggae. Life feels so good. You’re taking me to the Chinese restaurant that you and your father liked to go to.
Why do I remember all the details? And then laden my memories with symbolism. Everything feels so connected right now. E said I’m having a spiritual awakening. This summer and then moving to the island. I’m starting to see how everything fits together. All the things that had to happen to lead me to these exact moments. And I’m so grateful for it all to have happened this way.
We reach Queensway. That bowling alley, the ice-skating rink. The shopping centre with the teenage Indian boys with spiky hair. It’s surreal. Why am I here with you? Now we’re outside the restaurant. I want to cry. I try to explain my excitement to you but you don’t seem interested. We’re at Kam Tong where everyone knew my dad’s name. Where they knew his order. Because he loved this place. We loved this place. My parents still tell the story of when they left me in a sleeping bag under the table and the waiter had to run out and say ‘I think you’ve forgotten something’. This has to mean something. I feel like I’m at the end of a novel where all the pieces have finally come together. Or at least the kind of novel I like, where history and the immigrant experience come to some kind of symbolic resolution in a Chinese restaurant in London. We sit. I ask you to order. You’re Chinese, right? Do you identify that way? I have no idea. But I get the sense you know what you’re doing. Chinese or not, that’s your general demeanour. You ask me if I eat fish. I try not to but I decide to make an exception for you. I’m telling you something personal. I always am but I can’t tell how much you want me to share. I still know nothing about you but you always manage to get deep inside of me.
Always. What an ironic phrase to be using in the context of you. Always, as in, 4 days and 4 nights. It just occurred to me – is Kam Tong just a good Chinese restaurant? Does everyone go there? Fuck. I’ve read into everything too much. It might just all be in my head.
You say you think I’m interesting because I made so many life changing decisions so young. That had never occurred to me.
Why did I tell you so much? Was it too much? You asked too many questions. Why? E said that you always do this. That you read her poetry and diary when you were on tour and visited her in Amsterdam. When she told me it crushed my heart a little bit. Our moments weren’t that special were they? You’re just all about living in the moment. And now I’ve become obsessed with living in the moment too. But I want to do it my way. All my moments add up to something. I want to do them justice. I don’t want to just move on from them as if they never happened. What about all the people in those moments? Just today my dad said relationships are special, that they’re precious. They are. You are. What did you take away from all those moments? And what should I?
What did you take
away from all those
And what should I?