Carnal type? I don't. But I do.

“Of course I don’t have a ‘type’,” I lie.

“I’ve fancied so many different people that the idea I’d only go for one type of guy is laughable.” I tell this to people I know and I tell it to myself. And it’s nonsense.

Much as I’d love to not have a type, I do. Oh how I do.

There’s a certain kind of man that gives me a certain kind of feeling. Not pitiful butterflies in my stomach or shivers down my spine or any of that sickly crap: these dudes make my cunt wet and my eyes water and they send my heart into an angry, drum-beat overdrive of panic. They make me afraid.

These men with their casual hotness. Men with wet eyes and eager smiles, and the tiniest hint of a late-lost virginity that gives them extra enthusiasm for fucking.

I don’t want to have a type, but I do. It’s these guys: the ones who hold back dark secrets and stutter through chat ups and joke that ‘oh of COURSE you won’t fancy me but on the off-chance you did I’m quite into choke-fucking if that’s your thing?’ Men who smell so filthy and good when they hug me. Whose cocks press tight against the inside of scruffy jeans. I can’t see but oh how I can imagine.

They make me cold with fear.

I’m terrified of these guys because they are the ones with whom my self-control goes out of the window. Making me wonder – and quite rightly – whether I can claim to have any self-control at all if it disappears when the right kind of temptation creeps into view.

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