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Saltburn, and another conversation with my conscience

Note: this post contains minor spoilers for the filthy scenes in Saltburn. Which I (obviously) loved. 

I’m not going to do it.

Damn right you’re not going to do it. 

Even though… there isn’t really any harm in doing it?

Don’t you dare do it.


My boyfriend stayed with me the other night. On New Year’s Day, we hauled our hungover arses all the way from Cockfosters back to my place on the other side of London, then he stayed with me. In my bed.

The great thing about him staying in my bed…

Just to check, you’re not going to do it right? 

No. Promise.

…is that the next day, the side on which he sleeps smells a little bit like him. Only a bit, mind you. One of my very few complaints about him is that he doesn’t smell very strong. Is that a weird thing to say? Not sure, don’t care. He has a subtle scent. I love it, obviously, I just wish it were stronger so I could huff it as eagerly as I inhale the odour of a freshly-opened packet of Cadbury’s mini eggs.

My ex smelled very powerfully of himself, and he left that delicious scent especially strongly on the bedsheets. By contrast, my Hot Punk Guy smells like himself, but gently. You know what I mean by ‘smells like himself’, right? Every single person on this planet has a unique scent which is a combination of…

You. Will. Not. Do it. 

I FUCKING SAID I WOULDN’T, OK? Christ, let me tell the story.

…their sweat, skin, washing powder, deodorant, any perfume/aftershave they might use, body lotion, shampoo/conditioner, beard oil and/or hair products, cigarettes (if they smoke), drink (if they have a particular thing they drink frequently), quim/spaff/etc. You know: their smell. Their unique, incredible smell.

My boyfriend smells delicious-as-fuck, but his scent is subtle so you have to press your face really deeply into it to fully conjure the feeling that he’s with you while you’re…

Oh no you fucking don’t. 

Not a full wank, I’m not a pervert! Just a brief touch when I’m in bed and about to fall aslee-


Ugh OK fine.

…while you’re missing him desperately and romantically. Let’s go with that.

I got to see him for three days out of four recently. The first time, just after Christmas, we went to a gig with our friends. We partied, got extremely sweaty and drunk, then fell into bed at about six in the morning. I only had to spend one day missing him before we could hang out again – at that New Year’s Eve party in Cockfosters, followed by a lazy New Year’s Day.

We flopped on the sofa getting stoned and watching Saltburn – a disgracefully horny film, on which he and I are fairly heavily split about the erotic power of certain scenes. He thinks they’re creepy and gross, I believe them to be torturously, grotesquely weird-hot in a way that makes my cunt gush with shameful lust. I don’t mind that we disagree so heartily on this, and in fact I find it quite appealing just how shocked he is by the depths of my horn. As long as he can love and accept me for the drooling pervert that I am, I can relax into being my depraved, authentic self.

I put my feet in his lap and watched him watching the screen. And my body felt hot and shivery with the memory of where he’d touched me the night before, and the aching need with which we’d lain in bed together as the sun rose on 2024.

We also ate a lot of cheese.

But mostly we sat beside each other getting stoned and feeling soft and comfortable and either horny (me) or vaguely grossed-out (him).

He wore my yoga pants.

Did you think this was going to be about me sniffing the bedlinen? Well actually it’s…

Please don’t sniff the yoga pants. 


Yes, seriously. No sniffing the yoga pants. 


They’re pretty close-fitting, those yoga pants. They hug his arse with a springy fabric that’s simultaneously tight but flexible. When he first put them on and came downstairs, he made a self-deprecating comment about how I would probably regret giving them to him to wear. I couldn’t reply because I was too mesmerised by the outline of his dick cupped taut in the crotch of them.

They’re grey yoga pants, for what it’s worth. Grey marl. Be still my beating cunt.

Sorry to butt in. 

You’re not sorry at all.

OK, no I’m not. But can I just check, you’re not going to lie on your back on the bed, put the crotch of the yoga pants over your face, then push yourself towards intense, powerful orgasm while you sniff them good and deep… right? 


OK fine. I’m not going to do that.

My boyfriend would consider it pretty gross if I sniffed the yoga pants, I think? He’d be… hmm… at the absolute bare minimum, he’d be confused. Remember that he thinks a lot of Saltburn is weird and gross. He enjoyed the hotness of a couple of the scenes, but only the ones which were mainstreamly-hot. He was adamantly against the bathwater slurp, and the blood and the freshly-dug grave.

He might think it gross if I sniffed the yoga pants.

And you have PROMISED you won’t, right? 


I’m not going to sniff the yoga pants. Or the bedsheets. Even though, when I texted him a hypothetical out of curiosity (“Is it gross when people sniff other people’s knickers/pants?” “Without their knowledge if they’re not their partner?” “No, if they are their partner” “That’s fine.” SCORE) he totally gave me consent.

But still.

I am not going to put my face up against either of these things, close my eyes, inhale deeply so the atoms of my boyfriend’s delicious scent hit as many receptors in my nose as possible, while I frantically rub myself off to a soundtrack of songs that we’ve listened to together…

GOOD! You fucking pervert. 

I mean… apart from anything else, he only wore the yoga pants for one day, and only slept in my bed for a single night. The scent just isn’t strong enough on either of those, is it?


In for a penny… If I’m going to masturbate over fabric that smells deliciously like my boyfriend, I might as well spend an extra two minutes digging through…




Ohhh yes.

…the laundry basket.


And that, my friends, is how I ended up lying face-down on my bed, grinding full-cunt against a Doxy with my face pressed good and deep into the t-shirt that my lovely boyfriend had left at my flat after the gig four days before. A t-shirt absolutely saturated with sweat.

Intense sweat. Copious sweat. Gig sweat. Stayed-up-all-fucking-night sweat.

As I ground against my Doxy and shoved my face into the armpit of his days-old, sweat-drenched, STILL-DAMP-PRAISE-JESUS T-shirt, I came so hard I let out a moan that the neighbours could have mistaken for an actual robbery.

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