I’m writing this in the department for nuclear medicine at the Queen Elizabeth 2 university hospital in Glasgow. From my window, I can just about see the River Clyde. It brings back memories of an often-heard childhood song: ‘The hammer's ding dong is the song of the Clyde’. I believe the song's lyrics were about the rivers' association with shipbuilding. This once-significant waterway, just like the mountains I passed th...

Before bringing the account of my time with a high priestess of sex to a close. I’d like to return to the very beginning of my sexual awakening and the starting point of all that was to follow. This event was the catalyst for many of my subsequent perversions that Rachel would help fulfil. I’d had a very repressed childhood and was raised in a home where children should be seen and not heard. As a consequence, I’d witness...

For a month or so after our epic Manchester weekend, I didn’t hear much from Rachel. My old insecurities began to surface as self-doubt and self-loathing paid me many late-night visits following a welcome absence. Rachel and I still talked once a week, but for me, this was no longer enough. I wanted skin-to-skin contact and all the excitement that comes with it. Despite a few very close shaves, I managed not to return to...

Rachel was an enigma, a Yorkshire lass to the core. Broken, hurting, loving, cruel and kind in equal measure. She could fuck; she could cook, and so much more. We spent seven short years together, and this is our story. Rachel saved my life quite literally. Christmas Eve 2001, and my existence felt as if it no longer had meaning or purpose. I’d lost my business, my home and my wife all within the previous twenty-four mont...