I’m a raging left-wing feminist — but I had amazing sex with a Reform voter

Welcome to How I Do It, the series in which we give you a seven-day sneak peek into the sex life of a stranger.

This week, we hear from Coco*, 31, who is straight, and lives in London.

After leaving an abusive relationship four years ago, it took the marketing exec time to heal — but now, she’s embracing her ‘hoe phase’.

‘I spent a long time thinking I was ready to “get back out there”, when I really wasn’t,’ she tells Metro. ‘I was very suspicious of men, and assumed any encounter would leave me either heartbroken or humiliated.’

Now though, Coco is learning to have fun. ‘I’m realising that dating, meeting new people — and yes, having no-strings-attached hook ups — can actually be great,’ she says.

While Coco says her usual type is ‘an emotionally available academic who ideally looks like Jamie Dornan’, she recently found herself in bed with someone rather different.

Without further ado, here’s how Coco got on this week…

The following sex diary is, as you might imagine, not safe for work

Thursday

Despite it being a school night, I’ve somehow found myself two bottles of wine deep with my best pal in Soho.

A group of guys sit down next to us, and I suddenly hear a Northern accent: my kryptonite.

We start chatting, and it turns out that Sam* is from Clitheroe, Lancashire, down in London for the night to visit some friends, before heading to Bournemouth for a long weekend on the coast.

He’s got sparkling eyes and a booming laugh that seems to make everyone around him smile, and I don’t think I’m imaging that his gaze seems to be resting on me.

Before I know it, we’ve gone outside ‘for a cigarette’ — I don’t even smoke. He takes my hand and sound tracked by the hubbub of Soho, my glass of wine still in hand, he kisses me. The perfect London snog.

Friday

I wake up to a text from Sam, who says we should keep in touch.

I’m surprised, we live miles apart and know barely anything about each other. But he suggests a video call when he gets to the beach and, well, why not?

He calls me a few hours later. He’s topless, and so surprisingly ripped, that I can’t help but comment on his muscles.

‘You can’t be unfit in the army,’ he says, casually. I hadn’t realised he’s a military man, and weirdly, I don’t know how I feel about it.

I’m making a sweeping generalisation but I’ve always thought soldiers were all brawn, no brains. He says he joined up when he was 18, and I think about how different our late-teenage years must have been. I was a Fresher while he was Afghanistan.

Saturday

I’m working this weekend, so I head to a coffee shop and set my laptop up.

A cute guy sits down next to me for what looks like a post-gym avocado on toast.

I wish I was the type that could give some eye contact and a flirty smile, but I’ve never been brave enough. There’s something about showing any kind of interest in the opposite sex that makes me cringe so hard, I can feel my toes curling.

I think a lot of it comes down to my horrible ex. He refused to hold my hand in public, and whenever I attempted to be sexy — if I put on lingerie or sent him a photo — he’d make me feel like I was trying too hard.

Sunday

I’m getting better in my own company, so today I’ve got a solo Sunday planned.

I go for a long bike ride, before heading home and catching up on The Summer I Turned Pretty. I might be in my early 30s, but I’m obsessed (and firmly team Jeremiah).

I post an Instagram story of me in my cycling gear (after brushing away the helmet hair), and a Hinge match I never actually went on a date with reacts with the flame emojis. He’s hot, but f*ckboy alarm bells are ringing.

Monday

I wake up to a message from Sam. He’s on his way home from Bournemouth, and said he’ll come via London if I want to meet up. I usually live by the rule that Monday nights are for doing absolutely nothing, but given I’ll probably never see him again, I say yes.

We meet in a wine bar, and as we get chatting, it starts to become clear that we could not be more different.

Alarm bells start to ring when he mentions that he only got one of the Covid jabs offered to him, and that the government should spend more on defence. He also mentions Joe Rogan more than once.

And as the wine starts to flow, I realise I’ve got a problem: I’m a staunch, left-wing feminist, who has never not voted Labour. But I’m also horny.

I decide ignorance is bliss, and every time the conversation looks like it could veer into dicey territory I bring up something light. And, after another glass of wine, and a jaeger bomb for good measure, we’re snogging in the Uber on the way back to mine.

We stumble into my flat, still kissing as we rip off each others’ clothes — just like you see in the movies. I get to see the military muscles IRL and I am so turned on. He’s dominant, bending me over the bed, telling me exactly what he wants.

Two hours and three orgasms later and we’re entwined in a post-sex spoon. It’s then, that the post-nut clarity starts to sink in.

I didn’t want to ask the next question, because, deep down, I already knew what the response was going to be. But, I knew I had to. ‘Who did you vote for?’ I ask.

With no hesitation he answers: ‘Reform’.

Oh f*ck.

Tuesday

The problem with me, is that the minute I have sex with someone, I get attached.

And apparently, that’s the case, Reform voter or not.

When Sam leaves in the morning, I find myself stalking his Instagram. I know our views don’t even remotely align, so what is wrong with me? Maybe it’s the mild hangover.

I busy myself with work, and put my phone in another room. Tonight, I’m in bed early, hoping that being asleep will mean I don’t end up texting him.

Wednesday

I wake up to a message from Sam: ‘Hello beautiful’. Dammit.

I’m not proud of it, but who doesn’t love the attention of a hot man on a boring work day? Before I know it, I’ve asked for a picture of him in uniform.

Obviously, I know this isn’t going to be thing. For starters, I could never introduce him to anyone I know. I tell myself I’ll enjoy the attention for today, and tomorrow I’m cutting him loose.

Thursday

I decide to rip off the plaster. On the Tube this morning, I compose a text. ‘I really enjoyed spending time with you, but I don’t think we could ever make this work. We’re too different.’

I show the message to my best friend — the one I was with the night I met Sam, and the only person who knows his political leanings.

She approves, but then suggests an addition. ‘Tell him to get in touch the next time he’s in London.’ She’s got a smirk on her face, but I know she’s 100% serious.

She reasons that a harmless shag isn’t me endorsing his beliefs, if anything, according to her, it’s empowering. ‘You f*cked him,’ she laughs.

I send the message, and bury my phone in my bag, too scared to look at the response.

Later that evening, I get a text. ‘Sounds good,’ Sam replies, with a wink.

I can’t help but laugh, before hastily opening up Hinge, making sure I swipe for liberals only.

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