All Posts – Page 276
A guy once offered to buy my used knickers
The first time someone put their face in my crotch and grinned at the strong, heady, end-of-the-day scent of my cunt, it was a bit of a revelation. I’d always assumed that the best state for a cunt to be in was clean as a whistle – and by clean I mean utterly stripped of character, cleansed, perfumed, and presented so perfectly that you wouldn’t be able to tell one neat one from another.
Uniformity and cleanliness: as if novelty and natural scent can never be as sexy as something personal.
Obviously that’s not true, and what’s more it’s a bit upsetting that we’re so often told to eradicate any hint of scent from our personal bits, lest our lovers should get their faces close and get to do that sexy *sniff* *sigh* thing that shows just how erotic our cunt smell can be.
Today I’m going to talk about knicker-sniffing, and I should warn you that this blog’s going to go into a fair bit of detail about dirty pants, as well as contain minor plot-based spoilers for Orange Is The New Black. Which is, umm, quite the combination.
Guest blog: our own private mating season
I can’t remember when it was, but I hit a certain age and my parents and grandparents switched from ‘try not to get pregnant!’ to ‘quick, have babies NOW!’ My mind hasn’t quite followed their logic, but I am dimly aware that there are reasons to have sex alongside the fact that it’s really bloody fun, and this week’s guest blogger is going to tackle one of them. Namely: having sex in order to get pregnant.
His blog warmed the cockles of my otherwise ice-cold heart, and I hope you’ll enjoy it as much as I did.
Sorry, this is just a pervy blog about bottoms
It’s easy to write about the big things that are sexy: anal sex, spanking, throatfucking. The kind of things you’d add to your bucket list, as you tense your muscles to try and work out the discomfort of extreme arousal. The pervy blog staples: Threesomes. Bukkake. The vision of you pulling your knickers to one side and sliding neatly down onto a strap on. Right to the hilt. Hard.
Here’s why ‘klittra’ isn’t a great word for female masturbation
What’s your commute to work like? Is it one of those normal ones where you get on a bus or train or into a fancy-pants car? Or is it a female commute? Do you eat breakfast, or female breakfast? When you take a piss, is it just, like, a regular piss or do you partake in female urination?
Today someone tweeted me a link to an article ‘what do you call female masturbation?‘ As you might be able to tell I have some Thoughts On This Topic.
In answer to the question: wanking. I call it wanking. Sometimes I will try to mix it up by talking about a hand-shandy or rubbing one out. If I’m feeling particularly coy, then I may refer to it as ‘alone time’ or taking a ‘freelancer’s nap.’ But in general, I rarely refer to what I do on my own with a sleazy fantasy and a fistful of glass dildo as ‘female masturbation.’
The article was about the new word ‘klittra’ – an invented word, being promoted by the Swedish Association for Sexual Education, because “If we don’t have a word in the language, how can we even talk about it?”
Hmm…
Please never worry about your strange O face
I once knew a guy with the best orgasm face in the entire world. He really let himself go – screwing up his eyes, opening his mouth, and tensing seemingly every muscle he had. It was sexy, and utterly involuntary, as if his orgasm was being milked out of his dick even as he tried to hold it back. Hot as fuck.
My own? I have no idea – many’s the time I’ve tried to catch the look on my face at the moment of orgasm – usually when fucking in front of a mirror. Luckily, no guy’s ever caught me doing this. Unluckily, like Scroedinger’s cat, the very act of observing it will alter its state. Just as you can never take an un-posed selfie, so you can never look at your own face at the point of climax without either killing the orgasm or making subtle changes to your own expression.
I used to worry deeply about my orgasm face. Occasional comments from guys that I looked, you know, like I’d simultaneously been electrocuted and handed a winning lottery ticket, meant that I feared killing the sexiest moments with a face like the winner of a gurning championship. For some reason this occasionally translated into closing my eyes for a fairly large proportion of a shag. Like a toddler who believes they can’t see you if you can’t see them – I’d assume that my partner would follow the cues and close their eyes too.