All Posts – Page 338

On the hotness of words
Two things happened today that brought a boiling, bubbling, half-formed rant to the surface of my mind and have caused me to splatter it onto these pages. One: I read this excellent rant by Cara Sutra on sex bloggers, and the pressure on them to get naked and post pics. Two: Twitter decided, in its infinite wisdom, to automatically show me every single picture someone posts on my timeline without me having to open it. Batten down the hatches…
On Schroedinger’s wank: watching men masturbate
This week I walked in on a boy wanking. Late at night, I woke up to go to the loo, spotted the light on in the living room, and thought I’d pop in to casually grope him before sleepily wandering off to bed. You know how I love watching boys crack one out – there’s a beautiful desperation about the urge to come, and I relish seeing that on his face. But of course, the most beautiful wanks of them all are Schroedinger’s Wanks – the ones I would change just by observing them. The wanks I am destined never to see…

Someone else’s story: on Daddy role play
Not everyone likes the same sex as I do. And not all of you will like the same type of sex as today’s guest poster. As we’ve discussed before, the brilliant thing about fantasy is that it allows you to explore things that would horrify you if they were actually real.
I like to host things by people who have different opinions and perspectives to me. This includes people who have jobs I don’t have, disagree with my opinions on foreplay or indulge in fantasies that aren’t specific turn-ons for me. Because there’s no bloody point in me banging my ‘everyone’s different’ drum if the only ever sex you read about on this blog is mine.
Today, Mimieux is going to talk about her penchant for Daddy/daughter role play, and why she finds older men compellingly hot. It’s hot, and it’s feisty, and it’s the sort of thing that may well offend some people. Before you start I’m going to assure you that a) both people involved in their relationship are well over 18 and b) she is deeply excited about sharing her fantasy with you.
Please don’t read if this is the sort of thing that offends you, or if you have difficulty drawing a line between fantasy and reality.
On inappropriate acts vs romantic gestures
Once upon a time I was sitting in a tiny greasy bar with a boy, when a rose seller came along. She had a basket full of dozens of roses, each one tied up nicely and ready to be hawked to the nearest soppy romantic.
I growled my customary ‘don’t disturb me in the pub’ growl. The boy looked interested.
Romantic acts
Romantic acts don’t have to be the obvious ones: diamond rings, flowers, breakfast in bed and the like. But these things do have a certain kind of charm, and if you want to impress someone, it might be easier to reach for a bunch of flowers than a deeply personal something-or-other that has the potential to backfire.
I have a deep and sincere admiration for people who perform romantic acts. Those who know exactly when to shower love, and in exactly what quantities, to make someone melt.
But it’s not easy. One person’s romantic gesture is another’s worst nightmare, and the success of the gesture in question all comes down to how well it’s received. I was reminded of this recently when a friend told me a story about a guy she knew: madly in love with one of his friends, he journeyed the two hours it took him by train to turn up at her house. Rather than knocking on the door and sobbing his undying love directly at her, he decided to be a bit more subtle. He knew she was a chess lover, so he left two chess pieces: a king and a queen, on her doorstep, along with a dozen red roses and a letter that explained how he felt.
“Aww,” said I “how romantic.”
“Fuck that,” said she “it’s creepy as all hell.”
The roses and the romance
I hate that this is the case, but it is, and I have no idea why. Romance is a fantastic thing, and I’m sure many of us would love to have more of it in our lives. But it seems like the main thing that makes a difference between a romantic act and an inappropriate one is something the romancer can’t always know: whether your crush actually fancies you.
If they do, you’re a hero. If they don’t, you’re a loser. And possibly a creepy one at that.
I’m going to tell you two different versions of the roses story now.
Version one:
The rose seller approaches me and the boy, and my heart is beating far too quickly, hoping against hope that this shy, nerdy first date doesn’t turn into a mush-riddled disaster. All I know about this guy is his name, his occupation, and a story he’s told me about how his sister once pushed him off a swing. I don’t know him well enough to anticipate whether he’s cheesy enough to think the ‘rose for a pound on a first date’ gambit is a good idea.
He does.
Red-faced, I accept the rose. Later that evening we part, and his post-date text seems unnecessarily gushing. We never see each other again.
Version 2:
The boy grins at the rose seller, and I whisper to him “seriously, dickhead, don’t buy me a rose. I’d only have to carry it home.” He squeezes my leg under the table, looking slyly at me in the way he knows makes me want to lick him. For the last two, three, four years I’ve alternately mocked and raged at him for his lack of romance, his lack of spontaneity.
“How much for a rose?” he asks the lady with the basket. I’m looking away now, too embarrassed to make eye contact and show that, secretly, I actually really want a bloody rose, even if it’s drooping slightly and will end up getting left on the bus. She tells him how much they cost, and there’s a long silence. Ages. Aeons. Millennia pass while I stare at the rings of liquid on the bar and fiddle with the plastic twizzly gin and tonic stick and just wish he’d get on and tell her ‘no’ so that we don’t have to eke out the embarrassment.
Years, or perhaps five seconds, later, he speaks.
“I’ll take the lot.”
And he hands over note after note after note from a wallet that’s rarely opened unless it needs to be. And I walk home arm in arm with my boyfriend of many years, drowning in roses and love.
There’s no right way to do romance
Arguing with my friend over the chess incident made me sad for the boy who’d tried so hard. For his unrequited love and his inability to read the girl’s reaction. Assuming they were both in earnest, no one did anything wrong here: it’s just a misjudged gesture and a mutual tragedy. But from my friend’s point of view, it’s a stupid guy making a desperate play for a girl who’ll never want him.
As she put so succinctly: the difference between creepy and romantic often just comes down to whether they actually fancy you.
I don’t think I want this to be true.

Someone else’s story: first time sex
I love guest blogs that talk about ‘first times’, and this week’s post about first time sex is an absolutely incredible one. My favourite guest blogs usually fall into one of three categories:
- People talking about things I have no experience of.
- People disagreeing with me on something.
- People saying things that make me horny on the bus.
Today’s is firmly in the latter category. Everything about it reminds me of the excitement of meeting a stranger who you just want to squash yourself up against. This author, from A Sex Blog of Sorts, is a brand new sex blogger (you can find her on Twitter @sexblogofsorts). And as is appropriate given that it’s her first time guest blogging, she’s guest blogging about her first time. Enjoy.