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On the sexiest jobs

All the sexy firemen, stripping police officers and naughty nurses leave me cold. I understand why uniforms are hot, but the idea that someone who has one of these jobs is necessarily hot just because they wear a uniform that is in some way vaguely similar to something you can buy in Ann Summers is frustrating and bizarre.

Some nurses are hot. Some firemen are hot. But the qualities of the sexiest jobs have, in my opinion, very little to do with the uniform. I say this because I fancy computer programmers – boys whose ‘uniform’ consists mostly of scrubby jeans and a coffee-stained hoodie. I cannot get enough of them.

It’s not a fetish in the strictest sense of the word (I have successfully orgasmed with men who wouldn’t know their YAML from their ‘oh no seriously now I’m going to have to Google YAML so I don’t look stupid.’), but it’s certainly a bit more than an itch that occasionally requires scratching.

What’s so sexy about programmers? Well, their quick fingers, for one – typing frantically into the mysterious Matrix-like black box with the same intense focus as a boy playing a particularly tricky Xbox game.

Then there’s the mystery itself: I have no sodding clue what they’re doing. The brackets and squiggles and dots mean about as much to me as the Chinese alphabet, and they are all the sexier for it.

Finally, there’s the brains. Ah, brains. The most desirable thing about a human, not just according to zombies but to other humans too. Not everyone has them but the majority of people like them, don’t they? I’ve never heard someone saying, of a potential squeeze: “Well, he’s lovely, but he’d be lovelier if he was as dumb as a bag of bricks.” Or “she’s hot, I just wish she didn’t know her 13 times table.”

Universal hotness

I think you might agree with me on at least one of the above points. You might not get wet at the thought of male programmers (and even if you did you’d have to step back and sit on your hands because I think you’ll find they’re all mine), but the hands-mystery-brains trilogy is surely common in many people’s lusts.

To experiment (like they do in science, only involving far less peer-review and a hell of a lot more cider) I asked the good folk of Twitter what they thought were the sexiest jobs. Here is but a tiny selection of their answers:

Hands-related jobs

Bass players and guitarists were the most popular, which explains why they get so many groupies and dribbling, wide-eyed fans. Lots of people suggested something along these lines, or other jobs that involved strong or dextrous hands – clearly from the ‘quick fingers’ school of arousal, and I cannot possibly argue.

 

Mystery-related jobs

Onto mystery, and despite the diverse offerings here, I maintain that much of what’s sexy in this stuff is the mysterious nature of it. I find all of the following occupations hot, not because they are sexy per se, but because I know nothing about them, and so the idea of having a guy teach me how to do them, with gentle patience and occasional discipline, slicks my knickers like butter in the microwave.

 

Brains-related jobs

Quite a few people gave very brains/ideas-focused offerings.


I particularly liked the lady who was so into brains, and also in such a kickass-brainy job that she aroused even herself:

I wish this could happen to me. Sadly all of my self-arousal relies on ‘quick-fingers’ style hotness.

Anyway, I reckon my hands-mystery-brains trilogy covers off pretty much all of the things for which I could gain an immediate and shallow attraction to someone, and it has the added bonus that I think most people would identify with at least one of those things.

Even if you don’t fancy musicians, if you like the quick-hands of coders you can probably appreciate why someone else would want to lick a cellist. Even if barristers aren’t your thing, your penchant for brains might make you moon over a mathematician. And as for the mystery, well – who doesn’t fancy fucking Batman?

Hands. Mystery. Brains. Did I forget anything?

Oh yeah, one more, which was actually more popular than any of the categories my rubbish brain came up with on its own: passion.

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On how you smell

I’ve always wanted to be one of those nice-smelling women. You know the ones – there are some who breeze into a room on a cloud of subtle yet delicious-smelling perfume, waft delicately around and then exit swiftly, leaving a faint scent of flowers, talcum powder, and longing in their wake.

I have no idea what perfume it is they’re wearing – it’s certainly not one of the ones I’ve tried, as all mine do is make me smell decent for about half an hour or so then eventually give way to the much longer-lasting odours of cheap laundry detergent and even cheaper supermarket vodka.

Anyway. How I smell is beside the point. If I can make it through an evening without killing someone with garlic breath or sweating like a bigamist at a polygraph, I’m happy. What I love more is how guys smell.

Aftershave

There are a few aftershaves that smell like misery: it has little to do with the smell itself and more to do with quantity.  Like the smells worn by teenagers who haven’t yet learned that nice aftershave (like almost none of the other good things in life) is best used in moderation. For these people the Lynx effect doesn’t so much moisten knickers as invoke a flood of bitter, eye-stinging tears.

But some guys know how to use aftershave – really know – and those men smell sexy. A subtle spritz for certain people induces that wafting cloudlike effect that I mentioned before – a trail of something yummy-smelling, that makes me think only of how I’d sense them coming into the room and running their hands around my waist before leaning in to growl sultrily in my ear then ravish me on the kitchen floor.

It helps, of course, if one of the scents you have chosen is one which I already associate with hot sex. I once followed a man around a shopping centre for about five minutes because I couldn’t work out why I fancied him. Eventually it hit me that he was wearing the exact aftershave that my first two boyfriends wore. Despite his advancing years, everything about this man screamed ‘teenage sex’, and I almost had to go for a lie-down.

Post-shower boy-products

This category contains pretty much any product that’s specifically designed for men that smells anything other than neutral: shampoo, shower gel, moisturiser. For similar reasons to the aftershaves, almost any of these products can make me weak at the knees if you come and nuzzle me post-shower and let me have a whiff.

Frustratingly, this is almost certainly the product of clever manufacturers convincing us that men and women must (even when the scents are artificial) smell different. I’m supposed to smell like strawberries, you can smell like musk. It’s irritating because, you know, you should smell like bloody strawberries if you want to. But in the meantime there’s something about the smell of the products that aren’t meant for me that make me want to lick you.

The masculine/feminine scent distinction smells vaguely like bullshit to me, but the fact remains that it’s the difference that’s hot. Your maleness is highlighted by how different you are.

Hair products

This one’s a bit more open, because not all hair products are gender specific. And delightfully, I have no need of hair products at all (not because my hair is perfect, you understand, just because I’m far too lazy to maintain a haircare routine), so all of the smells are different enough to my own that they’ll produce a powerful sexy feeling.

The smell itself doesn’t matter, it just has to be unusual. Something suprising, and unique, and not mine. Which leads me neatly onto the last, and best smell of all:

Active sweat

Oh God yes. Let me bury my face in your armpit, in your neck, in all of the cracks and crevices where you’re hot and wet and smelling so different to me. Let me lick the droplets that run down the centre of your back and breathe you in as you press yourself into me.

The sweat you create when you’ve just got off your bike after a long ride. After you’ve run from the bus stop to my house, concealing an uncomfortable erection. The sweat we work up together during a nice, active fuck. If you announce, post-workout, that you’re off to jump in the shower, I’ll appreciate your desire for cleanliness but a tiny bit of my heart will break that I can’t make the most of the smell that says ‘you’ more than anything you could ever buy in Boots.

It’s better because it’s natural. Because it’s so unequivocally you. Because, no matter how hard you try, you probably can’t bottle it.

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On sex blog search terms

I know I bang on about it all the time, but there really is no limit to the vibrant, messy, diverse range of human sexual tastes. But it’s all very well me telling you that, I’m sure what you’re really after is hard evidence.

Well, you’re in luck. Evidence doesn’t come any harder than the people who typed in the following sex blog search terms that led them here. These were all typed in on the same day:

Sex blog search terms

tickle fuck

Definitely not my cup of tea, and I expect you were incredibly disappointed to be led to the post in which I argue that tickling is one of my least favourite things.

get erection wading in jeans

I have never written about this, so not entirely sure why it’s in there, but my God I’d love to see it. If anyone has any pornography that meets this oh-so-specific fetish, please do pass it along to me. For research purposes.

images of a girl holding a pissing cock

Give me a second while I Google this myself, then spend a good few minutes staring transfixed at the screen. Guys pissing is super-hot, and I’m pretty sure I know where that search term sent you.

Unfortunately, I am not allowed to hold guys’ cocks while they piss quite as frequently as I would like. Apparently I have appalling aim.

over 50 still want spunk porn

Of course you do. Age is no barrier to spunk porn.

getting a blowjob while playing Xbox

I KNEW IT. I fucking KNEW I couldn’t be the only one who thinks that the idea of Xbox blowjobs is super hot (to avoid accusations of product placement I should point out that the particular console doesn’t matter: PS3, N64, an ancient Sega MegaDrive you’ve had hanging around since the 90s – all of these are acceptable).

Sadly, the super-hot post I wrote about giving an Xbox blowjob has not yet achieved the one thing I thought was guaranteed: loads of reddit love. So if you’re on reddit, and you like being blown/blowing someone while they manipulate the controller with their quick, sexy fingers, do me a favour and post it somewhere on their NSFW boards. If it goes viral, I’ll send you a Twix.

where can I find photos of women smelling there feet

I don’t know the answer to this question, but I’d recommend finding a woman you like, who likes you, and asking her if she wouldn’t mind awfully having a quick sniff and taking a snap for you. As far as fetishes go, this one doesn’t strike me as too tricky to fulfil.

girl holds my dick while I pee pics

Again with the dick holding. Perhaps my desire to do it is actually relatively normal, and most couples in which at least one of them has a penis engages in this every now and again. Another one for the ‘research‘ list.

girl using urinal

No pictures, I’m afraid, but I can tell you that although I am rubbish at using female urinals, I did manage to use a male urinal successfully once. It involved some weird angles and a bit of spray, but most of it went where it was supposed to. Definitely one to tell my grandchildren.

nothing could be finer than to lick her sweet v

I can see where you’re going with that, but am upset that you didn’t complete the rhyme. Come on, it was only five more letters! Five! Now I am left feeling unsated.

Vagina.

That’s better.

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On your power

I am not a weak person. I am a loud, angry, Siberian tiger of a woman who will tear you into a thousand rhetorical pieces if you even think of implying that I am incapable.

But people have power over me: men have power over me. Most of the time the power of men is used for good – men I love make me tremble and cry and beg with passion. Unfortunately, some men have the power to make me weak with fear by simply saying hello.

Men – do you know you have this power? I suspect a lot of you don’t. I suspect this because I have good friends, who would never knowingly terrify someone, who occasionally do things that they shouldn’t: loudly chat up girls at bus stops at 2 am. Push things a bit too far in a pub, and speak loudly and crudely to women who are shying away. Insist on hugs from women they barely know, who wince at the touch of an over-familiar stranger.

The other day a man said ‘hello darling’ to me on a night bus, and it became apparent that I am not the sabre-toothed bitch that I’d like to believe. The rational part of my brain was telling me that he was a perfectly nice, friendly guy. He didn’t mean me any harm. He was just being sociable, and I should be flattered by his attention. Then he got off the bus at my stop, and my heart beat faster. I put on my cold face and picked up the pace. He didn’t follow me – he’d never intended to. He wasn’t a rapist or a bastard – he was just a friendly guy who did not understand that by approaching me in the middle of the night he was wielding a certain power.

A long time ago…

When I was 16 I had a job at a corner shop. I’d spend Saturday evenings selling lottery tickets to drunk men, sweets to children, and cigarettes to any teenager with enough swagger to persuade me they didn’t need ID. At 8:30 we’d shut up shop and I’d head to the bus stop, and home.

The bus left at 8:55, but it didn’t usually feel like a long wait. In the winter it was cold and dark, but I was never afraid – I’d sit huddled in my denim jacket reading books and watching people go by. Occasionally, drunk youths would run past, taunting each other and shattering cheap bottles of alcopops on the pavement.

But I was never afraid.

One night a man came to join me at the bus stop. He was old – perhaps 40, perhaps 50, I’m not sure – all grown-ups seem ancient to a teenager. He sat at the opposite end of the bus stop bench and said hello. It was 8:35.

I said ‘hi’, and went back to reading my book. At around 8:40 he tried again. ‘So, what are you doing here by yourself?’

‘I’ve just finished work.’

‘You seem too young to be working.’

‘It’s just a part time job, in that newsagents on the high street.’

‘Oh, that’s good. Do you enjoy it?’

We chatted. It was fine. He was a friendly, lonely guy making conversation at the bus stop. I was polite. I put my book away so as not to seem rude, and we continued chatting. I checked my watch and it was 8:45. I wasn’t afraid.

I asked him where he was off to and he said he was visiting his son. His son had just had a baby, and he was going to see it. He paused. He shuffled a bit closer to me on the bench.

‘You’re very pretty.’

And all it took was that one short sentence, those three words, and suddenly I was afraid. I didn’t want this man to think I was pretty, I didn’t want him to talk to me like that. I didn’t want him to say things that I couldn’t respond to politely. I didn’t know how to not respond politely. So I said ‘thanks.’

At that, he shuffled further along the bench, so he was sat within about a foot of me. He slid his hand along the plastic seat and he touched my hand with his little finger. Just a slight touch, then a stroke. He was smiling. It was 8:50.

‘You’re very pretty to be on your own.’

In time honoured tradition, I told him I was off to my boyfriend’s house. He slid his hand on top of mine, and kept stroking. My hand itched and burned and I wanted to pull it away. I wanted him to stop touching me, but I didn’t want to be rude. I told myself it didn’t matter – it was only my hand, for crying out loud: not my tits or my arse. He hadn’t said anything sexual.

Maybe he was just confused, maybe he was just friendly.

Maybe I should just let him keep stroking my hand and then the bus would come and everything would be OK and he wouldn’t touch me anywhere else and oh God I was wearing shorts and I didn’t want him to touch my legs and I just wanted the bus to come.

It was 8:55.

‘The bus will be here soon.’ I choked a bit on the sentence and shifted away from him slightly – like I was making myself comfortable – I didn’t want him to think I was being rude. Above all – more than the fear of being touched – I didn’t want him to know that I was disgusted by him. He moved a bit closer – the side of his hand touched my thigh and I leapt up from the bench.

Never in my life have I been so pleased to see a bus.

I paid for my ticket and got on, sitting near the front in the well-lit section by the driver. The bus was my sanctuary and my safety, the driver had mirrors to look out for me behind him, and nothing bad could happen to me now that the bus was here. I breathed a ragged sigh of relief in that moment – I thought I was safe.

But then the man came and sat next to me.

He’d obviously misunderstood the point of the bus – for him it wasn’t a sanctuary, but an escalation – an opportunity for him to sit even closer. He touched my legs, he stroked the exposed upper part of my arms. He whispered in my ear that I was beautiful, and he kissed my shoulder. I, in the seat between him and the window, trapped in silence by my own misguided sense of politeness and shock that no one on the bus realised this was wrong, cried.

I sat there, mute. I let him touch me and kiss me and I cried.

You’ve got the power

Why did I write this? This blog is supposed to be sexy, ranty, and occasionally vaguely amusing, not an outlet for ancient, emotional stories that I should have got out of my system years ago.

But I wrote it because it’s clearly not out of my system. As I said at the beginning, a man said ‘hi’ to me on a night bus recently. Friendly, smilingly, he asked me how I was and where I was off to. And when I said ‘home’ he said ‘where’s that?’ and my stomach froze inside.

I’m old enough now to have learnt how to brush someone off, or where to run to if someone follows me. Most importantly I’m old enough to know men – I’ve known hundreds, I’ve fucked a fair few, and I’ve loved a couple too. And I know that the vast majority of them are good, and kind, and sweet. No man I know would ever deliberately give anyone that fear.

But the world isn’t divided into good men and bastards. There are the good guys, the bad guys, and then all of the real people somewhere in between. And as surely as I know that the original bus guy was a bastard – not just a bastard, a criminal – I know that there are men who say ‘hi’ on the night bus and mean no more than that.

I’m confident that the man the other night meant no harm – he was drunk, and keen, and friendly, and when I brushed him off he backed away. He got off the bus at my stop not because he was stalking me but because that was where he lived. He walked in the opposite direction, not knowing that I was looking over my shoulder every ten seconds to make sure he wasn’t on my tail.

Don’t be that guy

I don’t want to shame all the men in the world for the mistakes of the many and the evil of the few. I refuse to believe that a significant number of people are sexual predators – deliberately and carefully setting out to make women feel the way I felt on that bus.

But I have known men who, despite wanting to place themselves firmly at the ‘good guy’ end of the spectrum have, unthinkingly, done similar things. Pushed things a bit too far, approached women when it was late at night or when they were vulnerable. Insisted on a touch when they’re too pissed to notice that the girl is grimacing.

You have a certain kind of power, and you need to be aware of what that means for you: if you don’t listen, if you don’t look, if you don’t try to understand how the person you’re approaching feels, you have the power to turn into that guy. That creepy one.

It’s hard for me to admit that people have this power over me. If you corner me in the pub and ask whether I’d put up with being groped on a bus I’d laugh and tell you I can handle myself – I’d scream, or fight, or call the police. I’d invoke a tidal wave of righteous anger to sweep away any man who fucked with me.

But in reality I don’t know if I could. Because whenever men say hello to me on a night bus it’s 8:55 on Saturday and I’m sixteen again. I’m sitting stock-still under fluorescent lights while a man kisses my shoulder. I’m cold and alone and scared and mute, shuddering with silent sobs and waiting for someone to save me.

On weird sex positions, and the Emperor’s new clothes

Most people have seen the Joy of Sex or the Kama Sutra right? Or if not the originals, then at least a knock-off copy that has similar weird sex positions but names them differently and uses different models, so as to avoid potentially boner-killing copyright issues.

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