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Memorable sexy times of 2012, as told by GOTN’s boy

Every now and then my blogging muse deserts me, and I turn to Twitter for suggestions on what I should write about. Most people, given the season, suggested a 2012 round-up – my best moments of 2012, or something similar. But here’s the problem: I’ve already told you about my sexy times. Whether it’s sucking a guy off while he plays Xbox, berating idiot marketing companies about their patronising terms for female genitalia or furiously masturbating in train toilets, you’ve already seen some of my favourite things.

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Merry frigging Christmas: wanking at Christmas time

It’s the night before Christmas, and creatures are definitely stirring. There’s a curious rustling of bedsheets and the occasional muffled grunt. Not just in my house, but in homes up and down the country. Because there’s nothing more festive than a surreptitious wank.

Think of the children: not the young ones, obviously, but the grown-up children. Unmarried sons and daughters like me in their mid-twenties (OK, late twenties, fuck you) for whom Christmas marks a return to the family home.

The old traditions, like hanging stockings by the fire and leaving a mince pie out for Father Christmas, have been replaced by new ones such as getting tanked with the siblings on Christmas Eve then falling through the front door at one in the morning slurring ‘ho ho ho’ at the rest of the family.

We’re home for the holidays, and we’re sleeping on futons, sofas, floors or single beds that remind us of our young adulthood, when wanking wasn’t just a casual hobby but a heartfelt vocation.

Location, location, location

That’s how it is for me. Because of my parents’ selfish insistence on having lives that don’t revolve around me, my bedroom’s no longer my bedroom – there are no longer posters or books or piles of tatty clothes decorating the carpet. It’s now a tidy office, with my old single bed squashed awkwardly in the corner. But sweet baby Jesus it’s sexy – it’s sexy because it reminds me of being a teenager, with all the angst and guilt and fetid, desperate masturbation that went along with it.

I can’t lie in that bed without being reminded of the number of times I buried my face in the pillow and silently, subtly, frigged myself to an awkward and potentially embarrassing climax.

Not lonely, but alone

I guard my family Christmas quite jealously. No matter how in love I’ve been, or how hot for a particular boy, none of them has ever been invited home for Christmas. Not because I’m worried about tension or embarrassment, but because they might do something unconscionable, like suggest we open Christmas presents before lunch. My family traditions are important: without them I wouldn’t be festive enough to jingle a single bell, let alone deck the fucking halls. From the annual Christmas Eve piss-up to putting sprouts in people’s stockings to recreate the Bottom Christmas Special, my traditions are far too sacred to cast aside. And one of the greatest traditions of all is the week-long wankathon.

Teenage kicks

As I lie in my old single bed, fingers slickly rubbing my clit, the old images come back too. Here I think less about gang-bangs and spanking and more about formative experiences with the boys of my youth. I think about that time when a boy touched my tit in an alley, then proudly showed me how his erection pushed at the fabric of his jeans. I think about the first blow-job I gave, knees red raw from kneeling on the ground in the woods and arousal so deep it was soaking through my knickers. I remember the guys who touched me, the guys I touched, and the ones whose laps I’d sit on. As I edge closer to a shuddering orgasm I think of how they’d wrap trembling arms around me, letting me rub right up against their twitching erections.

I can remember these things anywhere, of course, but nowhere are they more vivid than in the bed I’m sitting on now. If I wanted, I could go back to the woods, walk down through the alley, and see the same things I saw then through fresh eyes. I could probably even knock on some doors and say hi to the 28-year-old versions of those teenagers. It wouldn’t be the same, of course. They all have jobs and lives and mortgages. Some of them even have families. I’m sure most of them have richer and filthier fantasies than having a horny, excitable me grind incompetently on their prick. I doubt all of them remember the times when they made me shiver by touching my nipples or the times they asked me, in croaky half-whispers to ‘just touch it. Please.’

But maybe some of them do. Perhaps somewhere fairly close by, in a street very like this one, one of the boys I knew back then is doing the same thing I am. He’s lying in the single bed he slept in at age eighteen, idly rubbing his now-grown-up cock and remembering how it felt when I touched it through his trousers.

So, don’t feel alone this Christmas, even if you’re single, or temporarily parted from your lovers. As you stare at the ceiling in a home that’s no longer yours, rekindle your affection for youthful masturbation and treat yourself to a lovely festive wank. Just try not to rustle the duvet.

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On what’s hotter than being naked

I love your dick. It’s beautiful even when it’s soft. And I love your arse and your thighs and your big shoulders and your arms and – oh God, everything.

But there’s something better than seeing you naked – seeing you almost naked.

Guys in pants

You’re slightly hotter with your pants on. Not because I don’t want to see your dick, but because I really, really do.

You standing in front of me, walking around the bed, in tight boxers that cup the bulge of your dick, makes me wetter than even the sight of your dick can make me. Because I know that it’s there – I can see the outline, temptingly close. Because I want to watch your boxers stretch as you grow harder. I want to put my mouth on the fabric and suck you in, wetting the cotton with my spit and feeling you grow thicker as you strain to get out. And if I’m lucky, I want to feel you twitch, and taste precum leaking through.

It’s hot because you’re not letting me see your dick.

Guys naked from the waist down

One word: boywanking. At University a boy I was deeply hot for used to sit in front of his laptop in a t-shirt in the morning. Not quite wanking, but not quite not wanking either. He’d shift in his seat, and I’d look at him from my position in the bed across the room. I’d pretend to be asleep as I watched his arse pressed against the back of the chair. I could see the slight curve of his hips, and watch his hands – one gently brushing the trackpad to mouse over a page, open and close browser windows, and the other holding his semi-hard cock as he waited for me to announce I was awake.

If I didn’t get so wet looking at it I could watch it for hours, just thinking about the cold chair against his arse and the weight of his cock in his hand.

Guys in not-quite-clothes

By this I mean primarily pyjamas, dressing gowns, towels. Anything that’s temporary and relaxed. Clothes you’d wear sitting on the sofa when no one’s around except me. Private clothes, in which I can imagine you alone, casually puling the drawstring on your pyjama bottoms and sliding your hand inside to have a solitary, functional wank in front of the TV. Clothes that – if I’m lucky – still carry the scent of spunk and the filthy, idle promise that you’ll let me bury my face in them.

Not onesies, though. Even I have limits.

Guys draped in bedsheets

This one’s a bit of a cheat really – you’re technically naked in this scenario even if you’re not wholly visible. But crucially lying underneath a bedsheet or duvet is still ever so slightly hotter than lying fully exposed on top of it. Why? Because what I really want is to be unsure whether you have an erection or not. I want the satisfaction of reaching for your dick and either finding it hard or finding it about to grow hard in my hand.

I want to guess. I want you to roll over, sleepily, and let me strain to see whether your dick is pushing out the bedsheet. And then I want to walk over to where you’re lying, just as you wake up, and sit my fully-clothed self on top of you, squirming to feel your cock pushing back up against me. And I want to feel it twitch as I kiss you good morning.

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On sex without coming

Someone once told me that sex without orgasm is completely pointless – like a party without booze. My response was that there are many different kinds of party.

Sex without an orgasm is like wine without cheese. Celery without hoummous. A massive fuckoff slab of cake without a cup of coffee to wash it down – these things might be better when they come together, but they’re undeniably fun to have even without the extra.

I don’t always come when I’m fucking. Likewise, believe it or not, guys don’t always come when they’re fucking either.

Almost every single thing we see and hear about sex tells us a story that begins with a male erection and ends with a male orgasm. From biology classes at school which focused on fucking as a disgusting yet crucial baby-spawning activity to the mainstream porn films which fade out about five seconds after someone’s jizzed on someone else’s tits/face/arse/knickers/feet. In fact, porn is a classic example – the fact that male porn stars who fail to ejaculate are nudged to one side by willing and jizz-ready ‘stunt cocks’ shows that we generally view orgasm (or rather – male orgasm) as a rather crucial part of sex.

How do you know when you’ve stopped?

I suppose the key reason we believe this is that a spunk-stream in your eye acts as a handy visual and physical point at which to show the coupling had ended. Like a full stop. It’s as good a point as any in which to roll over and fall asleep, because it’s trickier for men to keep going after they’ve come.

But although feeling someone’s prick twitching a couple of spoonfuls of jizz into your aching cunt is by all means a nice way to end sex, that doesn’t mean it’s the only way.

In the past I’ve had sex sessions aborted (or aborted them myself) because:

a) he’s just too fucking knackered to come. At which point I will either render blowjobs or solitude, depending on how pissed off he looks.

b) I’m too twitchy to continue. It’s often the case that if I come a few times in a row, my thigh muscles start contracting like some phantom clit-genie has attached electrodes to me, and my cunt freaks out. At this point any further sexual contact is a bit like being tickled, and not conducive to further fun.

c) my cunt is sore. No guy has ever been upset to stop for this reason – usually because he doesn’t want to inflict genuinely uncomfortable pain, but partly because it’s a well-earned badge of honour.

d) he just can’t come. Whether the mood’s not right or he’s fucking too soon after a wank or he caught a glimpse of my face in the wrong light and I looked startlingly like his sister – there have been a fair few occasions when a guy has just stopped and decided we’d be better off playing Scrabble for a wee while until he gets hard again.

In these instances, one or other party often feels the need to apologise. I’ve heard occasional apologies and, slightly rarer, admissions that ‘I’m awful’ and ‘you must be so angry with me.’

This is not in any way a sexy thing. Giving it ten minutes then guiding my head back down to your dick is a sexy thing. Growling in my ear that you’ll take your frustrations out on me later is a sexy thing. Spanking me to let me know that you’re displeased is a sexy thing. Begging my forgiveness? Not so much.

My orgasms aren’t 100% crucial either

Likewise, whether I come or not is not an issue at the forefront of my mind when you’re pounding seven shades of fuck into me. It’s something that will probably happen, because I’m lucky enough to find it relatively easy to come when I’m being fucked. But that’s not to say that if it doesn’t happen I’m going to cry in a corner until you see the hurt you’ve caused me – I doubt that would stand me in good stead for the next time I wanted to sit on your dick.

If I’m honest, I’m far more likely to actually come – you know, for real – if you chill the fuck out about it. I’d prefer a quick, messy, satisfying, grunting, orgasmless fuck which leaves us both grinning like teenagers in a sex shop than a long, drawn out shag during which I can feel you thinking ‘why won’t GOTN come? What’s wrong with her? What am I doing wrong? Oh Christ I hope she comes soon I’ve got cramp and my dick’s going limp and please please please just come on my fucking cock you fussy bitch’, at the end of which I might end up coming but only out of a weary desire to get things over with and put you out of your misery.

Disappointing parties

My opinion might be freakishly abnormal, though – I occasionally find I that it is. Being unable to enter other people’s minds I am depressingly restricted to judging solely based on what I think and what other people have said to me.

There might be people out there for whom sex without orgasm is a horrible, horrible thing. For them, sex without orgasm may well be like a party without booze, and they may think both of those scenarios sound completely pointless.

But for me there are many different types of party, and many different types of fuck.
Having sex without an orgasm isn’t pointless, odd, or even particularly unusual. It’s actually reasonably common – whether through a difficulty orgasming during sex, through tiredness or, most frequently in my experience, because I occasionally find it hilarious to edge a guy until he almost comes then leave him writhing in erect discomfort for a couple of hours until he begs me to suck him dry.

It’s not a party without booze, it’s a party which ends early: still fun while it lasts, and at least when it’s done you can rub one out in the kitchen.

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