All Posts – Page 376
Tits, face, arse, stomach… what are the best places to jizz?
I once got a text from a boy that just read: “When I see you on Friday can I come in your hair and/or eyes?” Brilliant. Not specifically the places, but the fact that he wanted it so badly. He had a thing for mess. Remembering this got me thinking about being covered in spunk, and the best places to jizz…
On choking: why I like getting choked during sex
Warning: don’t fucking try this at home. I like getting choked during sex, but I am aware that it’s quite a dangerous thing to do, and therefore I don’t want to encourage you to plough on with this without an understanding of the risks and ways to mitigate them.
Now that’s out of the way: choking is one of my favourite things. It’s controlling, it’s cruel, it’s taboo, it says “hey, I’m going to do this whether you like it or not.” It makes a lot of guys, even ones who are otherwise pretty vanilla, very hard indeed.
On making love
Don’t make love to me. Please.
I’ve seen the films, where the guy enters her gently and she gasps with delight. He strokes her face and her hair and their bodies melt together in soft focus. They smile, and whisper, and beautiful music plays – something soulful and deep that you’d put on a mixtape.
This might just work if you’ve been together for years, if you know each other well after nights spent chatting and bonding and bringing each other grapes and tissues when you’re ill. It definitely doesn’t work for an early shag. Here’s why:
If you’re doing it slowly you’re not that keen. By the time you’re in my bedroom (or my lounge, or my bathroom, or the car park of the local McDonalds) I want you to be so hot and hard and desperate that you’ll frot against my thighs when you get close enough. Don’t peel my clothes off slowly while you kiss every inch of my delicate skin; moan and swear and writhe as you tear off your trousers, wondering why it takes as long as 6 fucking seconds to get your cock out and into me. If we’re shagging for the first time (or the second, third, fourth, or twenty-second), you need to be lustful, and hot, and focused so hard on coming that nothing can distract you.
Slow foreplay indicates self-control, and self-control isn’t very sexy. Why would you bother to gently undo my shirt button by button when you could be forcing your cock into the back of my throat? Don’t tell me this is foreplay, don’t tell me it’s there to make sure I’m turned on and as willing to fuck you now as I was when I first got on the night bus home with you; if I weren’t turned on I wouldn’t be here. It was probably me who dragged you onto the night bus in the first place.
From the moment we’re alone and you touch me my legs start to shake, I’ll be panting and wet and desperate and everything that’s good about naked, horny girls. To try and temper that passion with gentle kisses is an insult to the lust that I want to bleed into every pore of your body. If I’m begging you for hardcore, don’t give me Mills and Boon.
But if none of the above has persuaded you, and you still want to stroke my face and call me darling and see if you can melt my frozen heart with the power of your lovemaking, then let’s cut to the chase: I don’t love you, you don’t love me. We should no more be ‘making love’ than we should be naming our first child.
If we’re not fucking then we’re fucking done here.
On the worst dating site fails
I don’t believe you’re real
You obviously believe I’m real enough to initiate a conversation with, so what is the point of this question? This is one of the most irritating dating site fails.
I’ve written the profile, I can write replies, but short of running round to your house and headbutting you in the crotch, there’s not much else I can do to prove it.
Wanna chat?
Why yes, yes I do. But in real life, please, not on some idiotic chat programme where we have stilted conversations about what we’re both doing, culminating in me being massively turned off by your excessive use of the term ‘lol.’
I always say in my profile that I hate IM. If you then insist on IMing me I’ll assume not only that you’re typing one-handed, but also that all that ‘one-handed typing’ has made you so blind you can’t read.
I expect you won’t reply…
Why, do I look like an arsehole?
In all seriousness I get a fair few messages, mainly because I mention sex on my profile and men these days have reasonably low standards. But I don’t get so many that it’d be impossible to reply to all of them – I reply to about one in five – the ones that don’t break these rules.
Wow your so hot
If you can’t spot what’s wrong with this then I wouldn’t reply to you either.
Do you have a pic of your body?
Or, to say what you actually mean: “are you fat?”
That’s what you’re asking, so why not come out and say it? Well, because it’s fucking rude, obviously.
I’m not going to tell you whether or not I’m fat, just as I’m not going to suck my stomach in and stand in front of a mirror just so I can send a picture of my body to someone so shallow I’d definitely not fuck him in the first place.
On number 14
Number 14 wears leather gloves. When we go out for dinner – we always go out for dinner – he makes a show of taking them off and putting them on the table beside him. He’s calm. I’ve never heard him raise his voice, or get agitated, or even visibly excited. Number 14 is the domliest dom I know, and I’ve never had sex with him.
Why is he on the list? I don’t usually include people I haven’t actually fucked, but the things he’s done deserve more credit than the catch-all title ‘play.’ Play can be anything from a quick spanking at a party to a full-blown throat-fucking in a dark alley. The latter, I think, deserves a bit more credit.
He likes to find places that are private but public. Hidden nooks and doorways where he can press me into the wall and order me not to make a sound. It’s incredible what a pair of leather gloves and a calm demeanour can do to stop me from making the noises I’d usually revel in.
On the hunt for one of these places once he found what looked like an abandoned room just outside the entrance to a block of flats – just a door in a wall that took us into a place no bigger than a cupboard, with broken glass bottles on the floor and no lights.
He put his hand over my mouth and whispered to me not to make a sound, then yanked my skirt up and my knickers down and touched me until I was trembling and could barely stand.
Every time someone walked past the door, or I breathed too loudly or made any noise, he grabbed my throat and stopped me breathing until they’d gone. He kept doing this, then stopping, then doing more, then stopping, until I was so weak and frustrated that I was crying, and had we been somewhere no one would have heard us I’d have been begging him to fuck me.
When I got to that point he pushed me down until I was squatting on the floor and shoved his cock into my mouth, always maintaining his total silence and calm.
He held my hair with his leather-gloved hands and shoved himself right into my throat. It didn’t take long – after a few minutes, just as I started to choke and bruise, he came hot and hard into the back of my mouth.
Ever the gentleman, he walked me to the train station and held me up when I stumbled.