About three minutes after I tweet one of my filthy blogs, I’ll usually get a DM, email or reply saying “thanks a fucking bunch, GOTN, I just read that on the bus.” Sorry about that, commuters – while I try my best to keep the timings of the dirtier posts to those bits of the day when most people aren’t at work, it’s inevitable that – with Twitter and Facebook and all the things that ping through to your phone – most of us will get horny at inopportune moments.

This week’s guest blog is from just such a guy, and one of the reasons I love it is because it captures that exact feeling of ‘oh God I need to come right this minute and I can’t.’ While I can’t pretend I suffer from the same degree of sexual frustration, I can certainly empathise – and I suspect many of you do too. So read, enjoy, and then let me know if you’ve found any ingenious hiding places to have a quick one to calm the nerves…

The lament of the sexually frustrated…

When I read Girl on the Net’s column, I revel in the joyful atmosphere of sexual freedom, honesty and opportunity. But it’s not all saucy happy funtimes, because although reading her site gives me the massive and righteous horn every time, I’m almost never in a situation where I can do something about it.

Her book lies half-read on my Kindle, the screen metaphorically stained not with the ultraviolet evidence of excited DNA, but with the sweaty misery of tube-ride blue-balls and the anguished tears of tossing (not like that) impotently next to a light-sleeping partner.

And of course it’s not just GotN who’s responsible for inopportune arousal. Chemistry lends a hand, raising testosterone levels first thing every day, and just the act of turning over in bed, or pulling on a pair of pants, can provide friction that, if not dealt with, causes eye-rolling distraction until some mundane task that nevertheless requires concentration removes the physical need. Or I sneak to the bathroom for a speedy one off the wrist.

So it’s clear that the baby Jesus wants us to be getting it on before the sun even gets close to the yardarm. Heh, “yardarm”. But then the baby Jesus never had a baby of his own. Mornings no longer belong to either of you (or even to your left hand), but to the crapping, moaning thing that needs feeding, wiping and reading the same bloody book eight times in a row.

Dreams should be the perfect place to let off steam sexually, right? My god, if I were one of the lucky few who could lucid dream, I’d wake up exhausted every morning after a long night fulfilling every erotic fantasy I’ve ever had and several I thought might make a nice change. But no. Even worse, when I do have a hot dream, my subconscious (usually) wags a scolding finger and reminds me I’m in a monogamous relationship.

Location is another big factor in the unwelcome stiffness stakes. Unlike some people, I seldom get actively frisky on the train or the bus, but when my mind is set off in that direction there’s no delicious sense of naughtiness or anticipation, just a frustration that whatever is stimulating me, I can absolutely guarantee I won’t be fucking it.

Work has more potential, if only because I figured out how to lock the other cubicle door even when I’m not in it, thereby giving my colleagues no reason to hang around in the loos. It’s usually a release-type situation, rather than something to be savoured, though sometimes – and they are a bit glorious – it’s a 2 or 3 times a day thing. The exception to this limitation – and I don’t know if this happens to everyone or if it’s just a superpower of mine – is when I’m hungover. I’d love to know the physiological mechanism behind it, but when hungover I can more or less have as many orgasms as I like without the fundamental drive dissipating as it normally does. Silver linings, eh? Though on the down side, I invariably don’t look great, definitely don’t smell great, and if she’s had a skinful too then no amount of pleading or prodding is going to get me what I (repeatedly) want.

Of course, it’s not all doom and gloomily rearranging my privates on the 38. There are times when the stars and schedules align, and I know nothing will interrupt me until either I’m utterly sated or the dishwasher needs emptying. Woody Allen got it right (not words you hear often these days) in “Annie Hall” (mmm, ’70s Diane Keaton, I’ll be in my bunk, etc.): “don’t knock masturbation, it’s sex with someone I love”.

What all the above does tend to mean is that when I do get time to myself, I spend a lot more of it on self-abuse than, say, doing an open university course, playing squash or learning Flemish. But I’ve long since come to terms with this outcome, because it’s fucking great, regardless of whether or not I’m misunderstood in Oostende.

The gent who wrote this blog post has donated his guest blog payment to the next person, so the next accepted guest blog submission will get £20 instead of the usual tenner. If you have an idea for one, check out the guest blog page and get in touch! 

I’m going to put it out there: I don’t mind if you fake your orgasm. No, really, go right ahead. What’s more, I’ll tell you that I’ve faked orgasms in the past, and if you think that makes me a bad person, or a pitiable sex-deprived creature, then you can fuck a thousand miles off.

In general, if you’re engaging in safe and consensual acts, sex positive people will cheer on your lubed-up love with an open heart and a total lack of judgment.

Unless you fake your orgasms.

Why do we think it’s bad to fake an orgasm?

This blog was prompted by the revelation today that men fake orgasms too. Cue tortured commenters screaming ‘how the fuck is that possible?’ and the inevitable smackdown by sensible people saying ‘well, duh, of course men do this sometimes – they are human.’

Whenever the subject of faking orgasms is raised, the general consensus is that it is a bad thing to do, for one of the following reasons:

• If you fake an orgasm, how is your partner supposed to know how to give you a real orgasm? You’ll be giving them the wrong impression, making them think that fumbling half-heartedly with your clit is the most surefire way to send you to heaven and back. Ergo you end up in a vicious cycle of rewarding poor performance, until your entire sex life consists of limp clit-fumbling gand your own exaggerated screams.
• If you fake an orgasm, it’s because you don’t realise that actually it’s perfectly normal for people not to orgasm. Thus, when you fake, you reinforce society’s ideas that orgasms are de rigeur, even if the shag you’ve just partaken in lasted less than the time it’d take for the kettle to boil.
• If you fake an orgasm, you are tacitly supporting the idea that orgasms are the Only Possible Goal Of Sex, and so both you and your partner will fail to spend time on the non-orgasmic things you enjoy. Like beating each other with wooden spoons or licking cream cheese from the inside of their ear canal, or whatever it is you get up to.

Faking orgasms is not as bad as people say it is

While the arguments above all have some basic merit, I strenuously object to the way they are often used, not as a piece of general advice but as an absolute decree: Thou Shalt Never Do This. Yes, faking orgasms can lead to trouble, or be symptomatic of problems if you’re doing it on a daily basis, but there’s a big difference between accepting these things and acting as if those who fake orgasms are bad at sex, and must be either pitied or corrected.

Realistically, people fake orgasms for a whole host of reasons. Some good, some bad, some practical, some habitual. You know, like many of the sex things we do. Sometimes I’m not up for a long make out session, but my partner is and I know that if I do it chances are I’ll get his hand down my knickers at some point – the jackpot I’m actually angling for. Sometimes I’ll suck a dick not because I’m desperate to get it down my throat, but because it just feels like the natural next step in a fuck I’m playing jazz with. Often we do things because they make us wet and hard and throbbing and horny – occasionally we do them for other reasons.

I’ve faked orgasms

Although the vast majority of it has been spectacular, there have still been occasions where I felt like faking an orgasm was the right thing to do. I’m lucky enough that I usually find it easy to come during a shag, and right now I’m with a long-term partner who has a thick cock and a good rhythm, and who knows me inside out, as it were. I also have a Doxy and my own two hands, should things prove more difficult on a particular occasion, so I haven’t faked one for a good long time. But have I faked orgasms in the past? Goddamn right I have.

Not because I’m tired, or because the sex is appalling and I can’t quite bring myself to say so: I’ve faked orgasms for the simple reason that coming represents the nuclear button in my sexual arsenal – when I come, he is more likely to come.

Six pints into a very late night, if we’re having an exciting fumble followed by a sticky and determined hump, it’s probably going to be tough for both of us. I’m deeply horny, and shivering with lust, but I know that it’s just not going to happen. The one thing I want right now is to feel the twitching throb of his cock pumping spunk inside me. I’m faced with a choice. Do I pull out one of my just-about-adequate sex moves? A hand gripping just the right place, an arched back, a filthy sentence or two to help him on his way? Or do I pull out my ultimate sex move – clenching my cunt nice and tight and moaning like I’ve sat on a washing machine?

Faking orgasms doesn’t make you a bad person

Conclusion of this unnecessarily sweary rant: you’re not an awful bastard if you fake orgasms – no matter what your gender or your reasons, this is a choice that you get to make for yourself. I’m not going to pass any judgment on what it says about your sex life if one day you want to twitch your genitals, roll your eyes, and Meg Ryan your way to climax. Even if you’re fucking me – if you fancy putting a bit of AmDram into it, go right ahead. I’d like to think I can tell, but wouldn’t we all? If you know the end’s a long way away, but you also know I love it when you make those moany noises, then just make the fucking moany noises already. It will, in all likelihood, bring my orgasm closer, and even if it doesn’t then at least we can put a full-stop to proceedings, albeit a jizzless one.

I care about this quite strongly because, as a young-un, I used to fake orgasms quite a lot. Almost every single time. I probably faked more orgasms than I had actual orgasms, even during a period when I was wanking so frequently you’d have thought I had eczema of the clit. I faked, and I pretended, and I loved every second of every minute of every fuck I was having. But every time I scanned an article on sex tips it screamed at me: “do not fake your orgasms! You are ruining your sex life! You are teaching your partner to do the wrong things and basing your love on a lie!” So I’d fret and I’d stress and I’d worry, and in the end I’d fake it anyway, because while I hated feeling like a liar I loved it when he came.

One day, while I was making the noises and twitching my legs and clamping my cunt down hard on his cock, it actually happened for real. The climax started and I felt hotness swell from my knees to my crotch, waves of happy-horny-oh-yes-don’t-stop-fuck-nnngggghhh-jesus-yes crashing hard up to my chest, enveloping me in pleasure and surprising the fuck out of me.

He couldn’t tell, of course, but then I don’t think I really needed him to.

I hate spiders. They terrify me to the point of irrationality. I’ve barged people out of the way to escape them, reflex-kicked my bare feet at walls, and fallen off beds when I suspect there’s one near the headboard. This fear pisses me off, but it’s so guttural and instinctive I doubt I can do much about it. I live with it, because it’s not like I’ll get rid of all the spiders any time soon, and besides – they’re relatively easy to avoid if I have kind friends ready with a glass and a square of paper to hand.

Fear is easy to live with if you rarely have to confront it. But every now and then it ends up confronting me, and I realise that I wasn’t being a big brave girl all along, I was just avoiding something that was so enormous and terrifying I didn’t dare to face it.

I fear being naked.

Body-image and irrational terror

That might sound like a weird confession coming from a sex blogger: I have loads of sex, and I’m frequently naked. But despite getting my kit off on a regular basis, I haven’t combated the fear, I’ve just been finding cunning ways to avoid it. Like the time when I put a mug over a huge spider and left it on my kitchen floor for a week – I’ve dealt with the immediate problem, but the problem still festered away.

When I was carefree and fucking lots of different guys, I’d spend long hours shaving legs and armpits and crotch, plucking stray hairs from random places on my body, sucking my stomach in and avoiding cake. It didn’t make me fear nakedness any less, it just gave me a temporary stay on the hatred I felt for my body. Being naked with guys was vital to my happiness, and being attractive seemed like an impossible goal, but one I should strive for nonetheless. I could be… not gorgeous or stunning exactly just… prettier. Better.

Since I got into a relationship, my fear and hatred of my own body has been dulled. He loves it, so I try to ignore the whispering voice in the back of my head that says it’s just not good enough. Again, though, this isn’t really dealing with the problem any more than putting a mug over a spider will magically send it outside.

Getting my tits out in public

It was hot on the beach. Not the kind of wet-picnic, blue-lipped misery you’d get in Britain, but glorious, blue-sea hot like you get in those glossy holiday brochures. It was also one of those beaches where most people are topless. I was fascinated. These were alien creatures with a philosophy I could barely comprehend – people for whom the fear of tan lines was far greater than the fear of getting their tits out. In fact, looking at the way some of them were strolling around with ice creams, I had a sneaking suspicion that these people weren’t scared of nakedness at all. Imagine. Watching women walk around nearly nude in public gives me similar cowardly envy as watching the playful kids at school pick up daddy-long-legs with their bare hands.

I took my top off in the sea.

Not properly off – it was wrapped around my wrist, tightly like a security blanket. Just in case the tide should suddenly rush out and I was left standing there in half a bikini and an invisible blanket of shame.

“You look awesome,” he said. And “I want to touch you.” And, oh, a million variations on this: you’re beautiful, sexy, hot. I love you. I love the way you are. I love your body. Professing his desire for something that I’ve only ever felt disdain for.

And I wanted to say ‘thanks.’ I’d have loved to do what my mother taught me, and accept a compliment with grace. But I couldn’t do better than a choking, angry “fuck off.” Because he can’t love my body, of course – it’s awful. Horrible. Monstrously wrong and different and bad and appalling.  Just as no one can ever really want a pet tarantula – they just get them to show other people how brave they are. How cool. How unusual. My irrational, fearful self knows this with the blind conviction of someone who is almost certainly wrong.

“We should go to a nudist beach.”

“Hell no.”

“We don’t have to. It’s just… well… it might be fun.” He grinned. “I know you’re nervous, but what if we did it together?”

So we did it together. Shaking with fear and sweating under the flimsy layers of cotton summer clothes, I followed him to a place where it wasn’t just OK to be naked, it was expected. Embraced. The whole thing seemed absurd to me – the idea that people would enjoy being naked more than they liked being clothed. This wasn’t just a practical response to tan lines, it was a genuine love of something that made me nauseous with dread. It wasn’t a fear of being judged – how could I possibly pass judgment on a stranger when the hollow ache of my own terror is rendering me insensible? And how could they possibly pass judgment on me when I couldn’t imagine them having anything other than the same ridiculous worries?

I didn’t fear these people. I feared myself. I feared my body.

Just get over it

This week, the amazing @ArchedEyebrowBR blogged on Summertime body shaming. She highlighted the ludicrous simplicity of the idea that in order to get a bikini body you just have to ‘get a bikini and put it on your body’. Of course it’s not that easy. It’s definitely not that easy for me. Because although my rational mind wants to stamp out all the body-shaming, all the self-loathing and misery, it’s not just a case of ‘forgetting about it’ or ‘getting over it.’

If it were that easy I’d have done it already. I’d have embraced the fact that – in truth – my body isn’t monstrous or horrible or any kind of enemy: it’s actually fine. Sometimes fatter, sometimes thinner, sometimes hairier or paler or bruised for no apparent reason. That would be the rational thing to think, and I know right now that it is the truth in the same way as I know right now that spiders are more scared of me than I am of them, and it’s not like we live in Australia or anything where the little fuckers can kill you with a single bite.

But self-loathing isn’t rational, or easily brushed aside.

With the sun shining, my boy whispering words of kind encouragement, I got ready to do it. I set my brain to work overdrive in ‘rational’ mode, telling me that my body was gorgeous and my concerns were unnecessary, that no one was looking and no one cared and those that did look would probably be smiling. Finally, eventually, I took off my bikini. Hooray for me! Well done! I overcame my fear of being naked! What a happy ending!

Once it was off, I lay naked for ten minutes sobbing face-down into a beach towel.

I’m not saying I’ll always be like this, or even that I’m guaranteed to be like this – on a good day with a fair wind and a happy outlook I’ll probably be less tearful and more strident. Nor am I saying that anyone else should be like this, or should feel obliged to get over it if they are. All I’m saying is that it’s hard. It’s harder than I make out sometimes, when I write rational, angry blogs about what is not wrong with you. It’s harder than just ‘getting confident’ or ‘ignoring your worries’ or ‘facing your fears’. I’m saying that I’ve stamped on a few, but there are still a million spiders. Sometimes I worry that there always will be.

I’ve been lax in my sex blogging, for I have not yet mentioned that May is National Masturbation Month. It’s nearly over, so presumably as soon as it has finished we’ll all put away any sex toys we might have lying around, pull up our trousers and get on with our lives. Until then, though, I thought I should mark the occasion.

I’ve had a long and joyous relationship with wanking. From initial ecstatic delight when I realised I could make myself come through my jeans through to weary defeat at the end of a day ‘working from home‘ in which the only work I had successfully completed was giving myself a sore shoulder and a tingling clit. I am, if nothing else, a complete and utter wanker, and I have been for all of my adult life. But in the very beginning I didn’t realise just how varied, joyous, and interesting wanking could be.

When you’re sitting at a computer screen with one hand down your jeans and a shining strand of drool dangling from your lips to your keyboard, it’s easy to forget that wanking isn’t always something simple, or functional. Fuck it, it isn’t even always solo. So, composed just after my most recent hand shandy, here’s a Brief History of My Thoughts on Wanking.

Pre-masturbation

People don’t really do that, do they? It sounds a bit weird and not particularly fun. Don’t they have any good books to read instead?

Initial discovery of masturbation

Holy Christ on a cock horse, this is what all the fuss was about! I need to do as much of this as possible, so that I can research all the slight variants on how it makes me feel amazing. If I just angle this bedside light correctly I can position the cold metal of the lampshade so it chills one of my nipples while I rub myself through my pants.

OK. That was excellent. I should probably go down to breakfast now. I’ll just quickly test it on the other nipple. What if I roll onto my stomach? What if I lie on the cool tiles of the bathroom floor? What if I…? Why are you still here? Please excuse me while I fail to eat, sleep, or do anything productive for the next two to three years of my life.

A year after discovering masturbation

I might have to go to the doctor because I think my clit is broken. No matter how much I rub it, all I feel is a bit numb.

A week after worrying that I’d broken my clit

Seems to be OK again. Clearly leaving it alone every once in a while is a good idea. I should do that more often. Ah, who am I kidding? *locks bedroom door*

Upon discovering sex

So, like, I probably won’t want to wank as much now, which I guess is for the best given the whole clit-break thing. But then the sex I’m having is really fucking hot. I should think about it a bit and… dammit.

Upon discovering mutual masturbation

You know that thing boys do where they ineffectually prod your clit? I sort of want to grab their hands and show them how I do it.

After showing them how I do it

Holy God that’s good. That’s… yes. That’s… umm… mmmm… yes that’s pretty much spot on. Little to the left. Harder. Bite my nipple… unngh. Yeah.

Just before wanking in front of someone for the first time

I’m not entirely sure I want you to watch me wanking. I wank far too quickly and I make odd faces and weird noises and you won’t fancy me any more and it’ll be awful.

Just after wanking in front of someone for the first time

If it always gets this reaction I should do it way more often. In fact, if it made all guys jizz that hard I would open my own show in the West End.

Present day, during sex

I’m so close. So close. So clo… I’ll just reach down here for a bit. He seems to like that.

“Do you like that?”

“Fuck yeah. Come for me.”

As he fucks me nice and deep and hard I move my fingers to the place I’ve loved since that first youthful exploration. I spit and I rub and I grind against him, and I feel his dick deep inside me. I rub with a frantic desperation and a need born of total abandon – a love for my clit and for his dick and a lack of shame about what the two can do together. When the waves of orgasm hit my cunt spasms around him, squeezing the first jets of spunk from his cock. He licks my fingers.

A tribute to masturbation

Wanking is awesome. It’s my greatest stress relief, my most enjoyable hobby, my favourite procrastination tool and one of my very best friends. In fact, if you measure affection in terms of how often your lover makes you come, how well they know and understand you, how easily they can enhance your highs and smooth your lows, then it’s not exaggerating to tell you that masturbation is truly the love of my life.

I’d kiss my own hand, if it weren’t so sticky.