Category Archives: Filthy ones
On female ejaculation: my struggle with squirting and pressure
I’ve never asked a guy to pick me up and fuck me against a wall. This isn’t because I don’t want it, of course. The idea of a guy picking me up and fucking me against a wall is so deeply horny that I felt the need to write the phrase twice in the first paragraph just so I could experience a double-helping of sexy shivers.
On grunting
Guys, you know that sometimes when you’re masturbating, you make a deep, sharp grunting noise in the back of your throat as you come? I like that. I like that a lot.
In fact, I would go so far as to say that it is the hottest thing about masturbation.
Not when I make that noise, of course. When I make that noise (as I occasionally do) it’s a shameful thing – something that I’m embarassed about, that makes me worry that the neighbours might be compiling a tally chart of just how often I make it so they can write a disgusted letter to the council. I expect you feel the same, which is why I’m here to tell you that it’s not shameful. Or disgusting. It is hot as all hell.
Warning: pervery on the horizon
Be warned that this post is building to something I’ve been informed is relatively disgusting, so if the idea of boys making this noise while they masturbate themselves to a grim and functional climax horrifies you, look away now and come back next week for some less gross but probably more enjoyable feminist ranting.
I frequently ask for cock pictures, and many generous dudes are more than happy to oblige. But the problem with having a steady stream of rock-hard dicks from myriad internet strangers is that the guys I actually fuck sometimes find it hard to compete. I say ‘problem’, but given that my current boy is a playful and competitive sort, ‘challenge’ is probably more accurate.
He once sent me an mp3 file. Yep. Just sound. Because he knows I know what his dick looks like, and he knows I’ve seen enough dick that there are phallic shapes burnt into my retinas, he didn’t want to send me something that was the same as the pictures that other people send me every day.
So he placed his phone on the arm of the sofa, set it to sound record and had a delightfully energetic and incredibly noisy wank.
A wank that ended with a grunt.
Unngh.
Scenes we’d like to see…
I get scenes in my head the way some people get earworms. While you might be humming the chorus from ‘Call me maybe’ because you’ve heard it five hundred times too many when walking around a shopping centre, I’ll have a snippet of hot filth that runs on a loop in my brain for approximately a week or so until I can get it out of my system by either doing it, watching it, or writing about it.
For reasons of etiquette and possibly legality, I can’t do either of the first two. So here goes:
A guy walks into the public toilet at Liverpool Street station, and goes into one of the cubicles. He’s achingly hard, probably suffering from a similar problem to my own – something hot playing on a loop inside his head.
He unzips his flies and pulls his solid cock out from his pants, gripping it tightly at the base and tugging slightly so that the foreskin rides back over the head. A tiny bit of precome leaks from his dick.
He braces himself with one hand against the back wall, and rubs hastily at his cock, biting his lip to avoid making any noise. His hand moves faster, and I can hear the slight shuffle of his hand against his skin, his straining fist rustling at his pants and jeans. It’s furtive, frantic, and there’s an element of practical necessity about it: he’s not horny in the traditional sense, he just needs release. He just needs to do this, to get there, to spray excess spunk into the toilet and relieve the pressure on his aching dick.
After thirty seconds, maybe a minute, he aims his cock down slightly, pointing it directly at the bowl, gives a few more angry rubs, then grunts.
Unngh.
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.
On being grabbed – the hottest way to grab my arse
I’m sure I’m not the only person who goes through sexual phases. One week I’ll be all about mutual masturbation – vigorously rubbing a guy’s cock while I push my tits into his face, and twitching as he matches my speed and pressure stroke-for-stroke on my own clit. At other times nothing will satisfy me except a doggy-style fuck – arse in the air, back arched, and face pressed down onto the mattress as he pounds me with a quick, rapid force. But my current phase has been with me for over a month and shows no immediate signs of abating any time soon. Right now I like being grabbed, in a very specific place. I’m going to tell you the hottest way to grab my arse.
On your discomfort: why I like it when you get public erections
This one’s going to sound mean. Some of you will be horrified that I can gain so much pleasure from something which, for you, is embarrassing and uncomfortable. But I’m going to put it out there on the off-chance that others not only agree but get a little bit dribbly and cross-eyed at the thought of it. I like it when you get public erections.