Search Results for: lust
On bad things my mind does when it’s unoccupied
Suffering from painful and embarrassing writer’s block, I set to Twitter to ask people what they wanted to read. Rather unsurprisingly, the answer was ‘porn’. But some people specifically requested a fantasy. A wise choice – there’s only so much of my own sordid sexual experience that anyone can take. So for only the second time in however-long-I’ve-been-doing-this, here’s an untrue story.
On 50 Shades of Grey, and other people’s porn
As a purveyor of dirty blog porn, I have an inherent bias towards masturbatory material that involves words instead of pictures. Bottom line: I want more people to read more porn.
Kissing: How to be an excellent kisser
I should probably take the ‘over 18s’ warning off my site for this post, as I’m going right back to first base by discussing kissing. As with all of my posts, though, there’s probably still some mention of dicks, so don’t start reading it out loud to your grandma.
Kissing’s good. And it’s not just for teenagers. Much like tit-groping, kissing seems to get neglected as we age. A fumbling snog is no longer the goal in mind when you chat someone up – it’s a bridge you have to cross before they agree to full sex. I think this is a crying shame and – if your final goal is good sex – a serious lapse of judgment.
With apologies to Cher, a kiss can’t really tell you whether someone loves you. But it can certainly tell you to what degree they want to rip your knickers off and pound you like you’re in trouble.
Kissing makes a world of difference
I could be with the loveliest guy in the world, dripping wet with anticipation for the moment he first sticks his hand down the back of my jeans, and be turned off in just a second if he kisses me unenthusiastically.
Alternatively, a guy for whom I have only a modest amount of affection can have me panting with desperate fucklust just by kissing me the right way. I can pinpoint the time I started taking a certain guy seriously to the moment when he lay on top of me on the sofa and kissed me so hard I actually moaned.
It was slow, but with force and pressure. As he was doing it he pinned my body down on the sofa and pressed himself between my legs like he wanted to trap me beneath him. He held my wrists behind my head so I couldn’t move, and kissed me for a good half an hour.
When I said ‘please, please fuck me’ he ignored my requests and kept going. And I kept moaning. And by the time he finally pulled down my jeans to get at my cunt the relief was so great that my eyes watered.
How to be a good kisser
Contrary to the wisdom of the teen movie, no one can actually teach you how to kiss except the person you’re kissing.
Some traditional top tips include:
- don’t use too much tongue
- don’t waggle your head around too much
- try not to dribble down their chin
And I’m not a fan of people who use these techniques either. But I’m pretty sure some people like it because I’ve been with men who do kiss like that. I’ve had guys dribble and lick. I’ve had some who kiss like they’re in Byker Grove on fast-forward. And I’ve had some all over my face, forcing their tongues so deep into my mouth that I’m not sure whether to keep kissing or just suck on it like it’s a prehensile, face-mounted dick.
But some people must like it, because they do it. So my advice (if you want to be good) is to try and kiss like your partner – take your cues from them. Best case scenario: you learn to love their style. Worst case scenario: at least you’re doing roughly the same thing, so you’re less likely to clash teeth or give your partner whiplash.
But my advice if you really want to enjoy it is to encourage them to kiss like you. If both of you move towards an acceptable kissing compromise you’ll probably end up somewhere in-between which works reasonably well for both parties.
Do more kissing
Do more kissing – however you choose to do it. It’s a bit of a ‘Cosmo’ piece of advice, but I mean it. Kiss. Kiss with enthusiasm. Kiss like you want to fuck. Kiss like if you do it well enough the girl you’re with will slick her knickers, because – listen carefully – it’s true.
In bed, in the shower, in the kitchen, while you’re watching TV – kiss. On the scale of ‘dull’ to ‘fucking awesome’ it’s a hell of a lot higher than you might think.
A good kiss can make the difference between a nice shag and a spectacular fuck. Kissing makes my cunt drip and my nipples hard before you’ve even taken any clothes off. Kiss me well and not only will I be more likely to fuck you, I’ll be actively begging you to do anything you want.
After a full-on weak-at-the-knees snog, not only will I plead with you to touch my tits, hurt me and fuck me in the ass, you’ll hear the dirtier stuff come out too. The stuff I might be nervous to ask for if you hadn’t just made me insensible with passionate snogging. Kiss me gently and nervously and we’ll have the awkward shy sex. Kiss me with confidence and you can beat me with a coathanger, piss all over me, force your fist part of the way into my aching cunt, then come on my face and scoop droplets of your fresh spunk right into my filthy, kissable mouth.
It’s probably lucky I kept the +18 warning after all.
On what is not wrong with you, part 5: your hair
I haven’t done a ‘what is not wrong with you‘ post for a while, but this particular gripe has been brewing for a couple of weeks, so I thought it high time that I spat it out.
Men: I don’t give a shit about your hair. There, I said it.
There’s a creeping trend for men to start caring about their hair, and I don’t like it. Yes, it’s nice to look nice and if having a special haircut gives you a boner when you look in the mirror then by all means drop fifty quid at a posh salon. But if you’re just doing it to impress the ladies, my general advice would be not to bother.
Not because all women don’t care (some do) but because I figure that the time, effort and worry invested in something as inconsequential as the collection of keratin strands you collect on top of your head could be much better spent in other ways.
You could learn to play the piano, take up a sport, read books and newspapers – anything. And even girls who like a guy with neatly-trimmed locks will probably admit that they’d rather he were talented, funny, or interesting.
And don’t get me started on the amount of money men are now expected to fork out on hair products – gels and mousses and special shampoo – that could far better be spent on a tube fare to my house to come and fuck me like it’s Friday.
Is it OK to be bald?
I have only ever met two types of women: those who find bald guys incredibly sexy, and those who don’t give a flying fuck.
I happen to fall into the former category – bald guys are sexy as hell. There’s obviously the tactile thing, for a start – touching someone’s head is deeply sensual. Although running your fingers through someone’s curling locks can be nice, nothing quite rivals the feeling of stroking your fingers nice and hard over someone’s scalp, letting them trail down to the back of their neck as they close their eyes to revel in the comfort and lust.
Where was I?
Oh yes. Hair.
Is it OK to be ginger?
I have tried to contain my rage on this point for a long time, but the truth must out: not only is there ‘nothing wrong’ with being ginger, there is something despicably fucked-up about jokingly pretending that people with ginger hair are somehow freakish monsters.
I’ve been told there’s a historical reason for this – something to do with the English hating the Scots (oh, xenophobia, with what comedy genius will you tickle our ribs next?). But I don’t care – I don’t give a shit what pathetic reasons there might be for this half-hearted jocular bullying.
Recent conversation that I actually had with a real, human person:
Me: I would pay serious money to suck that man off.
Him: Really? But he’s so ginger.
It’s a joke – I know it’s a joke. But it’s a fucking awful one.
I knew a girl at college with the most stunning red hair – bright red, curly, down to her waist. She had pale, pale skin with soft hands, a tiny waist and nice small perky tits that you could imagine cupping in your hands while you fucked her. I digress.
The point is that she was ginger, and as so was subject to the most ridiculous jokes – boys would pretend they couldn’t ask her out because, despite her heart-melting beauty, she was ginger. In fact that reason they couldn’t ask her out was that she was searingly intelligent as well as being beautiful. But ginger is a nice default nonsensical insult for imbeciles to use when they have no genuine criticism.
In conclusion
Fuck your fucking hair. Fuck whatever sits atop your head. It’s nice to stroke or play with sometimes but if I’m assessing whether I might like you to stick your cock into me, whatever you happen to be sporting – a crop of strawberry blond curls, an Elvis quiff, a floppy One-Direction-style chop, a shining bald pate or a hat that makes you look like an arsehole – none of these things will make a significant difference.
It’s not what’s on your head that counts, but what’s in it.
