Search Results for: lust
On sex excuses
I’ve got a headache. I genuinely have – my head’s throbbing and for once it’s not because I drank too much last night. It’s because I’ve spent an inordinate amount of time growing steadily angry about the husband who detailed his wife’s ‘sex excuses’, and then sent her the spreadsheet.
What does ‘female gaze’ mean?
“Argh you’ve ruined porn for me.”
This is often how conversations begin in my house. After talking to the boy about traditional pornographic tropes, and the way some pornographers are challenging them by making ‘female gaze’ porn, he says he cannot see a traditional extreme porn close-up shot without thinking “oh, that’s very male gaze.”
Hence, I have ruined porn.
Thing is, I find it hard not to notice this stuff too. Having learned a bit about female gaze porn (and as most of what I’m learning about porn I’m learning from Pandora Blake, it’d be remiss of me not to link you to her excellent discussion of female gaze in art and pornography), I’m trying to work out exactly what it is that I like about certain scenes and films that utterly turns me off about others. It’s hard to explain exactly what ‘female gaze’ is in just a few words – the idea is that much of our art and entertainment uses a ‘male gaze’ perspective – in which women not so much ‘portrayed’ as ‘ogled’. ‘Female gaze’ on the other hand, tends to take a different approach – trying to use images and story that would work to tell a story either from a female perspective or to a female audience. In ‘female gaze’ porn, it often translates into wider shots, more dialogue, more rounded characters or a greater focus on female pleasure.
What interests me, though, is that while video porn is something that – although traditionally assumed to be a male product – is now being targeted at both genders, when it comes to written erotica, the vast majority of it is marketed solely at women.
Which is ridiculous, when you think about it. Porn is a genre of entertainment like anything else – open to different interpretations and nuance and style, each of which will appeal differently to different people. Like the difference between a traditional retelling of Shakespeare and a Baz Luhrmann film with guns and stabbings and car chases, what makes porn sexy for one person but shit for another often just comes down to how you tell the story.
Here are two stories. Which do you prefer?
Version 1: A story about fucking
Girl meets boy. She’s wet. Soaking wet so you can see the slickness dripping from her open cunt. She’s smiling, enjoying it. Cupping her own tits in her hands as she lies back on the bed. Open. Waiting. Eager.
He’s hard – his broad hands stroke his fat cock as he stands over her – taking in every inch of her silky, taut, nakedness. Her nipples are hard, and he teases them with his prick. Rubbing the end over them as she moans faintly. The wetness from the tip of his cock leaves a trail on her chest, and she runs a finger over it then licks it off. She smiles.
He moves down her body, touching each bit of her – squeezing her tits, pushing the palm of his hand onto her stomach, running his fingers down through her wet slit. She moans. Kneeling between her legs, he spreads her thighs wide, holding the tip of himself against the entrance of the hole he’s about to fuck.
“Please fuck me.” No pause, straight in. The request made and granted almost simultaneously. He plunges himself into her and she squeals, reaching down to grip his arse with her hands. He fucks her – swift strokes that make her tits jiggle and her breath quick. She gasps, moans, and looks down to see his thick cock pushing into her.
In. Out. Again. More. Harder.
She flips over, presenting her arse for him to fill. As he slides his cock in his big hands grip her, slapping her and leaving red imprints. She moans again, arches her back, pushes herself onto him as he gets closer to coming.
In. Out. Again. More. Harder.
And it’s there – he pulls out, his dick twitching and glistening with the juices from her cunt. He grips the base and – with measured strokes – rubs out arcing ropes of spunk. They splash over her – drops and pools of come all over her arse. A river drips down the crack of her arse, mixing with the wetness in her cunt. His dick twitches a few more times: a few more drops.
And they’re done.
Version 2: A story about fucking
Girl meets boy. She’s halfway between nervous and excited: watching him undress has her nipples feeling tight and cold, and her cunt aching to be touched. She pulls off her knickers and lies on the bed, all the better to take in the view as he pulls off his clothes. His dick’s hard already – thick and pronounced through his tight black shorts. He hooks both thumbs under the waistband and pulls them down – grinning as he watches her eyes grow wide.
She’s touching herself – she can’t help it. The sordid hotel room and the look of this guy and the excitement of knowing she’s doing something new. She’s squeezing herself – teasing her own nipples as she hopes he will soon – hinting that she needs him near her.
She wins. With his dick in his hand he approaches her on the bed, not bothering to hide his enthusiasm – she likes that. He’s stroking himself and wants to touch her – as he rubs the tip of his cock on her nipples she can’t help but let out a moan. No words as such, but they both know this is a ‘yes please’ moan – an ‘oh God do more’ moan. So he does it again, and she moans again, using a finger to trace the wet trail he’s left on her nipple, and licking it off. Revelling in the fact that she’s done this to him.
He moves down her body, touching every inch of her – making the most of what they both know will only happen once. He cups her tits in his hands and squeezes, the firmness and her moaning making his cock twitch and his stomach kick with excitement. His palms flat on her belly, his fingers trailing down to her cunt – he doesn’t know which of them is more excited. Which more aroused. It probably doesn’t matter: all either of them wants is the culmination of this night: the tipsy flirting, the hands-under-skirts under the table, the whispered ‘fuck me upstairs’ that she gave him in the lift. The ache he’d been carrying, semi-hard, in his trousers from that moment.
He’s kneeling between her open legs, savouring the look of need in her face, the way she arches her back ever so slightly to make it easier for him to enter her.
“Please, fuck me.” She begs, half-smiling half-frowning as she thrusts herself towards his dick. He does – long, hard strokes, filling her up and making her cry out with satisfaction. She shudders with the delicious feeling of fulfillment, and glances down to watch as he works his cock in and out of her.
In. Out. Again. More. Harder.
He’s close, he can feel it – deep in the pit of his stomach he can feel climax rushing through him. He should pause, he knows, and wait until she’s had more pleasure from him. But the sight of her face twisted into lustful satisfaction, and the sight of her tits jiggling up and down with each stroke it’s… close. It’s tricky. He wants so much to come but he wants to watch her for a bit longer, hear her cries of joy a few more times. Know that he’s doing this: he’s making her cunt twitch and her eyes light up and her nipples tingling and hard.
She flips over, and he takes a second to calm himself. He squeezes the base of his cock. Blinks once, twice, breathes deeply. She’s doing the same – breathing deeply. Reveling in the power she has to take his orgasm from him. She arches her back, pushing her arse out towards the tip of his cock. Groaning loudly as he enters her.
In. Out. Again. More. Harder.
He bites his lip as he comes – a last-ditch attempt to hold himself back and give himself more time. She grips the pillow with her hands, squeezing it as she’s squeezing him, wanting to milk every drop of enjoyment from this evening. He pulls out, gasping as he reaches the peak of his climax, shooting ropes of spunk over her – twitching from his dick and signalling the end he didn’t want to reach just yet.
She feels the jets of spunk hitting her arse – forceful, strong, and copious – and she aches with delight. She locks the feeling away in her head, as she’s locked the sounds of his grunting gasps and the sensation of his cock tracing the outline of her nipples.
While he’s wishing he’d had more time, she’s pulling up her knickers and wishing herself home. So she can relive her triumph alone.
On why faking orgasms isn’t the end of the world
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.
On the sexiest things guys have said to me
Content warning: Every single thing that happened in this blog post was consensual, enjoyable, beyond wonderful. If you are likely to be triggered by male dominance, and role-playing sexual aggression, you probably won’t enjoy this, but I most certainly do.
Sometimes the difference between a lovely fuck and a powerful orgasm can be just one sentence. It’s true: it’s really, undeniably true.
When I’m alone, coming up with a new scenario which will power the majority of my wanking for the week, the most crucial things aren’t the settings or the characters, but what they say to each other. There’s no point conjuring a threesome with two guys (one much older, one my age) who strip me from the waist down then fuck me over the table during a police interrogation if they refrain from actually interrogating me. The difference between an idle daydream and a full-blown wank fantasy that’ll bring me directly to orgasm, is what the people say while they’re fucking.
“Do you want this? Tell me you love it. Say it. Say you want my dick. Can you feel that? Yeah. You. Fucking. Love. My. Cock.”
It’s important that they punctuate the filthier words with a fuckstroke between each. I know not why.
Often I forget how important these little phrases and sentences are when I’m having actual sex because… well… often I forget to speak when I fuck, as does he. We’re so busy enjoying the feeling of sticky hardness – why would we need to mention to the other just how much we love it? But the other day he said something so good it made me remember.
In the middle of a vigorous, angry, role-play shag in which I played the horny desperate one and he played the dude who was using me as a convenient fucktoy, he said something so perfectly pitched that I couldn’t help but come. I was close, of course – the vicious pounding coupled with a lot of foreplay (and by ‘foreplay’ I mean ‘him beating me as I sucked his dick, then beating me harder if I didn’t do it exactly as he asked’) meant I was teetering dangerously close to the edge of orgasm. He had me on my knees on the edge of the bed, curled into a ball and gripping my ankles.
The power of one sentence (don’t worry, I’ll get to what it actually was, I promise) stayed with me for far longer than a simple “I’m gonna come now” or a “your cunt feels so good.” Both of these things are great, of course, but they don’t linger in the same way as something totally unique, something new. Something – like the following phrases – that guys have said to me and I haven’t been able to shake from my head.
Some of these are years and years old, but I still get wet when I think about them.
Sexiest things ever said to me
“Get on my cock.”
Simple, effective, casual. The use of ‘get’ rather than ‘sit, making it ever so slightly colder and more distant. Drawled with a lazy sigh, as he unzipped his fly and pulled out a thick, satisfying erection that he’d been packing for a while. Drawing our chit-chat to a close with an order so confident I couldn’t bear not to comply.
“Sssh.”
The first time a guy used this I was surprised that no one had used it before. I’d had ‘be quiet’ and ‘careful of the noise‘ as gentle reminders not to disturb the neighbours, but this was completely different. It had nothing to do with what he feared others would hear, and everything to do with him embracing the role of the dominant one – ordering me to do something that was difficult for me, so I could better concentrate on what turned him on.
You were expecting some more unusual things guys have said, though, right? How about this…
“I want to put a scoop of ice cream down the back of your knickers and bury my fucking face in it.”
This phrase, whispered in a voice hoarse with lust, struck me dumb for five minutes. We were sitting in a pub, deciding on whether or not we’d fuck again, whether the aching need for each other outweighed all the rage we felt for each other elsewhere. It was such a perfect expression of the weird love/rage/lust that we both felt, with an extra dose of worshipful need. I didn’t fuck him that day, but as we parted at the train station, in a mournful ‘goodbye’ hug, it took everything in my power not to bite into his neck.
Where were we? Oh, the sexiest thing. The one I promised to tell you at the beginning.
It was during the most vigorous minutes of the fuck, as I was trembling with the effort of trying to stay in position. “Keep hold of your ankles,” he told me, and my cunt tightened. As he shoved his dick into me with sharp strokes, I struggled to keep hold of them – to maintain the tight, curled posture that allowed him, standing up by the side of the bed, such easy access to my cunt. My neck hurt, and I shifted, losing grip on one of my ankles. He grabbed my hips and pulled me back.
“Hold that position.” Each word punctuated with a fuckstroke, just like it is in my dreams.
I held it. I held it for longer. I slipped again. By this point he’d given me enough ‘that’s it’ and ‘good girl’s’ to have me dripping down the inside of my thighs, which were shivering with the stress of staying still and the beginning of the build to a hard, heavy climax.
Then I slipped again. And he said it:
“If you don’t hold this position, and I can’t come, I’m going to beat you so hard.”
And I came. Squeezing around him and shuddering all the way from my thighs up to my chest, I came so hard I thought I was going to push his cock out of me. Which I would have, of course, if he hadn’t been in ‘dominant’ mode, and holding me tight against his crotch so he could feel every single inch of my cunt throbbing and constricting around his dick. Milking the spunk out of him as he tipped over the edge too.
I imagine that line, like the ice-cream one, or the first ever gruffly-whispered ‘sssh’, will stay with me for a long, long time. I may forget how it felt, or the way the room looked, or the tingling feeling of his huge palms slapping my naked arse, but that sentence won’t leave me – it’s pitch, timing, tone, all perfectly tailored to my individual kinks. When I’m old and frail and incapable of holding that awkward sex position, I’ll remember the guy who ordered me to, and bite my lip with nostalgic desire.
On sexy accents
The other day a guy jokingly told me to ‘get tae fuck’ in a drawling Scottish accent. It was so thick and deep and heavy I felt like I was being beaten with it. His words were good, but his accent laced them with a thoroughly silky sexuality that left me reeling a bit. In my fevered imagination later that day, the guys who play out porn scenes in my head adopted the same sexy accent – rolling their rs as they pounded six shades of fuck into me.
Is it a direct association? One of the men I have loved deeply in my life was Scottish. I sat for hours with him on the phone, enjoying even his most tedious of stories as he muttered them down the earpiece and directly into my brain. But it can’t all be down to direct association – some of my favourite sexy accents come not because I’ve fucked a speaker but just because I’ve listened in gaping, lustful awe as a hot guy on telly spits sexy rage in a specific dialect.
My own accent is – for the most part – boring. It swings between posh-phone-voice and drunken slag, depending on how many glottalstops I bother to suppress. I’m sad to have no sexy voice of my own to exchange with gorgeous men, but for the record here is a subjective and inexhaustive list of five sexy accents that make my legs quiver.
Top five sexy accents
5. Southern US
Spot five on my ‘sexy accents’ list swaps in and out depending on my mood, and is usually dictated by the latest sexy thing I’ve seen on telly. Currently it’s the Walking Dead, in which Daryl Dixon plays a crossbow-toting, hunt-and-shoot sex God of undeniably epic proportions. His accent isn’t thick, but there’s just enough of just the right tone to make me imagine him drawling ‘git back here, woman’ as I get out of bed.
4. Irish
I KNOW RIGHT. I am as shocked as you that this doesn’t take the top spot. For years Ireland has reigned as the country with the sexiest accents, and not just because of amazing sex words like ‘ride’ and ‘lad‘. From Irish barmaids offering to top up your pint to Irish gentlemen offering to get on their knees and pleasure you with their grinning, eager face, most people I know have had a fantasy about someone inviting them to bed with lilting, singsong tones. It’s up there as one of my favourites, though, and I think it always will be.
3. Scottish
I don’t blame you guys if you vote for independence I just… can I make a small request? Don’t be strangers. Call us up every once in a while and say ‘pish’ down the phone, and bark sexy swearwords into our eager ears, because everyone knows Scottish is officially The Best Accent To Swear In. In fact, even if you do vote for independence, I will still love you just as much as I do right now – I think we’ll reach Peak Excellent Swearing Point if an entire country full of Scots rise up as one and, in a booming, angry voice, tell England to “get tae fuck.”
2. Northern
Say ‘butty’ – go on. Say ‘last’. Say ‘bastard’. Say ‘I’m going to fuck you nice and deep in the cunt.’ If you’re crooning these words and phrases in a creamy Lancashire accent, congratulations: you are sexy. You have a sexy, sexy, sexy accent and I want to eat you all up.
1. German
German is given a really fucking bad press as being an ‘ugly’ language, and it’s always annoyed me a bit. Sure, if all you watch is Nazi documentaries on the History channel it’s probably hard to find German sexy – it will have far too many negative associations, and a distinct lack of poetry. But listen to the amazing soundtrack to the spectacular musical ‘Cabaret’ and suddenly it becomes a silky, soft, yet powerful accent. Combining gentle ‘ch’ and ‘ssh’ noises with hard ‘ah’s and sibilant ‘ist’s. I cannot get enough of it.
Before I die, I want to find a man who speaks German and loves spanking. I will seduce him with cake and promises, and he’ll return the favour by whispering gentle filth at me while I suck him off. Then he’ll beat me with a belt while counting ‘eins, zwei, drei’, just to give me a benchmark against which to compare all other sex.