Tag Archives: advice
What’s your seduction style? Mine’s ‘incompetent and terrifying’
When Valentine’s Day comes around I’m struck by the uniform nature of seduction – if we’ve decided to spend the 14th having a sexy evening in, we’re expected to conjure romance and sexiness using lingerie, rose petals, and a strategically timed raise of the eyebrow. Words like ‘intimate’ and ‘sensual’ are hurled around with casual abandon, as if these are things anyone can just conjure out of thin air. As if all sex starts with a soundtrack and a flurry of silk sheets and voile.
I can’t help but think I’m expected to charm guys into bed with grace and dignity, ideally leaving a waft of some expensive perfume leaving a trail from the doorway to the bed.
That is not my seduction style.
The topless snowball fight
Hovering near the top of my ‘missed opportunities’ list, somewhere just behind ‘never getting round to that gangbang dinner party’ is a snowy afternoon in the early noughties.
Remember that time in your life when you were most carefree? Happiest? Most content in your body and intensely, hornily desperate to use it? Well, mine was around about then. Just before I’d started shagging, but long after I’d discovered boys. My weekends and evenings were spent huddled in whispering, weed-smoking, cider-swilling groups, competing with each other to contrive more imaginative ways we could get touched up by our equally-horny peers.
I miss those times.
Where are all the pervy women?
One of the most common questions I am asked (and I say this not to boast but to point out just how much disappointment I could unleash if people found out who I am) is “where can I meet a girl like you?”
This question is usually asked by straight men, who are keen to go to a bar, hook up with someone, fuck her face, then drink a few pints with her before getting ready for round two. Sadly when people ask ‘where can I meet a girl like you?’ I inevitably have to reply: you can’t.
Sorry. I’m not a figment of your imagination as such, but I’m certainly a figment of my own selective storytelling. You can meet me in a bar if you stumble into the right Wetherspoons at the dirty back end of a Friday night, but I won’t look just like this, or talk like this, or engage in this kind of pervy behaviour while you’re sipping your pint.
I’ll be wearing jeans and a jumper with holes in. I might drink and swear and shoot daggers at people who make sexist jokes, but I’ll also be a bit shy and awkward. I might forget your name, or flirt with you in a manner so clumsy it’s a gigantic turn-off. If you’re lucky, I might even sneak off to the toilet to be sick, before ducking out the side-door to avoid awkward goodbyes before I stumble onto the night bus.
So, the short answer is: you will never ever meet a woman who is exactly like a sex blogger, because sex bloggers are – as everyone is online to a certain extent – curated versions of our incompetent, real-life selves. But that’s OK, because that’s not really the question these guys are asking. What they’re usually asking is this:
Coming too quickly – what is ‘premature’ ejaculation anyway?
Some men fuck like I make coffee: cheaply, quickly, and without fear for what you’ll have to wipe up afterwards.
I like this very much.
Naturally no one would want it like that all the time. If every guy came within a few seconds, panting ‘sorry’ five seconds after he’d whispered a ‘shall we?’ then sex would hold about as much joy for me as a quick, relief-fuelled piss behind a tree when I’m out walking and caught short.
But sometimes it’s exactly what I’m after. I love intense fucks: ones where you spend ages fucking me into a frothing squirm of orgasmic desperation, then deliver one or two nice, deep thrusts that give me that relief, but occasionally I bloody love it when you don’t.
When you put your dick inside me and – seconds later – I feel it pulsing come even as your muscles tense with cringing embarrassment.
‘I’m sorry.’
‘That almost never happens.’
‘Give me a few minutes and we’ll go again.’
In defence of monogamy
Here is a can of worms. Please sit down, make yourself comfortable, and watch as I try to sort them into delicate piles without squishing any of them.
I’m in a monogamous relationship. For me, that means that my partner and I both lust desperately after other people, but we try not to do anything about it, save sighing and making the odd comment about how beautiful those other people are.
When I tell people this, often they’re surprised, and some of them make efforts to persuade me that I really should consider opening up my relationship. That it’d be healthier if my guy and I could see other people, or that polyamory is actually the best course of action for everybody in the human race. I like the sound of it: I do. I like the idea that there’s a hell of a lot of love in the world, and you get to share lots of different kinds of love with lots of different people.
Thing is, I’ve tried it, and it sucks for me. It really sucks. I get jealous, angry, upset, and anxious. I feel worthless. My rational brain tells me that he can fuck other people without it having any bearing on how he feels about me, and that if he goes for a drink with a girl he fancies with a view to potentially snogging her at the end of the evening, that act itself isn’t sapping any of the fun or love that he and I share together.
Unfortunately, my irrational brain is a tedious Iago – piping up and screeching “I like not that!”, and ruining everyone’s fun.