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 am a sucker for colloquialisms, particularly when they’re to do with sex. One of the first things I learn when I go to other countries is find out their dirty sex words. Get me drunk enough and I’ll share with you some of my favourite words and phrases. To be honest, even in a sober state I’ll happily explain to you how the Japanese word for ‘cunt’ is but two tiny dots away from the word for ‘mango’, and how this got me out of a fair bit of trouble when I was practising my letters.

But some of the best colloquialisms come from Ireland. It’s not just that I read them while imagining a gorgeously lilting Irish accent, it’s the fact that the words themselves sound so much more playful than their boring London equivalents.

Lad. Mickey. Ride.

Awesome.

Today’s guest blogger has some super-hot things to say about words. What’s more, she gives us an overview of these pretty, playful Irish colloquialisms. She’s brand new to sex blogging, so if you love her words then please do check out her blog – Abbi Rode. You can also follow her on Twitter at @OCDcrankypants.

Words I love, words I hate

Everyone calls their parts different things, at different times with different people. I know most girls don’t like the words I like but I’m not speaking for most girls, I’m speaking for me.

My favourite two words for my holiest of holies are pussy and cunt. There is no way to mistake the sexual in those two, it oozes from them. And if I’m talking about sex then I want powerful sex words to use.

They’re actually the only two I like. I’m sure it started with Don Draper (not the actual, but a guy who was like him, all confidence). He only had to look at me and talk to me to get me wet. One time he had me laid out on the bed, utterly exposed he was kneeling at the edge of the bed, he had my legs wrapped around him. But he was entirely in control. He wouldn’t even let me sit up. He looked directly at me and told me to be quiet. This immediately got me breathing fast, then he licked his thumb, and rubbed it up the lips, then put his thumb in his mouth, leaned down and whispered “I love this cunt.” I gasped, he again told me to be quiet or he’d stop. With his wet thumb he rubbed it again up the lips and I started to buck at this point, he held me still with one arm. Looked me directly in the eye and smelled his thumb and said “This is the best smelling cunt in the world, and I own it. I’m going to do exactly what I want to it.” It was him, how he was, the way he looked at my pussy and the way he got me so excited with the power of one word. That was it, I loved it ever since. But only said like that, only in the context of sex. I don’t even think he knew what he did that day. I don’t think he even cared, he was just doing what he wanted and I was almost incidental to that. He was in control, worshipping it getting the reactions he wanted.

From then on all he had to do was whisper in my ear, anywhere that we were, that he wanted my cunt, that he loved the smell of my cunt… anything with that word and it brought me straight back. So I love that word, I think more people should be aware of how sexy it is and get the pleasure from it, it’s the last really taboo word.

Pussy is another one that girls seem to hate. I know many feminists, who would be OK with cunt, still don’t like this one. But I do. It seems so guttural, so common, so… well… dirty and obvious. I just like it. I think it’s powerful and it can’t really be used in any other context than sex. You’re not going to the doctor to talk about your pussy, are you? And it’s a little tamer than cunt. You need descriptions for different excitement levels and these serve the purpose.

I don’t think I mind vagina, I just think it’s terribly unsexy. Again that’s what I’d say in a clinic. Even if discussing with my partner after the fact and he said “Is your vagina ok, I think I was a little rough”. Nope, don’t care for that at all. I did like that one guy used to refer to it as my ‘va-jean’. It was cute and it worked. Obviously not during sex, but general enquiries into its well-being “So, you got waxed yesterday, how’s your ‘va-jean’, ready for action?” Perfect.

Fanny – I’m not mad on this. It’s a word from childhood and the American understanding for it as ‘bum’ has it ruined for me. Either way, it’s not one I choose to use or hear used referring to me.

Now box, I hate. Just because I can’t understand how anyone thought it was a good description for something so warm, soft, inviting and categorically not angular. It makes no sense and my very rational mind is both confused and insulted by the term. It baffles me.

I can never settle on a word for my rack that I’m entirely comfortable with. I’m OK with tits, boobs, breasts. But each seems weird in the wrong context. I know that I do hate boobies, seems too childish, the same with titties. I may have to investigate this further?

While we’re on that I don’t think I ever say mickey either, it just seems the wrong end of comical. I think if I was insulting someone I might say it:

“Big swinging mickey, I’ve had better.”

Dick and cock are my equivalent to pussy and cunt, respectively. I love cock – read that however you want to. It’s meant every way. It’s my favourite word for my favourite part of a man. I do like dick every now and then, I need variety. And I don’t think I’ve come across anyone that’s taken umbrage to their member being called either of those things.

I don’t think I ever use the word lad, again unless in a somewhat comical way “And I walked in the kitchen and there he was with his lad out.”

And tool is only for insults, really isn’t it?

I have been known to refer to a particularly big penis as a weapon, I can’t take credit for this, I robbed it from a friend who used it when recommending someone.

This list could be endless.

Thanks Abbi, now I have to go and cold-shower away all these mental images of hot dudes getting their ‘lads’ out, and filthy men whispering dark somethings about my cunt. If you enjoyed the above, do check out AbbiRode.com, and let Abbi know about your own favourite sex words in the comments. Personally, I’ll swap you a Japanese word that means ‘the sound of wanking’ if you can give me ‘cunt’ in any other language.

And if you’re a sex blogger, particularly if you’re just starting out and want to build some traffic, I’d love to hear from you – check out my guest blog page and get in touch if you’d like to write something.

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.

Here are a few things my boy is a fan of:

• My hair being short
• My cunt being freshly shaved
• Me wearing a dress
• Me wearing his clothes

Can you guess which common theme ties these all together?

Novelty is sexy

No matter how much you love someone’s scruffy jeans and bog-standard t-shirt/hoodie combo (and I have to say I do: I really really do), there’s something deeply hot about novelty. The person you see day in, day out turning up looking as if they’ve been taken over by someone else.

That, I suspect, is why suits are so deeply arousing. I don’t go weak at the knees over the men who get on the tube day after day in a standard-issue blue suit with pastel-coloured shirt: they’re clearly the people for whom ironing shirts and selecting an appropriate tie is part of their daily routine. But my God, when a guy I’m dating gets scrubbed and pressed for a special occasion, both my heart and my knickers melt at the sight of it.

It’s not that you look much different in a suit: you still have the same face, same hair, same body. But all of those things are decorated in a new and beautiful way. Just as the high street looks more magical with Christmas lights, you look more magical in a suit.

My new sexy hair

So, novelty is sexy. But that doesn’t mean that I’m going to spend half my life trying new outfits and hairstyles and facial expressions just so I can inject pizzazz into any sexual encounter I have with someone I’ve known for a while. 

It’s not just for him that I get my hair cut – I find it pretty fucking sexy as well. Not out of an arrogant desire to show off, you understand: my hairdresser’s good but she’s not good enough that the new cut will hide the fact that I’ve put on a bit of weight and have bags under my eyes you could carry a weeks’ worth of shopping in. It’s not because my new hair makes me sexy, it’s because it makes me different.

Difference isn’t about becoming a different person: it’s about the ability to slightly tweak your feelings along with your appearance. If I’ve been feeling shite for the last few weeks, cutting off half my hair and seeing someone noticeably newer in the mirror gives me the chance to cut off some of the other stuff I’m feeling too. New-hair GOTN just isn’t the sort of miserable twat who’d sit around moaning about stuff: she looks like the sort of achieving go-getter who’d… I don’t know… stand up and moan about stuff.

This works not just for hair: new underwear, a ridiculous colour of nail varnish, a new piercing, half an hour spent bothering to put on make-up. And, incidentally, it means that not getting my hair cut, or shaving my cunt, or doing any of the things that magazines tell me I should do every single day, is utterly crucial to milking the sexual joy out of my changes in appearance. The sexiness of novelty relies on the everyday sexiness of the ordinary – they are two sides of exactly the same coin.

Fuck me like I’m someone else

I think part of the attraction of changing my appearance comes from a long-held desire to fuck strangers. I don’t fuck strangers these days, but I do flirt wildly with them. New men, with different bodies and clothes and mannerisms and accents… they’re special. If I’m meeting you for the first time, and you’re a guy, chances are I’ll spend the first hour or so of our conversation batting away mental images of what it’d be like if you bit my neck. Or slipped a hand up my skirt. Or ordered me to my knees and pushed your aching dick through my eager, open mouth: I can’t help it.

But changing my appearance gives me a tiny flash of that ‘fucking strangers’ hotness, no matter how well I know the guy I’m fucking. Because I’m new now. I’m different. I won’t necessarily drop to my knees the way you know I will – I might push you back on the bed and grind myself up against your straining cock. I might beg you to spit in my mouth, or find myself spitting in yours. I could do this any time, of course, but I don’t often realise I can until something changes about me, and it clicks into place that – hey! I don’t have to be the same person every day.

What I’m saying is that newness is filthy. I’m saying change is sexy. I’m saying bend me the fuck over, grab a handful of my freshly-cut hair, and screw me like we’ve never met.