It’s late, you’re tired and horny, but home is a long way away and the alleys are riddled with CCTV cameras and drunk revellers, giving one no privacy in which to administer a suck-job to an equally horny friend. At these times, the UK is ill-equipped to cater to your deviant lusts, unless you’re willing to pay a week’s rent for one night in a scummy hotel.

When it comes to impulsive sex spaces, other countries do it far better.

Korean DVD bangs

In Korea, there exist special rooms called ‘DVD bangs’. At least, there used to. It’s been a while since I was there, and they’ve probably now been replaced with ‘video streaming bangs’ or ‘Angry Birds bangs’ or whatever the kids prefer these days.

In Korean, ‘bang’ means ‘room’, and so DVD bangs were essentially just places where you’d go to hire a DVD and watch it on a big telly – the kind you either couldn’t afford to have at home or would reject because its gigantic size made it impractical for anything other than a dividing wall. You enter the complex, pick a DVD, thumb through your phrase book to work out how to say ‘how much?’ in Korean, then the person behind the counter takes your money and directs you to a room with a number on the door.

We picked something appalling and shit – I cannot remember what. Some bullshit early-90s movie that we’d seen a million times before. We weren’t there for the DVD so much as the ‘bang’, and the idea of being able to hire a private room for a couple of hours for less than the cost of a vodka and tonic was just about perfect. The room itself was small – dark and dingy and furnished with just the aforementioned TV, a sticky leather sofa and – we took this as proof that it wasn’t just for watching – a roll of toilet paper.

Japanese Love Hotels

When you mention quick fucks in paid privacy, lots of people will leap up and shout “ooh, do you know in Japan they have kitsch hotels designed just for fucking, with pictures of Hello Kitty in bondage ropes on the walls?”

To which I reply, “yeah, except there’s usually more bondage than Hello Kitty if you pick the right ones.”

As he emerged from the Subway exit I went a bit weak at the knees. This guy had swept into my life on a wave of filth and heat and the fear that our time would be short. We didn’t touch in public, but at the entrance to the station I turned him east and pointed out my favourite love hotel. A beaten-up, garish building which featured a room I’d wanted to use for a long time.

It had chains all over the bed – cuffs and collars and even some medieval stocks – positioned right at the end of the bed so you could either get in doggy with your head through the hole and be fucked in a way that wouldn’t kill your knees, or standing up on the floor, with your partner gripping your hips as you choked happy fuck noises in the other direction.

They say Japan’s got it nailed when it comes to quickie shags. To be fair, the sweaty, desperate, let’s-try-it-all-before-time-runs-out shag I had with that guy certainly put it on the leader board. But as far as I’m concerned, if you’re wandering the streets late at night with a horny partner, there’s one place that hits the perfect spot.

Amsterdam sex booths

It stinks in here: sweat and spunk and sorrow. A thousand lonely wanks by a thousand lonely people crouched in this wipe-clean booth. We bundle in, hoping we snuck past the guy on the front desk without him realising there were two of us. We huddle together on the damp bench, push the door closed. There’s a mirror on the door and a TV behind the bench – an awkward way to get round the problem of space.

When you put a Euro in the slot something filthy starts playing, and you watch the reflection in the back of the door while you wank yourself to a climax.

Unless you’re us. If you’re us you smoosh as close as you can together, pushing fingers and hands inside each other’s clothes. Rubbing, kissing, crushing forearms against mouths to prevent any noise. You pause – one beat, two beats – hearing tinny music from outside and the oh-so-dirty shuffling from the booth next door. The rhythmic shuffling of a guy on his own.

I press a button, flip the porn, browsing the five or six available channels to find one that isn’t awful. Two women. Three women. A gaping ass. A gang bang. Mascara-streaked, sobbing, guilt-inducing shit. Ah, better: a fuck. All we really want.

I drop to my knees and start sucking him – the smell of his shower gel mingling with the musky post-jerk-off spunky scent of others. It’s like being in that sex cinema all over again – the ghosts of wankers past linger through the fluids they left behind. He pushes my head down onto his cock, puts another Euro in the slot. Reclines.

I turn around, face squashed against the door of the tiny booth, barely room to move. Yet somehow I manage to get my knickers down just far enough that I can sit on it. Squish. Slick. He lets out a muffled cry and I bite my lip. At least one of us has to remain quiet. Quickly, silently, I fuck him with hard strokes, trying not to touch the walls too much, struggling to keep time as my legs start to tremble with arousal. I slip.

It’s easier on the floor. Squatting in front of the bench I can grip his thighs for balance, feeling the wet lust dripping into my knickers and the twitching of his arousal in my mouth. He puts in another Euro and whispers “please. Please. I’m going to come.” So I suck him harder, I push my head as far down on his cock as it will go so I get to feel the pressure as the jet of spunk hits the back of my throat.

His legs tense up, and he presses the button – flicking quickly through all the channels. Two girls. Three girls. Gaping ass. Gang bang. A montage of porn that he’s no longer really watching, just a visual collage to hammer home the seedy, desperate nature of the booth itself. As he comes in the back of my mouth I close my throat, collecting his spunk there while I breathe in through my nose.

Sweat. Come. Guilt. Sadness. Lust.

All for just three Euros.

Given my apparent inability to meet celebrity crushes and speak to them like a normal human being, I have made a quite concerted effort not to meet my heroes. At events where interesting science-minded people give talks that make me fall in love with their knowledge, I’ve usually steered clear of them at the post-talk drinks, run away if I see my friends with them, and all but hidden in the toilet if I bump into one.

(more…)

The average adult reads at 250 words per minute. That means that the average person will read this blog post in under three minutes. As you’re reading that online, most of you will naturally read faster than you would if you were reading print, potentially skimming through a few sections of text as you skip ahead to particularly fascinating subheadings.

Frantically rubbing my clitoris

As you read this post, I want you to imagine the stage you’d be at if you’d started masturbating at the beginning. During the first sentence you opened your fly, pulled down your pyjama bottoms, or lifted your skirt and yanked your knickers to one side – whatever best fits your own masturbatory routine.

By now you’re about ten to twenty seconds in. For some of you, you’ll be in the ‘early arousal’ stage – just starting to get wet, or hard, or tingly, perhaps licking your fingers or reaching for the lube to speed things along.

Others might get there a bit more quickly – you’ll have graduated beyond the initial fumblings and be furiously frigging yourself, making all the delicious slick-wet or dry-rub noises that you most associate with this pleasurable past time.

If you read at the average speed, we’re now about thirty to forty seconds in.

If you’re me, you will have come already.

Speed wanking, and why I’m a bit odd

As a child I was a big fan of the film Grease. Big songs, big hair, and John Travolta in a tight leather jacket – what’s not to love? Somewhere in that film there’s a line about sex taking “just fifteen minutes.” Because I was young and inexperienced, I took this not just as a casual joke but a cast iron biological fact with the result that, during my teenage years, I was beset with occasional bouts of intense worry. I thought that either:

a) I wasn’t doing wanking right, because it was taking me between 30 and 45 seconds to come, and that if I kept doing it for longer I’d experience a ‘proper’ orgasm. This didn’t work too well, because too much wanking post-orgasm caused me much sadness and occasional intense pain. So the only other possibility was that:

b) I was a biological anomaly, and when I eventually got into bed with a man he would scream and run as soon as the first waves of orgasm twitched around his totally normal, 15-minute-ready dick.

The grass is always greener in someone else’s pants

Now that I’m an adult, I’m pretty used to my personal body quirks, and although things naturally take me a bit longer when I’m shagging, as a general rule my wanking has remained pretty quick. Thirty seconds, give or take.

I don’t usually think about it but the other day I had a conversation with a guy in which he told me – in exquisitely growling and lustful detail – about evenings he spends treating himself to extended masturbation sessions. These are the opposite of 30-minute wanking sprints – they last from when he walks in the door after work to when he finally ejaculates at bedtime. Porn, more porn, toys, slow rubbing on the sofa, frantic bouts of near-orgasmic frotting, pausing just before he comes, breaks for coffee, cigarettes and phone calls. Everything you’d do if you had all the time in the world and nothing but your genitals to play with.

I’m sad that I can’t ever really enjoy the kind of extended sessions guys like him have told me about – edging for hours until they’re ready to spurt at the lightest touch, or calmly stroking themselves to a plateau of not-quite-coming as they enjoy a particularly horny video. But even when I try to do this I fail miserably. If I watch porn (which I do, although probably not as often as people who are conoisseurs of it) I’ll watch it for about five minutes, find a section that I really like, then immediately initiate the frenzied clit-rubbing that’s so speedy and loveless I can almost hear the Countdown theme tune in my head.

It’s not that I hate wanking and need it to be over as soon as possible, or even that I’m biologically incapable of drawing it out. I wonder if it’s because when I’m alone and horny,  spending longer than is strictly necessary feels like a disgraceful and guilty indulgence. If it took me half an hour to come I’d feel that was half an hour well spent. But if it only takes 30 seconds, spending longer on it might seem a bit excessive. Like preparing a gourmet meal when I’m not hungry, or wearing high heels to do the gardening.

How long does it take you?

It’s a nice trick most of the time – I don’t know many people who could pop the kettle on then guarantee they’ll have frigged themselves to orgasm by the time the water’s boiled – I’m not complaining as such. I just wonder if I’m the only one. Perhaps I’m walking through a world where most people spend two to three hours a week on masturbatory self-care, in which case I’ll kick myself for being the overly-efficient robot who bashes them out in less than a minute, never stopping to truly enjoy the build up.

If you made it to the end in less than three minutes: congratulations on your reading speed. If you went back to the beginning and started wanking to see if you could finish before the last full-stop: well done, and I’m sorry it didn’t contain more filth. And if you managed to both read it and orgasm in less than 30 seconds, perhaps we should start a league.

In my house, Game of Thrones is affectionately referred to as “Tits n Dragons.” I don’t need to explain why, but what I am going to talk about is my shameless delight in unexpected moments of TV filth.

As a child of the nineties, I used to stay up late on Friday night, willing my family to go to bed early so I could dangerwank to Eurotrash. The joy of Eurotrash was that masturbating to it was genuinely challenging. One minute you’d be watching latex-clad dominatrixes beating the living daylights out of eager men in a Bavarian castle, the next you’d be confronted with a grotesque montage of custard pies shaped like disease-ridden genitals. You had to time it right.

But Eurotrash was primarily watched by horny folk like me who could guarantee that if they tuned in they’d be turned on by one thing or another. Because it was so obviously a wankers’ programme, when it delivered on the promise of nakedness, I tingled with horniness but never excitement.

Best surprise TV filth

There were shows, though, that managed to draw you in with an exciting and non-sexual plot, then hit you with the gift of out-of-the-blue shagging, and I treasured those moments far more than my deliberately sought-out wank material. Just as chocolate tastes better if someone’s brought it as a nice surprise than if you binge-buy packs of Wispas in Tesco then scoff them all on your own, surprise TV filth is ten times more delicious if it’s unexpected.

What prompted these thoughts? Well, most recently it happened during my very belated introduction to Weeds, specifically the episode where Nancy Botwin gets spanked by a drug kingpin. The sudden rush of horny meant I didn’t really focus on what was happening for the next five minutes. Weeds is full of these filthy moments, and even relatively tame action (Silas Botwin removing his shirt, bending over, or just… you know… existing) can make my eyes glaze over and my cunt start to throb.

There are loads of great TV shows that do this: Game of Thrones (obviously not that much of a surprise, it’s so expected there’s even a supercut of All The Sex Scenes), Misfits (which I’ve mentioned lustily before), and that moment in The Wire when Stringer Bell pulls the zip down on Donette’s tracksuit. If you have any other recommendations of shows with great plot and occasional filth, please do leave them in the comments. I am a conoisseur of this shit.

God bless Moll Flanders

Like most pervy quirks, though, this joy began when I was young and hormonal, and was prompted by Moll Flanders – a BBC drama series from the mid-nineties, starring Alex Kingston as ‘the wickedest woman in England.’ I can’t remember what she did that was so wicked, but I can remember that she fucked an awful lot of people. Beautifully.

The scene that sticks with me involves Moll selling sex to upper-class gentlemen. Having fallen on hard times, Moll sets out to make some money. In the crucial scene, she’s sitting in the lap of an old guy in the back of a horse-drawn carriage, wearing period costume. Her corset is unlaced, and she’s facing away from the guy in question, wearing a stony, bored expression as she fucks him in solid rhythm. His excited shouts, her total apathy, and the desperate glee of the other guy in the cab watching them was all a bit much for my eager young mind. I shivered with an almost painful kick of lust, felt the rush of wetness in my knickers, and prayed silently for some alone time so I could process the image properly.

I clearly haven’t processed it properly because the scene still pops up regularly in my fantasies. That exact scene. Two guys, period costumes, and a bored fuck from Moll Flanders.

Does this video still exist, you ask? Well, I did a bit of research and I’m delighted to say it does. I’m clearly not the only one who found Alex Kingston incomparably captivating as the luscious, horny Moll, and had endless masturbation fantasies over apathetic fucks with horny be-costumed people. I can be confident in saying this, because the video I found isn’t in a BBC archive or on some British TV lovers’ BitTorrent site somewhere: it’s full-on Moll Flanders sex compilation on xhamster. The scene I’m referring to is about 3:40 in. You’re welcome.

This blog is a bit jumbled compared to my other ones, for which I can only apologise. There’s no coherent thread of argument, no full-on filthy story, and no real point to this other than to let you into the hodgepodge, pervy jumble-sale that is my own mind. Ladies and gentlemen of the telly, I salute you: keep up the good work. If I could make one tiny suggestion, it’d be lovely to see a few more cocks. And ladies and gentlemen who don’t make telly, just let me know which box set I should crack open when Weeds is done.