Tag Archives: wanking
Win a Doxy massager – the love of my life
Earlier this year someone gave me a Doxy massager. I had never had a wand toy before, and had imagined that it would be a bit like any other vibrator, just a bit more powerful and with a much bigger head.
I was wrong beyond all possible belief.
The Doxy is to sex toys what the microwave was to home cooking. What the printing press was to education. What Galileo was to the motherfucking Sun. It is a seismic revolution in my pants.
When my dude first used it on me I went from ‘curious’ to ‘tearing down the walls’ within about three seconds. Yelping, gargling, moaning and shouting ‘jjjggg ammm ffffkkk’ until the neighbours must have thought we were performing some sort of terrifying Satanic ritual.
Nowadays, having owned this clit-battering pleasure-sceptre for around six months, I am torn between wanting to chain it to my person so it never leaves my sight, and hurling it into a chasm because hand wanking will never be the same again. I’ve opted for the former, because if I lost this toy my life would be empty and miserable and I would probably never love again.
Given my excessive enthusiasm for Doxy both here and on Twitter, this competition has clearly been a long time in coming (unlike myself, when armed with one). If you want to win one of these amazing fuckwands, you can enter via the widget below, and at 8pm on the 29th September I’ll pick a winner, and the ace people at Doxy will send one out to you.
You just need to give them your address, and let them know what kind of plug you need (Doxy comes with UK, Euro, Aussie and USA (works in Japan too) plugs) and what colour you’d like – I recommend purple because it’s the BEST, but it comes in black, white and pink too. Ts and Cs are in the widget, but you’ll be delighted to know that you don’t have to be UK based to enter this. If you’re from anywhere mentioned above, you’re more than welcome to enter.
And if you can’t wait, or if you don’t win the comp, you can buy a Doxy direct from my awesome sponsors at sextoys.co.uk, and get 10% off if you type ‘GOTN10’ at the checkout. So there we go – click below to enter the comp, and maybe win a Doxy.
Not mine, though – you can pry that out of my cold, dead fingers.
In case you’re not familiar with it, here are some FAQs about the Doxy:
How does the Doxy massager compare to the Hitachi Magic Wand?
I have no idea, because I’ve never had a Hitachi. But Erika Moen of Oh Joy Sex Toy has! Spoiler alert: the Doxy wins. Obviously.
I have a dick. Can I have a Doxy massager?
Sure – ANYONE can have one. Although I have a feeling you won’t get the same sensations as I did if you don’t have a clitoris. Have a go though, or just try to win it and then give it to someone you know who does have a clitoris, and is keen to try it.
I’d like to buy a Doxy massager for my female partner but I am worried that she will love it more than me. Any thoughts?
I feel your pain, and I understand that some people might be worried that a sex toy so awesome could usurp their own value.
Me: You don’t get jealous of my @doxymassager, do you? Him: No, but could you at least turn it off while we have this conversation?
— Girl on the Net (@girlonthenet) September 3, 2014
But please don’t sweat it. I love my Doxy more than I love my right hand, but naturally it’s never going to fulfil the place that gentlemen hold in my heart (and knickers). In fact, if you apply the Doxy to your partner’s clitoris while you guys are banging, the resultant twitching cuntspasms may well cause you to fall in love with it too.
Isn’t it a bit TOO powerful?
I… I’m sorry, I’m not sure I understand.
Well, like, don’t the vibrations make your vulva feel a bit numb?
Not for me personally, but I cannot vouch for your vulva. If powerful stuff sends you a bit numb and tingly, I’d advise using Doxy on the lower settings. I usually have it at about 7 or 8, and I often use the ‘pulse’ mode, which goes from soft to intense in a cool pattern. Like this: “vrrrrrrrrrrrrrVRRRRRRvvvvrrrrrrr” but I have seen a fair few other reviews from people who say they prefer to use it on the lower settings – there’s quite a range. But I like my Doxy like I like my men: loud and powerful and next to my bed at all times. Or something.
I don’t suppose you have any audio clips of you using the Doxy, do you? For ‘research’?
Sure thing. Here are some audio clips of me using the Doxy massager.
Do you have a picture of a really hot lady using a Doxy massager?
Why yes I do. She also appears to be partaking in the kind of self-bondage with tight corsets that I have a bit of a thing for myself.
Self bondage with tight corsets
Sometimes, when I’m on my own, I do a simple form of self bondage: I put on a corset. One of those rigid, steel-boned ones that I can do up so tight it takes my breath away. One that I can feel squashing my tits into my chest and which – when I try to sit down – digs into my hips and makes me feel trapped.
Guest blog: dealing with sexual frustration
About three minutes after I tweet one of my filthy blogs, I’ll usually get a DM, email or reply saying “thanks a fucking bunch, GOTN, I just read that on the bus.” Sorry about that, commuters – while I try my best to keep the timings of the dirtier posts to those bits of the day when most people aren’t at work, it’s inevitable that – with Twitter and Facebook and all the things that ping through to your phone – most of us will get horny at inopportune moments.
This week’s guest blog is from just such a guy, and one of the reasons I love it is because it captures that exact feeling of ‘oh God I need to come right this minute and I can’t.’ While I can’t pretend I suffer from the same degree of sexual frustration, I can certainly empathise – and I suspect many of you do too. So read, enjoy, and then let me know if you’ve found any ingenious hiding places to have a quick one to calm the nerves…
The lament of the sexually frustrated…
When I read Girl on the Net’s column, I revel in the joyful atmosphere of sexual freedom, honesty and opportunity. But it’s not all saucy happy funtimes, because although reading her site gives me the massive and righteous horn every time, I’m almost never in a situation where I can do something about it.
Her book lies half-read on my Kindle, the screen metaphorically stained not with the ultraviolet evidence of excited DNA, but with the sweaty misery of tube-ride blue-balls and the anguished tears of tossing (not like that) impotently next to a light-sleeping partner.
And of course it’s not just GotN who’s responsible for inopportune arousal. Chemistry lends a hand, raising testosterone levels first thing every day, and just the act of turning over in bed, or pulling on a pair of pants, can provide friction that, if not dealt with, causes eye-rolling distraction until some mundane task that nevertheless requires concentration removes the physical need. Or I sneak to the bathroom for a speedy one off the wrist.
So it’s clear that the baby Jesus wants us to be getting it on before the sun even gets close to the yardarm. Heh, “yardarm”. But then the baby Jesus never had a baby of his own. Mornings no longer belong to either of you (or even to your left hand), but to the crapping, moaning thing that needs feeding, wiping and reading the same bloody book eight times in a row.
Dreams should be the perfect place to let off steam sexually, right? My god, if I were one of the lucky few who could lucid dream, I’d wake up exhausted every morning after a long night fulfilling every erotic fantasy I’ve ever had and several I thought might make a nice change. But no. Even worse, when I do have a hot dream, my subconscious (usually) wags a scolding finger and reminds me I’m in a monogamous relationship.
Location is another big factor in the unwelcome stiffness stakes. Unlike some people, I seldom get actively frisky on the train or the bus, but when my mind is set off in that direction there’s no delicious sense of naughtiness or anticipation, just a frustration that whatever is stimulating me, I can absolutely guarantee I won’t be fucking it.
Work has more potential, if only because I figured out how to lock the other cubicle door even when I’m not in it, thereby giving my colleagues no reason to hang around in the loos. It’s usually a release-type situation, rather than something to be savoured, though sometimes – and they are a bit glorious – it’s a 2 or 3 times a day thing. The exception to this limitation – and I don’t know if this happens to everyone or if it’s just a superpower of mine – is when I’m hungover. I’d love to know the physiological mechanism behind it, but when hungover I can more or less have as many orgasms as I like without the fundamental drive dissipating as it normally does. Silver linings, eh? Though on the down side, I invariably don’t look great, definitely don’t smell great, and if she’s had a skinful too then no amount of pleading or prodding is going to get me what I (repeatedly) want.
Of course, it’s not all doom and gloomily rearranging my privates on the 38. There are times when the stars and schedules align, and I know nothing will interrupt me until either I’m utterly sated or the dishwasher needs emptying. Woody Allen got it right (not words you hear often these days) in “Annie Hall” (mmm, ’70s Diane Keaton, I’ll be in my bunk, etc.): “don’t knock masturbation, it’s sex with someone I love”.
What all the above does tend to mean is that when I do get time to myself, I spend a lot more of it on self-abuse than, say, doing an open university course, playing squash or learning Flemish. But I’ve long since come to terms with this outcome, because it’s fucking great, regardless of whether or not I’m misunderstood in Oostende.
The gent who wrote this blog post has donated his guest blog payment to the next person, so the next accepted guest blog submission will get £20 instead of the usual tenner. If you have an idea for one, check out the guest blog page and get in touch!
I want him to touch me while I sleep
A confession: sometimes I pretend to be asleep. He knows I’m pretending, and I know he knows I’m pretending, but as I breathe softly and try not to move, I’m pretending to be asleep.
I love to lie still and wait for him to come to bed. To slip naked under the covers and squash up to me. I love feeling his dick go from flaccid to solid as he rests it in the crack of my arse.
Best of all I love his hands. Tentative strokes at first – easing softly from a hug to a grope, building to very gentle pinches of my nipples. Like he’s trying very hard not to wake me up. Like he just needs to feel the texture of my skin, or squeeze the curve of my hips.
Like all he wants is to touch me.
I breathe in and out, trying to measure the movements and sounds so that my fake sleep remains convincing. His hands wander further, and he gets rougher in his movements. He knows what I’m waiting for, and he sighs with open lust as he pushes his cock up against my arse.
Grinding, squashing, pushing it against me, before he pulls away and grips it with his right hand.
His touches get more urgent. As he rubs himself slowly, his other hand wanders all over me – stroking me, grabbing my arse, using his fingers to push the thin fabric of my knickers deep into my crotch. Sometimes he stops, licks his fingers, then puts his hand back, this time pushing the fabric to one side so he can work them in further. All the time gripping the shaft of his dick and rubbing himself closer to orgasm.
I shift slightly, just the tiniest movement as if I’m stirring in my sleep, and he takes the opportunity to flip me over. With his left hand, he pulls at my shoulder until I’ve rolled onto my back, then his greedy hands are back again – pawing at my chest. His left hand gripping one of my tits while the bed shakes with the effort of vigorously rubbing his cock.
Lying there as still as I can, my cunt taut and aching with need, I suppress the desire to fuck him – to ‘wake up’ and turn over and slide neatly down the shaft of his dick. I want to do that, but what I want more is to lie in the stillness, hearing the shuffling and gasping and feeling the sheer, objectifying need of him. This one thing – this gulping, horny, compulsive desire to grab and swallow me up – is the single unifying feature of all the best sex I’ve ever had.
That lust. That desire. Those greedy, greedy hands.
I can hear his breathing getting faster. The little ‘mmm’s and ‘ungh’s that I imagine him making when I’m not there. His movements get faster too. Rubbing himself angrily and squeezing me tightly. He dips his head to suck hard on one of my nipples, grunting lustfully as if the only thing that will sate him is my body.
And it does.
In one quick movement he kneels up. With one hand still firmly gripping me – pinching a nipple with all the force he held back on earlier on, he leans over my still body. A short grunt, a sigh, and the lashing jets of spunk hitting my chest, my neck, my face.
As he lies back down, he idly rubs the liquid into my skin as it cools, then rolls over and settles down. With my clit throbbing and my knickers wet, it takes me another hour to get to sleep.
Note: The idea that he might touch me while I sleep naturally raises some questions around consent, so hopefully this note will answer them. There are two ways my partner and I deal with consent around sleep sex:
Firstly, I make it fairly obvious when I want this stuff to happen: I lie in a very specific position – on my stomach, one leg straight and the other bent to the side, giving him easy access to the crotch of my knickers and my dripping wet cunt.
Secondly, on the very few occasions when I actually am asleep and he hasn’t realised, I either wake up utterly drenched with arousal, and assume the position to encourage him to continue, or I wake up irritable and I growl, in which case he stops and wanders off to the living room.I shouldn’t need to say this, but when I don’t I get comments from people saying ‘oh my god you’re encouraging people to just go ahead and do this’. I’m pretty confident that no one is going to read something like this and take it to mean that all women want to be touched up while they’re asleep, but this note is here just in case you think they might be. So, yeah. If you have sexy, greedy hands, don’t fuck things up by using them when they’re not wanted.
On National Masturbation Month
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.