May 14

On what is not wrong with you, part 5: your hair

Posted on May 14, 2012 by Girl on the net

I haven’t done a ‘what is not wrong with you‘ post for a while, but this particular gripe has been brewing for a couple of weeks, so I thought it high time that I spat it out.

Men: I don’t give a shit about your hair. There, I said it.

There’s a creeping trend for men to start caring about their hair, and I don’t like it. Yes, it’s nice to look nice and if having a special haircut gives you a boner when you look in the mirror then by all means drop fifty quid at a posh salon. But if you’re just doing it to impress the ladies, my general advice would be not to bother.

Not because all women don’t care (some do) but because I figure that the time, effort and worry invested in something as inconsequential as the collection of keratin strands you collect on top of your head could be much better spent in other ways.

You could learn to play the piano, take up a sport, read books and newspapers – anything. And even girls who like a guy with neatly-trimmed locks will probably admit that they’d rather he were talented, funny, or interesting.

And don’t get me started on the amount of money men are now expected to fork out on hair products – gels and mousses and special shampoo – that could far better be spent on a tube fare to my house to come and fuck me like it’s Friday.

Is it OK to be bald?

I have only ever met two types of women: those who find bald guys incredibly sexy, and those who don’t give a flying fuck.

I happen to fall into the former category – bald guys are sexy as hell. There’s obviously the tactile thing, for a start – touching someone’s head is deeply sensual. Although running your fingers through someone’s curling locks can be nice, nothing quite rivals the feeling of stroking your fingers nice and hard over someone’s scalp, letting them trail down to the back of their neck as they close their eyes to revel in the comfort and lust.

Where was I?

Oh yes. Hair.

Is it OK to be ginger?

I have tried to contain my rage on this point for a long time, but the truth must out: not only is there ‘nothing wrong’ with being ginger, there is something despicably fucked-up about jokingly pretending that people with ginger hair are somehow freakish monsters.

I’ve been told there’s a historical reason for this – something to do with the English hating the Scots (oh, xenophobia, with what comedy genius will you tickle our ribs next?). But I don’t care – I don’t give a shit what pathetic reasons there might be for this half-hearted jocular bullying.

Recent conversation that I actually had with a real, human person:

Me: I would pay serious money to suck that man off.

Him: Really? But he’s so ginger.

It’s a joke – I know it’s a joke. But it’s a fucking awful one.

I knew a girl at college with the most stunning red hair – bright red, curly, down to her waist. She had pale, pale skin with soft hands, a tiny waist and nice small perky tits that you could imagine cupping in your hands while you fucked her. I digress.

The point is that she was ginger, and as so was subject to the most ridiculous jokes – boys would pretend they couldn’t ask her out because, despite her heart-melting beauty, she was ginger. In fact that reason they couldn’t ask her out was that she was searingly intelligent as well as being beautiful. But ginger is a nice default nonsensical insult for imbeciles to use when they have no genuine criticism.

In conclusion

Fuck your fucking hair. Fuck whatever sits atop your head. It’s nice to stroke or play with sometimes but if I’m assessing whether I might like you to stick your cock into me, whatever you happen to be sporting – a crop of strawberry blond curls, an Elvis quiff, a floppy One-Direction-style chop, a shining bald pate or a hat that makes you look like an arsehole – none of these things will make a significant difference.

It’s not what’s on your head that counts, but what’s in it.

Posted in The human body | Tagged , , , , | 10 Comments
May 11

On fucking in the toilets

Posted on May 11, 2012 by Girl on the net

 

 

 

I need to clarify – if only because at some point my Mum might read this and be disappointed in me – that I don’t confine my toilet-based sexual activity just to wanking.

Here is a trilogy of toilet-based filth

At a gig

There once was a guy who couldn’t stop me. Persuasion turned to pleading turned to mutual obsession, as we’d fuck and touch when we hoped no one was looking. Sometimes they were looking, but I don’t think we really cared.

His friends played gigs in crappy dive pubs in my home town, and we went to see them hammer out some songs while we drank lager and Smirnoff Ice and groped each other in the crowd. When the songs were over we made out on a sofa that smelt like roll-up fags and vomit, and we watched the door of the gents to check when they were empty.

When the coast was clear he rushed in, with me sauntering casually behind him as if punky girls pissing in the gents is completely normal – which, to be fair, it is. I followed him in and we locked the door – pulling at each others’ clothes and kissing the way that kids do – all tongues and spit and desperation.

I pulled his trousers down to his ankles and he sat on the lowered seat of the toilet. He gripped his cock and grinned as I hiked up my skirt, pulled my knickers to one side, and sat down hard onto his cock. He put his hand over my mouth to keep me quiet as I fucked him – quick, hard strokes, squeezing my cunt tight to make him gasp, jerking sharply up and down so he could watch my tits jiggle in a tight, punky corset top. My boots were slipping on the wet floor, so I held onto the walls of the cubicle to get purchase. And I fucked him. And fucked him. And fucked him.

He shuddered as he came inside me, and I squeezed tighter to better feel his dick pumping the last few squirts nice and deep.

As we left one of my friends came in to use the loo. Noting my filthy grin he gave a cheeky salute. The boy closed the door behind him and followed me out, shouting after him:

“I wouldn’t use that one, mate – the seat’s broken.”

At a birthday party

A different boy – more recent now. But we’re still at the stage where we can’t stop touching each other. To be honest, I find this stage very difficult to escape from. With the last boy I loved it went on for about seven years – the constant need to touch each other – to press my hands against his stomach or push my face into the back of his neck, to whisper filth into his ear until his dick got hard enough that I could squeeze it through his jeans.

On the train, in the pub, on escalators coming up from a midnight tube ride – I cannot stop touching this man.

And the other day, at a friend’s birthday party, I made him hard enough that I couldn’t not hold him. I couldn’t resist taking his dick out of his trousers – looking at it and seeing how much he wanted me, how desperately he needed to fuck.

We excused ourselves for a few minutes and bundled into a toilet with a broken lock. Quickly and firmly he undid the buttons on his flies and pulled down his boxers – lovely tight boxers that show the perfect outline of his cock. He held the door closed with his hand as I held his dick with mine, and put the tip in my mouth. As I spat on it, and sucked, and rubbed him with my hands, the door rattled so slightly I hoped no one would notice. And he stifled lustful groans as he came into my waiting mouth.

In a karaoke bar

I wanted her so much I thought I loved her. For the brief time that we were together all I wanted was for her to be there. We were going out drinking – will she be there? We’re off to a party – can we bring her? We drank and we fucked and I loved her. And when it was all over and we could no longer fuck, I thought I loved her even more.

She had a dirty smile, and cat-like eyes, and a softness that was maternal. Everyone I knew wanted to bury their face in her tits, and most of the time she’d let them, and love them.

After we’d broken up she joined us at a karaoke bar – just a small crowd of mates, getting messy on cheap booze and caterwauling 90s classics. I’d brought a boy, but my desire to fuck him left when she entered the room. He was fun, but she was special.

I put my arms around her when she came in – breathed in the scent of girl-perfume and cigarettes and shampoo. I put my hand on her knee under the table. I put my hand on her thigh while I sang. I put my hand up her skirt and she didn’t stop me. I raked my nails down the inside of her leg, feeling the fabric of her tights pulling through my fingers. I followed her to the toilets.

When we got inside she said: “We shouldn’t.” But I wanted to, so – generous and full of love – she kissed me.

She gave me soft, feminine kisses – the type I’d abhor from a man just made her even better. And I kissed her back, hard, and reveled in being the one in charge. I lifted her top, pulled down the cups of her bra, and gave hard, sucking kisses to her nipples. I squeezed her hips and stomach through the fabric of her dress, and lifted the hem so I could rub my palms on her damp crotch.

I understand why men get frustrated with tights. Everything’s so close and so nearly there, but they’re hard to get down. I pushed her against the wall of the cubicle and tried to get a good enough grip.

I panted, and she sighed, as I rubbed her through her tights. She wouldn’t let me take them off. She’d let me kiss her nipples and touch her, but when I tried to remove them she stopped me, and in a hushed whisper said:

“Enough. They’ll be missing us.”

And she straightened up, and smiled, and kissed me on the lips. We went back to our friends and my boy, and he put his hand beneath the table so he could feel the memory of her soaking through my knickers.

Posted in Filthy ones | Tagged , , , | 7 Comments
May 07

On men, and how they’re only after one thing

Posted on May 7, 2012 by Girl on the net

Women – you’re bloody lucky, you know. OK, you might have to deal with a bit of sexual harassment in the workplace, or people making mad assumptions about the way you dress and carry yourself, but it’s all OK because you can have sex any time you like.

You hear me? Any time you like. If you fancy a shag, all you need to do is walk down the street, find the nearest available man, and invite him back to your house. He will leap at the opportunity, drop all his current plans, and run over to hump you senseless before you can say “hooray for sexual stereotypes!”

Men aren’t only after one thing

Of course, it would be a lovely world for me if that were the case, but sadly it isn’t. Prepare yourselves for a horrifying shock because it turns out that men – brace yourselves – aren’t just after one thing.

I read an article recently in which a man gave his (future) daughter some advice on dating. This included the immortal (and depressingly common) advice to “Just assume that every man you meet from now until you’re, I don’t know, 53(?) would sleep with you if given the opportunity.”

Women get rejected too

Being a triumphant slag, I often ask men to fuck me. As a general rule, if I fancy someone and they seem reasonably interested, I will at some point ask if they’re up for some sex. And do you know what? Sometimes they say no.

They say no for a variety of reasons – they’re busy doing something else, they’re too drunk to pull it off competently, they don’t want to cheat on a girlfriend/wife, etc. But by far the most common reason is that they just don’t fancy me.

Which leads me to the phenomenal and groundbreaking conclusion that your average man cares about something other than just a comfortable place to stick his cock.

Boyfriends turn sex down too

Perhaps the even more surprising news is that even if a guy fancies you he might still turn you down.

Sometimes men are just too busy for sex. Sometimes they’re not horny. Sometimes they quite fancy a wank but would prefer you not to sit dribbling next to them on the sofa while they’re doing it. I’ve had boyfriends turn me down for no more significant reason that that they simply don’t feel like it.

Whatever their stated reason, the point is that there are reasons – hundreds of them – why a man won’t always be hard and willing just because you’ve dropped your knickers.

Why this is so important

I am more passionate about this than almost anything else I write about. Why? Because I’ve spent miserably lonely nights awake and horny, listening to the snores of men who have recently rejected my advances.

Seventeen-year-old me used to cry herself to sleep when her boyfriend turned her down. Because I’d been told that men always wanted sex. Cosmo, FHM, films, TV and books all told me that guys were permanently on the edge of arousal and desperate to stick their cocks into whichever woman looked most willing to let them.

So when I’d dress up in lingerie, touch my boy, whisper filthy things in his ear and then get rejected, it hurt. It hurt a lot. And I felt like a miserable, pathetic, ugly, nymphomaniac freak.

I’m a grown-up now, so I know these lies for what they are. And I can shrug off a rejection, safe in the knowledge that it isn’t a significant condemnation of my own sexuality but simply a reflection of our weird portrayal of other people’s. But it’s still important to challenge ‘men are only after one thing’ when people say it, because publicly recognising that it is definitely not true helps both women and men feel a bit more normal.

So in conclusion: don’t assume that all men are ‘only after one thing.’ Don’t tell women they can have whatever sex they want whenever they want it. And above all don’t you dare tell your daughter that all men want to fuck her – you might as well tell her the grass isn’t green, or that all the roads in Disneyland are paved with free cake. If young women grow up thinking that all men want to sleep with them, we’re not giving them the gift of insight, we’re telling them an outright lie. A lie that will lead to humiliating disappointment for our daughters, and give our sons a reputation that they could never possibly live up to.

Posted in Ranty ones | Tagged , , , , | 13 Comments
May 02

On what makes a woman sexy

Posted on May 2, 2012 by Girl on the net

As a woman who has had sex with a man on more than one occasion, I felt like I might be well-placed to give you some advice on how to become sexy. Here goes.

When I’ve asked men I’ve slept with “what makes me sexy?”, answers have ranged from ‘your enthusiasm for dick’ through ‘your big, fat, argumental mouth’ to ‘the fact that you live quite close by and I’m incredibly lazy.’ But luckily we don’t have to rely on flattery dished out by men I’ve known – achingly juvenile wank-rag FHM has the answer.

Today FHM released its ’100 sexiest women’ edition and I, completely unscientifically and with pint in hand, logged the key things that stood out about the women in the top 100. See my ‘methodology‘ for more info.

I then spoke to the collection of liberal, pervy, lovely people who follow me on Twitter, and asked what they thought was sexy. The results are in:

What makes a woman sexy, according to FHM

To be sexy you must be willing to strip to your underwear but never *ever* show people your nipples

 

What makes a woman sexy, according to Twitter

To please Twitter you must be mouthy, and it sometimes helps if you do tweets that make people do a 'lol'

Quite the difference, no? It turns out that becoming the sexiest woman in the world might be more difficult than I originally thought.

What does FHM say about ‘sexiness’?

Most of the things mentioned in the bios of FHM’s top 100 were career-related. In fact, almost all of the copy focused either on what the lady had featured in (TV shows, films, magazines, adverts) or songs she had sung. Curiously, although many of them mentioned the women’s careers, there were only 11 mentions of specific achievements – ‘breaking a Guinness World Record’ or ‘kayaking the Amazon’, for instance.

Although there were a few glimpses of their personal interests and passions (one of the top 100 sexiest women campaigns to save Great White Sharks, another is a noted philanthropist) the majority of the copy focused, unsurprisingly, on dribbling odes to their ‘legginess’ or bodies ‘sexy enough to bend time and space.’

What does Twitter say about ‘sexiness’?

Twitter, on the other hand, focused far more on a girl’s attitude – her individuality and confidence were key indicators of sexiness, as were wit and intelligence.

Special mentions go to words like ‘edgy’ and ‘ballsy’, which I personally appreciate in a woman. One enthusiastic gentlemen assured me that the sexiest thing in a woman was her offering ‘even the slightest indication that she’d be willing to touch me.’

But the overall prize goes to the four people who pointed out (though no doubt most others were thinking similar things) that it’s all completely subjective. Personally, I love a girl with attitude – a loudmouthed, argumentative, filthy creature who could beat me in both a fist-fight and an argument. Someone with pretty eyes, a huge arse and spectacularly hard nipples.

How to become the sexiest woman in the world

Depressing though it is to read FHM, it does help you to understand the tedium that comes with consensus. Yes, most of the women in the top 100 were similar – they all had jobs in the public eye, so were presumably quite outgoing, they were all slim and feminine, with lovely tits. Most of them had long hair and almost all of them were wearing clothes even my mother wouldn’t let me leave the house in.

But that’s just what happens when you get thousands of people to choose sexiness based on pictures of women they’ve seen in magazines. Their sample is limited, for a start, and there are so many people voting that things will eventually work their way towards a democratic middle-ground – the breadth and variety of human sexual preference won’t get a look in. You’ll inevitably end up with 100 beautiful yet very similar singers/models/actresses in their pants.

When you ask people a question – an open one – about what they find attractive, ‘sexiness’ becomes far more inclusive. Suddenly to become the sexiest woman in the world you no longer have to choose from a limited range of careers, associate yourself with someone famous or freeze your arse off in cheap lingerie.

If you can be confident, intelligent, make someone laugh or melt at your smile, you’re onto a winner. If you have a twinkle in your eye or a penchant for filth or even just a special something that makes you different then someone – somewhere – will probably want to fuck you.

Well, someone on Twitter at any rate.

Methodology: Let it not be said that I am not a rigorous motherfucker. What was my methodology? I logged things that were mentioned in tweets, using what I believe is technically described as a ‘tally chart on the back of an envelope.’  I then logged things from the descriptions and accompanying photos that appeared in FHM’s ’100 sexiest women’ supplement. If it wasn’t mentioned, it wasn’t logged. For example, I know that at least three of the people in the supplement have had a sex tape/sexy pictures leaked, but it was only mentioned on one occasion, so was only counted once.

Posted in Unsolicited advice | Tagged , , , | 26 Comments
Apr 29

On knowing when to stop

Posted on April 29, 2012 by Girl on the net

as you can tell, I have a thing about corsets. It is because you can pull on the strings when you're fucking meAs I write this I am bleeding quite heavily from the ass.

Bear with me – it’s challenging enough writing when your hands are shaking with shock, without having to turn anal fissures into something resembling a sex post. But I love a challenge.

As I’ve said before, I love buttsex. It hurts and is dirty and brilliant.

Boys with a desperate urge to fuck me somewhere painful hit my ‘oh holy fuck yes spot’ like nothing else.

Just the sound of a guy spitting on his cock, followed by the feeling of the head pushing nice and tight up against my ass gives me a powerful kick-in-the-gut of lust.

“Roll over and put your face in the pillow. I don’t want the neighbours to hear you crying.”

And the main reason I like it is because I don’t really like it. I like that he wants to do it. I’d be happy never having an orgasm again if I knew I could be used by all the men I love, in all the ways they’d love to use me.

“Bite down on this, because I’m going to fuck you somewhere it really hurts.”

Turning it down

And I can’t say no. I can’t. I can pull away if it really hurts, and I can say “please use more lube” and I can say “I can’t, I can’t, please” but I’m always a tiny bit sad if I have to make the sexy things stop.

If he carries on I’m in pain and if he pulls away I’m disappointed. The only solution in these situations is to cover his dick with lube, smear it all over, fill my ass with it and hope I don’t scream loud enough to scare the cat.

Preventing injury

If you have similar issues, there are lots of things you can do to prevent buttsex injuries.

But there’s nothing you can do to stop the very real problem – being a complete moron.

Because yesterday, as I buried my face in the pillow and raged silent screams into this one boy’s bedlinen, all I wanted was for him to keep fucking me. To force his dick harder into me. To spit on it more, grip my hips in his beautiful big hands, and pull me back onto his thick cock with quick, hard strokes.

I wanted him to keep doing it, and doing it, and doing it. To call me a filthy girl and tell me I’d take it even though it hurt, and tell me I was good, and it’d be over soon.

And as he panted and grunted and shoved himself harder into me, it didn’t hurt nearly as much as the pain in the pit of my stomach, the pain that I’ll feel until he comes. I won’t be complete until I’ve heard him moaning and panting for the last few thrusts, while his cock is twitching and pumping spunk deep down inside me. That pain hurts far more than my ass hurts while he’s fucking it.

Who’s to blame?

Oh, society, why do you make me do these sexy things?

I’m joking – it is very loudly and clearly my fault. Just as the smoking is my fault, and the excessive drinking, and that one time at the age of nineteen when I discovered what coffee was, drank 18 cups in one day, then blacked out in a car park.

As in the rest of my life, the injuries I sustain at the hands of whatever ridiculous pervery is floating my boat this week are all self-inflicted. And I know this. And I know that sometimes it’s bad for me. But at the time I’d no more tell someone to stop than I’d turn down a cheque for a million quid.

But somewhere in the pit of my still-quite-queasy stomach, I have a feeling that I should stop. Not just on the one or two occasions where I’ve caused myself actual damage, but permanently. Perhaps, just as I should pack in the cigarettes I so idiotically enjoy, I should also stop fucking in a way that hurts me. Maybe I should learn when to say no. Maybe I should turn in early, sober and alone, with a good book that won’t make me wank before bedtime.

But it doesn’t really work like that, does it? There’s only so much sobriety and calm and reason one person can take. I like to think that the filthy fucking is a trade-off for the things that I haven’t done – properly experimented with class-A drugs, or been in a real-life fight. When I’m actually injured and bruised and broken I am miserable at myself for having no self-control. But I think I’d be far more miserable if I didn’t do any of this stuff at all.

So the answer can’t be to stop it all completely – I’d be sad and alone and miss out on the most fun I ever have without spending any money. I’d miss pushing the boundaries and scaring myself and the brilliant minute just after I’ve done something truly horrible when I turn to a boy and he grins and says “fuck, that was filthy. Let’s do it again.”

Disclaimer: This entry is being published a while after it was written, to preserve the anonymity of the boy in question, and prevent him from being so horrified that he never fucks me in the ass ever again. So thank you for you concern, I am completely fine now and no longer bleeding from the ass.

Posted in The human body | Tagged , , | 25 Comments
Apr 25

On getting dumped

Posted on April 25, 2012 by Girl on the net

This might sound callous, but I don’t care if you break up with me by text message. Same goes for email. Sod it – text the ‘letters’ section of the Metro for all I care. If you’re going to dump me, just dump me.

Yes, I’ll be sad. But I’ll be no more sad than if you – quite literally – made a meal of it. Took me out for dinner, had a long discussion prompted by occasional irritating sighs, ending with The Chat: ‘I’m sorry, but I don’t fancy you any more/we have nothing in common/I’ve met someone infinitely more likeable.’

It hasn’t been emotional

People say that the reason they wouldn’t break up via text is because it’s cold-hearted. But the problem is that few of the relationships I get into are emotional enough to require a drawn-out conclusion. Most of the ‘break-ups’ I have been involved in recently have happened either because

  • he’s found a girlfriend who’d rather he didn’t fuck anyone else
  • he lives outside Zone 3 and so I am far too lazy to see him regularly

And so in this context, a break-up text will do just as well as a long conversation. If he’s a boy I’m shagging he’s a boy worth shagging, so naturally I’ll be sad that I can’t fuck him any more. But I’m not going to cry my face off over a tub of Häagen Dazs – we were probably never that close.

More importantly, it takes me just five minutes to read an email, less than one minute to read a text, but it takes an entire evening to have the break up chat. A whole evening. Think of all the things I could do in an evening! While I’m listening to you tortuously apologise for ending something that was inevitably going to end anyway I could instead be dying my hair, writing another blog, livetweeting The Apprentice or – crucially – finding someone else to fuck.

There is nothing more valuable to me than time. And giving me more of it, even if it means swallowing your natural desire to project emotion onto sex, is a wonderful thing to do.

Just tell me

But the main reason I think text break-ups are fine is because very occasionally, because of the way I meet and interact with guys, I end up in a weird limbo where I’m not entirely sure if someone is still with me. In the last year I have had three guys who have broken up with me by just ceasing all communication.

Two guys stopped fucking me after a few lovely evenings which I’m reasonably sure they enjoyed. One guy stopped fucking me shortly before we were due to go away together for a weekend.

This isn’t a rant about getting dumped. I’ve been in many ‘things’ that have ended, so I don’t get particularly upset about the endings themselves.

But what I am emotional about is not knowing. Because I like to plan. I like to know. Just as I like to know how you like your blow jobs and whether you’re into spanking, I also like to know exactly where you stand on the issue of whether you are or aren’t willing to put your dick into me.

It’s not you, it’s me

And it honestly is. I think I’m alone in this, because I’ve told other people about my preference for rapid-fire, heartless relationship comms and had them weeping over my cracked and battered soul. But a text or email at least has an immediacy and honesty that I wholeheartedly respect.

You might wait for weeks for the right moment to have ‘that’ conversation and (in the case of some of my past boys) end up never having it at all. So if your mind’s truly made up, and you really really mean it, what better way to tell me than to bleep it to my phone?

Not only will you have furnished me with useful information, you’ve also saved me time. I’ll be able to read it, digest it, mourn and move on in less time than we’d have spent on pre-dinner drinks.

Posted in Ranty ones, Unsolicited advice | Tagged , , , | 6 Comments
Apr 22

On the train

Posted on April 22, 2012 by Girl on the net

One of the most difficult fears to overcome is the fear of being weird. That’s partly why I write this stuff – I want people to read it and say “Oh, she does that as well. Perhaps I’m not abnormal after all.”

But far greater than that is my need for people to tell me that it’s OK. That I’m not odd. That they do this sometimes too. 

Here’s a story about wanking on the train

There’s one train journey I take that makes me uncontrollably horny. Why? I have no idea. Trains and buses are arousing anyway – the rhythmic movement, the fact that you can’t get off until you reach your destination, that there are so many men around – these are all things that contribute to a general feeling of arousal.

But one train journey in particular is worse than others. I don’t know why. All I know is that from the minute I sit down I get a churning, growing lust in the pit of my stomach. Everyone on the train, attractive or not, is filled with sexual potential.

The harassed-looking parents looking after their children? I could follow the father when he goes to the toilet, and relieve his stress by sucking the spunk out of him – quickly and silently, while he forces his dick into my mouth with an anger born of shame.

The ticket inspector? OK, he’s old – but dirty old – the sort who might take me into the guard room, pull my knickers down, bend me over his knee and beat me because I haven’t paid the right fare.

That guy sitting opposite with the piercings and tattoos could be up for some playful fucking – forcing me up against the wall in the sordid train toilet and pulling out a nice, thick, pierced dick to shove deep inside me. He’d fuck me from behind -a practical fuck with no speaking. As I run through the scenario I can almost hear the sound of skin slapping skin, and his muffled grunts as he comes, before zipping up and getting off at the next stop.

I should be ashamed of myself

I have no idea what it is about this particular train journey that sets my thoughts on such things and if I’m honest, I think it’s weird. It’s shameful.

I try to read books, to tweet, to take my mind off the dull ache and the yearning to have someone fuck me – to use me. My cunt twitches and throbs as I think about it, and I feel utterly disgusted with myself.

The guy comes past to collect tickets, and I try to clear my mind of the spanking scenario. I avoid all eye contact with men nearby. I try to stop my right knee from jiggling up and down restlessly. I don’t touch myself. I try not to let my legs brush the legs of people sitting next to me.

And I look out of the window, and try not to think about fucking.

I try not to think about the man on the row opposite, in tight jeans that show off his cock. I try not to think about when the harassed dad last had sex, and how powerfully he’d come, deep into the back of my throat. I try not to think about the boy I’ll shag when I get back to the city, and the force with which he’ll fuck me when I tell him how horny I was on the train.

I try. And I fail. And I leave my bag and my jacket on the chair, stumble down the carriage to the toilet compartment and lock the door.

Thinking hard about the flash-frame fucks I’ve been trying to avoid for the last hour of the journey, I pull my jeans and knickers down to just below my hips, lean against the wall and, with an efficiency born of desperate need, I rub my clit until I come.

As the train pulls into the station and I sit red-faced back in my seat, I burn with shame and look around. I am depressed and dirty and unsatisfied. I am filthy and pathetic and disgusted at my lack of self-contol.

But most of all I am hoping that other people do this too.

Posted in Filthy ones | 8 Comments
Apr 16

On why you shouldn’t get fired for internet prickery

Posted on April 16, 2012 by Girl on the net

The problem with human interaction is that it’s so fucking nuanced. I mean, why can’t people just be obviously good or evil? It would be much easier to decide whether we should give someone a knighthood or throw them to the wolves.

There’s been a trend recently that I find utterly disturbing, of people being hauled over the coals for misjudged (and sometimes utterly prickish) comments that they have made on the internet, and I’d like to take a bit of time to lay down some ill-thought-out rules and opinions. If you want to skip the waffle, go straight to my 3-step guide to not being a prick on the internet.

In the meantime, here’s why I don’t think you should be fired from your job for being rude on the internet.

Representing your company

You, as an individual, are representative of your company, right? Wrong. I feel quite strongly about this, and it is my duty as an anonymous sex blogger to point out that nothing I write on the internet in any way relates to my job. If it did, my job would be far more interesting.

Yes, if you’re tweeting from a company account, you should conduct yourself as if you were on company business – no gratuitous swearing or trollery. This should be fairly common sense. But just as I wouldn’t expect to conduct a pub chat as if I were chairing a meeting, likewise I will say things on my personal Twitter feed that I would never say at work.

But when people who tweet personally are then linked to their job, the waters get a bit muddy. This week Grace Dent received what I can only describe as a tawdry, prickish insult on Twitter. Rather than ignoring or blocking the offending person, she clicked through to his biog, where he had a link to his personal website that had a link to the company where he worked. A company that happened to represent Grace Dent.

This man was an idiot. By his own admission he shouldn’t have posted it. Were I his boss I’d be having a serious chat with him about the nature of social media, and insisting that he remove all links to his workplace from his profile. But I categorically do not think that he should be fired.

If he’d threatened her, yes. If he’d been bigoted, or obviously inciting hatred, maybe. But he made a stupid joke about her looks. The problem is that this is a level of reasonably inane and harmless cuntery compared to hate-speech and threats, and we find it hard to come up with a solution that deals with the nuance. Grace Dent has decided that she would like him to be fired.

I have a lot of respect for Grace Dent, who is the epitome of everything I admire – someone who gets paid to write funny stuff on the internet. But in this case I think she’s desperately wrong.

Pic and Mix rules

If you accept that what you say on Twitter is subject to scrutiny by your workplace, you have to accept that your workplace could skip over the insults you’ve written and instead concentrate on the more personal/political things that you say.

It’s then more than possible to end up with situations where someone will be censored not because what they’re saying is offensive, but because it isn’t in line with company policy.

You could tweet about a political figure on whose good side your company would like to stay. You could say something negative about an organisation that your own company is about to partner with. In the case that inspired this post, you could say something rude about a client of your company. Or finally, in a sudden and sledgehammer admission of my own personal interests in this tale, you could tweet about piss play and get fired for being a pervert.

I’m not saying people should say and do what they like and damn the consequences. It’s of the utmost importance that people at least try to conduct themselves with courtesy and respect, because otherwise society will fall to bits and you’ll end up sitting at a laptop in the middle of a nuclear armageddon typing “OMG u r a troll you fat slag lolz” while the remnants of civilisation crumble to dust around you.

All I’m saying is that we should be careful what we wish for – accept that a man gets fired for being catty about a client and we have to accept a certain degree of company interference in tweets that we post on our personal stream. And that way lies unemployment for political bloggers, interestingly opinionated tweeps and – most importantly – me.

 

Final thoughts:

To prove I’m not advocating total anarchic trollery, and for those unsure of how to conduct themselves online, I have compiled a handy 3-step guide to not being a prick on the internet. Please print out, affix to your screen, and have a glance every once in a while before you post rude things about powerful journalists.

Three-step guide to not being a prick on the internet

1. Got a criticism that is threatening, illegal or hate-filled? Don’t post it.
2. Got a criticism that doesn’t fall into category 1 but would be hurtful to the person on the receiving end? Don’t @ them in it.
3. Got a criticism that is thoughtful, interesting and genuinely contributes to the discussion? @ the author, reblog, talk about it, or spaff your wisdom intelligently in the comments.

Posted in Ranty ones | Tagged , , , | 13 Comments
Apr 15

On number 20

Posted on April 15, 2012 by Girl on the net

Initially I thought number 20 was a massive liar.

I only saw him once, but he was great – beautifully scruffy, with a lopsided smile and a penchant for getting so stoned I could feel the high through his tingling skin. It was good, for a first date. But I still thought he was a liar.

He told me that he only ever watched porn that girls he knew had made for him. Specifically, he collected clips of them masturbating. Some of it, he said, was full-frontal – you saw their tits jiggle and their cunt get slick as they fucked themselves, rubbed their clits and finally came, just for him, in grainy homemade videos.

Some of it was filmed just in close-up on their faces. Women he’d known, loved, fucked, and got drunk with would stare straight down the camera as they made themselves come.

Hot, yes. True? I doubted it. Women, I thought, would be naturally nervous about doing this. Not just because they’d worry that the footage would fall into the wrong hands (although for the record he did not offer to show me, and I didn’t ask to see) but because wanking is special – private.

I don’t actually like to wank on the bus

Wanking is something that even I, an irritating exhibitionist sex-pest, feel nervous about doing in front of someone. It’s what I do on my own -it’s mine.

When I wank in front of someone I feel a bizarre urge to do it wrong – to do it like they do in porn. To spread my cunt wide and fuck myself with my fingers so the watching boy gets a good view. To wank so that it’s difficult to come, so that I last. Home alone I can go from nought to soaking orgasm in the time it’d take to fire up xhamster, but in front of others I’m embarassed to do that. I don’ t want to be a freak, I want to be like the girls in porn.

And ridiculously I thought all women would be the same. I didn’t realise at the time that girls can be sexually confident enough to wank on demand for a friend. That they could be open enough to let a guy keep footage of their most private moments, just to facilitate his own private moments. I was an idiot.

It’s actually quite a big favour

Number 20 didn’t ask me to fuck. He got stoned, and stoned, and stoned until it was time for me to leave. Then as I put my shoes on he leapt on me. Pulling at my clothes and kissing like a teenager, he whispered excuses to lower my expectations.

“I’m on antidepressants.”

My hand strayed to his cock, and squeezed. He was rock-solid and straining at the crotch of his trousers.

“I find it hard to… finish things.”

I undid his flies.

He took me into the bedroom and took off everything I had. Frantically, like he wanted to prove to me that he could fuck. And he could – he was good. His cock was long, and thick, and straight. As he fucked me I could feel it stretching my cunt, filling me up, hitting the back of my cervix like he wanted to get as far inside me as possible.

As I came I licked his neck, tasting the mixture of sweat and lingering, smoky weed.

And then he stopped. He pulled out, took off the condom, and held his dick in his hand.

“Can I ask you a favour?”

Oh God, please don’t ask me to touch myself.

“Can you touch yourself?”

I’m going to be so bad at this.

“That’s it, open your legs so I can see. Lean back. Enjoy it – please. That’s it.”

Awkwardly, nervously, I wanked for him. Aware of my porny attitude, I tried to suppress the temptation – to make startled moans and aching sighs like they do in the movies. To wank like it was normal, like I was at home in my bedroom and having fun. I looked at him, imagined he wasn’t there. Imagined I was watching him on film, in a video made just for me – a guy in front of a webcam holding a nice, thick, straight cock and rubbing it vigorously – lubricating it with spit. Kneeling on the bed with a face red with lust and hands that squeezed tighter the closer I came to coming.

He so clearly liked watching me. He’d enjoyed the sex but while he watched me touch myself he grew even harder, even straighter. His eyes glazed over and his cock turned a darker shade of red. And as he grunted, nearing completion, he moved closer – knelt over me and looked straight at my fingers rubbing hard on my clit.

And then he came. In buckets, in slicks, he shot rivers of watery spunk all over my tits, my neck, my face. Droplets wet the ends of my hair and splattered the well-worn bedsheets. I licked a drop from the side of my mouth and I heard him panting – satisfied and calm.

And then I realised how much he loved this. How hard he’d come just watching me come. So finally I believed him.

As I walked home I was sad that I didn’t make him a video myself.

Posted in Boys I've had | Tagged , , , , | 4 Comments
Apr 11

On name calling

Posted on April 11, 2012 by Girl on the net

Purple tights are an excellent way to tell the world that you don't give a fuck. Or that your black tights are in the wash.Only very special people get to call me baby. If it’s not ironic the chances are it’ll fall as flat as someone calling me ‘twat.’ In fact, I could recite a list of offensive swearwords as long as my arm that I’d far prefer to be called than ‘baby.’

Nicknames can be pretty special – they’re codewords, a special background language to your fucking. But they can be really hit and miss. Some people would melt if you called them ‘sweetheart’, whereas others (no names mentioned but basically I’m talking about me) will vomit fountains of mocking bile if you so much as whisper the ‘s’-word.

In no particular order, here are some names.

Darling

Are you carrying a lute and a book of poetry? Are we in a war movie set in the early 20th century? Am I your long-suffering wife, with whom you’re trying to make peace after a particularly vicious row? No? Probably best not to call me ‘darling’ then.

Shorty

AWESOME AWESOME AWESOME. Not only does it make me feel teeny and small (which I’m very definitely not) it also makes me feel like I am living in The Wire, and Bodie might pop round any second to ravish me on a disused sofa.

Chica

It’s audibly feminine, and cute. Any feminine/diminutive foreign language is always going to sound cute coming from a partner. If you don’t like Spanish, there are any number of beautiful foreign words to choose from.

The main benefit of foreign words is that they’re usually free from annoying mental baggage. In short: you’ve never heard them being uttered by an irritating sitcom character during an awkward pre-sex chat-up scene.

Unique

Unique nicknames deserve a special mention. Ideally the name you pick should be one that refers to your partner’s good bits, and isn’t completely offensive. For that reason, ‘droopy tits’ probably doesn’t work. ‘Tits’ is probably quite a good one, but for crying out loud don’t take my word for it – I’m not representative of … well… anything.

Slut/whore

Sexual names work for me, for obvious reasons. But be very aware of the context in which you’re using them. You can only call me a slut if I’m acting like one – if you call me a whore during gentle, slow, missionary-style fucking, chances are I’ll look around to see who you’re talking to.

On the other hand if you’ve got me bent over a desk with my knickers round my ankles, you’ve got your thumb in my ass and your cock in my cunt, ‘slut’ probably hits just the right spot.

Bitch/wench/woman

Nothing short of tonguing my nipples gets me wet quicker than hearing you shout “woman! Get me a fucking beer!” To be honest, any order of this type will be quickly thrown out of the window unless accompanied by some sort of jokingly sexist, derogatory aside.

“Will you suck my cock?” Meh, OK.

“Wench, suck my cock.” Yes sir.

 

Posted in Unsolicited advice | Tagged , , , | 7 Comments
Apr 06

On throatfucking

Posted on April 6, 2012 by Girl on the net

The best position in which to give a blow job is flat on my back. Flat on my back with my head hanging off the side of the bed – mouth stretched out, wide open. Hands pinned beneath me, or in the grip of the guy whose cock is jammed nice and hard into my throat.

Blow jobs are fun, don’t get me wrong – the playful control of having someone in your mouth is good. Experimenting with varying levels of pressure, using my hands differently, swallowing as much of your cock as I can. All of it’s good, but none comes close to the sheer passive joy of being fucked in the throat.

It’s rough, and it’s painful, and it makes my eyes water. There’s something deeply satisfying about a guy who makes me choke – a guy who makes me feel like I’ve never been treated so abysmally.

Giving a blow job is a fun thing to do – being throatfucked is something to endure. A challenge offered by the guy – can you take this? Can I do this for as long as I want? Will you choke down on my dick until I spray come so hard down your throat you barely need to swallow?

Men make more noise during throatfucking than they do when you’re blowing them. They grunt, they moan, if they’re particularly brilliant they might occasionally interject with ‘that’s it’ or ‘oh, good girl‘.

Because I pick the boys who like the power.

As ever, it’s about being used

One of my friends likes to greet me by pushing me to my knees as soon as I get inside his front door. He’ll get me at just the right height, push my head back so it’s braced against the wall, then shove his dick into my mouth until I can feel the head pushing against the back of my neck. Until my eyes water and I’m drooling down onto my tits. He doesn’t even hold my head – he uses his hands to casually lift his shirt – keeping it away from the mess he’s making of me. And he’ll keep his cock there and keep fucking, and fucking, and fucking until I cry, or he comes, or both.

The reason I like throatfucking is that it makes me feel like I could be anyone. This guy doesn’t want me – he doesn’t think I’m cool, or interesting, or witty – he just wants somewhere – anywhere – to put his dick.

It’s not romantic, it’s not controlled – it’s a nice, quick, easy way to get off.

The hard part

The tricky thing about throatfucking is that guys are generally pretty nice. No one you’re fucking actually wants to kill you. They always start off gently – afraid that you’ll choke, or vomit, or become horrified and run the fuck away.

But with enough patience, and enough time, I can get a guy to understand that if I lean my head over the arm of the sofa and really stretch myself out, he can fuck my throat as hard as he’d fuck my cunt. And when he looks nervous and eases up to let me breathe I can look up at him with pleading, red-rimmed eyes and moan like I can feel it, like I want him to come. Moan as if all I want in life is to be a passive toy for him to fuck. As if the taste of his come is the only thing that can make me happy at that exact moment. Like I want it more than I want to stop choking and be able to breathe again.

Because… well… it’s true.

Posted in Filthy ones | Tagged , , , | 4 Comments
Apr 04

On sexy texts

Posted on April 4, 2012 by Girl on the net

Recently I received a text message that contained this gem:

“you’re waiting, bent over the desk, chemise immodesty parted…”

Now, sexy though that may be (for the record, it is), it is not something that I want to have bleeped to my pocket. Texts have a disturbing immediacy that emails don’t. An email says ‘I have something to tell you, and I have taken the trouble of sitting down and composing it.’ An email elevates you to a status of importance. It usually contains more information, some gossip and, if you’re lucky, a link to something that you might like. An email respects you, it lets you know that you can take your time in replying, mull over your response, and consider carefully before you commit to anything in writing. I love email.

A text, on the other hand, is a conversation killer. You could be halfway through a gripping novel, a relationship crisis or a cheese soufflé and your mobile leaps up; blaring, buzzing and all but hitting you in the face screaming ‘pay me attention! I’m important! Feed me words, you fucker!’

I don’t like texts. My friends complain that most of their texts go unanswered, but that’s because most of their texts come when I’m in the middle of something that I think is more important. I frequently experience irrational bursts of hatred towards my nearest and dearest because they text me inanities while I’m at work, inanities to which I feel duty-bound to reply.

And if you (get ready to shudder) “sext” me at work, chances are it will enrage me even further. Lovely though it is to imagine you bending me over something solid then humping me frantically like a bonobo with an audience, it won’t help me get this strategy document written.

Here’s where I backtrack so you don’t think I’m a giant bitch

I’m not always a terrifying harridan – I think some texts are great. There is nothing I love more than a good old romantic text, particularly one that doesn’t invite an immediate response. A well timed:

“It might be the whiskey talking, but the whiskey says I miss you every day.”

can be the best thing that’s happened to me all week. A romantic text is always welcome. And on the few occasions when I am in the mood for conversation or sexy chat I’ll leap to my phone like an excited teenager, cradling it in my arms and soaking up the misspelled words and predictive-text fuck-ups contained therein.

But these moments are few and far between. The fact remains that, on the rare occasions when people do text me with sexy content, there is an 80% chance it will make me want to punch them.

Sexy emails? Great. I’m sitting at my computer so would probably have been planning a wank anyway. Sexy texts? It’s like a double glazing salesman ringing your doorbell during dinner and then slapping you in the face with a semi-flaccid dick.

Don’t even get me started on phone calls.

Posted in Ranty ones | Tagged , , | 5 Comments
Apr 01

On casual pub sexism

Posted on April 1, 2012 by Girl on the net

I don’t want to cause alarm, but it turns out that despite years of battling for equality, there are some people in the UK who have completely missed the memo about women being independent, equal human beings.

I was in the pub on Friday with some friends, and one of my favourite boys. We danced, drank, flirted, and occasionally snogged each other like teenagers with a bucket of cider in a park.

After a couple of hours, a kind gentleman from the bar decided that the situation had reached tipping point. He could no longer stand by and watch the horror of the unfolding scene – what I can only describe as ‘some people having some fun that caused no harm whatsoever to those around them.’

With a slightly drunken leer, and eyes sparkling like those of someone who is about to make a truly knicker-wetting joke, he marched up and spoke to one of the boys I was with:

“You should control your woman.”

There was a distinct absence of laughter. ‘Control your woman’? Anyone would have thought that I was robbing the pub, or having a violent altercation with one of the other customers. But no – it turns out I was just dancing with someone who a passing stranger had identified as Not My Boyfriend. And he obviously felt that the boy he had mistakenly identified as My Boyfriend required help in handling what he perceived to be a crisis situation.

I can only begin to imagine what was going on in the mind of this gold-plated cretin. What is this woman doing – dancing? With a man? What if she gets pregnant? What will happen next? After all, dancing has been known to lead to so much more – women expecting oral sex, for example, or owning their own passports, perhaps even trying to have jobs with equal pay or something equally unconscionable.

omg it was just a joke lol

Perhaps I’m overreacting here – he was just trying to make a joke. He was a reasonably friendly dude and by the looks of it he mainly wanted to start conversation with a friendly-looking bunch of drunk strangers. I didn’t overreact and follow my immediate instinct – to piss into his pint glass then cackle like a terrifying harpy, but nevertheless I felt angry and uncomfortable.

Not only has someone told me that I am effectively ‘out of control’ for having the kind of fun that would happily be shown before the watershed, but he’s also implied that some other people see me with boys and infer ownership.

So instead of actually confront him about it, I thought I’d tackle it in the traditional nerd way, by retreating to the internet to have a bit of a rant. Because although this guy was joking, jokes like these are far, far too common for my liking.

“Blimey, she’s a fiesty one.”
“Looks like she wears the trousers in your house.”
“I’m surprised he lets you do this kind of stuff.”

One of the reasons I don’t have a boyfriend is that I don’t want any unrealistic expectations placed on me. I don’t want to have to remember birthdays, leave parties early, go to things I won’t enjoy, or not occasionally rub my crotch on people in the pub. In telling the boy to ‘control’ me, this guy reinforced everything I hate about relationships, and the expectations placed on you within them.

He also, even more hatefully, implied that once you have entered into a relationship with a boy, that boy has not only a right but a duty to control you. God forbid men should let their guard down in a public situation – the scorn of sexist pub men will be brought to bear on you if they witness your girlfriend dancing with another dude.

So in conclusion: no, I don’t want to let it go. Despite the no doubt side-splitting hilarity of this throwaway sexism, I’d urge sexist men to avoid ‘controlling their women’ – instead, why not learn to control your fucking self?

Posted in Ranty ones | Tagged , , , | 14 Comments
Mar 29

On the awareness of your cock

Posted on March 29, 2012 by Girl on the net

wearing corsets turns you into a massive poser - try it for yourselfFrom the first moment I meet you I am curious about your dick. If you’re particularly attractive I’ll be acutely aware of it, there in your trousers.

I might not even be able to see it – some guys wear nice tight jeans that show off exactly where it is, how big and which way it’s hanging, but others are more modest and shy – they’ll hide it in baggy trousers or under long hoodies. That’s a shame, but it doesn’t really stop me.

Do other girls feel like this? Your cock is something I’m immensely curious about.
It doesn’t really matter if I fancy you or not – your dick is still a dick, and it’s still something I don’t have but want to see.

Are you cut or uncut? Is it nice and thick? How much does it grow when you get turned on?

Your dick is so fucking pretty

Girl with a one track mind once wrote about boys on the tube who sit with their legs wide open. It’s annoying for those next to them, and desperately distracting for those opposite. But if you want to show off your wares, it’s an excellent way to do so. Because make no mistake – I’m looking. Subtly, of course. I want to know more about your dick. I want to see it. If I can make out the shape of it in the crotch of your trousers all I’ll be able to think about is what it would be like to sit on.

This is especially true of older men. Guys around 50. I’m not entirely sure why, but I have trouble imagining a guy of that age with a cock that isn’t big and thick – the sort of cock you could beat someone round the face with, that would give a good hard handful. That would actually hurt me.

I know not all guys reach the age of 50 and magically acquire a huge cock, but if one of them is standing in front of me on the tube and my face is at crotch level, I have to look. To see if it’s filling his trousers. To see if, as his mind wanders on a boring journey, it’s semi-hard.

I’ll look at you too – in the pub, in the street, on the bus. In the hope that you might be sporting the beginnings of a nice fat erection.

And if I’ve fucked you, if you’re one of mine, I’ll find it hard to sit down next to you without wanting to run my hand across to your lap – stroke it through the denim. Squeeze it, touch it, put pressure on it – feel it growing hard under my hand.

Getting caught

I think someone busted me today. An older guy, standing in front of me on the train. He had something that was either semi-hard or showed a ridiculous amount of promise. As he reached up to hold onto the bar it was outlined nicely in his trousers – suit trousers, worn far too tight.

He looked at me, saw my gaze, and shifted uncomfortably.

This, I thought, must be how girls feel if skeezy guys stare at their tits for too long. This is how I feel sometimes when someone’s gaze goes beyond flattery and starts straying into ‘will they follow me home and jizz on my doorstep?’ territory.

I want to end this with a plea for understanding – looking at people is normal. It’s fine. Humans think about sex – if we didn’t think about it, we’d never get up the courage or the imagination to do it in such interesting and devious ways.

But at the same time I’m overcome with shame. If you catch me looking I’ll blush and squirm with humiliation, if you call me out I’ll apologise. But there’s no apology strong enough to make up for objectifying you. There’s nothing I can say to take away the things my mind does when I’ve got time to kill and some tightly-packed trousers in my eyeline.

Posted in The human body | Tagged , , , | 15 Comments
Mar 24

On submission and self-esteem

Posted on March 24, 2012 by Girl on the net

nobody puts baby in the corner, but they do sometimes put me in a corner if I won't shut up and do what they sayA lovely guy emailed me a while ago asking for a link to his blog on coping with depression. I don’t know much about depression, but I do know that something he said in that initial exchange really got my hackles up.

“Your posts on choking, the consent rule, safe words and anal sex all indicate aspects of the darker side of sex which, believe it or not, is more commonly linked to depression than you might think because of its links to low self esteem.”

 

Assuming that people who are sexually submissive suffer from low self-esteem pisses me off. He has kindly elaborated, to kick off a discussion.

He says:

“Sometimes I wince inside when I read some of GOTN’s posts. The reason? I have had low self esteem and self confidence issues for most of my teen and adult life. In more recent times this has developed into severe depression.

Self esteem can be a big issue where sex is concerned. It may prevent you from doing things you might otherwise enjoy, it may compel you to do things you’re not comfortable with or it may even cause you to do things that are dangerous. Take G’s posts on choking, consent, and the Soho cinema. The consistent theme is that she’s submissive and gets turned on by being in a sexual situation beyond her control, even one that could be scary and painful for her. Now, G assures me that there is no psychological dimension to her sexual enjoyment, which is fine, I’m not suggesting otherwise.

I will, however, give you the example of a friend of mine. Career minded, independent, didn’t want to be stuck in a relationship or have children. She was submissive too, in fact she would do pretty much anything in or outside the bedroom, with anyone that might take her fancy. It all sounds like harmless fun, right? Well, not quite – she used to self harm, such was her level of self loathing. She did what she did sexually as a way of subconsciously punishing herself for being the horrible person she was (or so her mind told her), undeserving of any love or affection, men were free to play with her as they chose. She then used to cut her arms and legs to punish herself some more. She would drink herself into oblivion to hide from the mental pain, which would result in her slumping into an even deeper depression, from which she could escape only by trying to stimulate her brain into producing more serotonin. It was a vicious circle, which tragically came to a juddering halt when she ended her life. She never sought the help that could have saved her, simply because she never thought she was worth it.

I guess my message is that you never know when depression might creep up on you. Never be ashamed to get help, it may just save your life.”

Sexual submission does not equal low self-esteem

The above post is written very cautiously. Note that after I’ve ‘assured’ him that I like submission, he ‘is not suggesting’ that I have low self esteem. Nevertheless, he launches into what is certainly a powerful and sad story, and one which makes him wince at my stories about getting choked.

Submission is a valid sexual choice

How could I possibly like being choked? It’s so damaging and painful that there simply must be something wrong with my brain that draws me, against my will and better judgement, to such agony.

Point 1: I don’t like the implication that a subset of women have made the ‘wrong’ sexual choices.

For the record, I like getting choked because it’s hot. Not hot because ‘I’m a bad girl and need to be punished’ and not because ‘I want someone to be in total control of me.’ It’s hot because it makes my cunt wet. If it makes your dick hard then it makes my cunt all the wetter.

I shouldn’t have to ‘assure’ anyone of that, because no one should make any pop-psychological assumptions about my sexual inclinations in the first place. For the record, assuming that submissive men like to lick feet and be beaten because they ‘probably have very high-powered jobs’ and want to ‘let off a bit of steam’ is just as odious a cliche.

I, personally, like to assume that people take part in sexual acts because they have chosen to. That way, not only do we give people the credit for being able to make their own sexual choices, it is also much easier to spot situations where they haven’t – acts that they might be feeling pressured into, or things they’re doing because they’re too drunk or out of it. I’ll come onto this later.

Lots of people like pain

Kink-friendly film ‘The Secretary’ is worth a mention here, if only for the fact that it does little to dispel the myth that submissive women lack self-esteem. Despite being one of my favourite films (Maggie Gyllenhall getting whacked by her boss before being humiliatingly jizzed upon and voluntarily pissing herself at a desk in what I can only describe as an orgy of awesome) it’s still, at its core, a damsel in distress movie.

Poor Maggie Gyllenhall cuts herself because she’s sad. She self-harms and covers it up, and only becomes truly happy when she’s found a nice big strong man to fulfil her desperate need for pain.

Point 2: the desire for pain is not particularly uncommon.

As the popularity of the film implies, an interest in dominance/submission is not even that bloody weird. Depending on the survey results you look at, and how the question’s framed, between 5-25% of people have a penchant for dominance and/or submission. A study quoted by the Beeb estimates that between 11-14% of the US population has tried some form of BDSM.

Dominance and submission also splatters our cultural discourse like humiliating bukakke – we make jokes about spanking, watch TV shows with two-dimensional Dominatrix villains, even fucking Cosmopolitan magazine has even given tips on it, for crying out loud.

So why do we still insist on holding the desire for pain up as an example of ‘unusual’ sexual behaviour?

Perhaps poor Maggie Gyllenhaal would have been happier if we hadn’t.

Do I deserve to be punished?

Here’s something explicitly referenced in the example. The lady you discuss was ‘punishing herself.’ So do most submissive women submit because they think they deserve to be pubished?

Do I think I deserve to be punished? God no. I’m undeserving of most of the good things that happen to me, and I’m always surprised and delighted when a dude gets it into his head to beat me to the verge of tears and then fuck me like a ragdoll.

Do you see what I did there? I assumed that this particular sexual act, like most, was something that I wanted.

Point 3: submissive women do not necessarily think they ‘deserve’ misery.

In order to draw the link between low self-esteem and submission you have to assume that the girl doesn’t really want pain – at least not in the same way as she might want a cuddle and a chocolate brownie. She takes the pain because she feels like she deserves punishment – she’s bad/wrong/fucked up etc.

Do we try to rationalise other sexual preferences like this? Do we feel the need to explain away your desire for blowjobs because you think your cock is dirty and needs to be cleaned? No. We say you fucking like blowjobs.

We work on the rule of thumb that people are having sex because they want to. If, when a girl tells you that she wants to be spanked, you assume some complex psychological trauma to explain away her ‘unusual’ desires, you make the wild and significant assumption that she doesn’t like it.

By assuming she doesn’t like it you make the girl’s decision – a choice she has made about the way she gets off – insignificant. Your revulsion at the idea that someone could actively seek out pain leads you to patronise her and assume that she’s compelled to do it for reasons other than that it’s her choice.

What better way to take away her sexual agency? To lower her self-esteem.

Some submissive women do have low self-esteem

I’m not saying that no one ever allowed someone to do horrible, painful things to them because they had self-esteem issues. But what I am saying is that assuming a link between these two things is unfair on the countless thousands of people who choose submission because it turns them on.

Moreover, it’s unfair on the people for whom this is a genuine problem. If the lady in the example my friend proffers had genuine self-esteem issues, then assuming that there’s a natural link between submission and low self-esteem isn’t going to do her any favours.

Point 4: linking submission and low self-esteem provides a smokescreen for the real issues someone might be facing.

Assuming that people do sexual things because they enjoy it means that alarm bells will ring all the louder when you see someone who clearly doesn’t. And that’s really, really important.

If you don’t assume that submission and self-esteem are inextricably linked, what you describe in the example is even more shocking. It’s not a submissive woman carrying out her sexual desires, it’s a damaged woman being taken advantage of when she actually needs to be helped.

Where’s the evidence?

A final thought, because I am nothing if not rigorous and overly verbose: I’ve had a google around this area, and have yet to find any comprehensive studies on the possible link between sexual submission and low self-esteem. If the original statement that submission is “more commonly linked to depression than you might think” is true, then this material must exist. I would certainly like to see any data anyone could provide on this. Links in the comments will be rewarded with my genuine delight.

Despite having failed to locate much info on the topic, I’m more than willing to believe that there might be a link between sexual submission and low self-esteem in some cases. But I’m still going to stick to my guns and say you should never assume there is one. It’s incredibly patronising, and sometimes damaging, and it certainly depresses the fuck out of me.

Posted in Ranty ones | Tagged , , , , | 24 Comments
Mar 16

Someone else’s story: sexual anticipation

Posted on March 16, 2012 by Girl on the net

You know how sometimes something’s so good you can’t keep it to yourself? When you’ve done something utterly disgusting and you just have to tell someone?

I’ve annoyed/amused my best friend no end by occasionally texting him to let him know whether I got laid and how I got on. And once, in a rather misjudged boast, I told him that the morning after I stayed at his house, I’d sat cunt-first on one of the bedposts in his spare bedroom while a boy I was with tried to fuck me in the arse.

Don’t give me that look – I wiped the bedpost down afterwards.

Well, the point I’m tortuously getting to is that sometimes girls send me these stories. About what they’ve done, about what they want to do and (in the case of the lady in this post) what they’ll be doing soon.

I enjoy these stories almost as much as I enjoy the cock pictures. At my request, and posted with her permission, I hope you enjoy the following story too…

Guest: anticipation

I have pictured this for so long. How decorous we will be in public then, as soon as we are in the hotel room, you push me up against the wall. You kiss me fiercely, one hand clutching my breast, the other slides up my thigh, under my skirt, two fingers push inside my pants, inside me and finger fuck me to oblivion.

Or maybe you’ll put a finger on my lips, tell me to be quiet, to kneel, you’ll make me wait as you slowly undo your belt – I will be gasping for you, my mouth dropping open, expectant.

Or maybe we’ll fall on the bed, ripping clothes as we struggle to join.

I want to feel your hips buck under me, your cock pulse inside me. All I know for sure is that first time we will still be clothed, our joint impatience predicts it. Then afterwards we peel each other down to the skin and really start to explore.

Posted in Guest contributions | Tagged , , | 3 Comments
Mar 14

On getting laid in a nightclub

Posted on March 14, 2012 by Girl on the net

This doesn’t happen. It might happen to other people, but it never ever happens to me. Therefore it might as well be light-speed interstellar travel or a stint as Emperor of the Universe – it is an almost-impossible dream. Moreover it’s one which, frankly, I’m not sure I’d want to have anyway.

The typical night out clubbing involves meeting people in a pub or bar, getting just drunk enough that you feel at your most attractive, then heading to some odd-looking fashionable warehouse to flail madly while some preening dickhead presses play on a stereo and underpaid miserablists charge you £20 for a gin and tonic.

That does not make me feel very sexy. Let’s break it down:

Groups of friends

Few people go clubbing on their own – they go with friends. And in a group of friends it is much more difficult to make an initial approach. What if your friends see you and whisper behind their hands? What if they’re nudging you towards him/her like you’re nrvously asking for a snog at the school disco? What if all of his/her friends laugh as you approach, or loudly tell you that your chosen one is taken?

Loud music

I don’t want to sound like your moaning grandma, but I am about to do just that: why the living arsefuck (yes, in my head your gran talks just like this) do you want to go somewhere where you can’t hear what anyone’s saying? Why do the kids these days insist on placing themselves in rooms with noise so penetrating that you can’t think, let alone share a coherent and captivating sentence or two with your neighbour?

Heat

Nightclubs are hot. They are boiling, boiling hot. I would no more try to approach a stranger in a nightclub than I would insist on jogging to a first date.

Yes, my sweat is beautiful and arousing and gets your dick hard when we’re in bed together, but if the first time you meet me I’m humming like a tramps’ sauna, chances are you’ll be unlikely to want to dick me.

Dancing

No. Unless you’re stunningly good at it, nightclub dancing is a shockingly difficult way to get laid. It’s a very distant descendant of the partner dances our grandparents did together, but somehow all the beauty and sex has been stripped out of it until it’s just a repulsive husk of its former self – a rutting, gyrating dignity-killer that leaves us all looking like someone’s last choice.

Tea dancing, swing dancing, anything you do with a partner is fucking sexy. Beautiful. It’s closeness and warmth and the good, good scent of your partner and – if you’re lucky – the feeling of their growing erection pressing into your hips. It’s whispering into their ear that you want to squeeze it and making plans for later in the evening. Your grandparents did this – it’s why you are here.

What happened to that sort of dancing? What happened to chatting, and wooing, and subtle glances? Why do we now feel like we have to dance like we’re actually humping things in mid-air, or cavorting wildly with some invisible partner? I want men to sidle up to me, tap me on the shoulder, and take me by the hands. I want to get wetter and wetter as I feel their hands stray – ever so slowly – to my bottom. I don’t want to have to rub my crotch on them while they gurn over my shoulder and twist their hips around like they’ve got scorpions attacked to their bollocks.

It’s obscene.

I’m a massive fucking pervert – I love strip clubs and Beyoncé videos and all the rest of it – but even I have an issue with the idea that to pull someone you must first embarass yourself with undignified dancing until you’re dripping with a stinking sweat, eschew all forms of verbal communication then complete your advances by performing a borderline sexual assault on someone and hoping they don’t punch you in the face.

Sorry, that was a bit ranty, but it’s true. Even if you love clubbing, and live for the nights where you drop some pills and punch the sky in a delicious orgy of pleasure and music and people, I still don’t think you’d say the club is a sexy place to be.

Proof: If you pull someone at a pub, would you bother taking your fresh and eager loved one to a nightclub? No. You’d whisk them off to your house, slap on some Janis Joplin, and slow dance them until they’re utterly drenched in fuck.

Posted in Ranty ones | Tagged , , , , | 11 Comments
Mar 05

On whether porn is cheating

Posted on March 5, 2012 by Girl on the net

A friend of mine (who knows damn well how to wind me up) sent me a link to a forum on which they were discussing the question “Is watching porn cheating?” to which the answer any sane human being would give is very obviously ‘no.’ On the thread women (and some men who are recovering porn addicts) argue that perhaps it is, and that it certainly feels like it is when a lady accidentally stumbles across her boyfriend’s internet history.

After a brief Google around the subject I discovered that rather than being a mockable minority, the people who believe porn is cheating are not only serious, but worryingly numerous.

I’m presumably preaching to the choir here, but I’d like someone to disagree with me so I can form my argument more fully than I have in this post, which essentially consists of me going “What the ACTUAL MENTAL FUCK ARE YOU ON ABOUT” over and over again.

My boyfriend watches porn and it’s like he’s fucking someone else

No. It’s not at all like he’s fucking someone else because it’s just some pictures on a fucking screen. You’re no more cheating when you watch porn than you’re a vampire when you read Twilight, or a member of the Secret Seven when you crack out the childhood Enid Blyton books.

You sometimes put yourself in the place of people acting in scenes in order to enhance your enjoyment of the material, but that does not mean you are actually there. It doesn’t even mean that were these people performing a live show right in your living room and getting their awesome porny juices all over your sofa, you would join in.

But it’s cheating in the mind, right?

No. Because what you’re describing there is a thought crime. If watching porn is cheating then writing slashfic is a form of rape.

I think this comes from female (and it is usually female – I’d like to see how men react to the idea that their girl watching porn is ‘cheating’) worries about not being adequate, and their partner being sexually interested in other people and things. It’s ‘cheating’ because he’s getting off to something that isn’t you, and that taps into a fairly primitive female jealousy about boys leaving their girlfriends for younger/prettier/thinner/more-willing-to-do-anal models.

Well, it probably sucks for these girls to hear this but he is interested in other people. Sexually. No matter how stunning or sexually adventurous you are, you are not the only thing that makes your man’s dick hard. Nice though you might think that would be, it’s not practical, nor even desirable. Many of his best moves have probably come from things he’s seen while doing some one-handed browsing during an idle moment.

But what he watches is so disgusting and degrading

Hahahaha.

Haha.

No, seriously, stop it – you’re killing me.

It’s so much easier to demonise men for the porn they watch because men tend to require more visual stimulation than women do to get off. In short – you can watch theirs too whereas yours is probably locked away inside your head. Saying that their fantasies are ‘degrading’ and ‘disgusting’ is really easy to do when your own fantasies aren’t exposed for all to see, at the click of a mouse on the 3 a.m. section of your Chrome history.

SECRET ALERT: Women’s fantasies can be disgusting and degrading too.

While John’s beating one out to a video of someone getting beaten on YouPorn, Jane might be having just as much fun imagining biting into her partner’s abdomen until she draws blood and he whimpers and comes into her red and ready lips. Or thinking about her old Geordie history teacher reaching into her open shirt while she finishes off her homework, squeezing her nipples and calling her a ‘good girl’ then dragging her to the front of class to finish the rest while sitting on his lap. Ahem.

I’ve never been as degraded, humiliated, used and spat upon as I am in my own fantasies. It’s extremely lucky for me that most exist only in my head and not on an easily accessible hard drive.

Porn and sexual fantasy is by its nature degrading because the people in it are there for one purpose – to get you off. Even if you’re rubbing one out to the thought of your ex (who you’re still hopelessly in love with, and have a deep and abiding respect for) touching you up until his cock throbs, at the moment you’re fantasising you don’t give a fuck if he’s real or unreal, alive or dead – all you care is that his fictional dick is hard and his fictional fingers are fumbling at your fictional crotch through your pretty, fictional, soaking wet knickers.

But it’s a violation – it just feels disgusting

Porn is disgusting. Your fantasies are disgusting. But that’s OK. We can wallow in gallons of misery and shame during frantic solo sessions and no one gets hurt – our relationships don’t get a fucking look in. You imagine some things in private that you wouldn’t dream of in real life, because it’s unreal – and the unreality of it is what allows you to abandon yourself.

Your wanking is your wanking – it has little to do with your partner or your ex-partners or the guy who delivers you pizza – it has everything to do with the things you think inside your head, or the things that happen inside your head when you’re watching the teeny screen people frig each other off for your delectation.

Wanking (whether to porn or to your own imagined depravity) is usually a solo sport – it wouldn’t work if we allowed others to scrutinise it properly.

If we start giving that the ‘cheating’ label to our personal fantasy life then monogamy is not just dead but hung, drawn, quartered, burned, then fired out into space to make sure it’s gone forever.

If wanking is cheating then no one is faithful.

Posted in Ranty ones | Tagged , , , | 17 Comments
Feb 28

On the prettiest things

Posted on February 28, 2012 by Girl on the net

Are you a tits man or an arse man? Or, perhaps, a leg man? Guys are often asked, for no rational reason that I can identify, to shoehorn themselves into one of these boxes. But what’s the alternative for girls? We aren’t asked if we’re ‘cock’ or ‘arse’ women.

Perhaps it’s because we’re trickier to categorise – we have a tendency to sexualise bits of your body that aren’t obviously sexual – your eyes, your hands, your arms. Lovely though your penis is, it’s rarely your hottest feature.

This point was hammered home fairly solidly to me recently when I watched Cindy Gallop talking about female desire. In what I think is a desperately sexy accent, she goes misty-eyed about men’s forearms. I mean, forearms, for crying out loud. Filthy bitch.

But she’s right – sometimes the things that turn us on are bloody odd. I’m a big fan of chipping in, so in no particular order, here are some of the sexiest things about boys.

Hands

Beautiful hands – long fingers, chubby fingers, rings, fingernails cut or bitten to the quick that mean you can slide them into me eagerly and easily.

Even better – big hands. Hands that you use to touch me, grab me, restrain me. Hands that you put flat on my tits and squeeze. Hands that you can place on my waist when I’m beside you, that you can use to squeeze and control me.

Hands that fit neatly into the back pocket of my jeans.

Final note: boys wearing nail varnish: yes please. Please. With sugar, a cherry, and a massive helping of girljizz on top.

Armpits

Naked men lying on my bed with their hands either gripping or tied to the bed posts. These men are not hot because they’re vulnerable – they’re hot because they’re showing me their armpits.

Guys have hairy armpits and it’s wonderful – beautiful. They’re dark, and dirty, and provide definition against your powerful, masculine arms.

Ideally they smell musky and sweaty, like fucking in a sauna. If you promise not to freak out at my perving, I would love the chance to lick them.

Shoulders

It doesn’t matter if you’re fat, thin, skinny or muscular – your shoulders are sexy. They’re what I’ll bite and drool and dribble over while you’re fucking me nice and hard.

They’re male and strong and defined and so so different to my own. The things that make the two of us different make you especially hot.

I once fucked a guy with tattooed sleeves, the designs ended just at the tip of his shoulders – essentially an arrow to highlight and point at what my eye’s already drawn towards. Apparently I wasn’t paying the requisite amount of attention to his face, because he stopped halfway through that fuck to ask: “are you perving on my tattoos?”

Yes. I most definitely, definitely was.

Hipbones

Ungh. Yes. This only really works with very lithe, skinny boys, but I love to play with your hipbones.

If you’re lying on your back and I can see the definition of your hipbones at your waist it will take as much restraint as I can muster not to just grab your hips with my hands and push my thumbs into the little dent above them, ideally while taking your cock in my mouth as you moan like a desperate, wriggling teenager.

The dimples just above your arse cheeks

Why is this beautiful? It’s beautiful because if you’re wearing pants, staring at these dimples is the closest I get to your arse without actually seeing your arse. It’s a tiny bit of definition that hints at what’s below. And is usually even sexier than your arse itself.

Bonus points if you also have soft, wispy hair in the crook of your back that I can stroke when I’m reaching down behind you.

The back of your neck

I want to bite it. I also want to sniff it, kiss it, lick and nuzzle it as I sit behind you on the sofa with my legs wrapped round your hips, one hand steadily rubbing your ever-hardening cock.

Incidentally, the back of the neck is one of the reasons why fucking guys in the ass can be so spectacular – if you have a guy lying on his front, you get a stunning view of his neck as you push yourself into him.

This is one reason why I try to avoid hugging guys I’m not sleeping with – being that close to their neck just feels pervy, like I’m violating them with my thoughts.

No matter who you are, if you hug me I will take deep breaths in – sampling exactly what your neck smells like and what it feels like to rest my face there. Out of courtesy I’ll refrain from actually licking it, but I’ll probably be imagining what it would be like to bury my face in it while we fuck.

Posted in Filthy ones | Tagged , , | 10 Comments
Feb 26

On girlwanking

Posted on February 26, 2012 by Girl on the net

It looks like I'm tired because I've been vigorously wanking, but actually this tiredness comes mainly from drinking too much cider during the photo shoot.I’m a terrible wanking hypocrite.

I write this in the desperate hope that some of you will send me pictures of your cock, and while imagining others partaking in the most creative, beautiful boywanking, yet I myself am the blandest wanker you’ll ever hope to meet.

First I unzip my trousers…

Sometimes people email me to tell me their sexy details – how they wank, where they come, what they do to bring themselves to a frothing, jizz-splattered conclusion. It’s fantastic to hear, but almost always followed by a question I dread: “what do you do when you’re looking at these pictures?”

It’s a perfectly fair question, but I hate answering it because my answer will probably bore you to death. When I’m alone, I’m not that creative: no frills, no embellishments, no hanging upside-down from a doorframe with one hand tied behind my back and half a carrot up my arse – I just… well… I rub my clit until I come.

Dull, I know. People want more – filth and fantasy and girljuice spraying over a terrifying collection of sex toys. But I can’t lie – I wank boringly. I am a boring wanker.

The thing is, although it’s incredibly tedious to relate, it’s not that tedious to do. Rubbing my clit until I come is one of the most exciting things I can do without either leaving my flat or setting fire to it.

Wanking with sex toys

The one small concession I have to proper creative wanking is a rabbit. I don’t care that it’s a cliché – I love it to death.

Much as I hate to give credit to Ann Summers – the sex shop that sells clothes so hideous and flimsy that it’s physically impossible to actually have sex in them – the rabbit is spectacular. Of all the objects in the known universe, this is the one that has been best designed to make me jizz myself.

While I’m on a roll with this, I’ll answer the question thousands of men have asked: yes, it is better than your cock. Countless light-years better. Obviously. Millions of years of evolution cannot hope to compete with the sexual engineering genius that has produced this, the most powerful cunt-fucking equipment I have ever had the pleasure of sampling.

But it’s not the same

And yet, although it’s infinitely better than your cock, it is still not actually better than having sex with you. On the grounds that… well… it’s made of fucking plastic and won’t bring me a beer afterwards. On the grounds that it doesn’t make that delightful moaning sound or ask me for a blow job, or spank me until I weep.

And likewise, no matter how good the rabbit is (and did I mention that IT REALLY FUCKING IS?) it still doesn’t beat just rubbing my clit until I come. I rarely ever use the rabbit when I’m on my own. Although it’s ruthlessly efficient in helping me to knock out an orgasm in the time it takes most people to whip off their socks, it’s never going to be my favourite.

Perhaps it’s laziness – it is, after all, all the way over there in that drawer. Contentment? More likely – I have a routine and habit, and desire for the familiar. I know exactly what I like, how to do it, and exactly how quickly it will get me off.

I just… you know… quite like rubbing my clit until I come.

Posted in The human body | Tagged , , | 1 Comment