All Posts – Page 264
The problem with people is that they don’t touch my tits enough. There is a serious lack of tit-grabbing in my life, and it’s an issue that frankly needs to be adressed. My MP didn’t reply to my letter, so I’m going to write it here instead:
I love my tits, they’re awesome. They’re also extremely sensitive. If you touch them I will whimper like a slut in handcuffs. Touch them.
Teenage boys are (sorry, were when I was younger – please don’t arrest me) amazing in a multitude of ways, but primarily they are amazing because they show tits the love that they deserve. A teenage boy will stare at them, squeeze them, suck them, bite them, and all but worship them as the second coming of Christ if you let him get within a couple of feet.
But grown-ups seem to be bored of them. Sure, they’ll give you a quick feel when you’re snogging, they’ll take off your top and do some cursory playing during sex, but it’s been a long time since someone tried to furtively get mine out in the back row of a cinema, or gaped at them open-mouthed like a drooling dog in a butcher’s shop.
I’ve never met a man who says he doesn’t like tits. And yet as grown men they miss out on a million opportunities to touch them up. I can think of no occasion when I’ve been sitting with a guy on the sofa getting stoned and watching South Park that wouldn’t have been immeasurably improved if he’d had one hand down my shirt idly pinching one of my nipples.
Likewise I’ve been on countless long bus journeys that would have seemed shorter with a guy’s hands up my top. In McDonalds? If no kids are looking, why not reach over and pop open one of the buttons on my shirt. Have a look, go on. Walking down the street? Put your hand round my waist so you can slide it up occasionally and cup one of them in your hand. If I’m in the front seat of a car and you’re in the passenger seat, reach round and grab them. Come up behind me while I’m writing and run your hands down from my shoulders and into my bra. Slip one hand inside my coat on a cold winter’s day. Go on. Please. Touch my tits – I’ll buy you a sandwich.
And during sex? Why not grab them? Go on – just a bit, squeeze them a little. If you’re on top and you need your arms to hold you up, put one hand on each of my tits and hold yourself up that way. It hurts, and is hot and brilliant. I appreciate that watching them jiggle is one of the most fun things about sex, but why not interrupt that jiggling every once in a while by grabbing my nipples and feeling my cunt twitch and my legs tense up as you squeeze them nice and hard, yeah?
I guess as you grow up you’re more focused on the ultimate goal – the cunt. But while your cock’s in there your hands are free, so if it’s not too much trouble, and if you’re not that busy: touch them. Pretty pretty please.
Everyone hates condoms – they’re rubbish. They’re all rubbery and they smell weird and there’s a break in sex where you have to tear the packaging and struggle your desperate, throbbing cock into something that will end up diminishing your enjoyment of the whole thing. See? Rubbish.
“You should still try and pleasure a woman even after you’ve come.”
Why? What’s in it for you? Oh, sorry – you’re selfless. You’re a selfless, giving, good-Samaritan of a man who’ll be kind enough to fumble with my cunt even at the point after orgasm when, for you, it holds less interest than a bacon sandwich.
Why thanks – you’re too kind. I don’t know about you but what I dream about in my wildest fantasies is a man who is spent, exhausted and completely sexually disinterested rummaging around like he’s trying to re-light the gas hob.
“I want to make sure you’re getting something out of it.”
Trust me: I am. And you’ll know about it with loud and vigorous enthusiasm right up until the climax – the most IMPORTANT BLOODY PART – whether you jizz in me, on me, or somewhere over the frigging rainbow. I can come any time I like, but it’s not every day I get to taste your spunk in my mouth.
That’s why I bought my ticket. That’s what I’m here for.
If I don’t come, and you do, that is fine by me. I can lie there in the afterglow feeling your come slowly drying on my stomach, listening to your post-shag panting and feeling satisfied that we both had a great time. What I can’t do is enjoy the afterglow if you’re still half-heartedly prodding at my clit.
So please, gentlemen, PLEASE, for the love of all that’s good and beautiful and drenched in sweat after an excellent ride: when you’re done, stop. You were wonderful.
I once got a text from a boy that just read: “When I see you on Friday can I come in your hair and/or eyes?” Brilliant. Not specifically the places, but the fact that he wanted it so badly. He had a thing for mess. Remembering this got me thinking about being covered in spunk, and the best places to jizz…
Warning: don’t fucking try this at home. I like getting choked during sex, but I am aware that it’s quite a dangerous thing to do, and therefore I don’t want to encourage you to plough on with this without an understanding of the risks and ways to mitigate them.
Now that’s out of the way: choking is one of my favourite things. It’s controlling, it’s cruel, it’s taboo, it says “hey, I’m going to do this whether you like it or not.” It makes a lot of guys, even ones who are otherwise pretty vanilla, very hard indeed.