From 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.
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.
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.
I’m a massive, massive girl. I stand at five foot 11 in bare feet, which means that in the pretty boots I rock a good six feet three inches. Massive.
Wikipedia informs me that the average height for guys in England is five foot 9 or 10 inches (depending on age). If I only fucked guys who were taller than me I’d have spent most of my life alone.
Practicalities aside, there is genuinely nothing wrong with a male/female coupling in which the guy is shorter. The only reason we think it’s weird is because cretins point out that society has certain expectations about height. It’s a way to make people feel self-conscious about things they have no control over – playground bullying that grown ups should have grown out of.
My first ever boy was pretty small – he came just a bit higher than my shoulder. But you know what? I got used to it after about a week, and from then on the only time I noticed it was when shallow, judgemental arseholes would make comments about it.
“Don’t you get a sore neck when you’re kissing him? HAHAHA.”
No more than guys get when they’re with shorter girls, you gold-plated prick.
People pretend to be interested in the mechanics of a small guy fucking a woman who’s taller:
“Doesn’t it make it harder when you’re fucking standing up?”
No. Doesn’t your miserable attitude make it difficult for you to fuck at all?
They’re not really interested – they just want to discuss it and point out how ridiculous it is that we don’t conform to the exact physical expectations that they’d have regarding gender and height. Ha fucking ha.
Dear short men
You’re hot. But you’re not hot because you’re short – as with the vast majority of the population your height has little bearing on your fuckability. A tight, firm ass, a deliciously-placed tattoo, a penchant for dropping filthy comments into pub conversation – these are the most important things.
So no matter how many inches you have, work them with confidence. If you’re low on self-esteem there are some things you can change – you can be fatter or thinner or nicer or more likely to put out, but you cannot change your height – rock whatever you have with confidence and charm, and the people who matter will fuck you no matter what.
Some guys try and disguise their height with, for instance, big shoes or by *cough* Sarkozy *cough* standing on a box. But not only is it unnecessary, I’d argue that it’s actually going to make you look worse.
I’d never turn down a fuck with someone just because they were short. But I might turn one down if he was massively paranoid about the difference between him and me. If he was uncomfortable about standing next to me, or hated it when I wore boots, or made me feel like I should slouch when I was around him – those are crappy things to do. Being short? That’s just who you are.
So dress yourself up, go out, talk to ladies, shatter people’s expectations, be great at your job, stand up like you mean it – love things, fuck things, do good in the world. And if anyone mocks your height or laughs at you when you’re with a taller woman, give them the biggest ‘fuck off’ you can muster. You’re always going to be short, but you should never ever feel small.
Dear tall women
Once I was in bed with a guy who whispered to me:
“You know, the great thing about small women is you can put them up against a wall and fuck them.”
I’m 5′ 11″ – a giantess of a woman – he wasn’t talking about me. Since then I’ve had occasional issues with my height – I used to find out how tall guys were before I went on dates with them so I’d know whether I was OK to wear heels. I’d slouch and I’d lean and I’d try to do most things sitting down. I’d refrain from dancing, I’d wear flats, I’d voluntarily make my life less fun just in case people judged me for being tall.
But since then, other guys have said other things:
“Fuck, you’re so tall. I fucking love tall girls.”
“Wear the massive pretty boots. Please?”
And I learned something utterly crucial: the best guys couldn’t give a flying fuck. Whether you’re five foot five or six foot six, a decent guy will fuck you anyway. Men don’t usually shag you because of your specific physical features – they shag you because you rock them with confidence.
So the next time someone says “wow, you’re tall for a lady” I want you to grab the nearest thing off a high shelf and fling it at their stupid sexist head. Find your biggest, stampiest pair of boots and crush them beneath the heel. Stand up straight, pull your shoulders back, and use your long, gorgeous legs to swing a kick in their general direction.
Because you’re massive, and brilliant, and you can take on the world if you want to. Don’t let that world make you feel small.
The first time I saw a circumcised dick I froze in fear. Not because it looked weird (although for the record: it did. Don’t judge me) but because I didn’t have a sodding clue what to do with it.
There seems to be a fashion these days for guys to shave their bollocks. The first time I ever touched shaved bollocks I was utterly fascinated – mainly by the weird plasticine-y feel of them, but also partly by the motivation.
Why the living fuck would a guy want to shave his bollocks? What earthly good could it possibly do him? Does it make him swim faster, bang harder or achieve greater recognition for his successes in the workplace? Does it make him good at science or gain him entry into exclusive private members’ clubs? Is the warmth generated from having all the extra pubic hair rendering his sperm so relaxed and sluggish that he is incapable of impregnating a lady friend?
I’ve since met more guys who do it, and have discussed with them the reasons why they might be tempted, on a weekly or bi-weekly basis, to take a razor to their genitals.
Girls like it
I’m informed that some girls like naked balls. It apparently makes it more pleasant when you’re running your tongue from the base of his cock down to his perineum if you don’t end up with the odd hair in your mouth while doing it.
Fair enough – if a girl’s giving you head she doesn’t want all that icky hair getting in the way. It’s just not natural – having body hair that naturally grows from your natural body.
It feels nice
This one is a divider – some guys think it feels lovely, and they like the feeling of clean pants rubbing against a freshly balded sack. But I’ve met others who hate the extra stickiness generated, and think the feeling is somewhat akin to having bollocks made of silly putty.
It makes your cock look bigger
Why on earth would you want to make it look bigger? The best thing about having a big cock is that when you put it in me I can feel it stretching me and filling me up and banging hard against my cervix. No amount of shaving will make any difference to this and, in fact, if your cock looks big and feels smaller, the only reaction you’ll get is one of initial delight followed by mild disappointment.
Body hair: the right answer
By ‘the right answer’ I, as ever, mean ‘what I think.’ Body hair is completely natural and normal, and as such it is yet another of those genuinely delightful things about naked boys. I would prefer it if you didn’t shave it all off.
Obviously some body hair is nicer than others – that line running from your crotch to your belly button is so sexy that I’m not sure I can write on it in detail without going for a lie-down. Likewise, the fuzz of hair that collects in the crook of your back is delightful and beautiful and almost worthy of a blog of its very own. So hair is good.
That’s not to say smoothness feels bad – on the contrary it can feel really nice sometimes. But shaved bollocks in particular feel odd and clinical. What’s more they grow back stubbly, and then they scratch.
But the look and feel of them isn’t the main thing that gets me. By all means shave the fuck out of your body if you genuinely want to, or if you enjoy cupping your nuts when you’ve had at them with a razor, but I’ll still think you’re a bit odd for wanting to because it just seems like a lot of unnecessary effort.
Shaved things have to be reshaved regularly, which takes time as well as effort. Time and effort that could much better be spent doing something fun – forcing me to bury my face in your hirsute crotch and suck your dick nice and hard, letting me grip it until you moan a little and ask me to stop squeezing, then making me sit on the coffee table touching myself while you stand over me and shoot jizz all over my face. For example.
WARNING: I am about to mention the patriarchy
Ever since man first dragged woman out of the cave by her hair, women have been giving a massive shit about their hair. It’s not my job to question why, only to lament the fact that, as a woman, I spend far more time than is sensible either removing unwanted hair or explaining to people in stampy feminist tones why actually no, I don’t have the fucking time to wax myself bald from the waist down. I am usually too busy having a career, or seeing friends, or fucking guys, or enjoying a life that does not revolve around beautifying myself to achieve the validation of shallow people.
This shit is a pain in the arse for women. Men – you’re lucky enough to be in the 50% of the human race that isn’t currently burdened with expectations about the removal of your body hair. Don’t fuck it up for yourselves.
Society doesn’t – at the moment – expect you to shave your balls. Be wary of turning it into a majority activity. I’m not telling you not to shave them – do what the actual fuck you want to do with your own body – but please keep reminding yourself that you never ever have to.
I dread living in a world where men have their back, sack and crack waxed because they think it’s normal. It is not ‘normal’ to remove your body hair. It’s onerous, boring and unnecessary, and you probably have better things to do. Like me.