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.
Don’t make love to me. Please.
I’ve seen the films, where the guy enters her gently and she gasps with delight. He strokes her face and her hair and their bodies melt together in soft focus. They smile, and whisper, and beautiful music plays – something soulful and deep that you’d put on a mixtape.
This might just work if you’ve been together for years, if you know each other well after nights spent chatting and bonding and bringing each other grapes and tissues when you’re ill. It definitely doesn’t work for an early shag. Here’s why:
If you’re doing it slowly you’re not that keen. By the time you’re in my bedroom (or my lounge, or my bathroom, or the car park of the local McDonalds) I want you to be so hot and hard and desperate that you’ll frot against my thighs when you get close enough. Don’t peel my clothes off slowly while you kiss every inch of my delicate skin; moan and swear and writhe as you tear off your trousers, wondering why it takes as long as 6 fucking seconds to get your cock out and into me. If we’re shagging for the first time (or the second, third, fourth, or twenty-second), you need to be lustful, and hot, and focused so hard on coming that nothing can distract you.
Slow foreplay indicates self-control, and self-control isn’t very sexy. Why would you bother to gently undo my shirt button by button when you could be forcing your cock into the back of my throat? Don’t tell me this is foreplay, don’t tell me it’s there to make sure I’m turned on and as willing to fuck you now as I was when I first got on the night bus home with you; if I weren’t turned on I wouldn’t be here. It was probably me who dragged you onto the night bus in the first place.
From the moment we’re alone and you touch me my legs start to shake, I’ll be panting and wet and desperate and everything that’s good about naked, horny girls. To try and temper that passion with gentle kisses is an insult to the lust that I want to bleed into every pore of your body. If I’m begging you for hardcore, don’t give me Mills and Boon.
But if none of the above has persuaded you, and you still want to stroke my face and call me darling and see if you can melt my frozen heart with the power of your lovemaking, then let’s cut to the chase: I don’t love you, you don’t love me. We should no more be ‘making love’ than we should be naming our first child.
If we’re not fucking then we’re fucking done here.