Girlonthenet: Being an emotionless wreck, you’d be forgiven for thinking that my heart is never touched. You’d be wrong – only slightly wrong, but wrong nonetheless.
This week the lovely Jon, of ‘Things I have done to impress women‘ fame, sent me a guest post that made me both laugh and also pity him – and all men – who have a tendency to put cute women on pedestals and subsequently become terrified of talking to them.
It’s pretty, it’s poetic, it’s funny, and it’s warm. In short – it is everything that I am usually not, which is why I adore it. Over to him:
The thing is, you never know when it’s going to hit you. Sometimes, you’ll just be thirsty. It’s a cold, crisp October morning, and you just want a hot drink. So you’ll go into the nearest corporate coffee emporium and order the silliest sounding hot drink. While pondering whether you want one of those little caramel biscuit things, you realise that the barista is asking you a question. You’re just in the middle of saying “large” when you look up and meet her eyes. Christ. They have a piercing quality that burns through your skull. You manage to say something that sounds like “laaaarr-g-g-le”. She smiles slightly, and brushes her dark hair from her eyes.
“Do you mean grande?” she asks, and you notice that there’s a slight tang of European accent there. You go into a conversational tailspin, trying to ask about the differences between grande and large, while worrying that all this size paranoia is somehow conveying that you have a small penis.
“And how will you be paying?” Shit. Do you give her a handful of change, or your debit card that’s been sellotaped together like a torn up love letter. She laughs at your card, while you make a feeble joke about hobo credit cards. She laughs, properly. You bask in the sunshine, and then, her headlamps turn onto her next victim, and suddenly you’re cast from the garden.
You do the dead man’s walk to the delivery table, cursing your inability to order a new credit card and not make jokes about the size of your cock. After a few minutes of mentally abusing yourself, and thinking about how absolutely ridiculous it would be for a girl like that to fancy you (I bet you think lap dancers are really into you too, right?), you realise they’re calling your order. You grab the coffee and walk out of the shop.
As you sit on the park bench sipping the molten hot java, you realise that there’s something written on the side in pen. Next to the ‘Grande’ tick box, she’d written “…But it’s what you do with it that counts! ;)”
For a guy, especially a lonely guy, sometimes it doesn’t take much to ignite the crush protocol. A kind word, a wink, a nice gesture across the office photocopier, and it’s fucking on like Donkey Kong.
Some crushes burn slowly, like incense, gradually filling your mind until you’re incapable of smelling anything but their honeyed fragrance, and you can’t look at a fucking lamp without thinking about what it would look like being knocked onto the floor when you sit them up on the desk and rip their knickers off.
Others hit you so hard and fast, you can’t even duplicate a report without thinking about laying her down on the glass plate and making 100 paper copies of your thrusting. You might even contemplate stapling all the pages together to make a flipbook, so you can replay your fucking in stop-motion.
You can’t talk to her on the phone without putting your hand down your pants and thinking about her on top of you, her hair falling in her face as she smiles and smiles while she rocks up and down on your steel hard cock, while she traces a finger down your perspiring chest. You rub your thighs and laugh as your cock has all it’s birthdays at the same time.
Sometimes, you can’t even buy a coffee without wanting to leap over the counter and offer her extra cream for once.
In some ways, whether it’s with someone you’ve hardly met or a friend that you shouldn’t really fancy, the crush is the perfect relationship. They’ll never disappoint you, they’ll never leave you – hell, they’ll always be the same age they were when you met them, frozen in the amber of your memory. They’ll always be wearing that outfit that made you shoot boners out of your eyes. It’ll always be that night when they drunkenly looked into your eyes for just a second too long. The sex will always be mind blowing, the kisses tender and the touches desperate and fumbling. It’s really the most perfect relationship you’ll ever have. And the only way you can ever fuck it up, is by trying to make it real. So as long as you can live in the bubble of imagination indefinitely, as long as you can deal with the constant gnawing feeling of incompleteness, the tangible taste of the unknown forever on your lips, you’ll always have a grande old time.
But it’ll cost you a fucking fortune in Cinnamon Dolce Lattes.
See? See?! Awesome. If you love it as much as I do you should read more of what he writes. And tell me about your own crushes in the comments, so I can pity and love you too.
I’m a freakish weirdo when it comes to foreplay, I think. I’ve spoken before about how I don’t really like getting head. A good fingering is nice every now and again, but I’m a bit impatient. Just as I’m the first in the pub at 5 pm on Friday, itching to start the weekend, when the chance for a shag comes around I’m the one speeding things up in anticipation of what I see as the ‘main’ event, pulling down my knickers and mumbling “just put it in me – now – please.”
But recently I spoke to the rather lovely @EasilyTempted on Twitter, who talked so lovingly about foreplay (or rather – those myriad aspects of sex that don’t involve putting a dick into a vagina) that it might have tempted me to spend a bit more time doing it.
Here’s what she said:
EasilyTempted – on foreplay
This week my husband and I had a beautiful and lengthy 69. I came on his face, more than once, and he came in my mouth. And then I fucked about on Twitter, while he cooked me scrambled eggs. Possibly a perfect evening.
‘Officially’ we didn’t have even have sex. It got me thinking about the word ‘foreplay’ and how misleading and flawed it is as a concept. Foreplay traditionally describes something which is the precursor to sex. But what is sex?
Personally I think of sex in terms of sexual satisfaction with a partner (or partners ~ I’ve read this blog). In this model I would see it as something that involves an orgasm. But what if you can be sexually satisfied without an orgasm? (I have heard such people exist). And do both people have to have an orgasm or just one?
I have no answers.
Given access to each other, my husband and I probably have sex around five times a week and we have been fucking for 12 years. This adds up to a fair amount of sex. But actual penetration – classic penis in vagina stuff – plenty of what we do involves or concludes that way and a great deal doesn’t.
I don’t orgasm from penetration alone, so perhaps that is why fucking is an element of my sex life but not the focus. My husband is also not interested in isolated penetration – if we have limited time he will almost certainly choose abstinence over a simple fuck. So in that sense foreplay is everything to us, which is why I don’t like the implications that it is ‘just’ the starter.
We are both oral-centric. Kissing, licking, sucking – we live in a grown up sexy lollipop shop.
If he kisses and bites me all over for so long that when he puts his fingers on my clitoris I come immediately, is that foreplay?
If I fuck him with my strap-on, is that foreplay?
If he straps me down, spanks me, and fucks my arse with a dildo, is that foreplay?
These are all things we have done this week, and yet we only had penetrative sex once. Include the 69 and that is only one in four.
Blowjobs seem to be in the middle of the Venn Sex Diagram for a lot of people. You have penetration on one side and foreplay on the other but for a lot of people a blowjob means both – this is all down to Bill Clinton, everyone had that discussion.
But somehow, the feminist in me rails against the idea that if just the man has an orgasm it’s sex but if just the woman has an orgasm it is foreplay. Because this would mean the male orgasm trumps the female.
What I don’t like about the expression is that it gives virgins, new lovers, or even bad lovers the idea that anything before the penetration is merely a waiting room for the main event.
There is a lot more to sex than in and out.
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…
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.
I sleep with a few different guys, but I’d never use the word ‘polyamory’ to describe what I do. This is mainly because my selfish brain struggles with the idea of engaging in an actual relationship with multiple boys rather than just shagging them, twatting about and then going for beer and pizza.