This. Does. Not. Mean. Anything.
Let’s stop using this phrase, yeah? Because what it implies is that one person is better than another purely on the grounds of sexual attractiveness.
I don’t know about you, but I’d find it difficult to rank the entire human race on an objective measure of sexuality. Sure, there’s a fuzzy and generic scale on which we might say that more people want to fuck Anne Hathaway than Anne Widdicombe, but that doesn’t mean that there’s no one who finds Widdicombe’s rotund Tory cuntitude more shag-worthy than Hathaway’s fey charm.
Have you ever passionately lusted after someone and had your friends tell you you’re mad? Because I have. I love guys who are not conventionally attractive – guys who might be a bit shy about their pot-belly but have hands that I can’t look at without imagining filthy things. Guys who are old enough to be my parents but have disgustingly compelling ‘come to bed’ eyes, and an aura of dominance that Brad Pitt will never achieve. There are guys that I want to fuck because they’re funny, because they’re angry, or because they seem like they’d get hard just waiting for me at the bus stop. Boys who’d prompt my friends to stare and my parents to raise surprised eyebrows.
Guys who might generally think I was ‘out of their league’ are frequently the exact ones that I want to bury my fucking face in. Why? Because if they hold me in such high esteem I imagine that there’d be a spectacular erection and enthusiastic sex if I were to take them somewhere private.
I am in no way out of anyone’s league, and damned if I think anyone’s out of mine. The issue in any situation where you’re propositioning someone is simply whether there is mutual attraction. By all means turn someone down because you don’t fancy them, but don’t assuage your guilt by implying that no one else like you would fuck them either.
Some women are genuinely offended to be propositioned by someone who they don’t find attractive. In these cases ‘out of your league’ serves the dual purpose of being a painfully effective brush-off and also a consoling tool for those who place a pathetic mountain of importance on their own appearance.
If I don’t fancy you I won’t shag you – I’ll turn you down as nicely as possible, and perhaps even point you towards a friend who I think might be turned on by your specific charms. But be assured: if you want to fuck me you’re in my league, it’s just that sometimes I don’t want to play.
And to those who actually use the phrase ‘out of your league’ to refer to potential partners, I’d strongly advise that you piss off far out of my earshot. I am liable to step in in situations where someone’s been brave enough to make an approach and has been shot down with the kind of cold-hearted bitchery that’ll take them years to get over. What’s wrong with saying ‘no’? Why do you have to turn it into a weird competition for attractiveness that will destroy the confidence of someone who may already be lacking it in the first place?
If some misguided league system is your reason for not fucking someone then I’m afraid we’re not just in different leagues, but playing different games altogether.
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.
I mainly hate them because they mean I miss out on the fantastic moment when you shoot directly inside me. When your cock twitches and I can feel the first few spurts of hot spunk deep in my cunt.
However, now that we’ve accepted that they’re rubbish, let’s put it behind us. I know you hate them, you know I hate them, but you’re going to wear one anyway. Because no matter how annoying and desensitising and killjoy an item they are, they save lives.
How terribly dramatic.
But the drama’s worth it – they genuinely do. They prevent hideous diseases, they prevent unwanted pregnancies, they are the guardians of your health, wellbeing, and wallet. If you wear a condom and use it well you can pretty much guarantee you won’t have to deal with a child support agency or a difficult blood test.
In the spirit of condom love, here are a few options that might make condoms… if not fun… then at least less un-fun than they are generally considered:
Practise putting it on
Everyone likes being good at things, right? You know that bit of sex where you take the girl’s bra off, and you occasionally manage to do it one-handed like a fucking sex-god superstar? Make your condom-donning one of those special tricks. Can you pull it out of your pocket, remove the wrapper, and slide it onto your cock without her even knowing you’ve moved your hands? Do it.
For a while I got so good at it that guys didn’t even realise what I was doing until it was halfway on.
Make a point of it
If you can’t do it secretly, make a meal of it – condoms are a crucial element of anonymous/casual sex, so why not acknowledge that they are actually a bit sexy? Think about it: the point at which a condom comes out of the wallet and slides onto your dick is the point at which you’re both consenting to fuck. That’s the moment – no more worrying, no more easing into it, no more persuasion and anticipation – bam. When the condom’s on, unless nuclear war breaks out, we’re going to fuck. So enjoy it.
Tell me to put it on you. Make me sit back and watch while you do. Ask me to touch myself as I watch you roll it down your shaft. You know we’re going to fuck, let me know that you know it. Show me confidence. Show me condoms. And show me your fucking cock.
Shut the fuck up
The final rule, and the most important one – once it’s out and on your dick, shut the living fuck up about it. Don’t complain that it’s too tight, don’t say halfway through that you won’t come because of it.
We both know it’s rubbish, but so’s the sound the neighbours are making upstairs. So’s the fact that it’s overly hot and we might both be a bit drunk and thirsty. So’s the slightly itchy feeling when you bury your stubbled face in my neck.
Remarkably enough, none of this matters when your dick is inside me. That’s what we’re here for, let’s concentrate on that. If you’re pounding six kinds of hell out of me, the fact that you won’t come isn’t something I want to hear. You can always whip it off at the end and pick your favourite target, but in the meantime shut the fuck up and fuck me.
“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.