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How to dominate a man – sexy ideas from an eager amateur
How the hell do I dominate a man? If your partner has any kind of submissive tendency, and if – like me – you’re enthusiastic yet clumsy when it comes to wielding a whip and calling someone a ‘filthy puppy’, at some point you may have heard the two most terrifying words in the English language:
“Surprise me.”
Someone else’s story: open relationships and kink
I have a huge amount of admiration (and, OK, a dash of envy) for people who can do open relationships well. I’ve tried, and failed, to come up with a long-term open solution that works for me, and have come to the conclusion that I’m perhaps not sensitive or competent enough to do openness well.
Which is why I love hearing from people who do – who have found a good balance of communication, enjoyment and honesty that allows them to balance the feelings of a few different parties. If anyone says it’s easy I struggle to comprehend, because for me it’s always been a mountain I couldn’t hope to climb. So above all I love hearing from people who’ve recognised the obstacles, worked through the difficult bits, and come up with something pretty damn special. This week’s guest blog is from Jenny, who’s got a story about open relationships and kink, as well as some great advice for those who might be struggling with similar worries.
Open relationships and kink
Communication in a relationship can be tricky at the best of times, and things only get more difficult when one of you is kinky. Asking for something in bed can be tough. Asking for something outside of your relationship feels impossible.
If you don’t ask for what you want, you might never get it.
I wanted to share my story because it’s a positive example of an open, kinky relationship which I am very proud of.
I’m happily coupled up with an incredible woman. We were friends before we started dating and are closing in on our first year together. On top of all the stresses of a new relationship, I had the added concern of telling her about the other important person in my life: my very close friend who happens to be my dominant.
He has a girlfriend too and they’ve been together for years. After much discussion about sex, BDSM and our respective love lives, we came to the conclusion that we’d like to explore our kinky bucket lists together. His girlfriend wasn’t into submission and I prefer being topped by men, even though I’m a lesbian. We get on and find each other attractive, but we’ve no romantic chemistry at all. We were confident it wasn’t going to get awkward or messy: we knew what we wanted from each other right from the start.
With this in mind we set about asking for our partners’ permission to get together every month or so and indulge ourselves in play.
It was a scary thing for both of us: his relationship is long established and he didn’t want to jeopardise their future together, while I‘d just started dating my girlfriend and didn’t want to scare her away. It was something we both wanted, however, and we didn’t want to impose our niches on partners who weren’t into it. Equally, we didn’t want to do without for the rest of our lives. So we asked them.
I wanted to be completely honest in starting our relationship. I told my girlfriend that I’d spent our first few dates secretly hoping she was kinky, which was a disservice to her. I wanted to appreciate her for who she was, and she is truly fantastic. I’m a firm believer that it’s very tough to get everything from one person. It’s too much pressure. So I wanted to have a romantic relationship with her and be kinky with someone who wanted it as much as I did. She was understanding and patient and after hearing all she needed to hear from me, gave me the permission I had asked for.
In return she is allowed to know as much or as little as she likes about our scenes, and to request certain acts are off limits. The same goes for my dominant’s girlfriend, who also gave her permission a few days before.
We got permission about nine months ago, but it wasn’t a case of getting an “ok” and then skipping off to the dungeon whenever we feel like. My girlfriend and I are in constant communication about our arrangement. Each time I schedule a scene I check in with my girlfriend, that she’s still ok for this to happen and each time I come home we spend time together as a couple and check in again. I remind her that I love her and if she wants me to stop, I will. She tells me she loves me and trusts me to remember her even when I’m with someone else.
Part of the agreement is that if either his partner or mine gets uncomfortable and asks for us to stop playing, we will without question. We enjoy playing and exploring our niches, but our commitment is to our girlfriends. We appreciate that what we’ve been given is something special, something that strengthens our relationship with our partners all the more.
Juggling both romantic and kinky relationships is tough – and not just practically. Scheduling a scene when we’re both off work, both our partners are busy or out of town and when one of our houses is free is almost impossible.
We have to keep talking about the arrangement all the time. Everyone has to be clear and what they do and do not want and how to communicate that. We are each responsible for our own thresholds and protecting them. We also have to trust that everyone else is aware of their own limits and will communicate them clearly.
None of us have been in an open relationship before so we’re working it out as we go. The two of us have never been in a Dominant/submissive relationship either. There’s a lot of chat involved every which way. It’s hard work but it is worth it.
The one thing I’ve found the hardest is asserting my needs when it comes to negotiating between romantic and kinky relationships. I have no intention of being prioritised over my dominant’s girlfriend, but during D/s scenes, the circumstances are altered slightly.
In one of our earlier scenes my dominant received a phone call from his girlfriend, which he took. The feeling of abandonment was compounded by my already vulnerable state in the scene and I was incredibly hurt. I did not feel empowered in the scene to ask that he not take the call. After thinking about it, and even discussing it with my girlfriend and getting her opinion, I asked for us to turn our phones off when playing. Now, when our partners call on a day we’re playing, if they get answer machines they know why they can’t get through and that we’ll contact them as soon as we turn our phones back on. This rule makes me feel more secure when I’m being submissive.
Having rules like this does not mean we love our girlfriends any less, but it is part of the responsibility we have to each other as play partners. Both relationships are significant and require communication and effort. Neither can be taken for granted.
As previously mentioned, I often involve my girlfriend in my D/s relationship. If something is playing on my mind it shows and she is gracious enough to ask if I want to talk about it. This shows a great deal of trust and patience, which is a beautiful quality in the woman I want to spend my life with.
By some miracle, the four of us now socialise as well. We don’t discuss the arrangement, but it isn’t ignored. The fact that we can share a meal together and enjoy each other’s company as two couples is something that’s very precious to me. There’s no tension or jealousy; we all know where we belong.
It is scary to ask for something you really want, but if you’re ready to have an honest conversation about it, and keep having those conversations, there is always a chance that it can work out.
Sometimes, better than you’d hoped.
Someone else’s story: fucking but not touching
We’re none of us good at this – none of us are experts. Sex and relationships and love and body-confidence: we’re all stumbling wildly around, hoping that at some point we’ll hit on something wise. Or if not wise then at least a bit better, more useful. Something that’ll help us work out how to make the world feel awesome about us, or at least make us feel awesome about ourselves.
I’ve struggled before with trying to explain how I feel about my body. While I want to wave a flag and shout ‘yay me!’ into the faces of people who sneer, but deep down I want to kick myself and whisper ‘do it better’ to the reflection in the mirror.
This week’s guest blog, by Anandamide, is beautiful and excellent – it touches on not just the feeling of insecurity but the feeling of inadequacy at feeling so insecure. He nails it in a way I think I’ve failed to, and made me throb with sadness.
On why faking orgasms isn’t the end of the world
I’m going to put it out there: I don’t mind if you fake your orgasm. No, really, go right ahead. What’s more, I’ll tell you that I’ve faked orgasms in the past, and if you think that makes me a bad person, or a pitiable sex-deprived creature, then you can fuck a thousand miles off.
In general, if you’re engaging in safe and consensual acts, sex positive people will cheer on your lubed-up love with an open heart and a total lack of judgment.
Unless you fake your orgasms.
Why do we think it’s bad to fake an orgasm?
This blog was prompted by the revelation today that men fake orgasms too. Cue tortured commenters screaming ‘how the fuck is that possible?’ and the inevitable smackdown by sensible people saying ‘well, duh, of course men do this sometimes – they are human.’
Whenever the subject of faking orgasms is raised, the general consensus is that it is a bad thing to do, for one of the following reasons:
- If you fake an orgasm, how is your partner supposed to know how to give you a real orgasm? You’ll be giving them the wrong impression, making them think that fumbling half-heartedly with your clit is the most surefire way to send you to heaven and back. Ergo you end up in a vicious cycle of rewarding poor performance, until your entire sex life consists of limp clit-fumbling gand your own exaggerated screams.
- If you fake an orgasm, it’s because you don’t realise that actually it’s perfectly normal for people not to orgasm. Thus, when you fake, you reinforce society’s ideas that orgasms are de rigeur, even if the shag you’ve just partaken in lasted less than the time it’d take for the kettle to boil.
- If you fake an orgasm, you are tacitly supporting the idea that orgasms are the Only Possible Goal Of Sex, and so both you and your partner will fail to spend time on the non-orgasmic things you enjoy. Like beating each other with wooden spoons or licking cream cheese from the inside of their ear canal, or whatever it is you get up to.
Faking orgasms is not as bad as people say it is
While the arguments above all have some basic merit, I strenuously object to the way they are often used, not as a piece of general advice but as an absolute decree: Thou Shalt Never Do This. Yes, faking orgasms can lead to trouble, or be symptomatic of problems if you’re doing it on a daily basis, but there’s a big difference between accepting these things and acting as if those who fake orgasms are bad at sex, and must be either pitied or corrected.
Realistically, people fake orgasms for a whole host of reasons. Some good, some bad, some practical, some habitual. You know, like many of the sex things we do. Sometimes I’m not up for a long make out session, but my partner is and I know that if I do it chances are I’ll get his hand down my knickers at some point – the jackpot I’m actually angling for. Sometimes I’ll suck a dick not because I’m desperate to get it down my throat, but because it just feels like the natural next step in a fuck I’m playing jazz with. Often we do things because they make us wet and hard and throbbing and horny – occasionally we do them for other reasons.
I’ve faked orgasms
Although the vast majority of it has been spectacular, there have still been occasions where I felt like faking an orgasm was the right thing to do. I’m lucky enough that I usually find it easy to come during a shag, and right now I’m with a long-term partner who has a thick cock and a good rhythm, and who knows me inside out, as it were. I also have a Doxy and my own two hands, should things prove more difficult on a particular occasion, so I haven’t faked one for a good long time. But have I faked orgasms in the past? Goddamn right I have.
Not because I’m tired, or because the sex is appalling and I can’t quite bring myself to say so: I’ve faked orgasms for the simple reason that coming represents the nuclear button in my sexual arsenal – when I come, he is more likely to come.
Six pints into a very late night, if we’re having an exciting fumble followed by a sticky and determined hump, it’s probably going to be tough for both of us. I’m deeply horny, and shivering with lust, but I know that it’s just not going to happen. The one thing I want right now is to feel the twitching throb of his cock pumping spunk inside me. I’m faced with a choice. Do I pull out one of my just-about-adequate sex moves? A hand gripping just the right place, an arched back, a filthy sentence or two to help him on his way? Or do I pull out my ultimate sex move – clenching my cunt nice and tight and moaning like I’ve sat on a washing machine?
Faking orgasms doesn’t make you a bad person
Conclusion of this unnecessarily sweary rant: you’re not an awful bastard if you fake orgasms – no matter what your gender or your reasons, this is a choice that you get to make for yourself. I’m not going to pass any judgment on what it says about your sex life if one day you want to twitch your genitals, roll your eyes, and Meg Ryan your way to climax. Even if you’re fucking me – if you fancy putting a bit of AmDram into it, go right ahead. I’d like to think I can tell, but wouldn’t we all? If you know the end’s a long way away, but you also know I love it when you make those moany noises, then just make the fucking moany noises already. It will, in all likelihood, bring my orgasm closer, and even if it doesn’t then at least we can put a full-stop to proceedings, albeit a jizzless one.
I care about this quite strongly because, as a young-un, I used to fake orgasms quite a lot. Almost every single time. I probably faked more orgasms than I had actual orgasms, even during a period when I was wanking so frequently you’d have thought I had eczema of the clit. I faked, and I pretended, and I loved every second of every minute of every fuck I was having. But every time I scanned an article on sex tips it screamed at me: “do not fake your orgasms! You are ruining your sex life! You are teaching your partner to do the wrong things and basing your love on a lie!” So I’d fret and I’d stress and I’d worry, and in the end I’d fake it anyway, because while I hated feeling like a liar I loved it when he came.
One day, while I was making the noises and twitching my legs and clamping my cunt down hard on his cock, it actually happened for real. The climax started and I felt hotness swell from my knees to my crotch, waves of happy-horny-oh-yes-don’t-stop-fuck-nnngggghhh-jesus-yes crashing hard up to my chest, enveloping me in pleasure and surprising the fuck out of me.
He couldn’t tell, of course, but then I don’t think I really needed him to.
On the sexiest underwear for men
Guy’s pants can be stunningly beautiful – the perfect fabric will cling and cup your junk, clearly and delicately outlining every single curve of your cock. The perfect underwear will hold you in a snug embrace, lifting and pushing you forward, as if your genitals are being presented just ready for me to reach for. There’s a reason they call it a ‘package’.
My favourite pants are these ones – the ‘package’ style. Jersey-fabric shorts which display and present you in a way that makes me want to reach out and cup you too.
Loose cotton boxers and a guy I begged to touch
As a youngster, I’d see adverts for men in Calvin Kleins, and wish my partner at the time could afford CKs. So perfect were the images, and so beautiful the crotches of the men, that I mistakenly believed that this effect was only possible with tailored, designer pants. Ones that were made especially for each guy, and probably cost more than the rest of his wardrobe put together.
He was beautiful – my first boyfriend. And he wore what I thought were the best available pants at the time. Those loose cotton boxers that, back in the early noughties, came in three standard types: plain, striped or (if they’d been bought between October-December) covered in comedy pictures of reindeer.
They had their own particular beauty – loose-fitting and usually even looser after a few washes, they’d hang off his hips as if they’d fall down at any moment. As an added bonus, the fabric stretching from hip to stomach would highlight that beautiful dip in his skin just next to his hipbone. A dip perfect for running my fingers down. Perfect for sliding my hand inside when I went to remove his boxers, Perfect for him to tuck his aching erection behind in public, to avoid drawing attention to it.
If you’d asked me at the time what the sexiest underwear for men was, I’d have said loose cotton boxers. I’d have been wrong.
Tight jersey boxer shorts and unthinking hotness
When, later, I moved on to those amazing tight jersey pants (or, more accurately, I started dating a guy who wore them) it clicked that Calvins weren’t just for the super-rich, and in fact any man could own a pair. This revelation knocked me for six, as I spent at least a week struggling to chat to any guy without imagining him slowly dropping his trousers to reveal that perfectly presented pant-wrapped package.
Slowly, mind.
Unbuckling belts, pulling them inch by inch through belt loops, undoing one button at a time (button fly jeans are sexier than zips and I have no idea why that is the case) and then gradually opening the front to reveal the underwear that conceals hardly anything.
Sigh.
When I sat at my laptop today I aimed to write a post that mirrored that of a few weeks ago – on knickers, thongs, and the hottest underwear for me to wear. Sadly I can’t come up with a definitive list for the sexiest underwear for men: there is only really one kind, because I love it so hard I can barely pay attention to anything else. Tight jersey-style boxer shorts.
Feel free to disagree with me – I’m not the arbiter of sexiness. But let me just tell you this one thing before I go.
You have no idea what you do to me
I know a guy who wears these boxers. When he gets dressed in the morning they’re the first thing he puts on. Boxers first, t-shirt second, then the jeans. He pulls the jeans up his legs, sliding the waistband swiftly over his arse and to his hips. He’s almost dressed – almost. Before he buttons the fly of his jeans, there’s one more thing to do. That beautifully-presented package? His junk, bundled snugly in the cup of jersey fabric? It’s just sitting there – resting on the V of his open fly. Casually, swiftly, without breaking eye contact or stopping our conversation, he reaches down with one hand and pushes it inside his jeans.
He casually adjusts his genitals as if it’s no big deal. As if I’m not sitting there wishing I could take the whole lot, underwear included, into my eager, salivating mouth. As if he doesn’t know that the sight of him so casually rearranging what I so frequently dream about doesn’t make me want to rub every limb of my body against every inch and atom of his.
As if it’s nothing. As if he doesn’t know.