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On choosing the right words
Writing about sex involves very careful word selection. I probably use some words that kill your mood sometimes, and likewise there are some words that make me dry up and cringe into a ball of hateful misery. Here are some of them, feel free to add to the list.
Cum
You might think it is a sexualised form of a common word: I think it’s a spelling error. You say ‘tomato’, I say ‘I will probably be less attracted to you if you spell things wrong’.
Pussy
Good lord no. For so many many reasons, of which here are a few:
- ‘Pussies’ belong to porn stars and gangster hos, so experience implies that a pussy is something for a guy to fuck, not something for a girl to get genuine eye-rolling, bedsheet-tearing pleasure from.
- Say it out loud: “wet pussy”. Eugh. “wet pussy” It doesn’t sound like a part of a person, but something you might step in.
- Mrs Fucking Slocombe
Any word for ‘tits’ that ends in -ies
I have never had ‘titties’ or ‘boobies’. I have tits. These words are only acceptable during comedy, or if you are a member of the Bloodhound Gang.
Medical terms
When I leave the doctor’s surgery my vagina becomes a cunt. My breasts become tits. Likewise although my doctor has a penis, you have a cock. Dick. Prick. By using medical terms I start expecting a medical examination, so if you call it a ‘penis’ I’m less likely to suck it than to give it an ultrasound.
Cutesy names for your cock
You don’t fuck someone raw with ‘Barry Junior’. And I don’t want to swallow ‘Mr Winkie’. Come on, lads – it’s ‘it’, not ‘he’.
I have no idea why any guy ever does this, unless he has been with a girl who is a bit afraid of his looming, punishing hardon. Men: your cock is the most powerful, brilliant thing about you; don’t turn it into a fucking Disney character.
On tits
The problem with people is that they don’t touch my tits enough. There is a serious lack of tit-grabbing in my life, and it’s an issue that frankly needs to be adressed. My MP didn’t reply to my letter, so I’m going to write it here instead:
I love my tits, they’re awesome. They’re also extremely sensitive. If you touch them I will whimper like a slut in handcuffs. Touch them.
Teenage boys are (sorry, were when I was younger – please don’t arrest me) amazing in a multitude of ways, but primarily they are amazing because they show tits the love that they deserve. A teenage boy will stare at them, squeeze them, suck them, bite them, and all but worship them as the second coming of Christ if you let him get within a couple of feet.
But grown-ups seem to be bored of them. Sure, they’ll give you a quick feel when you’re snogging, they’ll take off your top and do some cursory playing during sex, but it’s been a long time since someone tried to furtively get mine out in the back row of a cinema, or gaped at them open-mouthed like a drooling dog in a butcher’s shop.
I’ve never met a man who says he doesn’t like tits. And yet as grown men they miss out on a million opportunities to touch them up. I can think of no occasion when I’ve been sitting with a guy on the sofa getting stoned and watching South Park that wouldn’t have been immeasurably improved if he’d had one hand down my shirt idly pinching one of my nipples.
Likewise I’ve been on countless long bus journeys that would have seemed shorter with a guy’s hands up my top. In McDonalds? If no kids are looking, why not reach over and pop open one of the buttons on my shirt. Have a look, go on. Walking down the street? Put your hand round my waist so you can slide it up occasionally and cup one of them in your hand. If I’m in the front seat of a car and you’re in the passenger seat, reach round and grab them. Come up behind me while I’m writing and run your hands down from my shoulders and into my bra. Slip one hand inside my coat on a cold winter’s day. Go on. Please. Touch my tits – I’ll buy you a sandwich.
And during sex? Why not grab them? Go on – just a bit, squeeze them a little. If you’re on top and you need your arms to hold you up, put one hand on each of my tits and hold yourself up that way. It hurts, and is hot and brilliant. I appreciate that watching them jiggle is one of the most fun things about sex, but why not interrupt that jiggling every once in a while by grabbing my nipples and feeling my cunt twitch and my legs tense up as you squeeze them nice and hard, yeah?
I guess as you grow up you’re more focused on the ultimate goal – the cunt. But while your cock’s in there your hands are free, so if it’s not too much trouble, and if you’re not that busy: touch them. Pretty pretty please.
On choking: why I like getting choked during sex
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.
On safe words
Red. Purple. Stop. やめて. Dead puppies.
Whatever your kink, if it extends beyond ‘tie me up with silk scarves and tickle me with a feather duster’ chances are someone’s suggested a safe word at some point. I think safe words suck, and here’s why:
They encourage you to push yourself further than you might like.
There’s a challenge implicit in a safe word. A safe word says ‘this is the absolute limit, as much as I can take. If you do anything more I will die/call the police/punch you into the sun.’ And so when you know that there’s a word you can use at any time to make it stop, all you’re trying to do is prevent yourself from using that word.
A safe word implies that you’re playing just to see how hard you can take it, so you want to prove that you can take it as hard as possible. You are superwoman – undefeated in all 12 rounds of this sex. He’ s beating/fucking/electrocuting you so badly that you’ve never been in so much pain – you’re gritting your teeth and biting your tongue and hating every miserable minute of it. Boy, you have never won at sex so hard as you’re winning now.
The challenge is not the fun bit – the fun is the fun bit. If you have a safe word that encourages you to push yourself to the point where you don’t like it, you might as well call ‘red’ right at the beginning and sneak off for a wank – you’re more likely to have a good time.
They curb your imagination
Hurting someone is a challenge, and one of the most difficult things to get right. You have to know roughly what they like, what they hate, and wobble uncomfortably on the high-wire that runs between those two things.
You also, if you want me to really love you, have to do some stuff that’s just for you. I might hate being caned (stupid stingy unsexy ouch fuck fuck ouch) but if you love it then it’s awesome, and I’ll grin and bear as much as possible, and even sneak in some brattiness between strikes if that’s what gets you off.
So yes, there’s a lot to balance. But sadly with a safe word there’s less incentive to work at that balance. If you give a girl a safeword, that’s a free pass for you to do whatever you like until she yells ‘stop’, which means that she and you miss out on the joy that can be had from playing around in that grey area – pushing things she doesn’t want to be pushed, into places she might not be keen on you pushing them.
They require negotiation
Anything that delays the sexual act, or requires chatter and discussion of a practical nature, will kill my drive pretty quickly. I love the pre-sex preamble where you chat about things you have done and talk about stuff you both find hot. It means that when you do get into bed you can experiment with the new knowledge you’ve acquired.
But if you chat around sex in order to tick things off a bizarre safety list, it’s no fun at all.
“So, you like to be spanked? OK. I’m going to spank you, and I’m going to start really gently, so let me know on a scale of 1-10 how much that hurts. And if I do anything too hard just say ‘red’ and I’ll immediately stop and give you a nice cuddle and a hot chocolate.”
See? It’s just not sexy. There’s no uncontrolled passion in that. As soon as you have to codify it and lay down rules, the spontaneity is ripped out of it and you end up fucking like you’re following an IKEA furniture construction leaflet. I don’t want to know that you’ll stop when I ask, I don’t want to know exactly how many strokes you’ll give me before we have a rest and a chat about my boundaries. I want you to do things you like, things I like, things you think we might both like, and see at what point I start tearing the walls down.
“So what turns you on?”
“This one time a guy bent me over and paddled me till I cried, then fucked me in the ass while he called me a ‘good girl.’”
“Take your fucking pants off.”
Attaboy.
Who am I?
Writing about sex on the internet creates a dilemma, if you’ve got a career or a family who would probably rather not hear about the in-depth details of your sex life. At the time I started writing this sex blog, I had both of those things.
Nowadays, sex blogging is my career and not just my hobby (pinch me!) so the risk of getting fired for sex blogging has disappeared. That’s not to say I don’t still have good reasons to stay anonymous, though. I’ve explained a few of those reasons in this blog post: Yes, you can run an anonymous blog and still be accountable.
Because I prefer to be anonymous, I’d appreciate it if you could not try to find out who I am, or share information about me that might crack the fragile anonymity that I’ve worked quite hard to preserve.
Although you may well be able to find out who I am (internet nerds are generally pretty good at that) all you’ll achieve by doing it is to make me panic, potentially put me in danger, and encourage me to shut this blog down. And I’d really rather not do that. I enjoy my job, and I love writing here. So if you know me, or think you know me, I’m asking you to please try to keep my secret as well as you can.
If you’re a member of my immediate family (Hi, Mum!) know only that every single thing I say here is a lie: I have never had sex, and have very little understanding of the mechanics behind it. I imagine you’re in the same boat.
Do you see yourself here?
You’ll likely have been consulted if you’re a significant person in my life who may be identifiable if my anonymity gets stripped – ex-partners, for instance, or people with whom I could be easily associated. You’ve also probably been consulted if we were dating when this blog began, and I wrote a ‘number X’ post about you. However, there are a few people who (very anonymised and unidentifiable) may still want to object if they think they recognise themselves. If you think that’s you, please do get in touch. If you recognise yourself in one of these posts and need me to modify for anonymity purposes I’m more than happy to.