Tag Archives: lesbian

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On kissing girls

I kissed a girl, and I liked it.

Or more truthfully: I kissed a girl and it was sort of OK but the main reason I kissed her is because there was a dude that we both fancied who we knew would be pretty aroused by the whole scenario.

It’s not quite as catchy, but it is something that happens a fair bit. Ever since I first saw girls kiss in nightclubs I’ve heard whispers about ‘lipstick lesbians’ – usually accompanied by judgmental frowning. I’ve heard people moan about it and damn these girls. They’re stupid, they’re pathetic, they’re attention-grabbing and – perhaps most damning of all – they’re not even really into it. How dare they?

I read an article today by Julie Birchill, in which she discusses these girl-on-girl kisses. Girls who like girls for boys, girls who like girls for attention, and – her example being the famous Madonna/Britney snog – girls who like girls for money.

Sometimes I kiss girls for boys

I’m going to go out on a limb and say that there’s nothing wrong in principle with people pulling others for the arousal of a third party. After all, many fantastic threesomes have begun that way. Some of my fantastic threesomes have begun that way. And I’d be a miserable hypocrite if I didn’t admit that two boys kissing to try and turn me on would… well… turn me on. Finally I suppose I should also admit that kissing girls to give boys erections is something that I do quite frequently – it is, perhaps, one of the tamest things I have done in my unending quest to give guys erections.

Likewise, people do shit for money all the time. Money is not an illegitimate reason to do something – it’s the reason most of us haul ourselves out of bed at godforsaken hours of the morning five days a week to go and do boring things when, given the choice, we’d rather be at home eating crisps and wanking. If you’re a pop starlet who thinks she’ll make more money by kissing a girl, I can see you making a legitimate choice to kiss a girl rather than – say – do something headline-grabbing for charity or get strategically semi-naked in your next music video.

Finally – attention. We all want attention, don’t we? Short of hermits, nuns and wanted criminals, everyone likes having a few pairs of eyes on them. If we burned people at the stake for attention-grabbing, they’d come for the bloggers first but the rest of humanity wouldn’t be far behind.

We’re all just people, making decisions. And the decision to place your tongue inside someone’s mouth and move it around a bit can, like any other decision in our lives, be made because we want money, attention or sex. There’s nothing obviously crass about doing something for these reasons, and yet girls who kiss girls are often met with contempt because they dared to do something that wasn’t purely motivated by a desire for the kiss itself.

The ethics of snogging someone you don’t really fancy

I suspect what people hate most about girls pulling other girls in clubs – and why ‘lipstick lesbian’ is (in my albeit limited experience) a phrase frequently spat with disgust and horror – is the lies. No reasonable person could have a problem with two women who fancy each other pulling in a nightclub – the problem people seem to have with this scenario is that there isn’t always desire. We’re used to kissed being motivated by this, so any other motivation both looks and feels like a lie.

People aren’t angry about what your motivations are (money, attention, or arousing other people), they’re angry because of what they’re not. You’re not motivated by lust, therefore you’re lying.

But my issue with this is that although I hate lies as much as the next person, I don’t feel like this really is a lie – it’s a game. You’re play-acting like you fancy someone in the same way as you might play-act a naughty schoolgirl, or an angry sargeant major, or a runaway My Little Pony. There’s nothing wrong with games as long as all participants know the rules.

The only time this falls down is if one of the participants doesn’t know the rules. If I pull you because we both fancy a guy and want to watch him get an erection in the pub, and if that guy knows that we’re doing that for him, then a good time will be had by all. But if one person doesn’t have that knowledge, and thinks the kiss is the start of something beautiful, then their legitimate and honest desire has been turned into something tawdry and crass.

Imagine someone you’d fancied for years finally getting up the courage to ask you for a snog, which you gleefully do, only to find out straight afterwards that they were doing it on a nudge and a wink from their partner. Horrible, heartbreaking, cruel, and immoral.

That’s what we should be disgusted by. Not the kiss itself, but the way it’s done. Kissing is, like all sex acts, intrinsically dependent on the enthusiasm of the other parties involved.

The person who is kissing you out of genuine love or lust has the right to be offended and upset if you’re being dishonest, and knowingly misleading them, but the people who scowl and whisper ‘lipstick lesbian’ have no such rights. They can guess at your motivations, but they can’t know what rules you’ve established with the other people involved. All they will ever see is two girls kissing – it’s up to those girls to decide whether they’re happy with that.

On nice surprises

Role play, like having a threesome, is incredibly tricky to do in a way that keeps everyone happy. Whether you’re a fireman, sex slave or naughty schoolgirl you’ll always have a certain idea in your head of how the scene will play out, and your partner(s) will have their own ideas. Very rarely does everything combine perfectly, meaning that there are often surprises.

Usually I rage against surprises – I have very specific fantasies, and the best sex is usually that which comes closest to the things I imagine when I’m alone at home with my knickers halfway down my thighs, scratching an itch I’ve been thinking about since a very specific scene popped into my head. But sometimes surprises can be good – things I’d never have considered doing or imagined could be hot. The right kind of person can show me things I’d never have wanted to do in a way that makes me achingly desperate to do them.

Surprises

It started exactly as I’d imagined it would. They came to the bedroom – a boy and a girl – and accosted me, berated me, called me a bad girl. They bent me over the side of the bed – she beat me with a leather strap, while he held me down, pushing my face into the bedclothes so I wouldn’t scream too loudly.

They took me downstairs into the lounge, where they had an array of equipment laid out – straps, whips, floggers, and (shudder) canes. They took it in turns to punish me – one lifting my skirt and pulling my knickers down while the other held my head in their arms and crooned words of comfort.

Slap

You’re a good girl. You like this, don’t you?

Slap

Don’t you?

Yes.

Slap

They stripped me and examined me, touching me all over, and hitting the parts that were softest.

Slap

And I loved it. I felt her hands all over me, and I saw his cock throbbing and pushing against the tightness of his trousers. I was wet and burning with pain, and desperate for him to fuck me. For her to fuck me – for someone, anyone, to push something solid into me and let me clench my cunt around it as I came.

They dragged me back upstairs to the bedroom, and I thought I’d get what I wanted.

‘Please. Please fuck me.’

He slapped me in the face and told me no. And she giggled with laughter that genuinely scared me. She was dominant and cruel, but did everything with a twinkle in her eye. She did things not because she was playing a game, but because she liked doing them. She liked scaring me with stinging cane-strokes that were just a bit too hard. She liked to show me that being submissive wasn’t just about taking pain that felt good. She’d beat me into a trembling pile of arousal and fear. She was, in short, spectacular.

‘Please fuck me?’

‘No.’ Said with conviction and more than a hint of cruel delight.

‘We’re not going to fuck you. Lie face down on the bed and pull your knickers down.

‘I’m going to give you an enema.’

I didn’t believe her. I didn’t really even know why an enema was supposed to be hot. I was horrified and humiliated and horny and confused, but that didn’t prevent me from being desperately curious. So I did as I was told. I lay face down on the bed, pulled down my knickers, and she gave me an enema.

I’ve never been so disgusted with myself and so aroused at the same time. When she’d filled my ass with water, she told me to stand in the corner of the room with my hands on my head. My legs shook and my stomach turned over and I counted down the agonising minutes while the two of them chatted. They discussed me, they dissected me, they contemplated beating me again. They appraised my tits, my arse, my thighs, the fresh, stinging whip marks across my buttocks and my back.

And I waited, and waited, and waited until I thought I was going to faint.

When they finally gave me permission to go I could barely walk. The stress of keeping everything in, holding myself straight and tight and still for what can’t have been more than five minutes, made it hard for me to move and gave me an agonising throb deep in my stomach that told me I needed to come.

When I finally made it to the bathroom, I sat in shame and miserable unsated lust, listening to her giggling outside the door.

On fucking in the toilets

I need to clarify – if only because at some point my Mum might read this and be disappointed in me – that I don’t confine my toilet-based sexual activity just to wanking. I’m a big fan of risky sex with other people too. Here is a trilogy of stories about fucking in the toilets.

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On why bisexuals are like bats

I’m not sure she’s really bisexual – she just likes the attention.

There’s no such thing as bisexuals.

All women are a bit bi really, aren’t they?

All of the above statements are utter bullshit.

The main reason they’re bullshit is, of course, because they write off people’s sexual feelings as things that can be easily dismissed rather than things which can shape someone’s entire life. No matter what you believe about sexuality, I’d hope everyone can see why this is the sort of thing that only a total arsehole would do.

However, more subtly, they’re bullshit because they assume that it is easy for us to put ourselves in someone else’s position and make judgments about what it is that floats their boat.

Being a bat

Philosophers and people who are generally interested in this sort of thing will be familiar with a paper on the nature of consciousness called ‘what is it like to be a bat?‘ It’s by a dude called Thomas Nagel and is an excellent intro to the problem of inner qualia – that feeling that it is like to be a thing.

I have massively simplified the issues here for the sake of analogy, but please do read the paper – it’s ace. 

I can know that bats ‘see’ using sonar, and I can (if I study a bit more than I have) understand exactly how they do that. But the problem is that no matter how detailed my studies I will never be able to experience the feeling of what it is like to actually be that thing.

More simply: picture something sexual. A slim guy being bear-hug-fucked by a much larger guy, for example. You’ve got an image in your head now, right?

I can look at a number of physical things to try and work out what’s going on – I can see if you’re turned on, I can measure your erection/wetness, and if I have kickass equipment I can even see exactly which parts of your brain are active – the synapses that are firing.

But no matter how much I study I will never be able to fully experience the feeling that you have. I won’t see the same image, nor understand exactly how you feel about this particular instance of guy-on-guy action.

Sexual feelings and consciousness

People have physical reactions to sexual things, which we can measure and replicate. They’re deliciously and delightfully scientific, which is why scientists love them. If you want to find out what someone likes the most simple way to measure it is to show it to them and see if they get hard.

But the problem with people is that they also have opinions and emotions which, to be frank, are a pain in the arse to measure. So what’s the best way, in day-to-day life, to establish what someone likes? Well, we fucking ask them.

And when we ask them, we do have to take what they say at face value. I no more know what’s going on in your head than you know that right now I’m wishing you’d slide your trousers down and start slowly stroking your growing erection.

I don’t know what turns you on. The only possible way I can know is for you to tell me. And you can tell me anything – you like being fucked by men, you like rubbing your cock against fully-clothed women, you like rolling around in a mish-mash of people of all different sizes, shapes, colours and genders – I believe you.

Am I bisexual?

Depends on whether you feel like one. Sometimes I like to fuck women, but it’s quite a rare thing for me to find girls that I genuinely fancy. I have a very specific type of girl, and there are some women who make me giggle and drool and stare longingly at their tits, wishing I could pick them up, have them wrap their legs around me, and push them up against a wall while I bury my face in the smooth warmth of their cleavage.

So I fuck women sometimes. But I’m not bi – I’m straight. I feel straight. I don’t wake up in the night craving passionate lesbian embraces, I wake up in the night sweating and panting and reaching for the nearest cock.

You might have a similar mix of sexual preferences, but think that the occasional fucking of your non-preference gender does make you bi. And that, kids, is absolutely fucking fine. Tick whichever box you like on your equal opportunities form, because only you know exactly what’s going on inside your head.

If you tell me you like a particular sexual act or type of person not only will I believe you but I will march loudly through the streets to defend your right to do it with any consenting adult you choose.

People can listen to you and advise and discuss and disagree, but no one has the right to tell you that you’re ‘not a proper bi guy’ because you’ve never been anally fucked. No one has the right to say that you’re definitely gay because you’ve only ever fucked people of the same gender, despite the fact that you have wide-ranging masturbatory fantasies that include both genders banging you until your body aches. On a personal note, no one has the right to tell me I’m bi because sometimes I look at ladies’ tits.

People can know what you do and are and say, but no one knows the feeling that it is like to be you. It’s unique and individual and brilliant and personal – assuming that I know your exact sexual feelings is like assuming I can navigate Oxford Circus using sonar.

So the next time someone tries to tell you there’s no such thing as bisexuals, or that all women are ‘a bit bi’ or that so-and-so is only bi for the attention, ask them what it’s like to be a bat. Thomas Nagel would like to know. And so would I.

On number 9

“She fancies you.”
“No she doesn’t.”
“She does.”
“She definitely doesn’t.”
“You should fuck her.”
“But I’m not even bi.”
“But you fancy her.”
“…”
“Fuck her.”

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