Tag Archives: masturbation
On cute sex toys
It is categorically none of my business what you stick in your cunt. As long as it is a) not going to cause you (or anyone else) damage and b) not something which you have stolen from my house, then I wish you the best of luck and happy wanking.
However, I have a minor personal gripe with the sex toy industry, and it goes a little something like this:
WHY IS SO MUCH OF YOUR STUFF SO FUCKING CUTE?
Sorry, correction: why is so much of your girl stuff so fucking cute?
I’m not saying no one likes it, or that it should be banned – I’m sure there are plenty of women who are happy to stuff bright pink menageries up their vaginas. And to be honest, I’ll do the same if there’s nothing else to hand and I fancy an executive wank.
But I resent it, deep down. Because my usual method of shopping online, no matter what I’m buying, is to sort it into colours and then pick the least sparkly. I’m with Henry Ford: it should come in any colour, so long as it’s black. And at least 7 inches. And powerful enough to bruise my cervix.
I’m pretty sure that’s a direct quote.
No, I do not want a face on it
Pink things aside (because I know I am in a minority in my general hatred of colour) could we at least stop pretending that in order to get a woman to insert something into herself, it needs to have some sort of animal on?
It’s as if, when Ann Summers invented the never-bettered Rampant Rabbit, the head of their marketing team (let’s call him Dave) said “hey, it looks like women like rabbits. And cute things. Let’s give them more animals to fuck!” and everyone shifted awkwardly in their seats and didn’t say anything because Dave was the boss and they didn’t want to embarrass him. Well they should have embarrassed him. Someone should have stood up and said:
“Look, Dave, I don’t want to make things awkward for you, but women don’t like fucking rabbits, OK? I mean, maybe one or two women like fucking rabbits, but the majority of women don’t like fucking rabbits.”
“So,” Dave retorts, with a smug ‘you’re almost fired’ smirk on his face “if they don’t like fucking rabbits why are they buying the Rampant Rabbit, Trevor?”
At which point Trevor leaps to his feet and shouts “BECAUSE IT DOES GOOD THINGS TO THEIR CLIT, DAVE. WOMEN LIKE IT WHEN WE DO GOOD THINGS TO THEIR CLITS.”
And there you have it. The Rampant Rabbit is awesome because it has a bit that goes inside and is all swirly, and makes your cunt feel good, and a simultaneous bit that goes on the outside and buzzes against your throbbing clit. The fact that the outsidey bit looks like rabbit ears is no more relevant to your orgasm than whether the box it came in is made from recycled cardboard.
Does cute do it for you?
There’s a movement recently towards more abstract sex toys: shapely things that could just as easily be an ornament as a fucktoy – I wholeheartedly approve of these. I also approve strongly of the ones that look like plain, old-fashioned cock. These are excellent.
But I don’t understand why there are still so many that have been Disneyfied. Whether it’s making them vaguely dolphin-shaped, branding them with Hello Kitty, or giving them the face of a creepy mutant smurf.
As with everything I write this comes with a gigantic flashing neon caveat that says ‘some people will disagree with me.’ Because there is no single sexy thing on which all humans can agree, there may well be people who are more aroused by a sex toy if it comes with a grinning face.
But these people – and I don’t think I am going out on a particularly shaky limb here – are almost definitely in the minority. How often have you heard someone say ‘that’s hot, but it’d be totally hotter if it had a tail like a chinchilla’? It’s just not that common. What’s more, if these products really are catering to a significant group that gets aroused by cute things, surely we’d see a slight overspill into the male section of the market. And yet, as far as I know, no sex toy manufacturer has captalised on this particular opportunity by sticking googly eyes on a Fleshlight.
It’s marketing, yeah?
No one at Lovehoney has yet offered me a lucrative blogging contract, so I do not have access to amazing data on what people do and don’t want in terms of sex toys. It is possible that the reason they are making these products is because there is huge demand for them. When they send people out to accost women on the street and ask them what they would like to stick in their vaginas, many of those women might say:
“I don’t mind, as long as it looks like a furry rodent.”
And their market research people rush back to the office to get Dave all excited about the Clit Squirrel.
So, it’s possible. But again, if cute fucks are so popular, why is this phenomenon mostly limited to female-solo toys? After all, we don’t paint smiley faces on strapon belts, or market sex swings as ‘cuddle harnesses’.
If women are genuinely more likely to buy things because they’re cute, that suggests toys need to be made unsexy before girls will feel confident about clicking the ‘buy’ button. Is this because women are naturally more squeamish about sex? Or is it because women are constantly told that we should be more squeamish about sex? That we should be virtuous and innocent, and the only possible reason why we might buy something that is sex-related is not because it makes our cunt throb with a need to be fucked, but our ovaries squeal in appreciation of how adorable this particular sea horse is.
I’m not going to say I know either way, because I’m just speculating. But I’m speculating pretty fucking hard that it’s the latter.
How do we solve a problem like a sparkly dolphin dildo?
As ever, I’m not calling for a ban, because the inside of your vagina is no business of mine. However, I am going to publicly and loudly state that the only things I care about with sex toys are:
- safety
- price
- whether it does good things to my sticky bits
I not only don’t care if it’s cute, I’ll be actively turned off if it is. I don’t want people to stop making them, or those that genuinely like them to stop buying them. I just want Dave in marketing to have a think, when deciding whether to shape a new vibrator like a creepy smurf thing, why exactly he feels he needs to.
As for the women who prefer our sex toys without My Little Pony-style packaging, who get annoyed when something that provides a genuinely nice wanking experience (i.e. the Rabbit) has to look like a Happy Meal toy – I’d like us to be louder and more honest in our feedback. We need to send a message to manufacturers that, for many of us, this cuteness is not only unnecessary but – if their goal is to make us come like a freight train – actively unhelpful.
I don’t want to rub my clit with a gerbil, I just want to rub my clit.
Some of the links in this post are affiliate links, so if you buy toys from the companies I get a small cut of the money which helps me keep this site running.
On what I think of your dick
I get email – lovely, sexy email from boys who have sent me a cock picture. [Note: I no longer use the cock pictures email address – please don’t send me your pictures as chances are I won’t have the opportunity to look at them all or reply – this post explains why]
I wake up almost every morning to at least one new image of a rock-solid dick trapped in boxers, gripped in sweaty hands, or – if I’m really lucky – dripping huge white goblets of jizz all over anonymous fingertips. Delicious.
However, unfortunately a lot of these pictures are accompanied by an email that says one of the following things:
What do you think?
Tell me what you do when you see my pic.
Or, in a few rather memorable cases:
Give me a mark out of ten?
I’m not going to rate your dick
There are two reasons why I’m not going to rate your dick. Firstly and most importantly, by what criteria am I going to rank it? Length? Width? Rigidity? Beauty? Any individual cock can tick one, many or all of these boxes. But I’m not going to say that this dick is better than that dick on the basis of a blurry cameraphone snap – that just wouldn’t be fair.
Some pictures I’m sent are beautiful because your cock is positioned in just the right way – gripped tight in one hand and stretched out from your body. Some are beautiful because you’ve got the lighting just right or you’ve trapped it beautifully in the waistband of your boxers so I can see it bulging out against the fabric. Others win my approval because they include your face, staring sultrily (yes, that is an actual word) down the camera lens, and I can imagine the horny face you make when you twitch and come. Finally, some pictures are top of the ‘wank bank’ list because the cock in question is either exploding with, or covered in, your own sticky jizz.
I am far too biased
The second reason I’m not going to rate your dick is probably apparent from the paragraph above: I am a passionate fan of cock of all shapes and sizes, rather than a discerning conoisseur. While other dick-appraisers might give and deduct points for various things, like a wine expert rating flavour, consistency and scent, I’ll be running around the bargain section of Tescocks throwing all the different cheap penis-wines into my trolley. It’s just not a fair test.
There are loads of things that can enhance the beauty of an individual cock picture, but for me the only things I really care about in any given snap are:
1. It has a dick in it.
2. It is sent to me.
3. It has a dick in it.
Thank you one and all
In case the above has made me sound like a horrible bitch, I don’t resent your asking: I understand why, upon taking the trouble to get all hard then take a hot picture to send to a sex blogger, you’d want a little something in return. I feel bad that not only do I not have the time to reply in depth to everyone that emails me, my replies are often incredibly brief and more than a little tardy.
[Edited to add: having received so many penis pictures that they now all blur into one, and received a not insignificant number of emails bollocking me for not giving people the response they require, or not giving them a swift enough response, I now have to stop. Or rather, beg you to stop. Please stop sending me your pictures.]
You all get ten out of ten.
Merry frigging Christmas: wanking at Christmas time
It’s the night before Christmas, and creatures are definitely stirring. There’s a curious rustling of bedsheets and the occasional muffled grunt. Not just in my house, but in homes up and down the country. Because there’s nothing more festive than a surreptitious wank.
Think of the children: not the young ones, obviously, but the grown-up children. Unmarried sons and daughters like me in their mid-twenties (OK, late twenties, fuck you) for whom Christmas marks a return to the family home.
The old traditions, like hanging stockings by the fire and leaving a mince pie out for Father Christmas, have been replaced by new ones such as getting tanked with the siblings on Christmas Eve then falling through the front door at one in the morning slurring ‘ho ho ho’ at the rest of the family.
We’re home for the holidays, and we’re sleeping on futons, sofas, floors or single beds that remind us of our young adulthood, when wanking wasn’t just a casual hobby but a heartfelt vocation.
Location, location, location
That’s how it is for me. Because of my parents’ selfish insistence on having lives that don’t revolve around me, my bedroom’s no longer my bedroom – there are no longer posters or books or piles of tatty clothes decorating the carpet. It’s now a tidy office, with my old single bed squashed awkwardly in the corner. But sweet baby Jesus it’s sexy – it’s sexy because it reminds me of being a teenager, with all the angst and guilt and fetid, desperate masturbation that went along with it.
I can’t lie in that bed without being reminded of the number of times I buried my face in the pillow and silently, subtly, frigged myself to an awkward and potentially embarrassing climax.
Not lonely, but alone
I guard my family Christmas quite jealously. No matter how in love I’ve been, or how hot for a particular boy, none of them has ever been invited home for Christmas. Not because I’m worried about tension or embarrassment, but because they might do something unconscionable, like suggest we open Christmas presents before lunch. My family traditions are important: without them I wouldn’t be festive enough to jingle a single bell, let alone deck the fucking halls. From the annual Christmas Eve piss-up to putting sprouts in people’s stockings to recreate the Bottom Christmas Special, my traditions are far too sacred to cast aside. And one of the greatest traditions of all is the week-long wankathon.
Teenage kicks
As I lie in my old single bed, fingers slickly rubbing my clit, the old images come back too. Here I think less about gang-bangs and spanking and more about formative experiences with the boys of my youth. I think about that time when a boy touched my tit in an alley, then proudly showed me how his erection pushed at the fabric of his jeans. I think about the first blow-job I gave, knees red raw from kneeling on the ground in the woods and arousal so deep it was soaking through my knickers. I remember the guys who touched me, the guys I touched, and the ones whose laps I’d sit on. As I edge closer to a shuddering orgasm I think of how they’d wrap trembling arms around me, letting me rub right up against their twitching erections.
I can remember these things anywhere, of course, but nowhere are they more vivid than in the bed I’m sitting on now. If I wanted, I could go back to the woods, walk down through the alley, and see the same things I saw then through fresh eyes. I could probably even knock on some doors and say hi to the 28-year-old versions of those teenagers. It wouldn’t be the same, of course. They all have jobs and lives and mortgages. Some of them even have families. I’m sure most of them have richer and filthier fantasies than having a horny, excitable me grind incompetently on their prick. I doubt all of them remember the times when they made me shiver by touching my nipples or the times they asked me, in croaky half-whispers to ‘just touch it. Please.’
But maybe some of them do. Perhaps somewhere fairly close by, in a street very like this one, one of the boys I knew back then is doing the same thing I am. He’s lying in the single bed he slept in at age eighteen, idly rubbing his now-grown-up cock and remembering how it felt when I touched it through his trousers.
So, don’t feel alone this Christmas, even if you’re single, or temporarily parted from your lovers. As you stare at the ceiling in a home that’s no longer yours, rekindle your affection for youthful masturbation and treat yourself to a lovely festive wank. Just try not to rustle the duvet.
On sex without coming
Someone once told me that sex without orgasm is completely pointless – like a party without booze. My response was that there are many different kinds of party.
Sex without an orgasm is like wine without cheese. Celery without hoummous. A massive fuckoff slab of cake without a cup of coffee to wash it down – these things might be better when they come together, but they’re undeniably fun to have even without the extra.
I don’t always come when I’m fucking. Likewise, believe it or not, guys don’t always come when they’re fucking either.
Almost every single thing we see and hear about sex tells us a story that begins with a male erection and ends with a male orgasm. From biology classes at school which focused on fucking as a disgusting yet crucial baby-spawning activity to the mainstream porn films which fade out about five seconds after someone’s jizzed on someone else’s tits/face/arse/knickers/feet. In fact, porn is a classic example – the fact that male porn stars who fail to ejaculate are nudged to one side by willing and jizz-ready ‘stunt cocks’ shows that we generally view orgasm (or rather – male orgasm) as a rather crucial part of sex.
How do you know when you’ve stopped?
I suppose the key reason we believe this is that a spunk-stream in your eye acts as a handy visual and physical point at which to show the coupling had ended. Like a full stop. It’s as good a point as any in which to roll over and fall asleep, because it’s trickier for men to keep going after they’ve come.
But although feeling someone’s prick twitching a couple of spoonfuls of jizz into your aching cunt is by all means a nice way to end sex, that doesn’t mean it’s the only way.
In the past I’ve had sex sessions aborted (or aborted them myself) because:
a) he’s just too fucking knackered to come. At which point I will either render blowjobs or solitude, depending on how pissed off he looks.
b) I’m too twitchy to continue. It’s often the case that if I come a few times in a row, my thigh muscles start contracting like some phantom clit-genie has attached electrodes to me, and my cunt freaks out. At this point any further sexual contact is a bit like being tickled, and not conducive to further fun.
c) my cunt is sore. No guy has ever been upset to stop for this reason – usually because he doesn’t want to inflict genuinely uncomfortable pain, but partly because it’s a well-earned badge of honour.
d) he just can’t come. Whether the mood’s not right or he’s fucking too soon after a wank or he caught a glimpse of my face in the wrong light and I looked startlingly like his sister – there have been a fair few occasions when a guy has just stopped and decided we’d be better off playing Scrabble for a wee while until he gets hard again.
In these instances, one or other party often feels the need to apologise. I’ve heard occasional apologies and, slightly rarer, admissions that ‘I’m awful’ and ‘you must be so angry with me.’
This is not in any way a sexy thing. Giving it ten minutes then guiding my head back down to your dick is a sexy thing. Growling in my ear that you’ll take your frustrations out on me later is a sexy thing. Spanking me to let me know that you’re displeased is a sexy thing. Begging my forgiveness? Not so much.
My orgasms aren’t 100% crucial either
Likewise, whether I come or not is not an issue at the forefront of my mind when you’re pounding seven shades of fuck into me. It’s something that will probably happen, because I’m lucky enough to find it relatively easy to come when I’m being fucked. But that’s not to say that if it doesn’t happen I’m going to cry in a corner until you see the hurt you’ve caused me – I doubt that would stand me in good stead for the next time I wanted to sit on your dick.
If I’m honest, I’m far more likely to actually come – you know, for real – if you chill the fuck out about it. I’d prefer a quick, messy, satisfying, grunting, orgasmless fuck which leaves us both grinning like teenagers in a sex shop than a long, drawn out shag during which I can feel you thinking ‘why won’t GOTN come? What’s wrong with her? What am I doing wrong? Oh Christ I hope she comes soon I’ve got cramp and my dick’s going limp and please please please just come on my fucking cock you fussy bitch’, at the end of which I might end up coming but only out of a weary desire to get things over with and put you out of your misery.
Disappointing parties
My opinion might be freakishly abnormal, though – I occasionally find I that it is. Being unable to enter other people’s minds I am depressingly restricted to judging solely based on what I think and what other people have said to me.
There might be people out there for whom sex without orgasm is a horrible, horrible thing. For them, sex without orgasm may well be like a party without booze, and they may think both of those scenarios sound completely pointless.
But for me there are many different types of party, and many different types of fuck.
Having sex without an orgasm isn’t pointless, odd, or even particularly unusual. It’s actually reasonably common – whether through a difficulty orgasming during sex, through tiredness or, most frequently in my experience, because I occasionally find it hilarious to edge a guy until he almost comes then leave him writhing in erect discomfort for a couple of hours until he begs me to suck him dry.
It’s not a party without booze, it’s a party which ends early: still fun while it lasts, and at least when it’s done you can rub one out in the kitchen.
On touches: touching your dick vs touching my clit
When it comes to sexiness, there are two different types of touch:
- Being touched to turn me on and
- Being touched because it turns you on
One of these, I find, is very much hotter than the other.