Tag Archives: oral sex
Guest blog: ‘Vulva phobia’ is holding equality back
This week’s guest blogger is a lady after my own heart. By which I mean, she is someone who gets righteously angry about the way many women are told to behave. Smell gorgeous, look fresh, be awesome: never let on that beneath your clothes is an actual human body that sometimes excretes weird fluids or happens not to be airbrushed.
Now, this blog is going to come with a caveat, as most blogs about women and sex usually have to: because it deals with society’s treatment of women, it relies on the idea of a gender binary, and that one’s gender is dictated by one’s genitals. Gender is far more complicated than just ‘vag = woman’, but this is what society tells us nearly all the frigging time, and as such causes a whole host of problems, one of which Christina tackles in this blog. I’d love to host more writing about how issues like this affect trans women, so if you’re a trans writer and you’ve got an idea for a guest blog please do get in touch.
In the meantime, I’ll hand over to Christina Wellor – who takes a hefty swipe at society’s fear of vulvas, vaginas, and all those v-words that in general are seen as a bit icky. From twee-bullshit marketing that encourages us to ‘woo hoo our froo froos’ to the implication that a bikini wax is a duty you have to perform before you’re allowed to have a holiday. If you like it, please do check out her blog and follow her on Twitter.
‘Vulva phobia’ is just another thing holding equality back
Despite all the positive shifts towards gender equality, there’s still one thing that continues to plague women and that’s society’s attitude towards our bodies; or to be more specific – our genitals. We’re discriminated against because of the configuration of bits of skin between our legs. You may not believe me and that’s fine because you don’t have to take my word for it, just go to your local supermarket and see how many products you can find to keep the average vulva clean and fresh. Then have a look for similar products aimed at penises and ball sacks. I do believe you will find none and I could rest my case there, but vulva phobia, as I like to call it, manifests itself in a hundred other ways and I’m not even sure people consciously take in half of them.
Take sex scenes for example. How often do we see scenes of fellatio in mainstream TV and cinema, however obscured by clever framing or strategically positioned heads and cameras? A lot. In fact, there are at least three blow job scenes in Mad Men alone. But you’ll never see a woman with her thighs spread either side of Don Draper’s handsome head (and don’t try to convince me that man wasn’t a serial pussy eater. He totally would have been). The point is – directors, producers, maybe even censors; are afraid to depict it. It’s the same with almost every TV series and film. The concept of a man’s face having a close encounter with a vulva remains unacceptable for cinematic representation, yet cocks can be shoved down throats at a moment’s notice and without a second thought.
Just what is this about? What is it about the female anatomy that still embarrasses people so much; yet when we get the chance to have a look at Jennifer Lawrence et al in all their naked, pussy baring glory, we’re all over it? If we’re that desperate to see what’s between their legs, why aren’t we treated to a cunnilingus scene from time to time, without having to resort to porn?
Is this women’s own doing? Are we simply too embarrassed about our genitalia? Are we so obsessed with what we perceive to be the negative traits of our vulvas, that we can’t bear the thought of them being seen, smelled, tasted, accepted? Hell, does the whole world have a problem with them?
I’ve always thought that if you make something into a big deal or play the coy card, then it simply serves to increases people’s appetite for antagonisation. Take Madonna for example. When she bared her ‘gash’ (her words not mine) in her 90s book, ‘Sex’, it was in the public domain for all to gawp at. But she was in control. Today, I doubt anyone even wastes their time looking for compromising images of Madonna, because what she’d be prepared to put out there herself is ten times more shocking.
Of course, I’m not suggesting everyone should become a sexual exhibitionist, just so that no-one can hold them to ransom with naked photos. That would be stupid. I’m simply trying to point out that the public is hell-bent on poking someone’s weak spot. With that in mind, I can only imagine that the situation got a lot worse for Jennifer Lawrence, once threats of prosecution and lawsuits were bandied about. It’s like a red rag to a bull.
If we remain so coy about female bits, the way we have been for years; it’ll continue to be deemed ‘unacceptable’ to show a cunnilingus scene in a film. If society keeps asserting that our vulvas need fumigating with special soap, scented panty liners, deodorising spray and freshening wipes; it’ll perpetuate the idea that our pussies are dirty and unhygienic. And let’s be honest, who wants to see a woman being eaten out over their pizza and popcorn on a Saturday night, when they know full well how much we stink? (It must be true, because marketers are telling us that all the time.)
I genuinely believe that we’re victims of our own unfounded embarrassment; and until we start to shed some of that and stop buying into this bullshit idea that our privates are too cringeworthy for celluloid or any visual media for that matter; our cunts are going to be shamed to the detriment of our self esteem and the benefit of Femfresh’s profits. Just imagine how many less downloads of celebrity flaps there’d have been, had the papers and news channels not offered so much coverage of the story!
Also, I know there wouldn’t have been even half this fuss if the naked photos had been of Brad Pitt’s semi-erect cock. Women all over the world would still have been downloading them at a rate of knots, but the morality of the whole debacle wouldn’t have been brought into question; at least not even close to this extent. (Is that because penises don’t smell? Because they really don’t you know. Like, ever.)
I’m demanding that everyone stops fuelling the awkwardness and embarrassment about our pussies – this applies to directors, producers, marketers, editors, journalists and all the paranoid women that buy products to sanitise their flaps. You’ve all got a responsibility to stop shaming us, it’s insulting and it’s time it ended. More to the point, I can’t believe you never let us see Don Draper give head.
Thanks Christina! As I say, please do check out her blog. And I’d particularly be interested in other examples of this – I’ve of course noticed and raged out about the Femfresh thing: particularly as it’s marketed at women with a message that ‘you’re wrong/bad/smelly and you must be fixed’ but it hadn’t occurred to me that we rarely see cunnilingus in mainstream TV sex scenes in the same way that we see blow jobs – now that Christina’s pointed it out, I can’t help but notice it. Are there any other examples of this that you’ve spotted? And if you want to read/see more about why vulvas are ace, check out the Pussy Pride Project, run by Molly’s Daily Kiss.
Vimphilia: a fetish for programmers
Listen up, people! I have googled around a bit and have been unable to find a word that sums up the level of knicker-moistening excitement that I experience when a gentleman lets me suck him off while he codes, so I invented one: Vimphilia. To mean: a kink/fetish for programmers.
Guest – adult chain story: a trip to the woods
Remember those ‘Choose your own adventure’ books? Well, this guest blog is a bit like one of those, only it’s pornographic. And instead of turning to page 24 to decide what the characters should do with their shivering arousal, I’m throwing it open to you to write the next chapter of the story.
When Steve got in touch with me to share a hot story he was writing, the fact that it had a ‘to be continued’ ending opened up a whole bunch of possibilities. I had a fairly clear idea in my head of what I wanted to happen next, but it occurred to me that others might have equally strong, but completely different ideas.
So here’s the deal: read the filthy sex story below, have a think about what you’d like to happen next, and leave a comment at the bottom of the post telling us what you think should happen in the next chapter. The guest blogger and I will pick one of the suggestions, and pass the story on to you to continue. Then someone else will pick up where you leave off, and so on, until our characters have gone on a rollercoaster ride through different fetishes, perspectives, sexual experiences, and sticky fun. A kind of adult chain story. Sound good? Sweet. Read on…
A trip to the woods (part 1)
The car engine judders to a stop, the sudden absence of noise exacerbated by the stillness and quiet of the woodland where we’re now parked. We’d driven here so fast that the journey had seemed like a blur, buildings and trees flashing past as we sped out of the city and onto the country roads. We both knew why we were coming here, to this deserted clearing in the woods, so the sense of urgency and anticipation had been strong.
But now we’re here in this woodland clearing – no sign of another human being for miles around us. The woods are eerily quiet now that the throaty rumble of the engine had died away. There’s just the faint ‘tink, tink, tink’ of the car as the engine cools.
We step out of the car, blinking slightly in the bright sunlight. You turn the full force of your smile on me, a smile which has the power to quicken my pulse and start my brain racing. I lean back against the car door and take your hands in mine, pulling you close to me. I can feel the heat of your body through the thin, summer dress and there’s a mounting feeling of excitement as you look up at me with those big, soulful eyes.
I feel your hand slide down my body and come to rest on my belt buckle. You look deep into my eyes and give a look that says ‘shall I?’ but without uttering a single word. I give an almost imperceptible nod, and stroke the palm of my hand over your cheek, before kissing you on those full, tempting lips.
Your fingers fumble briefly with the belt, finding the fastening and pulling it free. Then you start to unbutton my flies, revealing the inviting bulge inside my boxer shorts. In the harsh sunlight, the light casts some appealing shadows across my boxers, outlining the shape of my cock, already swollen and hardening at the thought of your touch.
You softly brush your fingers over the contours of my hard dick and give a mischievous giggle as you feel me twitch. I slide my hand down so that it rests on top of yours and our fingers entwine, both gently stroking along the length of my cock through the boxers.
You lean in for another soft kiss. Then, very slowly, you bend your knees and squat down in front of me, your hands reaching for the waistband of the boxer shorts as I lean back against the cold metal of the car. You tug hard on the boxers and pull them down just enough for my cock to spring forth. The thought of your touch has worked its magic and the shaft is hard and engorged, ready to please or to be pleased.
You lean in even closer, so close that I can feel your warm breath on the tip of my cock. You look up at me, checking the reaction, as I stare down at you, desire written across my face. You place one solitary kiss on the tip, your lips soft and tender as you run them down the shaft towards my smooth, shaved balls. I feel the warmth of your fingers reaching up to caress my balls, and then your lips are around the tip, taking me into your hot, inviting mouth and making me tense my hands against the cool metal of the car door.
Your mouth feels so hot, your long hair brushing against my stomach and my naked balls as you delicately suck on me. I run my fingers through your hair as you slide your lips back up along the shaft and let the wet tip slide out from between your lips.
You stand up and lean in to kiss me, so I can taste my own cock in your mouth and feel the tip of your tongue gently exploring mine. Then you pull back and gesture that we should move to the back seat of the car. I take your hand and open the door, wondering what pleasures await us…
To be continued…
If you want to continue the story, drop a comment below with a brief explanation of what you want to happen next, ideally something that is both a) sexy and b) carries on the plot of the story. Where do these people go next? Do more people arrive? Is there a car chase or alien abduction? Whatever your imagination throws up.
Usual erotica/decency rules apply: nothing illegal, discriminatory, etc. If you want to be picked, you need to use a real email address (which won’t be published) so I can contact you to let you know the baton is being passed to you. There won’t be a deadline, though, and it’s not a test, so don’t be shy. And, of course, you’ll receive the same payment as all other guest blogs and (unless you’d rather remain anonymous) you’ll have the chance to plug your own blog/Twitter feed.
What would you like to happen next? Let us know.
On intense pain
When I think about pain, there’s one particular guy who comes into my head. Many of the guys I’ve been with have helped me squirm in delicious agony, but there’s one in particular who hurt me more than any other. Exquisitely.
Everything that happens in this story was heavenly. To this day, I still daydream about it when I’m horny and itching and only some hurting will do.
Softly softly
This guy was only a few years older, but light-years ahead of me in maturity. He had a neat haircut, wore suits, was chivalrous in an old-fashioned way that I’d have found adorable in someone less dominant. He had a calm, detached air – the kind that comes from knowing I’ll do exactly what he says. He treated me as if I was utterly fragile, yet still his to break.
I rang the doorbell, having refused his offer to escort me from the tube station: something about the cold walk to his house helped to focus my mind. He opened the door with a courteous smile, and ushered me inside in a way that his curtain-twitching neighbours would have approved of.
Then he closed the door with a controlled ‘click’.
“Take off your boots.”
I took off my boots.
There was silence – one beat, two beats.
I lined them up neatly next to his own shoes by the door.
Three beats. Four beats.
Then he pounced.
Grabbing me by the hair he pushed my face up against the wall, twisting my neck awkwardly so I was poised in a semi-standing crouch. Makeup smeared against the wallpaper, hands pressed against the wall to hold myself steady.
Keeping my hair firmly gripped in his hand, he used his other hand to grope me – to inspect me. His roughness didn’t outweigh his calm, though. Every movement was carefully measured – squeezing one of my tits, sliding slowly down over my waist and hips, carefully pulling up the hem of my skirt so he could run his fingers against the crotch of my knickers.
“You’re wet.”
“Yes.” I was dreading what was coming next. Please don’t make me say ‘sir’, please don’t make me say ‘sir’, please…
One beat, two beats…
“Yes what?”
“Sir.”
A few ‘sirs’ and light slaps later, and he was leading me by the hair into his bedroom. This was essentially what I’d turned up for. It’s all very well being told off in a hallway, but I wanted him to turn his controlling nature to pain.
I’ve never been much of a pain slut – I enjoy being spanked not because I like the feeling of the slaps, but because I love that the guy in question gets off on it: I like that hearing the thwack of belt on skin makes him hard. That I get to feel dirty and bad even as I’m feeling ecstatic.
He didn’t disappoint.
Stripped to the waist, with skirt hiked up around my middle, he pushed me face down on his bed.
“Knickers down.”
I wriggled out of them.
“Hands behind your head.”
Again, I did as I was told.
“Bite down on this.”
He placed a leather strap in my mouth, and I had a nervous three seconds to wonder what he was going to hit me with before he brought a slipper down onto my arse with a solid, painful thump. I twitched, and arched my back slightly for the second blow.
Thud. Ouch. On and on until my eyes watered. Each one in exactly the same place, the stinging heat growing more intense with every stroke. I could feel from the strength and impact that he wasn’t just testing me – he was drawing his arm back and whacking me with full force. Unable to see him, I pictured it in my head – his arm drawn back above his shoulder, hand holding the slipper, face placid and expressionless, then the twitch of a sadistic smile as he whipped it down again. My stomach thumped with arousal.
“Keep your head down,” he said. “Eyes closed.”
I disobeyed him – I wanted to see what he was bringing next. Through semi-open eyelids I watched him stride across the room: no rushing, still oozing calm control. He opened the wardrobe then did one of the hottest things dominant guys can do before a beating: he rolled up his sleeves. At that point I put my head down, revelling in the anticipation of the unknown. I’d told him before I arrived that I wanted him to hit me – hurt me. Push me with pain I didn’t truly like – less thudding and thick slaps, more thin whips and tingling canes. He took me at my word.
The first stroke didn’t hurt for two seconds – I just heard the whish-click as it landed across the top of my thighs. Then the sting came. Red-hot and searing through my skin, cold metal and hot coal and ice and fire and pain.
“Good,” He crooned. “Good-” whip “-girl.” smack.
He used the wire on me a few more times – each time putting a bit more swing into it, bringing it down a bit quicker, harder. I bit down on the strap and let out a muffled cry. He moved around me, no longer standing at the side but directly in front of my face. I could see his dick pushing tight and hard against the crotch of his trousers. I arched my back further and pushed my stinging arse into the air. He leant forward and hit me again – three more times, harder than he had before, until my head was swimming with pain. I dropped the strap from my mouth and groaned.
“Ow.” Once more – whish-click. “OW! Fuck. Please. It hurts too much.”
He dropped the wire and bent forward over me. I felt his hands on my arse, rubbing, kneading, pushing the pain deep into my muscles and away from the raw surface of my skin. His hands were cool, and I wanted him to keep them on me, still and calm, until the pain was over.
But he didn’t.
He stood up, unzipped his trousers, and lifted my head up so he could slide his dick into my mouth. I sucked him, hard, wanting to feel his dick twitch like I’d twitched when he hit me. When his spunk hit the back of my throat it was as warm and welcome as the stinging slaps he’d given me.
On sexercise: is sex really good exercise?
How brilliant is sex as a form of exercise? I’ve always been sceptical of cheesy articles that claim you can burn off your Christmas dinner with a little bit of sexercise. The claim is ridiculous for obvious reasons: not only does every couple have different sexual preferences, but even in a couple your tastes change from week to week depending on your mood. Sure, you might burn 300 calories with one particularly rigorous shag, but if the next night involves a quickie in which you lie back and think of England while your partner (or partners) put in all the work, you’re unlikely to have burnt off so much as a sprout or two.