Tag Archives: wanking
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 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.
On desperation
We can be horny, we can be hopeful, we can be keen, we can be enthusiastic, but woe betide us if we’re desperate.
Desperation is unsexy
There’s nothing less sexy than someone who whines for you. Who doesn’t just want you but who needs you in a pitiful, clingy way. I’ve been guilty in the past of turning my nose up at such people. You know the ones – the ones who text you straight after a first date asking for another, the ones who try to wheedle an invite back to yours even though you’ve already said no. The ones who send you emails saying “why didn’t you reply to my last email?”
I snort dismissively, delete their texts, and pity the poor fools who think I’m anything special to fuss over.
But I’m wrong, and I’m cruel, and I know that this is bad. I shouldn’t write off the desperation of others because I fall victim to exactly the same feelings. The difference between my desperation and yours is that mine feels more true, and raw and painful.
We’re all desperate sometimes
Tonight I’m having an evening of self-imposed celibacy, and as a consequence I’m pathetically desperate for sex. Not just sex, either – I specifically want to be beaten. I want to be toyed and fucked with. I want a guy to bend me over, spank me with the palm of his hand, dip his fingers into my cunt to feel how wet I am, then beat me some more.
Sometimes I wonder if I’m capable of walking to the nearest pub, picking the loneliest-looking guy, and begging him to take me roughly in the beer garden. And then I get hornier and more desperate and I realise that I can’t – sex with a stranger will scratch a different itch to the one I actually have – the desperation to fuck a guy who knows me, and who can beat me with the strength and lustful conviction of someone who knows how I like it.
Have a wank, then
When I confided in a friend about this problem he said exactly that: “why don’t you have a wank?” but unfortunately it doesn’t work like that. I don’t know if it’s the same for everyone (what I do know, though, is that it’s rarely the same for everyone), but if I come home from work and rub one out, five minutes later in the kitchen as I’m pouring a gin and tonic, it occurs to me that – well, the last wank was nice, why not have another? And another? And… you get the idea.
Wanking is not a nice, relaxing release of tension. It’s like Pringles.
Sometimes you have to beg
The only solution to this problem is to find a boy I like fucking, and persuade him that – no, it doesn’t matter that it’s a school night – he has to fuck me right now. This works sometimes, and the resulting sex is satisfying and powerful and – usually – incredibly quick.
But I don’t think it’s easy to do this. Doing this properly involves putting yourself out there as a desperate person. Texting someone to say ‘I desperately need sex now – are you free?’ is far more difficult than saying ‘Free tonight? Fancy a shag?’.
‘Fancy a shag?’ has less baggage – it’s less needy – it’s more likely to get a reply.
But it’s also less likely to be successful. I once sent a casual message of this type to a friend, after a similar self imposed (but this time week-long) celibacy, and he offered to come and pick me up and take me to his house. My cunt twitched and ached as I waited in the cold outside the train station – imagining a quick journey to his, followed by a swift beating and a cold, functional fuck bent over the side of his sofa.
I didn’t wear knickers, I hadn’t even bothered to wear shoes – flip-flops thrown on as soon as his ‘yes’ text came through meant I was prepared for nothing other than a quick shag. I needed it just to calm me, to prevent me from rubbing my thighs together on a train in a manner that was starting to look suspicious to those who regularly joined my carriage.
He stopped nearby, and I limped over to his car, wondering if there was somewhere nearby we could retire to, saving ourselves the ten minutes of dripping, twitching agony as we drove to his house.
But I’d been too casual. I’d been too jokey and calm. ‘Fancy a shag?’ hadn’t fully conveyed my need. He stopped at a pub on the way, and insisted that we had a pint. I downed my drink then squirmed for 20 minutes, staring at him. I batted my eyelashes and crossed my legs and jiggled my knee up and down under the table, willing him to drink up.
It was the longest twenty minutes of my entire life.
On unwilling monogamy
There’s a rather excellent exchange in Queer as Folk that goes something like this:
Alexander: “When you have a wank, do you think about him?”
Vince: “What sort of question’s that?”
Alexander: “Do you think about him?”
Vince: “No.”
Alexander: “Congratulations, he’s your boyfriend.”
By this definition, this boy is definitely not my boyfriend. I’m a bit more than in love with him – I am obsessed by him in a way that cannot be healthy. He takes my waking thoughts and as much of my spare time as I can find between work and writing and drinking and sleep. What’s worse – he takes up the fantasies that were previously reserved for the faceless strangers who’d play out scenes of angry fucking behind my closed eyelids.
In short: when I have a wank, I think about him.
I think about him bracing himself, restraining me, fucking me in the ass. I think about his whispered words and his hard kisses and the far-too-infrequent slaps he sometimes gives me. I think about the quick, sharp, angry strokes with which he fucks me.
Get out of my head
This boy commands my attention in a way that others don’t. I joke with him that it’s because of his dick. His dick which is wonderful, thick, almost permanently solid – straining at his jeans as he grips my arse, or slips an idle hand down my top. And I joke about it because the truth is worse – it’s not just his dick: it’s him.
He’s warm, he’s kind, he’s funny. He’s beautiful. He has big arms and hands that envelop me like I’m tiny. He says utterly ridiculous things in an accent that makes me drool. He wraps me in big sweaters and brings me coffee, like this kind of calm happiness is the most normal thing in the world. He swings quickly from gentle to passionate, and every time he does it takes me by lustful surprise. And when I get angry or unreasonable he nods, and listens, and tells me I’m not mad, then holds my big, mad head in his gentle hands and makes me feel like a normal person again.
It’s a trap
Rather ridiculously, I am more terrified of writing this than I am any of the other stuff. I can talk to you about group-gropes in a sex cinema, my excessive love of spunk, or the fun I’ve had with piss-play. But telling you that despite my lust for any guy with a nerdy charm and a solid dick, right now I’m just not in the mood for group sex and spanking circles, is pretty fucking tricky indeed.
The fact that writing this entry is a bit like pulling teeth lays bare all of my own prejudices about love. That love is a pathetic shadow of the independent lust on which most of my recent relationships have been based. I feel like, having mastered the art of being happy on my own, and withdrawing from boys who have too much emotional control over me, I’ve failed if I ever think too much of them. I’ve failed if I love them, or miss them. Above all, I’ve failed if I can’t put them out of my mind for long enough to have a wank about someone else.
I’m just going to smash everything
It’s not that I haven’t been in love before – I have. But I’ve never loved healthily – I don’t know how to be in love casually. I want to be able to do this to just the right degree.
On a night out drinking there’s that brilliant moment when I’m merrily drunk, having fun dancing and flirting and chatting and smoking endless cigarettes, and I think the night’s perfect. Then one more drink and I’m grumpy and spinning and weak and desperate to go home to bed. Love is the same.
I can like guys, I can lust guys, I can fuck them with a desperate, panting enthusiasm yet still remain healthy and in control. But then just a bit more – a few more nights spent sleeping beside them, a few more hugs that don’t end in a fuck, a few more secrets exposed and intimate discussions and suddenly it’s all too much. I can’t sleep, I can’t think, and worst of all I can’t come without thinking about him fucking me into submission. And I can’t be in love this hard without overdoing it.
So I fuck men and I play with men and I flirt with men and I follow them from pub to bed to pub to strip club to pub to bed and back again. And I hope that they’re just friends, and I tell them that they’re just friends, and I break up with them when they’re more than friends, because I don’t ever want them to become precious.
If I can’t fuck or wank without thinking of a specific someone, then that someone has become precious to me. He’s special enough that most of the time I don’t want to fuck anyone else – I barely even think about anyone else when I’m lying horny on the sofa thinking about what I might wank to. I know what I’m going to wank to – the same fucking guy who’s in my head even after he’s left my bedroom.
I’ve accidentally become monogamous. And worse, I’ve accidentally created a relationship so precious that I’m in danger of smashing it. I’m at the merry stage of drunk and reaching for another pint and smiling because the night can only get better and I’m so happy and I’m dancing and I’m horny and I want more oh please let me have more and just another pint and another dance and I just want to stay here a bit longer and I’m definitely not going to be sick. I promise.