Tag Archives: ways to fuck
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.
On whether I’m good in bed
Being a sex blogger is great, because people assume that I’m fucking dynamite in bed. People sometimes email me dirty stories that I star in, and – I have to be honest – in these stories I am always good in bed. Occasionally I demonstrate a level of sexual prowess that would stun even the most avid pornography fan. They’d certainly surprise the fuck out of any guy unfortunate enough to have been at the receiving end of my incompetent humping.
On quiet sex: a hot story about fucking in a tent
The problem with not being a millionaire is that often I have to have the quiet sex. The quiet sex is the sex you have when you share a flat with someone, or the person you’re fucking is sharing a flat with someone, or (if you’re not a Londoner) the sex you have in your huge-yet-affordable semi-detached house when your parents happen to be visiting.
On having sex in the bath
People get shitty about 50 Shades of Grey for many reasons, but in terms of sexual lies that make me cross, few people have pointed out the one that most annoyed me.
Towards the end of the book (and I don’t think this really counts as a spoiler), Christian and Anastasia have mind-blowingly wonderful sex in a bath.
There’s nothing wrong with mind-blowingly wonderful sex, It’s a bloody good thing. However, it’s a bloody good thing that is almost impossible to do in the water.
Having sex in a bath is a bit crap
There seems to be quite a common misconception that watery sex is one of the funnest fucks you can have – it’s wet, it’s slippery, you can be comfortably naked, etc. Men I’ve known seem to particularly enjoy the look and feel of a nice, wet pair of tits. Understandable.
However, just because my tits are wet that doesn’t mean we’re going to have good sex. Sex in water is rubbish – the water washes away all of those natural cunty juices that make penetration so fun. Lubes wash away, too. Essentially by having sex in the bath you’re removing one of the crucial things about fucking – the slicky wetness.
Women’s and men’s magazines alike carry hot stories of watery sex – couples coupling on beaches, in baths, in swimming-pools and showers. Exotic confessions written in breathy, sexy tones imply that this fucking is amazing – what could be hotter than having sex on a beach? I’ll tell you what’s hotter than sex on a beach: having sex in a fucking bed.
I think it’s the fact that its unusual – lots of people have a desire to fuck in places where they traditionally wouldn’t. The unusual nature of it makes it a bit sexier. That’s why the ‘hot sex confessions’ section of magazines is so often filled with stories like this:
“The best sex I ever had was during a romantic bath with my partner. I sat in front of him and he soaped my breasts, then I sat on him and, with gentle rocking motions and the water lapping at our hips, we both came together in a nice wet explosion.”
The problem with sex in the bath
I’ve fucked in showers and baths before. One of the key problems (because I am not a Christian Grey-style millionaire) is that baths are fucking small. I don’t care how tiny and delicate you are, in a bath with another person you’re always going to feel big. A big, awkward slippery pile of elbows.
Even if you do manage to manoeuvre yourself into a good position (say, crouched on top of him lowering yourself onto his dick as in the above example) then you have to deal with the splashing. Two people displace a hell of a lot of bathwater, and if you fuck at the speed that is usually required to achieve an orgasm, you splash buckets of water onto the floor, and soapy water into your eyes and mouth until both of you are crying out for a nice dry towel and the safety of a boring bed.
Even if you’re lucky enough to have a gigantic bath (and I’ve stayed in a couple of hotels which did) you still have to deal with the lack of cunt-juice and the fact that you cannot get any grip whatsoever on slippery surfaces. So call me boring, call me old-fashioned, call me unadventurous, but I just don’t want to fuck you in the bath – it will never be more than an incompetent, wet wriggle.
More realistically, the story above should read:
“The most frustrating and injurious sex I ever had was during a romantic bath with my partner. I squeezed into the tub in front of him, feeling six times my normal size and displacing enough water to drown a hippopotamus, and he soaped my breasts. Having done that, we were a bit stuck for ideas, as both of us were wedged into a receptacle designed for – at best – just one average-sized adult. I wriggled round, displacing more water and accidentally elbowing him in the solar-plexus, then eventually managed to get into a crouching position over his dick. I slipped on the side, bending his cock at an uncomfortable angle and he cried out in pain. Taking control, he had a go at thumbing it into me, and I took a deep breath as it rasped against the dry walls of my cunt. I rocked back and forth for a bit, annoyed that I couldn’t get a grip on the slippery bath floor so I could actually fuck him properly. Instead of coming together in a soapy-wet explosion, we puffed away at it for a few minutes until he got shampoo in his eyes and asked me if we could call it a day. I was only too pleased to say ‘yes.'”
Baths: shave your legs in one, wash your hair in one, have a wank in one if you fancy it, but for crying out loud don’t ever try to fuck me in one.