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I like your cock … just not as your avatar – Part 2

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It’s Sunday again, which means it’s also #SinfulSunday, something which makes me increasingly anxious with every week that passes.  I have no issue at all with the premise, but if I was being totally honest, does it bother me that it’s something the boy likes to take part in? Yes.

I deserve to be pulled up on that – Sinful Sunday is all about images which are erotic, not just graphic, which does tend to mean that you get more of a sense of the story behind the image than you otherwise might, something which I said I liked in the first post on this topic a few weeks back. The boy is both clever and funny, and it comes across in the pictures he takes. So far, so good. 

The other reason why I deserve to be pulled up on it is the reason why I always intended there to be a 2nd blog post on this topic. For all I have a list of wants regarding naked pictures, and despite not being a huge fan of the cock shot I can’t help but be a little bit in awe of people who have sufficient body confidence to put the bits of themselves that they like up for public consumption. It’s not up to me to decide which bits of himself he should like enough to flaunt. A story: I was in the bath this afternoon, shaving my legs and as I ran the razor down over the back of my right calf, I noticed that I actually have pretty good muscle definition there. This is about the only upside to having a left leg that does fuck all in terms of weight bearing – despite doing absolutely zero exercise I actually have a pretty sexy bit of muscle tone going on between my ankle and my knee. That’s a bit of me I like – I doubt he finds it quite as hot.

The point: the bits of him that I find hot (not going to list them here, it’s a little personal and at risk of descending into FSoG ‘OMFG, the way his pants hang from his hips’ territory, I feel) are not necessarily going to be the bits that he likes best about himself. It would  be very easy, and very obvious here to say that of course his cock is going to be his favourite part of himself – he’s a man, isn’t he? – but it would be a cheap shot, and not one I actively believe in – I love my tits, but I have friends who aren’t quite so enamoured with theirs and presumably men are the same – some like their cocks, some don’t, and, if they do, of course they have the right to show it off if that’s what they want to do.

My personal gripe with him doing it is fuelled by the same fear that motivates the other things I dislike: that the reason he does it is to attract women. Again, it’s my problem, not his, but that doesn’t mean I can’t be honest about it. I mentioned this blog to a friend the other day and she asked if I started it ‘as an act of revenge against him blogging.’ Er, no, not at all – I started it because my relationships with men, with love, with sex, and with him are all complicated and because I write and I wanted to work my feelings through in writing. Did it need to be in the public domain? No. Do I regret making the decision to put it there? No. 

He’s not a massive fan of it, either, and I get that, totally. I need somewhere to work through the things that bother me, but would I like it if he was doing the same to me? No, I’d go fucking psycho. But equally, it’s not really about him, it’s about me, just in the same way that his cock shots aren’t mine to like, dislike or even comment on. So, really, what I want from a cock shot is pretty irrelevant – if a guy has the confidence to flaunt it then kudos to him for achieving that level of self-acceptance. Just understand that I can admire you for it without liking the fact that you do it, that’s all. 

Stop blitzing him with calls and texts!

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I’d probably have written this post, or one very similar to it, off my own back, given time, but I noticed in the press this week the story about the jury in the phone hacking trial being told about Chelsy Davis ‘blitzing Prince Harry with calls and texts’ while he was at Sandhurst. I also noticed that the Daily Mail removed the ‘jury told’ bit of the headline in their page header, thus presenting Chelsy’s actions as fact. Sigh.

Now I’ll admit, there’s a lot I don’t know about military training (unsurprisingly!). Apparently Harry was only able to field her calls after he’d finished training, which was “sometimes after 10pm.” This bit doesn’t seem that surprising to me – I can see that checking your phone isn’t that compatible with target practice and obstacle courses. Not, incompatible enough though, apparently, that Harry considered just turning his phone off. Instead “He keeps the phone on, but on silent – it buzzes and vibrates so frequently with new M [sic].” How fucking inconvenient that he should have to keep the phone on silent because of silly Chelsy – I mean, if it wasn’t for her he could have kept the sound on – it’s not like messages from other people who aren’t nutjob girlfriends cause the phone to buzz or vibrate.

Maybe I’m reading too much into this, but I can’t help but feel that the story would never have made it out if the roles were reversed and it was Harry doing the bombarding. So I did a bit of an experiment. I googled ‘Should I text him first?’ Total results: 744,000,000. I changed it to ‘Should I text her first?’ Total results: 423,000,000. It seems pretty clear that most of the ‘rules’ around texting are being dished out to women, not to men.

The other reason it bothered me so much is because it’s a constant minefield in my life, too. I’m pretty clear on how often I’d like to see the boy in an ideal world, pretty clear on the fact that I like texts to end with a kiss. But we can’t reach a sensible position on communication because he can’t win – if he gets in touch it makes me stressed, and if he doesn’t get in touch it makes me stressed. The issues aren’t all to do with him – I’m terrible at contacting my friends too because I don’t want to seem needy. It’s not that I don’t care how they are, or that I don’t want to spend time with them, I’m just sure they have much better things to do, like spending time with their boyfriends or closer friends. And of course the irony is that it’s precisely that lack of self-confidence that makes me neediest of all.

I don’t blitz boys with texts, most of the time. Sometimes when I’m drunk, or when I’m angry – when it’s completely the wrong communication medium to use, in short – I’ll send two or three in quick succession without waiting for a response, but normally, I stick to just the one message, and, if I don’t hear from him first, I’ll wait two weeks before I send it. I’m no Chelsy Davis. 

When he and I spoke about this, I couldn’t explain why I’m so cagey about communication. I don’t think he’d ever accuse me of texting him too often, and nor do I think I have to play hard to get – I’m pretty sure he’s not going to go off me because I asked twice in one week what he’s been up to. But having thought about it some more, the problem lies exactly there – the reason I don’t text is because I don’t want to know what he’s been doing, or, more accurately, who he’s been doing. When he texts me it’s extremely unlikely I’ll have been fucking someone else since the last time we spoke: the same can’t be said for him. 

Of course, he’s not so heartless that he’d admit to this, or gloat about it – it’s just that knowing that it is something he does makes me nervous about otherwise innocuous lines like ‘I’ve got friends staying’ or ‘I’ve been away for the weekend.’ I’m sure he’d say I have to get over reading too much into what he says, and working myself up over stuff that I can’t be sure about, but I disagree. If you’re sleeping with someone and it’s exclusive, yes, the above is the kind of paranoid jealousy that will inevitably tear things apart. If you’re not exclusive, and a polygamous relationship isn’t your ideal, it’s not paranoid, just sad. And it’s why I won’t be becoming more proactive about communication any time soon.

I’m not going to go into the reasons here about why I’m still persisting with something that makes me unhappy, because that’s not the point of the post. The point is, you’re an intelligent woman, you can decide how often is too often. Personally, couples who text each other every day scare me a bit, because I can’t imagine someone being that massive a part of my life, but I don’t think it’s unreasonable if that’s what you want. 

So here, in brief, is the point: text him first if you want to or wait for him to text if you’d rather. Because one thing is certain: even if both of you are waiting for the other person to move first, eventually one of you will get drunk and break the deadlock. That’s just how these things work. 

Fat is an issue that I’ve not had in my relationships … thank god

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Earlier this week, my neighbour came round with my Christmas gift, a bottle of marsala wine and a legendary M&S stollen – a vision of icing sugar and flaked almonds. He handed it over and wished me a 2014 that was ‘lucky in love.’ My neighbour is amazing, and if he wasn’t over 60 and married, I’d probably be making a move.

Anyway, that’s by the by. I took the stollen to work, commenting to a colleague that if I ate the whole thing by myself, it was unlikely that I’d be lucky in love next year, because, y’know, I’d be huge.

‘Do you consider your chances in love to be linked to your weight?’ she said, sounding vaguely horrified, as well she might.

I nodded and she shook her head. ‘That’s not good,’ she said. ‘Not good at all.’

She’s right – it’s not. You shouldn’t keep an eye on your weight because you’re worried about what a man might think about it, you should do so (if you want to) for your own health, sense of wellbeing, desire to reach a goal etc. etc.

A friend came round last night, after her work Christmas dinner. She mentioned that one of her colleagues, who she had a bit of fling with back in the Spring, had joked, after she’d finished both her risotto and sticky toffee pudding. ‘Wow, seeing you eat like that, it’s no wonder you’re a size 14.’

Now, this friend is petite, height-wise, and she’s a size 10-12. She said she’d laughed off his comments, told him to fuck off and felt smug that that particular day she was wearing a size 10 dress. Because that makes his comment fine, obviously.

I said this, and pointed out that that was hardly the point – how is it funny to accuse someone of being a dress size that’s smaller than the UK average? Because her attitude didn’t thrill me either, rather than calling him a cunt, which is what I’d have done, she was just pleased that he was two sizes out.

I am a size 14, bordering on a 16, and I pointed this out to her. She backtracked sharply, ‘Oh, but it’s different, isn’t it, because you’re taller, and curvier, and you have bigger tits.’ Well, yes, all of this is true, but it’s also a massively flawed argument. If we were the same weight we’d be very different sizes, but if we were the same dress size we’d be just that, the same dress size.

Her attitude isn’t quite as bad as his, but it’s still not great, and in my life I’ve found most of the pressure around my weight has come from other women (namely my mum), not from men.

The boy, for instance, has never made me feel remotely fat or uncomfortable about what I eat or drink. The only thing he has a go at me for consuming is wine which is clearly in his glass, not mine. Last week I mentioned, in passing, that the night before I’d eaten two bowls of cereal, a croissant, and then my dinner, all because nothing seemed to sate my hunger – and then I’d felt massively sick.

‘Well, obviously,’ was his only comment. ‘I’d expect a seven-year-old to know  that.’ He wasn’t at all bothered by how much I’d eaten, just by the fact that I seemed surprised that it had made me nauseous – and that was worth teasing me about. It’s that attitude which makes me happy to fuck him on top of the covers, sober, in daylight, and to wander around naked after sex without worrying about the size of my tummy, and fuck, it’s liberating.

So please, ladies, don’t fuck anyone this Christmas who makes you feel fat. There’ll always be men, but there won’t always be lebkuchen (this statement may be  slightly flawed). But seriously, if he wants to sleep with someone skinnier than you, then that’s what he should do. You don’t need to be a certain weight to make him happy.

Sexy stuff

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Wow, it’s been quiet around here recently, hasn’t it? I’ve been making my first proper foray into writing erotica during NaNoWriMo and the word count got a little bit on top of me near the end. Still, I pulled it off with just half an hour to spare, so I’m feeling pretty proud of myself right now.

This afternoon, I rewarded myself with a trip to see Blue is the Warmest Colour, a film that’s getting a lot of critical attention. It’s very long (179 minutes), especially for someone like me who has the cinema attention span of a small child, but it is also excellent, and not just because of its much publicised 7 minute sex scene.

That scene though, in my opinion, is not what makes the film sexy. By the by, isn’t ‘sexy’ a ridiculous word? Nothing makes me feel less sexy than hearing someone refer to something as sexy. Anyway, I digress. What makes it sexy isn’t just the usual things that I find hot about sex – like watching fingers press hard into flesh or redness rise from a playful slap – it’s also the way it homes in on the little details – the way the light shines through Adele’s fringe when Emma is sketching her, the unlikely hotness of Adele’s voracious appetite. Because really, aren’t these the things we find sexy about the people we love? Things like the freckles on a guy’s shoulders, or the way his jeans hang from his hips, a particular quirk of his accent or the way his cock looks when he’s hard but still wearing his jeans.

I don’t think we’re restricted to seeing sexiness in people of just one gender either, no matter what our sexual orientation – much as I adore men, I can get equally turned on by good cleavage or a woman with great lips wearing gutsy lipstick.

It’s also easy to zone in so much onto what you know turns you on in your fantasies – for me, dark, damp alleyways and sex with strangers – that you forget to be open to other stuff. It’s why I love finding sexiness in unexpected places, like this bit from one of my cookbooks (yes, really!), Joanna Weinberg’s How to feed your friends with relish:

‘There was runny cheese to follow, then ice cream and very fudgy brownies. Ed ate a lot, in a pleasing rather than greedy way. He instinctively made sure everyone’s glasses were always full. All I remember, from under the haze of alcohol, was that he asked me a lot of interesting questions. I couldn’t have told you what they were the next morning, but I definitely found them interesting. I don’t think I talked to whoever was sitting on my other side at all.

After a while, it must have been late, and everyone else seemed to melt away. Suddenly it was just me and him in the flickering light of the kitchen. So I went and sat on his lap and I kissed him.’

Despite that, I find that you can go a surprisingly long time without seeing something sexy in day to day life, especially if you’re single. So, one thing’s for certain: although girl on girl doesn’t usually turn me on, this is one film I’ll certainly be buying on DVD.

I like your cock … just not as your avatar – Part 1

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Alison Tyler is one of my erotica heroines. Not only does she edit collection after collection of seriously hot erotica, she also runs craft competitions and she loves bookshelves. How could I not love her?

Last week, she posted on Twitter ‘If your avatar is a picture of your penis, I’m probably not going to follow you back.’

I totally get where she’s coming from with this, and, with a few exceptions, generally the people I follow don’t lead with a picture of their cock. I’m sorry – but your cock in isolation, whether it’s hard or not, just isn’t that hot (for the record, it’s probably hottest when it’s semi-hard).

That doesn’t mean I’m not a fan of naked men, or of pictures of naked men on the internet. This one, courtesy of Kristina Lloyd’s blog, is currently my desktop background, and he makes me very happy indeed.

So, what’s the difference? Well, firstly, you can see his whole body, but more importantly, it’s sexy because a) you can see his face (kind of, it is actually blurred out), and b) it’s an action shot, and that sense of movement, of intruding on a private moment, is oh so hot.

It also brings me neatly to the viewpoint of Girlonthenet, someone else whose writing I really rate, but whose view on cock pics I was pretty sure I didn’t share, since her email address actively encourages guys to send her pictures of their dicks. I’m totally on board with the whole ‘If you don’t ask, you don’t get’ approach, but if it were me I’d rather photos of your legs, say, or your amazing forearms.

Then, last month, in very quick succession, she posted two pieces that I couldn’t agree with more. The first was on how hot guys look when they’re wanking and they don’t know you’re watching (see, that brings me back to Kristina’s picture), the second was about how much hotter words can be than images.

I understand completely that what I’m asking for might be unrealistic. After all, your Twitter account, or your blog, is in the public domain, and yes, you’d be plain stupid to put up pictures where both your cock and your face are clear as day. But, that said, in an ideal world, what I want from naked pictures of men on the internet (in increasing order of importance) is:

1) Words – Yes, ok, when you post a picture of your cock, and it’s hard, I can see that you’re feeling horny. But that’s all I know – I can’t tell what you were thinking that made you hard, and that’s what I’m really interested in. If you want to make your cock pic hot, put some sexy words alongside it – erotica you’ve written, a brief description of something that turns you on, how you felt when you took the picture. Because that’s what I’m really interested in.

2) Your face – Even if you turn away from the camera, it’s nice to get a sense of your face in pictures. From a picture of your cock alone, I find it hard to conjure up an image in my mind of an act, whether that’s you wanking, me sucking you, or you fucking me in a nice hotel room. Make it easy for me: give me a hint of your jawline, or your cheekbone, your hair even – that’s the picture I’ll take to bed with me.

3) Action – See above. Pictures of you engaged in an act are the sexiest of all – they suggest that you’re not afraid to have people look at you when you might not look your best and they require the least mental work on my part to devise a scenario in my head that I can get off to. It’s a win win situation.

I’m rereading Kristina Lloyd’s Asking for Trouble at the moment, and today I reached this passage, which sums it up perfectly:

‘He was bare from the arse upward, his naked back facing me. His olive skin was overlaid with a sheen of dark bronze, and he was perfectly muscled: sinewy, work-strong contours rather than vulgar brawn. His black-hair was cut in a grade-two crop and the suggestion of skull beneath was menacingly beautiful. His head was slightly turned, eyes downcast, mouth set in a firm line. You could see an ear, jawline, a high cheekbone, and part of a big hawkish nose. 

His left arm was angled at the elbow; his hand was in front of his body. It looked like he was wanking, oblivious to anyone else.’

So yeah, I’m not a massive fan of pictures of your cock, but if anyone wants to stage the scene above for me, and take a photo, I’m totally on board with that.

All about respect

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I meant to start November by writing about NaNoWriMo (or writing for NaNoWriMo, at least), but instead I’ve decided to write about something I watched over three weeks ago, which bothered me at the time and which has continued to bother me more and more as the weeks have passed. That thing is Channel 4’s documentary Diary of a Teen Virgin.

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