It’s just gone midnight UK time, and as someone pointed out that I wasn’t specific about timezone in the competition rules, it remains open until morning. I’ll post links to additional entries as and when I receive them. For now though, here are the (very impressive) entries so far…
Thanks to everyone who joined in!
Charlie x
Lincoln Park in the dark by @JillyBoyd
Perfectly Yummy by @IAmAnnaSky
Charlie (@The_Lady_Sybil) asked if I’d mind hosting her entry for ‘Polished’ here, and I’m delighted to, so here you are…
You’ll find links to all the other entries here.
Over the edge
If you’d asked, I’d have told you, but you didn’t ask. Never did. But it was always the colour you favoured.
When I sent the message this morning, asked you what colour, when you said ‘black’, I knew. It was always that colour that meant trouble.
I never figured out if it was conscious or not. I didn’t care. I painted my nails, took the photographs, sent you the images.
Waited.
Moments later the reply. You weren’t happy. I had disappointed you. No explanation, no arguments.
My heart fluttered into my throat, blood rushed around my head, breathing quickened. Panicked, I typed
“I’m sorry daddy, I don’t mean to disappoint you. What can I do daddy, please daddy, let me make it better?”.
The pause. The wait. The phone in my office rings, I ignore it. It’s not important, this is. This is… vital. I refresh, check my phone, check my emails. No reply. You keep me on the edge of my seat. I can’t concentrate on anything but checking, watching the clock, minutes go by. I deal with calls tersely, visitors to the office speedily. I need to know what you want.
Don’t they understand? The hold you have, the information you keep, the images? The last time I disappointed it was lines – 300 of them delivered to your office by 9am. It didn’t matter that I’d be disastrously late for work, that the boss noticed. It wasn’t important. The time before that, images that I know you still hold. You taunted me. Showed people. Told me what they said. It didn’t matter that my face wasn’t on them, I knew.
We slip into an hour. I’m now almost frantic.
My phone goes.
“Hello dirty girl”.
I’m relieved, scared and at the sound of your voice a part of me melts all at once.
“Hello daddy”
Your confidence, the strength in your voice calms and excites.
“Tonight my pretty little slut you will meet me in the usual place. We will dine. I will make selections for you. As usual you will sit next to me, with one part of your body touching mine for the entire evening and as usual when you need to excuse yourself you will ask permission and I will consider it”.
“Yes daddy”
“I haven’t finished. Tonight you will wear no underwear at all. In fact you won’t for the rest of the day. Is that clear?”
This was it? Everything?
“Yes daddy.”
“I will contact you again ahead of this evening. In the meantime, remove your underwear. I expect proof within the next two minutes. Go.”
You hang up. This is far too easy. Simple even. I run to the bathroom remove my knickers and bra and send you a picture of them on the floor. An image of my skirt around my waist, my shaven naked cunt, wet, wanting. My naked tits, soft underneath my shirt. I want to show you what a good girl I am. The images are slow to send, I clock watch. Just in time. I think. I hope.
There is no response, but I don’t expect it. Work cannot go fast enough. Head down, plough through. No running down the corridor, can’t, daren’t. Lunch? Work through, distract myself, while I wait for your contact. It’s only when there’s a couriered package delivered I realise.
I know your handrwriting. I shakily sign for it, shut and quietly lock the office door. It feels like you’re here, watching me. I score through tape, peel away paper.
Wear this. All evening. No excuses.
I pull the rubber toy from the box. Start to fit it. Straps of elastic circle my thighs, my waist. Jelly rubber sits snugly into my cunt, a little nub against my clit. I can feel the weight of batteries, but no control.
Oh god.
I pull my dress down, unlock the door and sit.
Oh. Wow. I can feel it. Everywhere. Pressing, teasing. I have one more hour. Sixty minutes of teasing. Torture. Pressure that becomes unbearable. Hints of something beneath my skirt make me feel self conscious, the straps look like a strange panty line. I feel like everyone knows, must know. Must be able to see…?
Finally. 6PM and I can leave. I go via the ladies and tidy my make up. Adjust the… toy. Oh god. Feels so good like that. If I just rub the little bumps across my clit… Yes. Like that…. Just…
I realise I’m standing in the middle of the ladies loos. My face flushes. My legs wobble slightly. Anybody could walk in.
Jesus. Enough.
I wash my hands, straighten myself and leave. I can’t be late. I’m already in trouble.
The bar is quiet, as usual. This is how you prefer it. Public, quiet, with a full view of everyone. I sit in our usual spot and wait. Order a drink. This is the last choice I’ll get to make tonight, so I order a vodka. I think I’m going to need it.
I know when you’re here, I don’t have to look, I can smell your perfume as you walk over, hear your footsteps, each click clack of your heels against the wooden floor. I mustn’t raise my eyes unless I am told.
“Cara, look at me.”
I raise my eyes to yours. I love how you look. Long black hair, fringe perfectly blunt, lips painted red, eyes bright blue. I wonder if you see the guilt I feel for disappointing you. For playing in the ladies. Do you see the embarrassment in my cheeks at sitting here so naked, so bare? Do you see how much I want to please you.
“Good girl.”
You indicate I should lower my eyes and I see your feet in their red stilettos move over to the bar. I hear muted conversation, the chink of ice in glasses and a glass of wine appears in front of me. I’m confused. This isn’t usual.
“I have one instruction for you tonight Cara. You cannot come without permission. Do you understand?”.
The words are quiet and clear. I nod. “Yes daddy.”
It’s then you put something on the table. Your phone. Your finger unlocks it, red painted nail tapping on the screen. It’s then I feel it. There’s a soft pulsing between my legs, against my clit. The tempo changes as I watch your finger slide across the screen. Then the little dick, the little cock of rubber inside me moves and I have to close my eyes.
Punishment.
The pulses build, I can feel myself flush from head to toe. My toes curl, legs tense and as fast as it’s built, it’s gone.
“Three times Cara. Three times I’m going to push you. And you are not to come. Do you understand?”.
I nod. It’s all I can do. I sip my drink, my thigh pressed against yours. I can feel your heat, your scent, florals mixed with spice.
Our table is ready, so we walk through to the restaurant. They know us well enough in here that we’ll sit next to each other. You order wine, ponder the menu and ask about my day. I respond, we chat. It all seems so normal and usual. Red wine is poured, food ordered. We chat about a film that’s been advertised, books, mutual friends. I barely concentrate.
As our starter arrives, I feel it begin. Slow, gentle pulses flow. These are delicious, I can feel my thighs quiver, my fingers press into your skin. Gentle enough that I can keep up the pretence, sip my wine, nibble at my starter. I see your fingers move on your phone and the speed adjusts. I carefully replace my fork, clamp my thighs together. Quietly close my eyes.
“How does it feel Cara? Does it feel like my mouth on you? My fingers inside you? Circling, teasing?”
I quietly nod. I don’t trust my voice. I feel the pulses deepen. How does it do that?
“Are you close Cara? Do you want to come for me?”
“Yes”, I whisper it. I know you want me to say it.
“Good. Now eat up like a good girl.”
It stops. Suddenly, wrenchingly. And I carefully pick my fork back up. One down, two to go. I can do this.
We return to our chit chat. Plates are cleared, our main appears and is eaten. It’s as the waiter flutters around clearing our plates that I feel it again. This time it’s sudden and fast. I can feel it flow hard and fast. I feel my nipples tighten and his gaze hovers around my chest. I find myself fascinated by the idea of him getting turned on, by the thought of his cock hardening in his trousers and my relief as he disappears is short lived. The vibrations become stronger, the little jelly cock inside me moves and all I can think about is his cock, him bending me over the table here and now and fucking me hard.
But I must not come.
I can hear your soft laughter. You know. You love this. You love seeing me struggle, fight.
“Please daddy.”
You laugh again. “I wondered how long you would last. Ask me again Cara, properly this time.”
“Please daddy. Can I come?” I want to. Release is so close.
“Good girl. That’s better.” You pause. I know what the response is, but my heart still sinks when I hear it. “No”.
My thighs squeeze tighter and I feel a bead of sweat run down my back. And then. Nothing.
“Much better.” You hand me my clutch bag, You’re looking a little flushed. Why don’t you freshen up?”
I unsteadily get to my feet, relieved at having worn flat shoes. In the ladies I lean back against the cool tiles and let myself calm. I want to relieve this torture, play, make myself come. It would be so easy to do. Quick, quiet.
But you’d know. You always know.
I dust my face with powder, straighten my fringe and it’s while I’m standing there, looking in the mirror, I feel it again.
Gentle again, soft, lulling. I stand there, I can’t even look at myself. My hands are on the side of the sink, cool ceramic against my skin. It’s then that I feel you.
Your breath is against my ear, your lips move against my neck, hands stroke over my nipples, then pinch and twist. I feel my cunt flood, I press back against you, feel that rubber cock shift, sending shivers through me.
Your hand wraps itself in my hair and you pull me into the biggest cubicle and lock the door. Your mouth is on mine and I can taste wine, and chocolate. Your teeth nibble at my lips, your hand still in my hair, pulling me down, then pushing, til I’m on my knees. Your skirt rides up, a tiny piece of lace covers your cunt and you press my face into you. I almost scrabble in my haste to taste you, push the lace to one side, press my face into your sweet cunt and taste you. Oh god. Sweet and salty, I push my tongue inside you before I move to suck and lick at your clit.
I feel the buzzing between my thighs grow more intense. I moan into your cunt and suck harder. I need to please you. I need to come. My thumb pressing into your hole fucking you while I flick my tongue across your clit, you’re so wet and so am I as I feel that rubber dick start to move too.
“Please daddy. Please daddy let me come.” I mumble into your cunt, moan as you make the vibrations harder.
“Again.” You say, I can hear you getting out of breath. I’m torn between my needs and yours. I push two fingers inside you, feel your juices on my hand, suck harder at your clit. I feel your thighs tense. I remove my mouth, just long enough.
“Please daddy. Please let me come. I’ll be a good girl.”
I’ve now got four fingers inside you, your so wet and taste so good, but it’s enough to distract me from coming, just enough as I roll my tongue over our clit again and again. It’s now become my mission to make you come.
“Again dirty girl. Beg me”.
Oh god. I want to sob into your cunt, I’m so desperate now. I need come. I’m going to come, but I need you to say I can.
“Please daddy. Please. I’ll be a good girl. Please daddy. Please let me come.”
You’re close. I can feel it. The pulses between my leg get faster and I suck hard at your clit, I need to make you come now, need to let you have your release. I need to taste you when you come. I lap at you, my jaw aching, before I press on. Pushing my face hard into you I flick my tongue across your clit again, hard.
Your thighs tense and your hands are in my hair, I feel your cunt squeeze on my fingers and flood as you come, I can barely breathe, as I move my face to taste.
Suddenly the vibrations stop. End. I feel bereft. So close, but still nothing? I can’t do this again. I just can’t.
You pull me back up. Kiss me and remove the device. My cunt is aching and hot and desperate.
“Daddy please. Please daddy, can I come?” I need now. Truly need.
You push me onto the closed lid of the toilet.
“Wank for me. Come for me. Show me.”
I raise my skirt and show you my sodden cunt, hot and wanting. My fingers go down and you tilt my chin up.
“Good girl. I want to see.”
My fingers need no urging and as you watch me, eyes on my face, I play, for you. Show you. It takes minutes, no seconds, for it to flow over me, that wave of pleasure that runs to the tips of my fingers and my toes, I can’t drag my eyes from yours and it’s only the very last second I close them. I bite my lip to stop my moan becoming a shout.
It feels so good.
My whole body is there with me, tingling, goosebumps, pleasure flows and I don’t think I’ve ever felt something this strong and this good.
It’s as my breath returns, my heart rate begins to slow that I open my eyes and see you. Dressed, tidied, as if nothing has happened.
You move away, open the door wide and leave it there.
Click, clack go your heels.
“Good girl.”
Wow, I’ve been AWOL for a while, haven’t I? So much so, in fact, that the last post on my blog is still a topless picture of me, and while I’m very, very proud of that photo, it might be time to move on from it now…
Anyway. While I’ve been away, Exhibit A and Em at AnyGirlFriday wrote this response to this piece posted on the Metro website by a blogger called Hannah Gale. And mostly, it’s a very, very good response.
But I’ve read the comments on their post too, and a couple of people seemed to be suggesting that they’d got a little too personal in places; that the post at times became less critical of Hannah’s points, and more critical of Hannah herself. And it occurred to me that the problem with Hannah’s piece is probably only part Hannah: more likely, the real party at fault is the Metro.
Magazines/newspapers are notoriously bad for this kind of stuff – a brief look at the Metro’s blog page this morning yielded this:
OK, bottom right is positive, I guess, and to be fair, the one cut off on the top right is about not slutshaming Magaluf Girl. 10 things all London women know about dating is pretty neutral. But I don’t think you could claim that this selection suggests that the Metro is in any way sex positive. And it’s not just them. A few days back, I caused a bit of a stir on Twitter by sharing this awful Cosmo post called. ‘18 Reasons Not to Give Him a Blowjob.’ Generally, my followers felt there was only one reason not to give a guy a blow job: because you didn’t want to. Stretching it out to 18 increasingly dubious points including one about not wanting to ruin your matte lipstick is unnecessary, patronising and, I think, a completely inaccurate representation of most women’s attitudes towards (oral) sex.
But Hannah’s piece, I think, suffers from the exact opposite problem: while Cosmo desperately tries to stretch a single point out to fill a whole column, Hannah’s entire post, based on some fairly crude calculations, is around the 500 word mark. How many words did Em and Exhibit A use to respond? Well, if you deduct Hannah’s words, which they reproduced, I think it’s around 3000.
The Metro will have asked Hannah to write around 20 points, and probably that 500 words is a limit they set, too. There’s no room within that for Hannah to be nuanced in the way that the response post is. It’s total clickbait, and the Metro *know* that. They probably gave her the title, too and I challenge anyone to put a positive spin on something called ‘The 21 unsexiest things about sex.’
Yes, she doesn’t have to write for them – but the opportunity to write somewhere where you know your writing will be seen, which you could potentially spin as a fairly good gig on your CV might well be difficult to turn down. I don’t think the blame lies with her essentially – I think it lies with the paper and with the list post format. It *is* possible to be nuanced and positive in under 500 words (I try to do just that in most of what I write here) but while we keep clicking on these pathetic posts, we’re not giving the media any reason to change. Seek out independent bloggers instead, and share stuff you like – it’s a much better use of your time than the Metro’s bullshit…
A few weeks back I posted this – a bit of fun and a way to get some much needed (for me at least) writing inspiration.
Since then, a few people have contacted me and said they’d like to join in, but for various reasons were wary or unable to: they didn’t want to give out their address or they lived overseas, to name just a couple.
So, because it’s my game, I’m changing the rules. The original suggestion still stands, and if you’d like to send/be sent an actual nail polish you have until midnight tonight to DM or email me to let me know. You can find the full rules on the original post.
However, if the idea appeals but the format puts you off, here are two alternatives:
Alternative 1
Drop me an email or a DM and I will pick, at random, one of my many nail polishes and email you its name. You then write a story that references the nail polish name in some way. You can request a polish name any time between now and the 27th July.
Alternative 2
You pick one of your own nail polish colours and write a story that references that nail polish name in some way.
Now with prizes…
Originally, I said this wasn’t a competition and there wouldn’t be any prizes. I’ve since changed my mind. Anyone who writes a nail polish themed story and publishes it on their blog/sends me the link before midnight on July 27th will be eligible to win a copy of my favourite erotica anthology. That applies no matter where in the world you live.
*UPDATE* Since I posted this earlier, the lovely Kristina Lloyd has contacted me to say that she’ll send the winner a copy of her new novel Undone, before its official UK release date. She’s also offered to kill the winner if they subsequently post spoilers.
Any questions, let me know…
Fireworks where I am tonight, which made me think of this erotica short that I wrote a while back and did nothing with. There’s a lot technically wrong with it, but I still like the way it captures a mood.
***
I always miss the party.
It’s not that I’m one of those geeky girls who thrills at hanging around afterwards discussing the finer points of the presentation of the industrial revolution in the 19th century novel, but I’m easily lured in by the girl who claims to have written twenty-six sides, reduced to panic despite knowing that she’s probably reproduced the study notes verbatim. I’ll let her take me through what she wrote and the whole time I’m mentally calculating how I need to have done in the other papers to still be guaranteed honours.
I’m on my knees and it stings. Cold concrete and gravel dig into my skin. Am I hurt? I have no idea. I’m bleeding a bit, certainly. There are little red pinprick dots on my teal linen dress. There’s the shock factor, too: a second ago I was upright, sauntering across the road and now I’m a crumpled mess, all burning palms and tears welling.
I fall often, probably once a month at least. I’ve stumbled home with laddered tights, tripped off the edge of a pavement and landed sprawled across the road, right in the headlights of an oncoming bus, loose change and the occasional tampon spilt across the Tarmac. Women (it’s always women, and for that I’m kind of grateful) rush to make sure I’m ok, and I try not to cry. Please, please don’t be nice to me: I’m ok, I’m not broken, I’m just so, so embarrassed. I pick myself up, dust myself down and get on the bus (because that’s the second rule of buses, dontcha know: three come along at once, and if you fall over in front of a bus it’ll always be the one you subsequently have to get on, grit your teeth and deal with the driver’s concern. He did almost run you over, after all.)
In short, when I fall, the physical pain and damage is pretty much the last thing to register. The first is the shock, and the second, hot and unshakeable, is the shame. I burn with it for days after the event, inspecting the heels of my boots for unevenness, mistrusting my every step. If only no one had seen me do it…
And yet at home, tucked up warm in bed, shame is one of the predominant emotions I seek out. I flick through the pages of erotic novels looking for just that: the moments where a character not only submits but allows herself to be shamed, humiliated. Where that shame and humiliation makes her come.
It makes me come too, despite being my greatest fear in real life. Or perhaps *because* it’s my greatest fear. Either way, the burn of shame is both agony and ecstasy, all at the same time.
I know, I know, I’m not Buzzfeed. But bear with me. Someone asked if I would guest write a post about 25 things all men should know about sex and I turned them down. Which, retrospectively, was probably an error. It was a good opportunity. But a) I don’t think list posts are generally that interesting and b) I wasn’t that keen on the ‘all men’ part, so instead I asked Twitter what answer they’d give to that question. Three bloggers (if you count Bangs & Whimpers as a unit) kindly offered to contribute their top 5 and here they are, along with mine.
Horny Geek Girl
While everything HGG has to say here is a great point, I’m particularly with her on point #3. Just because someone says yes to something on one occasion doesn’t mean they’d say yes tonight. Check in – regularly. And check out Horny Geek Girl if you like sex blogging, food porn, geekery or great tits. You’ll find her here and here.
1) Sex isn’t just about penetration. It’s not about getting us wet enough that you can ‘slip’ inside. Lots of ladies can’t come from penetration alone. Sex is about mutual pleasure. Which leads nicely to my next point.
2) Sex doesn’t have to stop just because YOU came. As I said before, it’s about mutual pleasure – ladies can multiple orgasm much more easily than you men, and for some even if they don’t come it’s still a pleasure. Communicate with your partner, is she enjoying it? Is she wanting more?
3) Just because a woman has shared her body with you doesn’t mean you now own it. I don’t care where your cock, hands, tongue etc. have been, my body is MINE. Yesterday, today and forever. I may choose to share it with you again, multiple times, or exclusively, this still doesn’t mean you own it. It is MINE.
4) Yes, women can enjoy sex, yes, we can enjoy multiple partners, yes, we can sleep with whoever we want whenever we want. No this doesn’t mean you can call us slut, slag, easy, tramp, etc. unless we ask you to. Mutual respect. If you get a high five for ‘banging’ the hot chick from the bar, I want one for fucking the hot guy from the gym.
5) Sex is messy. If you’re getting busy and there’s blood, please don’t freak out. This can mean we’re on our period but often it just means you were a bit enthusiastic and your nail scratched the delicate tissue and it’s bleeding a lot because when we’re aroused blood cause the area to ‘engorge’ and swell. A rinse with cool water usually fixes it. Freaking out over it makes things awkward. Please don’t freak.
Bangs & Whimpers
Bangs & Whimpers write lots of seriously hot little vignettes about their escapades on their Tumblr, which comes highly recommended. You can also find them on Twitter. Here are their top 5:
1) It isn’t a race
Sex shouldn’t be rushed. The quicker you thrust the less likely the person you’re fucking is going to relax. Yes, okay, thrusting quickly IS going to give someone an orgasm but you need to vary the pace, switch things around a little. Slow, long, deep strokes varied with quick ones. We’re not saying quickies aren’t great and don’t have their place – we are saying you have to have variation. Speed isn’t sexy. Sex should be viewed as a good meal with at least three courses – starter, main and dessert. Not a KFC or McDonalds.
2) Communicate
We aren’t saying talk all the goddamn way through with a running commentary. Or indulge in ridiculous clichéd sexy talk. Or even anywhere in between the two. Letting the person know what she’s doing is feeling good and you’re about to come is always useful. Generally encouragement on either side is great, although we said earlier it isn’t a race, cheering each other on is just lovely.
3) Make sure you’re clean
It sounds obvious but the woman you are about to fuck has probably a) shaved her legs b) trimmed her bush c) moisturised, buffed, trimmed and perfumed herself in anticipation of this moment. We aren’t saying you need to do exactly the same but decorum dictates your dong should be clean. We’re probably going to put it in our mouth so make sure it doesn’t smell like days old washing (yes, this did happen to one of us)
4) Saying you don’t wear condoms just isn’t cool.
There is no exception here. You just can’t be too careful. Even if your partner is on birth control you are both at risk of STIs etc. it sounds boring and oh yes it feels different and better without one – sorry sunshine – no bag no shag.
5) Oral sex is the gateway to an orgasm
Well, it is in our book anyway. So its worth spending a little time down ‘there’ even if its to get a small precursor of what is to come. Likewise, she will want to spend some time getting to know your cock, after all you’re going to put it inside her, right? And if you can make her come with your tongue you are in for a really good time. Hell, she might want to marry you!
Any Girl Friday
Em, aka Any Girl Friday, writes a beautifully fun, thoughtful and discursive blog. She was also good enough not only to contribute her top 5, but to expand on her thoughts here. You can find her on Twitter, too:
1) Wet, wet, wet. Nothing is worse than a guy thinking that a quick nipple flick and some half hearted neck nuzzling is enough to get the engine running. It’s not. Guys who rush straight in, fingers ready, like horny 14 year olds, need to know that we probably won’t appreciate the friction burns. Lube it up, suck your fingers first or get her to suck them before you start exploring.
2) A WOMAN IS MORE THAN JUST HER BOOBS. Sure, it feels awesome when you treat them to some time but other parts exist bro; don’t ignore her shoulders, collar bone, back, inner thighs, neck or stomach. Also, that area above the knicker line feels incredible when lightly kissed or if you run your fingertips across it.
3) Kissing – this is my number one bugbear. As teens, snogging for hours was the hobby of choice but as we’ve gotten older it seems to have fallen by the wayside. Now, a bit of kissing at the start is the most you can expect. Nothing is hotter than kissing combined with some heavy petting though so don’t rush past this step. Kiss her lots!
4) TEASE. Good foreplay and build up will do wonders for the get her wet situation. This includes oral, clit play, kissing, exploring each other’s bodies and spending the time it takes for her to be turned on.
5) Don’t buy into the media bullshit about women and sex. Our orgasm isn’t an elusive holy grail that is only possible on the third Tuesday of a leap year, so don’t believe for a second that leaving her hanging is acceptable. A women is entitled to sexual pleasure, to enjoy sex and to do what she wants in the bedroom without being judged or being held accountable to society’s warped standards of femininity.
And here are mine:
1) Trust is paramount, and not just in the bedroom. The sex, and the general mood, will be a hell of a lot better if you’re reliable, make cancelling on me a once in a blue moon exception rather than the rule, and are honest about stuff from the get-go, even if it might upset me. If you’re seeing multiple people, I deserve to know that – only then can I make an informed decision about whether I want to sleep with you or not.
2) Intimacy is best served as a sandwich – even if you’re absolutely amazing at making me feel like I have your full attention before the act: not checking your phone, asking interesting questions, lots of kissing and slow build up, it’s a waste if as soon as we’ve fucked you’re up and off the bed disposing of the condom and generally not letting me savour the moment. Cuddles aren’t obligatory: lying with me for a bit while I bask in the glow is.
3) Don’t forget to tell me that you think I’m beautiful/hot. I feel like this gets lost sometimes, especially when you’ve been fucking someone for a while, but it makes my day to hear you say it.
4) Don’t be afraid to suggest trying new stuff. Obviously, no means no, but if I say ‘maybe,’ or my current favourite, ‘No… Er, yes?’ it means I probably am up for trying what you’re proposing, I’m just nervous about it and might need some coaxing. Point #1 above should help with this.
5) It’s not all about my clit. I suspect this is a little bit my wildcard, and some (many?) women might disagree with me, but I’m not a huge fan of you rubbing my clit when you’re fucking me. It’s true that I probably won’t come from penetration alone – it’s happened a few times, but it’s the exception rather than the rule – but penetration is a pleasure in its own right and playing with my clit, whether it’s me or you doing it, just makes me feel like I’m trying to pat my head and rub my tummy all at the same time. I’d rather just focus on that wonderful sense of fullness, if it’s all the same to you…
So there we have it – 20 things all men should know about sex. If you disagree or think there are other key ones we’ve missed, feel free to add them in the comments.
Back in December 2011, I joined in with the Curiosity Project – a blog swap project where your details and a list of your likes/dislikes are sent to another participating blogger and they send you a shoe box full of stuff they think you’ll like. In return, you do the same for another randomly allocated person.
The project has been on hold for a while, and although it’s due to restart soon, I miss getting exciting mail. So, in the words of Carrie Bradshaw, I got to thinking…
In March this year, Kristina Lloyd ran an excellent erotica workshop about how to spark up ideas for flash fiction pieces. Her suggestion? Nail polishes have cool names, so why not pick a colour name at random, brainstorm its associations and use it as the basis for a short story?
I keep meaning to give it a go, and then never quite getting round to it.
So, with kind permission from Kristina, here’s what I’m proposing:
If you’re a UK-based erotica writer (I would love to make this worldwide, but British postal regulations on nail polish are ridiculously tight) and you’d like some inspiration, I’m proposing a polish swap.
You send me your address and I match you randomly with another person. That person will send you a nail polish which you then use to inspire a piece of erotica/a blog post/–a short story in another genre. In return, you send out a polish to another participant.
Hopefully that makes sense, but to clarify:
The Rules…
(1) Email your name/pseudonym and full address, including a postcode, to sexblogofsorts@gmail.com before midnight on July 11th.
(2) Your name will be put into a hat and each participant will be drawn a secret recipient to send their nail polish to.
(3) You will receive an email with your recipients name and address on July 12th.
(4) You purchase a nail polish of your choice and send it to your recipient before July 18th. Because of the previously mentioned mailing regulations, please read this to make sure you’ve packaged/labelled your nail polish correctly.
(5) Please make sure the polish you choose has a name – it’s not much fun if someone gets a polish called ‘112.’ Good sources of relatively cheap polishes with good names are Maybelline and Rimmel 60 second.
(6) When you receive your nail polish, write a short piece of erotica/a blog post/a short story in another genre, inspired by its name. It’s up to you whether you share the story on your blog, but I will link to anyone who sends me details of their story once its written. There is no minimum/maximum work count for your story – it’s totally up to you.
(7) Hopefully it goes without saying, but this is open to both men and women.
(8) Your personal details will be forwarded only once to your secret project partner. Your information will not be shared with anyone else. If, however, someone does not receive a polish, I will send on the email address of their sender so that they can contact them and find out what happened to their parcel.
(9) This isn’t a competition – it’s just a bit of fun and an excuse to write something new. No winners, no prizes – sorry!
If I’ve missed anything, or you have questions, please let me know…
I’m excited!
I hate women who don’t know how to be on their own. You know the ones – the girls who say, ‘God, I don’t know how you cope with being single!’ when their longest period of being out of a relationship is 2 weeks, or, worse still, the ones who say, ‘Oh, I love being single,’ when really, they never are.
But often I think strong feelings like that towards a particular group of people are born out of something uncomfortable that that group reflects back at you. It’s similar, in a way, to what I was getting at when I wrote this.
I’ve been single literally my whole life. It makes me uneasy when, on shows like ‘Take me out,’ girls say ‘I’ve been single for 3 years,’ and everyone gasps. Because if I talked about being single in terms of years, what would I say? When do you start counting? From birth? Sixteen? After uni?
I’ve been single my whole life, but I’ve never truly been without a man. Since my teens I’ve slipped effortlessly from one infatuation to another. The thought of being truly alone, without even a crush to provide that rush of emotions, that sense of being alive, scares me.
In the past I’ve used the word ‘love’ pretty indiscriminately to describe how I felt about those crushes. I grew up in a family where the word is used freely – I tell my parents and sister that I love them pretty much every time we speak – partly through force of habit, partly because it’s true, and I want them to know it.
It’s not a word I’m afraid of, essentially. But when the boy said, during an argument, something along the lines of ‘I was talking to a friend about this and in her view the problem is … that you’re in love with me and I’m not in love with you,’ it really jarred. It felt like a cheap shot, and I told him so.
The bit that bothers me isn’t the bit you’d perhaps expect. He doesn’t love me, I know that, and so it doesn’t come as a particular surprise to hear him say it. Sure, it stings a bit, because no one likes to hear stuff like that, but that’s all.
Being told that I love him, though? That I’m much less comfortable with. While I’m aware that if you read this blog regularly you might well have come to that conclusion, I’m still uncomfortable with someone else telling him that that’s how I feel. ‘I love you,’ is a pretty powerful phrase and I felt like they were my words to choose to say or not to say, as and when I felt ready.
I don’t feel ready. In this relationship (or whatever you want to call it) I can’t imagine I ever will be. Not that I haven’t conjured up its spirit on occasion: a few weeks back I was having drinks with a friend and she challenged my claim that I’m happy enough with the way things stand.
‘You don’t get it though,’ I countered, ‘I love him.’
She smiled sadly. ‘I don’t think you do,’ she said. ‘You talk about him like he’s the enemy or a battle to be fought and won. That’s not love.’
And you know what? She’s right. If you love someone, there shouldn’t be that much conflict, with yourself or with them. Despite what Hollywood would have us believe, loving someone doesn’t mean having to fight for them, or waging a constant battle against incompatibility. Of course, it is possible to love someone and for it not to come up roses, but if that really is how you feel, what should be coming across is affection, not aggression.
The other thing I think you realise as you get older is that love should be less about you than it is about the other person. Yes, that’s trite. Yes, it’s cliché, but it is essentially true. Most of what I get from him is still about me, selfish though that is – it’s about my sexual confidence, my thrills, my needs. If I’m brutally honest, my attitude to his needs is more often than not that if he doesn’t like what he’s getting from me, he should end it and get it elsewhere. Because I’m compromising so heavily on the open relationship side, I tend to think that all other compromises should be his.
I’ve never been a big fan of the line ‘You have to love yourself before somebody else can love you,’ – hey, we’ve all fallen for people with flaws – but I do think it’s easier to love someone else if you already love yourself. If you believe in what they see in you, it’s easier to look outwards and focus on them. If you don’t, love is just a line you’re feeding yourself to keep fear and loneliness at bay, and that can’t be healthy.
With all that said, I’d be gutted if, when it ends, I, or anyone else who knows about us, writes the whole thing off as pointless because we didn’t love each other. I think society still has a tendency to gloss over situations that don’t fit a standard narrative – especially the media. It’s bullshit. Love isn’t the only thing that can change you; it’s not the only thing you can learn from. It’s just one potential happy ending in amongst a whole heap of others.
I’m not much one for phones, even though I’m retro enough to still have both landline and mobile. Sometimes when my parents call I forget you have to press the green button to answer and I find myself standing there with it held to my ear, still ringing. No, seriously.
The boy and I never spoke on the phone before he went away. Never. We made arrangements by text, discussed more complicated stuff by email. I was ok with that. I’m pretty sure I sound stupid on the phone. I can never think of what to say, especially when I first pick up. I’m always tempted to say ‘Hey!’ but then I’m basically 15-year-old me, sitting on my mum’s bed, wrapping the cord around my fingers for hours on the phone to my best friend.
I don’t know why he started calling. It just happened. I liked it. When I phoned him, it was usually to fight, but when he called, it was always more interesting, both more light-hearted and more intense. Especially once I started doing teacher training in the evenings.
I’d rarely be home before midnight and I’d be knackered, but still running with ideas. Still desperate to talk to someone, to bounce my thoughts off them. And once, maybe twice, he called at just the right time for that.
‘Yes?’ I’d say. If you don’t want to sound like a 15-year-old girl on the phone, why not aim for harassed secretary instead?
‘I was thinking about something,’ he’d say, ‘And I wondered if I could run it past you?’
I loved those conversations. I’d pad back down the stairs, with the phone tucked against my shoulder and open the fridge in the dark. Pour myself another glass of wine without turning the kitchen light on. Pad back upstairs. Put the wine on my chest of drawers and unzip my dress, chatting the whole time. Hop into bed in my knickers, asking questions, disagreeing, laughing…
We used to go on for hours like that, sometimes.
Sex blog (of sorts) 