I Smell Sex and Candy

Anna Holtblad pic credit.

 I imagine that, if pressed to quickly - hurry, hurry! - come up with the name of a sexual position, most people would say "missionary". Okay, men might say "doggy". But both answers are a travesty, because female superior loses out to missionary and rear entry for no good reason.

"Female superior" lacks the snappy nomenclature of the other two, granted. But as an all-around winner, FS takes the Gold Orgasm every time. Thanks to the Dummies Guide people, you can compare missionary v fem sup here. Link.
 
(Who'd have thought: a Dummies Guide to Fucking?)

However. I have been told by women that female superior makes them feel vulnerable. Vulnerable? Well, sure. I have access to your lips, your breasts, your clitoris, and all the other wonderousness on your front side, which goes a long way to explaining why I like it so much.

Isn't vulnerability (read: unfettered access) the whole point? We're naked and my penis is inside your vagina. So I'd say we're both pretty vulnerable, especially to having a really good time.






Bottoms Up, Or Fronts Up, Whichever.

All The Power. Women Have All the Power.

 Elisabetta Gregoraci photo credit.

I know she was testing me, because no other explanation works.


The casually over-opened blouse, the lingering lean-over, these are the weapons of war. It's not a conventional war - in the parlance, this is an asymmetric battle.

Winning and losing are fuzzily defined. For instance, do I win or lose by giving into temptation, allowing my gaze to drop below her neck?  The upside is that I see some bra, definitely, and some portion of breast.
 .
If I steel myself and exhibit self-restraint by not checking her out, does she notice and figure that she needs more firepower next time? Or is she disgusted by failure to compliment her with a gaze at her goodies? 

Either way, I am outgunned and suffer from hopeless intelligence.


Bottoms Up, Wandering Eyes.

Smoke and Penises

Elena's pic credit.

A work colleague used the expression "head job" last week.

It wasn't an inappropriate use of the phrase, despite the nauseating level of "sensitivity-" and "harassment-" and sundry other politically correct "-training" insanities that bejewel working life thesedays.

No-one was insulted or harassed or made the victim of smutty innuendo - it was a simple anecdote in which "head shop" was misunderstood as "head job".

Okay, so it's a predictable spoonerism. More of interest is the unfashionability of the term "head job". It sounds so eighties to me - something that a drunk film star would say on a late-night chat show. Or how a teenager would shock its' parents.

"Head job" has, of course, been replaced with "blow job". It's a matter of record that the BJ involves the male ejaculate, whereas giving head is the oral precursor. In a way it reflects the supersize- me mentality: Give me the most of everything you can, whether I can stomach it or not.

Frankly, I'm wistful about the head job. It's a remnant from a (slightly) less debauched time, more about the fun of the penis than the end result. Head celebrates the journey rather than the destination. Head is innocent; blowing is intentional. Head is bucolic. BJs are industrial.

I'm just a funny old romantic.





Bottoms Up, Smokers.

Fuck-Me Boots: A More Practical Collection

Women love shoes, and men do too, and women know that sexy shoes give we dudes boners. If you're a woman and you want attention, you put on your Fuck-Me pumps.

Let's take this one step further. If cute lady-feet in hot shoes leads to bumping nasties, we horny folks should exhibit responsibility and use protection. What better place to keep prophylactics than on the actual shoes? That's the idea behind my new collection of shoes. Easy access will hopefully = more bonking.

Take the Wombat Louboutins, above. Not only are they extra-sexy, they come complete with one Trojan per foot, good enough for most one-night stands. (One for the night, one for the morning.)

Here's my version of the Nine West kitten-heeled peep-toe mule.






Features to note are the multiple, shag-ready condoms in a floral motif. High heels are hot, but the kitten-heel is often overlooked. It's the sexy girl-next-door look. For the less confident man, (read: shorter) women so attired are more easily approached.

And for the ultimate in rawwwrrrrr, my Knockoff Jimmy Choo gladiators. Note the condom straps integral to the construction of the shoe. Importantly, they are all of different sizes and ribbing, allowing loads of flexibility for the really active woman.







Bottoms Up, Fiery Babes.


wombat@kissnblog.com

Whales Gush Too

Before the BP soiled fair Looosiana's shores it was the big mammals who screwed up the environment. When our brave lads from Nantucket went in search of lamp-oil, it fell upon whales to cough it up.

Sperm whales weren't, as you might imagine, chock full of human reproductive material, but the idea's admittedly amusing. Especially as Spermy's valuable cargo (the Victorian-era equivalent of a gigunda oil reservoir) was all in his head. Junk in the cranium for you urban types.

Many a long evening was lit by the light of smoky whale parts. Which might explain the Victorian attitude to sex.

Not only did our mammalian brothers and sisters die horrid painful deaths for their oil, various bits and pieces of them were used to stiffen corsets. In a saying common in whaling towns, every part of the whale was used...except the blowhole.

Corsets mystify only those who like everything natural about their woman. Cinching in a lady's waist to half its normal size gives all normal men a boner worthy of a whale. Why this is so is a matter of ongoing and very slow research, conducted mostly by convincing women to wear everything in their lingerie drawer, and then slowly removing it all with one's teeth.


Bottoms Up, Gushers!


Pic of Victorian Loverlies from here [link]