Let's See Your Identity

Three declarations:


Hi, I'm Wombat. I'm heterosexual. 


Hello. My name is Monique, and I'm a lesbian. 


Hey there. I am Thomas. I'm gay.


Which one is the odd one out?

To my eye, it's my own statement. No-one cares that my sexual preference includes women only, and frankly, that seems about right. I don't care about anyone else's either. Your congressional activities are your business.

So does that mean homosexual men and women describing themselves by way of their sexual preference sounds more natural? Maybe. But let's examine this more closely. Is it really these folks who so publically identify? I think not. I have never been introduced to a man, to have him immediately go to his sexuality, whether gay or not. Ditto any woman. People identify contextually, viz:

Hi, I'm Pete, and I'm the network administrator. 

Hello, my name is Andrea. I'm the CEO.

Why, darling, I'm Natasha. You can think of me any way you want.

Okay, that last one was a red herring. Kinda.

..<<!>>..

It's always others who attach sexuality to the individual.

Why does this happen? Why does my acquaintance Lindsay always end up "Lindsay the Lesbian"? It's certainly not her. And I've worked with gay men before who were often referred to as "Gay....Dave/Larry/Tony". Sure, they were homosexual, but made no more if it than I did of my heterosexuality - in fact, they were most often the least forthcoming about that part of their lives.

There is no point to my questions, other than to muse over the importance with which we rank our sexual being...and how public we make it.



Bottoms Up, Sexual Clarifiers.

Thursday Night is Fantasy Night

Honey, do you have any plans for our next game night?

Hmmm. Not really. Got something in mind?

Well, how about 'door-to-door salesman and lonely housewife'?

What are you selling?

Wouldn't you like to know...


If I were to write an outsider's guide to keeping marriages strong, I'd make scheduling a top priority. Not only the day-to-day household stuff, but setting aside regular chunks of time to nurture the idea of being together and to explore each other a little. Date nights, Finance Nights, Future Nights...making a plan to spend time communicating avoids the drift and misunderstandings of less organized unions.

However, being fidgety and easily bored humans, there's not much value in "Thursday, 8:00 pm to 10:00 pm: Together Time." That'll result in the television being switched on; precisely what you want to avoid. Structure and aim is important. Yes, just like your high-school science experiments, but with more adult content, whether it be planning your savings and investments or dressing up for a date.

I'd include a Game Night in the rotation. You might prefer to call it Role-Play or Sexy Night or something, but the intent is the same - to move away from the...ummm, rut of your regular sex life, and play a little. Fantasy is a good thing, and sharing secrets with your partner is a loving way of getting closer. We mask many secrets in the name of avoiding embarrassment, but if you can't tell your spouse what turns you on in your imagination, who can you tell?

 The wonderful thing about play-acting is that it is acting - you can slip the bonds of your everyday way of thinking and take on a new persona, if only for a while. It's liberating. Especially being with someone you trust, who wants to indulge your more outré likings...because she wants you to indulge hers.

That's what I call win-win.



Bottoms Up, Lonely Housewives.

Bang and Regret

Somehow, without an instruction book or half-decent advice (ahem) we all have to figure out our own sexuality. That word - sexuality - frankly gives me the creeps, because it sounds manufactured by robots in a factory somewhere. I prefer sexual tastes, or sexual understanding or even personal sexual architecture.

Yeah, maybe not so much.

In any case, sex is one of the few human activities that involves our physical being, our intelligent being, our spiritual being and even our moral being, all tied up with a ribbon in one big beautiful lusty box. It's a cornucopia of stuff that can make us feel as big as the universe, as hot as the sun and as empty as space, all at one time.

So where to begin? Mostly, by not listening to anyone else. Parents through the ages, up to and including today, do a universally rotten job at explaining sex. And they concentrate on the physical, reproductive result, which even our bodies recognize as a side effect. Sex is first and foremost about pleasure, about feeling good. Start there, and we can then understand how nature tricks us into unplanned pregnancy - because she's wily, that's why.

Sex feels so good that it can overcome all kinds of logical arguments and commitments. No sex before marriage vows are admirable but completely unrealistic in my opinion. But sex on the first date with a complete stranger is likewise pretty dopey too. Somewhere in the middle is a smart compromise, but no-one ever expands on how that should work either. Try asking your mum or dad tonight how they view that conundrum.

Then there's the tricky problems we can find ourselves tangled in. Married and having an affair. Single and having an affair with someone who's married. Choosing someone who treats us poorly. Finding someone wonderful and messing it up. Thinking that there's more out there, when your own personal sexual architecture would be completely satisfied with just what you have. Thinking you're satisfied, but secretly looking for a whooooollllle lot more.

That last point is critical. Knowing what combination of lust, love, physicality, mental attraction, compatibility, respect and humour is right for you, is everything. Unfortunately, there is no Dummies Guide to Your Own Sexuality, it's all bang and regret.

Or not.


Bottoms Up, Critical Shaggers.

Nothing Is What It Seems.

Boston's Best Single Girl gets to the nub of the matter: why do we categorize relationships?

To me, the answer is simplistic, if not simple: Because that's the way we are. Knowing in which mental room to place our relationship furniture gives us comfort. That's all. It's housekeeping.

However, something about her post unsettled me. Relationships come in all shapes and dynamics. Each one will by definition be different from all the others, because the sum of two individuals will be itself individual. But why is it that so many liaisons end up in the way she describes, with one side unbalancing things?

Maybe that is the nature of people interacting sexually and intellectually . Perhaps these things are unstable until they reach a common energy level, which can only be found with time and raw feedback. The instability will either resolve or not. I don't know.

What I do know is that mismatched motives are the hidden time-bomb in most relationships, of any length. That's because we so infrequently acknowledge the whats and whys of what we're looking for in another, and even less frequently state them out loud. Partly this is because we're not taught that self-examination - self-observation if you like - is a valuable art, but our biology doesn't value it either. Reproduction and everything surrounding it is Mother Nature's only concern. She's a pile 'em high, sell 'em cheap kind of life retailer, interested only in getting as many new bodies out there as possible.

On the other hand, we have created the culture of relationships. They're an intellectual pursuit in that they rely on more abstract ideas than "wow, she's/he's sexy, I'm horny, let's do it". Unfortunately, we impute the latter criteria as a starting point for the former, which is a little like trying to construct a nuclear weapon by throwing rocks.

The good news is that we can immediately change the way of the future. If you say to yourself (and everyone else):

Okay. What I'm looking for right now in a person is a sexual relationship that has a smattering of conversation about books and wine...

...then that will tell the other person something of the clarity and the specificity of your thinking.

I think what most of us do is to attempt to find the one person who will complement all of our current and future needs. That's the ideal, and a good one. Whether it's practical or not is another question.

That's unsettling.

In any case, go read the Boston Girl. She has a gift.




Bottoms Up, New Englanders.

Sex After Marriage

One big - BIG! - advantage of marriage is the prospect of regular uninhibited sex with someone you know and adore. It's gotta be high on the list of reasons to get and stay hitched, right?

Well, I guess that's true of some couples, but I have a nagging suspicion that the tide of everyday trivia creeps up on lots of married folks. That initial joyous, lusty bonking gradually gets pushed out of the car and the laundry, back to the bedroom and eventually into the clothes hamper. How depressing. It must take a concerted effort to a) recognize the diminished state of such a sex life, and b) turn it around.

Part of the beauty of being committed to someone - sexually, and every other way - is the trust. I often wonder just how much married folks trust their partner with every innermost thought, especially their sexy fantasies and every other kind of erotic mind curiosity. No doubt there's editing of the stuff you think might turn him or her off, but that hopefully gives way to full and ardent disclosure. Again, I'm pretty certain that doesn't happen.

Wouldn't it be great if the marriage vows included an agreement to thoroughly explore each others' sexuality? It would be stated right up front, in the same breathe as honoring, cherishing and til death us do part, and so become part of the public announcement of the union. If someone does this at their wedding, I'd love to know the reaction.

I'm serious. I think a permanent part of marriage should be the conscious working towards the edges of you and your spouse's sex landscape, like Captain Cook sailing around the world to discover Australia. He didn't know exactly what was there, but had an inkling...and it wasn't like anything he'd seen before. Just as couples have date night and finance night and family night, they should (IMO) have a sex exploration night.

Think of it as drawing a deep map of your psyche you can use forever more for your pleasure.

We're all different, and there's no way to be taught any of this; we just have to go experience it. My point is that by bringing thoughts, likes, dislikes, desires and fears out into the light, you'll gain valuable understanding of yourself and the person in this world closest to you.

That's gotta be worth a shot.



 

Bottoms Up, Carnal Explorers.

The Green-Eyed Monster

Most monsters have at least one redeeming quality. King Kong had a weakness for dames. Vampires are hipster fashionistas. Even those funster Zombies forever enjoy cinematic popularity despite their BO. But the Green-Eyed Monster is unmitigated awful.

The fact that Hollywood and Burbank haven't found a way to popularize the Jealousy Beast tells us how bad it is. Every story arc needs a slice of hope; but this....this thing has none.

Aside:

I hadn't heard jealousy referred to as "the green-eyed monster" until I dated one. I was chatting to a female colleague/friend at a party when this ex dragged me away and demanded an explanation. After she cooled it, that's the terminology she used to self-describe. This episode struck me as completely weird, and was a crystal-clear harbinger which I ignored. To my cost.

End Aside. 

Jealousy - at least the romantic kind - is tied up with self-esteem, trust, security, honesty, sexuality and faithfulness in one giant ganglia of hot blood and mean tricks. The dictionary keyword here is 'resentment', a telling description if ever.


We like to think we can intellectualize any human behaviour...at least I do. But jealousy is one of the few emotions for which there is no logical back-door. It's visceral, animal, and therefore almost uncontrollable. And it speaks entirely to the emoter, not the emoter's target.



Bottoms Up, Reactors.

Getting to Yes

 Cavemen are unfairly maligned. For all we know our pre-historic brothers were deft and sensitive sex partners, their women loved, respected and thoroughly satisfied. Without smartphones, online gaming and recreational drugs, Caveman Colin probably paid more attention to Cavegirl Caitlin than we imagine. Let's face it, sex is about the most fun activity to be had when you and the g/f have no money, no place to go and three days to spare.

Of course our cartoonish view of Colin and Caitlin is that he forced himself upon her, with club in hand and ill intent in mind. Rape, in other words. It's our own arrogance that concocts this stuff because there is no evidence either way. That's why we call it pre-history. I'm positing a different slant, that's all.

However, it does raise a point. The aim of all men interested in sex is more-or-less one thing, and it's not the sex itself - assent is what we look for. Getting to "Yes!" - exclamation point and all - is the universal and lifelong challenge that pretty much all men have in common. Once a woman gives the all clear, the sex will take care of itself. Starting the Sex Snowball (R) rolling is actually our goal, even if recognizing this truth occurs not to the average bloke.

Again, we're kinda blinded by modern media stereotypes (drink advertisements, pharmaceutical salesmen, bloggers) into assessing womanhood by sexuality, rather than her availability...to us, the individual. Pursuit of someone whose interest is marginal can be decent sport, but is mostly frustrating. Much better to be clear about exactly what you're trying to do, and indeed whether the odds are on your side. First, agreement; then sex. That's the way it works.

Note here that when she says "Yes", or "I thought you'd never ask", or "Just DO ME" it's a time-limited permission slip. Each session of sex requires a fresh accord, even in the most heated sexual relationship.  In marriage, too, we must always ensure our lady is on board with giving herself to the sexual muse. Conjugal rights are only an acknowledgment that a standing request is part of the relationship, they're not an Unconditional Surrender.




Bottoms Up, Quest for Yes Compatriots.

Toss a Virgin into a Volcano

Volcanic woman pic credit.

As a sexo-religious gig, tossing a virgin into a volcano didn't last. I think I know why: Because corrupt Virgin Suppliers began swapping out real virgins for not-so-virgins and the Gods weren't impressed. Hence the death of civilizations based on intact Hymens.

The value of the virgin to Gods escapes me. Are Gods abominated by women the way they are created? Do Gods really believe that female value changes after the first tedious sticky fumbling? Is a womanly use-by date based on busting the seal?

Look, it's pretty clear we've come a long way from dragging unsullied babes to mountain tops for the greater good. Maybe the logic of it - okay, the harvest failed this year...I know! It's because of those damnable virgins! - came to light. Perhaps the correlation factor became obvious. Perhaps the Gods were playing us for fools. Whatever happened, the value of the virgin as an object of summary boiling in molten rock shifted.

Today, I am happy to see that our thinking has changed. The rise of the woman as a sexual being outside of reproduction eclipses the value of the virgin. Any thinking man completely gets the relative value of the orgasmic, enthusiastic and experienced female. Thank the Gods for Cougars and Pumas and all the other Big Pussies of the wild. Let's face it, the taking of virginity is all about domination and subjugation - poor competition for a willing non-virgin.

Willing non-virgins of all ages, I heart you.




Bottoms Up, Lovers.

Submission: Do Women See It That Way?

Part of the fun of spending a whole bunch of time thinking about sex and stuff is that I can ruminate without guilt on the following:

Given that sex involves men inserting themselves into women, is this a natural act of dominance?

Does this automatically mean that women are submissive?

If sex is the natural act of an aggressor working his way through the defences of his prey, does that necessarily mean that the man has more power?

Can the power in a submissive/dominant relationship actually tilt in favour of the submissive?


A concept with which I have some familiarity is "...leading from behind." It's the deconstruction of the famous saw that "...behind every great man there is a great woman."


The real question is whether she's fucking him from behind.





Bottoms Up, Strap-Ons.


wombat@kissnblog.com

The First Sex

FIAT hottie photo credit.

I didn't quite find my point with this post; Stop/Start. How about a fresh start - from the beginning maestro.

Tap tap.

When the time comes for the the first shag, it's best to keep everything pretty simple. In my experience, that is. You horny sexual gymnast kink-monsters with libidos like mountain ranges and parts that never stop can get away with anything. This is your regular, slightly mystified male talking here.

Notwithstanding any prior conversations or imaginings, there is no way to know what she's like when the carnal beast within is released.

:-> She might say she gives the best head in the world, but what's the standard by which we measure that?

:-> Quite possibly she's open to anything you might ask, but how smart is it to ask for sex over a barstool on the very first shot?

:-> She talks a big game about wanting it all the time - alright, let's get a hotel room for a week and check it out.

No. The wise man who is about to dip his wick for the first time shows control by reigning in his outlier predelictions. He captures the black swan and discreetly deposits it in the henhouse for a while. One step at a time, Junior Wombat. The Bonk Bus is best enjoyed as a long ride up the mountain, not a scamper to the top and a BASE jump.


Bottoms Up, Gradual Learners.

La Petite Mort

There's a part of me that envies the complexity of the female. I have way fewer moving parts than a woman, and some days - like today - I wonder if being a chick would stave off the boredom.

The reason any given woman will suffer less from boredom than any given man is because you have more mental rooms in which to play. You can take your emotions out for a spin and see what happens. There are always your sisters with whom to share. And if you're in the mood, you can always unbridle your sexy side for some fun.

The sisterhood is really important, because y'all are way more social animals than men. That means there's always someone at the end of your street or the end of your cellphone who might have something to say that will alleviate a dull day. At the very least, she'll call you "Sweetie" and "feel bad" for you. Women empathize.

Maybe life really is more dramatic for babes. Male orgasm (I imagine, backed up by porn) is a pretty standard thing. But female O is Shakespearean. (Irony of a using a playwright and actor noted.) Memories of ex-g/f Os are some of my favourite mental images, especially the near-death-like Petite Mort kind.

I like the Urban Dictionary's definition:

The little death is translation from the French "la petite mort", a popular reference for a sexual orgasm. The term has been broadly expanded to include specific instances of blacking out after orgasm and other supposed spiritual releases that come with orgasm. Speculations to its origin include current connotations of the phrase, including: * Greco-Roman belief that the oversecretion of bodily fluids would "dry out" one of the believed four humours, leading to death.

Seems I'm not the only one who enjoys the memory of climax past:

This is quite the discovery [link]<-----Interesting Link SFW


Bottoms Up, Climaxers!




Pic from here {link}

Nymphomania

Nymphomania is more or less the same as insatiability, I guess, although there must be some degree of difference. Perhaps insatiables do it with one person, and nymphomaniacs do it with anyone.

Whatever it is, I hope that the word is no longer a term of approbation. Nymphomania used to have the clinical descriptor 'furor uterinus' whereas thesedays it's called 'hypersexuality'. It's still considered an abnormality, but it's one you can wear on your sleeve.

I knew a girl once who was a sort of oral nymphomaniac. She wouldn't engage in intercourse with any one but a steady boyfriend, but she'd happily fellate any fella who asked. She turned up at my place one night, late, jumped into bed with me, had her way and left. If that sounds like a Hustler letter, it's not meant to, because it's true.

I think it was a hobby - instead of a notch on her bedpost, she had another swallow.

Whatever. None of the guys I knew who were in the 'Kate Club' considered her a nympho, and in fact we all conducted regular social intercourse with her. It was just her thing. Indeed, had she been a full-blown all-out nympho, we'd never use the word as a pejorative - we'd just want a piece of the action.

But maybe that's just my experience. I wonder if women with strong sex-drives are still feared by men, rather than seen as someone to whom the red-blooded man introduces himself.





Bottoms Up, Nymphos!

Little Black Book

Before hookups, sexting and booty calls, the discreet man with an argument in his trousers turned to a simple piece of hardware known as the Little Black Book.

The Little Black Book is terrifically James Bond in the Sean Connery-as-James Bond way. Other Connery-style Bond icons are unprotected sex, unemotional one-night stands, rampant chest hair, sexually aggressive women double-agents, martinis, champagne, neckties and Walther PPKs.

Sigh. They were the days.

We're all clear that the LBB contained the phone numbers of one's sexual partners aren't we - past, present, prospective and possible lovers? That was the point, the ability to contact women who might be up for a little slap and tickle at short notice.

The other reason to keep a LBB was to find a possible date for a buddy. The unrecognized value of keeping the details of exes is not just that they might be interested in a fling for old times' sake, but that you know their track record. Mates look after mates in many ways.

Of course, the Law of Unexpected Consequences applies here too. When comparing LBBs, finding that you have one (or more) of the same names as your buddy raises questions best left unanswered.


Bottoms Up, 007s!




LBB from here [link]

Cold Hard Steel.

Gayle is my pet Cougar. She's fortyish, single, direct and horny, the four food groups that sustain Cougars. To round out her qualifications, she's into younger men for sex alone, the catnip no Cougar can resist. We're friends, but I have plans for her as an advisor.

I didn't know she was my pet Cougar until last Friday night. Over H-Hour drinks we had a frank and earnest discussion about the virtues and vices of men with pierced tongues. That is a subject about which I know nothing.

Naturally, when I think of cold hard steel I think of my penis. Well not my penis exactly, but a woman's tongue-stud providing extra stimulation for my penis during fellatio. Judging by the way Gayle's eyes rolled back in their sockets and her uncontrollable leg-shaking, a man using his own tongue-stud on a Cougar's cooter works as well for women as for men, orgasm/pleasure-wise. Or even pre-orgasm/pleasure-wise.

All that eye-fluttering and invoking the Lord was for demonstration purposes only. I certainly wasn't providing her with pleasure, what with my virgin tongue and the other drinkers and all. But the memory of her (much) younger lover using his accessorized tongue to good effect gave her performance depth. She really dug the steel-on-clit feeling. Like a ball-bearing in Spam, I guess.

Bottoms up, pierced ones!






Graph from here [link]

Rock Her World.

At first it's amusing, this habit of porn stars taking nominative determinative screen names. There's Anna Malle (RIP), Chesty Larou, Busty St Clair, and Shy Love, to name a few women. Nothing malign in that, of course, the history of false nommes is long and illustrious. George Eliot's successful books were written not by a man, but by Mary Ann Evans, who, amongst several other reasons, wanted to keep her affair with a married man secret.

Even bloggers sometimes choose to supplant their real-life tag with something more evocative. Ahem.

So it's not the fact of taking a fanciful name that plants the seed of doubt, it's the quality of the name. Really: John T. Bone?

This whole field speaks to how The Industry looks upon us, the end-users of porn, or 'mooks'. That's how they refer to you people who like a bit of video filth, by the way, which leaves even the cynics and manipulators from Hollywood looking like soon to be beatified saints - at least they call us 'the audience'.

The difference between The Valley and Hollywood is only a small range of hills and a slight shift of attitude. They're both after your wallet. One takes what they think is the high road, and the other one shows you the pussy. One makes you go to the movie theater, and the other has the decency to allow access from your computer. One says "...fuck you, this is the way you should think..." and the other one says...well, just choose your preferred hole.

Which brings us to Mr Seymore Butts. First negative: that name. Had he chosen 'Seymour', we might assume a modicum of cleverness. But he didn't. Which is the nub of porn's problem, that it's a caricature, a two-dimensional medium just close enough to possibly reflect real life, and yet it so obviously doesn't. He's a porn star of some standing apparently, boasting over six-hundred notches on his bedhead. That gives him more insight that the average mook, and he chose to let us all know how much insight in his recently published 'Rock Her World: The Sex Guide for the Modern Man.'

Mr Butts' book is a how-to for guys wishing to become as good a lover as its author. It's his way of giving back, I suppose, but giving back in the same way that the IRS gives back tax refunds; it's all your dough to begin with. Yes, he steps out in logical style running through the equipment and various techniques in the three sections of the book: About Him, About Her and About Sex. Diagrams and humorous quotes pop up at odd times (reflecting a porn shoot perhaps?) but the Kama Sutra this ain't.

His description of the Missionary position "Allows for total access to both her pussy and ass, plus it is perfect for eye contact!"

Or in About Her: "3. Knowledge of Your Anatomy. The more you know about your body and how it works the better!"

Frankly, I did not read every word in this opus. It's the same principle I use when playing Russian Roulette with a loaded revolver. Sometimes less is more. This is sexual information written by someone who has literally seen it all, but seen it all through the mindset of a thirteen-year old. And a myopic, anal-obsessed thirteen-year old at that.

Which is pretty much what porn is. It's Warner Brothers with an orgasm, Saturday morning cartoons on Viagra, or two-dimensional voyeurism watched on the basis that VH1 is only showing repeats today.

Seymore Butts? No thanks.



Rock Her World, The Sex Guide for the Modern Man, by Adam Glasser, AKA Seymore Butts. Published by Gotham Books, a Division of Penguin. ISBN 978-1-592-40447-6



This review is part of the Blogger Critics Network. (Note the name change from Blogger Review Network.) Next to review will be 30ty, of her Life Begins at 30ty blog.[link] Yes, I know this is a book designed for men, but you never know, she might pass it on to a male blogger after she's critiqued it for us.

Send me a good real-life mailing address, Doc30ty, and I'll send you this magnificent work.


Bottoms up! (Quietly.)


My pic.

Sexy Nightware

There is a way to make a night-time dental guard sexy, but I don't know what that is.

After a hellacious three weeks dealing with a cracked tooth, the diagnosis is: bruxism.[link] Yes, now we all know that I clench and grind. At night. In bed.

The answer to starving my dentist of future boat payments is, you guessed it, the dental night-guard. Although hardly the equivalent of dentures sitting on the nightstand, there's something Über-Utilitarian about my new toy - something anti-sexy.

Then again, I'm looking at it from my point of view. I find all kinds of minor things hot on women. Braces on teeth; spectacles; spectacles being pushed up the nose*; lisps; almost any other speech imperfection; and lots of other stuff.

That's all about nuance, I think. Nuance gives character, separates us from the next person, stops the boredom of perfection and gives us a hand-hold on who you are. Perhaps it's the way our brains work, to look for the off-centre detail. At least that's how my brain works.

Now, if anyone can suggest ways of making my new night-guard into a chick-magnet, please let me know.


Bottoms up!




Pic from here.[link]

* Hat-tip to Miss Jones. [link]

Dungeon for Rent

The huge number of industrial buildings offered for lease got me thinking the other day. My small Floridian town is suffering from unemployment and idiotic government as much as any place, but there's enough money around for this idea: A Dungeon for Rent.

BDSM (bondage and discipline, submission and sadomasochism) verges on being mainstream thesedays. I presume it's the natural progression from the pornocization of society, but whatever I might think about that isn't going to stop me from making some jink from people's kink.

Big industrial buildings lend themselves to creatively designed dungeons. Mine would be decorated in black, mostly, of course, with blood-red highlights. Lighting would be cheap, as candles are the dungeonmaster's illumination of choice. There would be rooms with various kinds of whipping posts, crosses mostly, with simple shackles and chains for the primitive players. Special rooms with suspension devices are likely to be popular too. You can bring your own gags, crops and whips, or, for a fee, I'll provide you with rental punishment and restraint equipment.

As with the Japanese Love Hotels (some of which I understand now come with dungeons for rent) discretion would be the name of the game. Players in couples or groups would be kept apart by time or wall. And separate entrances and exits would keep them that way.

At Wombat's Dungeon World, no-one need know you like your love hog-tied and gagged in a dark, dripping den of depravity.





Delicious photo from here. The English are big into Dungeon Life, apparently. [link]

Ripping Yarns

They say the way to a man's heart is through his stomach, but I say the way to a woman's pussy is through her underpants. Through or around or (in the case of crotchless) between. Hells, it's giving me a woody thinking about the wonders of ladies and their underduds.

James Bond (of course) is the man best at undressing ladies, mostly because they don't have much on to start with. (Miss Moneypenny is the exception.) Funny that being a licenced-to-kill spy also entitles one to a cotery of easily-bedded hotties in evening gowns or bikinis.

Anyway, it was Sean Connery who I noted once de-frocked a lover by slicing through the spaghetti straps of her LBD, letting the thing fall to the floor.

:cut to shots of rampant elephant trunks and earthquakes:

Where was I? Right, the road to heaven lies beyond the boy-shorts.

There is an art in removing a lady's panties. Possible choices include demurely running them down the legs, if she's standing. If she's on her back, shimmy those things over her arse, create a tangle at the feet, then let her kick them off. And then there's ripping the damn things off so you can get to the action ASAP.

Nothing says God I want you NOW! like using brute strength to tear that shit off, and hopping into it with animal abandon.

:cue shots of elephant trunks rampant and earthquakes:

Yesterday I discovered how women feel about the wanton destruction of their sexy smalls at the hands of a neanderthal lover:

They Love It.

And the attraction? The sound of ripping lace.

I think they call this 'Win-Win'.





Thanks to Snaf for the lingerie-wearer's perspective. [link]

Loverly ladies photo from here [link]

Edited for incorrect panty-removal technique. Someone would have picked up the error.

Sex With Attitude

Repellent thought that it is, I guess that our parents build the foundations of our attitude to sex. Inbuilt drives to reproduce work on one level, obviously, but as anyone who has ever asked a complete stranger for sex knows, drive needs a driver - or a chauffeur, really, to get where it wants to go. Smoothing out the rough edges of animalism helps us accommodate that inner beastie, and is partially the reason parents exist; to tell us how.

In other words, our parents give us the architecture by which we think about and approach sex.

Let's contemplate that for a minute or two: Your parents create the framework for your sex life. By sex life, I am not talking about the reproductive blarney. I'm talking about how you feel about your feelings, how you deal with the irrationality of attraction, or how you resolve conflicts around fidelity or abstinence.

The problem that I see is that we entrust this very important job to two amateurs who are probably embarrassed to even consider their darling sixteen-year-old fucking like a minx. Which is probably why in the end we learn more about what sex means - or should mean - from our peers and media. That starts in one's teenage years and they hardly seem better choices. At least our peers provide a kind of library of sex-facts, a sort of TeenBonkWiki. None of the information is likely any good, but at least one can pick and choose from all the foolish notions out there in the school quadrangle.

In the end, most of us rely on the time-honoured methods: experience, advertisements and porn, although I guess someone has 'rents who rocked at telling it like it is.




Happy family from here. [link] Don't bother reading the article.

Edited for too many partiallys, a word of which I am apparently partial.

Sex Education

Horrified. That's how I remember my first exposure to sex education. I was ten or thereabouts, and hugely embarrassed as only a little boy can be.

Not that the boring presentation about all that stuff in which I had no interest bugged me. I was horrified at having to sit next to Karen Goodier. For a full forty minutes I was boxed in, with my mother on one side, and Karen's next to her, with no escape other than to disappear under the rows of chairs in front or behind. Believe me, I considered doing a crawl and a runner, to head out to something I understood and loved - the playground!

Karen was okay I s'pose, but the ignominy of my mates seeing me thigh to thigh with her might have led to merciless ragging later, especially as I was SO CLOSE to the parts of her shown in glorious detail on the screen.

Wombat loves Ka-ren, Wombat loves Ka-ren.

It was bad enough seeing cutaway pictures of my own parts, surely she was cringing at her private architecture's public revealing?

What's more my penis didn't look like the one in the presentation. Mine wasn't nearly that big (why do they show men's dicks to boys?) and I am circumcised, so even the shape was different.

Sigh.

Like so much we take for granted, this stuff is misnamed. What Karen and I were subjected to here was Reproductive Education, not Sex Education. Why do we insist on conflating the biology - the organs and blood - with the abstract and emotional, which is all in the mind?

They are not the same thing. Even ten year-old boys understand that.




For one result of this kind of Sex-Ed. [link]