Author Archives: Steffani Cameron

Figleaf Answers Q's on Male Masturbation

Figleaf was kind enough to look over all the questions posed by women in regards to male masturbation of late, and compiled a hefty response for y’all.
I enjoy Fig’s site a lot since it offers a lot of what I enjoy to read: Intelligent discussion about sex. It’s a nifty thing to have him guesting here. Thanks, Fig.

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READER WRITES: Ok, it doesn’t really turn me on, but it certainly doesn’t turn me off either. I did accidentally walk in on my husband while he was masturbating in the shower. I scared the hell out of him. I apologized and now I don’t peek around the shower curtain unless I know that he knows I’m in the bathroom. After all that’s his time and not really any of my business.
FIGLEAF: So first of all I’d like to say cool, you didn’t jump him when you caught him (neither jumping all over him for doing it, nor jumping his bones.) Real masturbation is a personal act.
J.P. Donaleavy, author of The Unexpurgated Code, a tongue-in-cheek book of etiquette for English social climbers, recommended that upon encountering someone masturbating you should say “I see you’re in good hands” and withdraw. It’s actually the best advice there is. Now I did say that real masturbation is always a personal act. If that were the end of it I probably wouldn’t have started writing this at all. Read on.
You say watching masturbation doesn’t really turn you on or off. That’s actually pretty cool because unless you’re the one masturbating it’s really none of your business. 🙂 There’s also masturbation for two and that’s a whole ‘nother topic.
Watching someone masturbate *for* you can be pretty exciting. Exciting for them because they’re doing it for you. Exciting for you because they’re doing it for you. If they’re shy there’s the excitement of seducing them into doing something you know will give them pleasure. If you’re shy there’s the excitement of safely crossing a few boundaries. If you’re not even a little bit curious there’s still the excitement of learning how *they* touch themselves so you can do it yourself next time.
If they’re reluctant there’s even the possibility of excitement that comes from saying “I’ll show you mine if you’ll show me yours.” If you’re adventurous there’s the possibility that it’s just another form of foreplay that can lead to one of you throwing him or herself on the other and fucking their brains out. If you’re into dares, suspense, and delayed gratification there’s the excitement of playing chicken – of seeing if one of you will crack and jump the other’s bones before one of you comes. If you’re polite there’s even the excitement of watching each other get closer and closer and saying “after you…” “no, after you” “oh no, I insist” which of course can prolong the moment till both your eyes are rolling.
Heck, even if you’re just lazy there’s the excitement of knowing they’re doing most of the work! 🙂
The bottom line, though, is that while real masturbation is always a neutral (to a spectator) personal act it can become charged when you invite yourself into it. It’s surprising how that personal act, even one you might find personally distasteful under other circumstances, becomes a mutual act that can be every bit as intimate and erotic and fulfilling as the closest, deepest coupling.
READER: I’ve met a man who doesn’t like to masturbate, and I’m dead curious to hear opinion on that. I’m sure he’s not the first and won’t be the last, but I’m very sorry I may never have the pleasure of watching him do the deed…or giving him a hand…
FIGLEAF: There’s an old joke that 99% of men masturbate and the other 1% are liars. It’s not really true. More of us enjoy masturbating than care to admit it, but just as there are plenty of women who for one reason or another don’t masturbate, there are also plenty of of men who don’t either. (Figures vary but it could be as high as 20%.) If your partner is one of those then you might have your work cut out for you.

Another group of men feel that masturbation is sort of a second choice or a substitute for sex and so they’re going to feel a little reluctant to give up an “opportunity” to play in order to rehearse some more.
Finally, most of us are pretty shy about admitting we masturbate. There’s the usual conditioning against touching yourself, with overtones of “If I admit I do it you’ll imagine I don’t think you’re satisfying me.” Something else to keep in mind is the conditioning we get early on that being seen masturbating is perverted because of the perverts who sit jacking off in their cars near playgrounds and such.
Yes, it’s sort of silly, but so’s imagining you’re not every bit as sexy in dumpy sweatpants as in lingerie.
Two things to try, one theoretical, the other very pragmatic.
Theory: Remind him that no matter what kind of delicious, arousing, eye-popping, or otherwise remarkable sex is depicted in industrial porn, 99.999% of male actors eventually stop doing that, pull out, and masturbate till they ejaculate because… well, I’m not sure why they do, but they all do it. So if porn stars can do it, you might suggest, then so can he.
Pragmatics: Tell him you’re going to masturbate for him. Ask him to watch but not touch. When he’s pretty far along suggest it would really, really turn you on even more if he’d touch himself too.
One of those should work if he’s one of the 80-85% or men who know how to and enjoy masturbating. If he’s one of the others, well, you can ask him to practice, or you can *help* him practice, but I can’t promise it’ll work. Sometimes when we say we don’t like to masturbate we’re actually telling the truth. 🙂
READER WRITES: I’d like to know the kind of things that make it feel good – is it better with lube or spit, or just with the hand? Does the pressure of the hand make much of a difference? For those with foreskins, does tugging that down over the head feel pleasurable in and of itself?
AND…
Does any of it weird you out? Why? I love watching men masturbate – I find it quite delightful seeing how they take care of themselves, and noticing their overall reaction. It’s harder to pay attention when my mouth’s at play!
What’s your reaction to it? Do you find it hot, or not? Why or why not? It turns me on, watching one of my partners masturbate. I find it less impacting watching it in porn, but still interesting.
AND…
Have you had any negative experiences with it? What’s your reaction to finding a lover doing it when he thought you were asleep / not around? Only the one. With a previous partner, I woke up one night to find him standing at the side of the bed and masturbating over me. That disturbed me at the time, and disturbs me now. Interestingly, I have no problem with my current partner jacking off while I’m asleep, and he has no problem with me doing the same. So I think that was a personality issue rather than an action issue.
AND…
Closing opinion: watching men masturbate is a) hot, and b) gives me pointers to add to my own skill-set. I don’t think I’m ever going to be able to move my hand as fast, though!
FIGLEAF: This is really good to hear, you know. Another thing men are raised to believe (and a lot of women for that matter) is that women don’t like to watch. I think it’s more correct to say women don’t like to feel uncomfortably or involuntarily out of control, as you did when you woke to find your partner masturbating over you, or as others do when an aggressive man exposes himself and expects you to be turned on. Nice guys may take that a little too far and not be comfortable showing you anything at all. If you can convince him you’re comfortable with him doing it (it might take some convincing) and if he understands that you want to watch and learn so you can do it to him too, he may eventually grow more comfortable with the idea. (Repeated Hint: ask him if it would turn him on to watch you.)

As for technique, I don’t know what to say. I don’t have direct experience with other men but based on the ways my own partners have confidently but not always successfully taken me in hand I get the impression different men like different strokes in different places. But that’s just another argument for asking your partners to show you. The one other generality I can add is: Men tend to like way, way more pressure than women do. I think this has a lot to do with why women think we touch too hard and men think women touch too gently.

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Back to me! Thanks for the contribution to this series, Fig. Much appreciated.
As for the reader with concerns she might never stroke fast enough, well, I’d focus on the details you can master — firmness of grip, length and placement of stroke, that sort of thing, and master those. A good long stroke, teasing the balls, all these things could probably compensate nicely for the lack of speed (which some guys say can be a really nice change of pace, literally, anyhow). What do you think, Fig, readers?
Oh, and please notice the fabulous specimen touching himself in the photo? He’s playing with his testicles. Don’t forget to make friends with the boys — gently. Just playing with a guy’s balls can do some pretty incredible things to his desire. Just be gentle, that’s all. A little kiss here, a little stroke there…

Jungle Fever

Primal, baby.
Why is it so wrong? You wanna wager on how many women lusted after our buddy Tarzan here in 1938? Oh, I think between him and Errol Flynn in Robin Hood, Fantasyland was fully booked for the last half of the Dirty ’30s.
I’ll make you ululate, Tarzan, just watch me.
When I’m comfortable with a man and trust him, getting primal isn’t hard at all. But when I first get to know him, I have a hard time letting him see that side of me. It doesn’t really take long, just usually not the first time we have sex. It’s not that I don’t want to show that side to him, it’s just that I have concerns he’ll view me as only that kind of a lover, and that’s something I don’t want to see happen. Sigh.
It’s all so very dumb. It really is.
We’re warm-blooded, and some nights, downright hot-blooded. We’re animals. We’ve just forgotten how to behave like them.
On the African Savannah, on Antarctica, on any stretch of terrain anywhere in the world, animals are being called to their natural needs, copulating en masse, enacting species-specific mating rituals, and doing everything they can to climax. It’s the call of the wild, and we’re the only fucking species that ain’t answering.
Our modern take on the call of the wild? A kiss, a grope, some humping on the couch, and some fumbling, and some wham-bam-thank you-ma’am.
Unless, of course, you remember you’re an animal and that a heart pounds hard inside of you, then maybe, just maybe, you’ll try to break the kichen table.
Of course intimacy is incredibly important. Eye contact, deep kisses, endless caressing, it’s all very important, but so too is throwing down and fucking furiously on the living room floor, with or without the blinds closed.
Look around you. Look at the world around you. Look at the road rage. Look at the office rage. Look at all this bullshit where we see true rage and fury emitting from people, over the stupidest, most inconsequential things.
We try to deceive ourselves by saying we live in a civilized society. We think the right Prada bag or the proper choice of vehicle will somehow elevate our status, and with it, quell the beasts that dwell within.
It’s bullshit, of course. We’re not civilized. Watching any newscast will prove it. It’s out there, it’s on every street — the animal within. But we fool ourselves well.
This time of year, though, it’s a little harder to make the primal-within sit down and behave.
Know that little bit of weariness tempered with exuberance, the feistiness stirring within? That’s cabin fever. The awakening of all of us as the season progresses. Spring’s rising, and with it, so are our temperatures. Pheromones abound. Please do not feed the hormones.
We want to be good people. We want to respect others’ rights. We want to be gracious, caring, passionate, but there are too many people who feel there’s no way to balance being that with being a primal lover who growls, bites, scratches, and moans like they’re howling at the moon. And as crazy as it sounds, it’s absolutely possible to play both roles – on the same night, even.
Being that lover, though, is a hell of a lot better than going to therapy. Getting that need, that primal, down-n-dirty need out of your system does a hell of a lot of good for someone. Some people do it through S&M, with pain or humiliation being involved. All right, fine, not my bag, but that’s cool. Me, I’m one of the “put some tribal rhythms on and let’s go native, baby” type who’s into jungle-fever lovin’. It’s the one kind of sex that leaves a lover absolutely satiated. Worn out, thankful, and thrilled, it’s the best experience I can have, some days. It’s not something I could do every time, but my god, I’m unlikely to pass it up, too.
I try to think of it, I try to understand, and I just can’t fathom it. What is it like to be unable to admit to what lies in your heart, to admit you have a primal beast within? How do you tell yourself that vanilla is all you really want, that a little taste of something exotic doesn’t appeal? How can you kid yourself and pretend those dark places you know you have aren’t really there? What must it be like to force yourself to live a mundane, safe little life where you never, ever push the limits to see what you can or can’t do, or better yet, just how good all that pushing can feel?
You know, primal sex is the lover’s equivalent of extreme sports. If you haven’t bought your ticket to ride, well, you won’t believe the rush you’re missing.

Guests: He Bop, She Bop, a-We… Never Bopped?

A big ol’ Canadian thank you out to these lovely Texan bloggers, Goose & Gander, who decided to take a stroll through the happy walkways of mutual masturbation for us, the flies on the wall.
Now, I couldn’t find any nice photos about this topic — nada, none, nyet. And I like pictures, they’re purty. So, I thought instead I’d include a photo from one of my favourite sites, of one of my favourite sexual positions.
What I found interesting here was that two people who are so into each other sexually were initially ambivalent about this. God knows I’ve been the ambivalent one, too. But that’s the thing, that ambivalence is out there. I’m not going to keep banging my drum, though. You heard my thoughts. Here’s theirs. Thanks, G&G.

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Recently we were honored to receive a request from La Scribe Steff to discuss amongst ourselves, and share with you our thoughts, the timely topic of mutual masturbation. We told her, yes yes yes!, but, well, we’d really never done it much.

What to do, what to do in a case like this? Well, mutually masturbate, of course!
But before we get to the juicy details: Why haven’t we done it? There were a couple of reasons.

  1. It never came up
  2. We were good with each other already
  3. Silly old embarrassment

Embarrassment was the tough one, of course, so we decided to investigate in stages. We are nothing if not determined to bring to you, the Cunting Linguist reader, high-quality research.

Really Shy Mutual Masturbation

The first night we chatted a bit, took off our clothes, got completely under the covers, snuggled our heads together, closed our eyes and got to business.
It started off kind of odd and, well, dry. So, out came the lube and I pulled out ye old silver vibe just to ensure a good result. I’d say the first few minutes were kind of stiff (ha) and quiet and a little uncomfortable. But soon, the vibe did its work, and my breathing increased, and so did Gander, and then little chirps and moans began and then I came and he came and I came, and selfishly (because the experiment was mostly over) came again. I like to come in threes.
Then we put the laundry away and laughed.

Silly Vanilla Mutual Masturbation

The next night we were both very horny. It was about 6:45 and Gander was due to go back out from 8:00-midnight, and there was no way in hell I was going to stay up that late to jill off. I decided at this moment that we’d distract the goslings with large bowls of ice cream and a movie.
With this semblance of privacy, we ran into the bedroom, latched the door, and went to town. This was a much better experience. There was necking, pinching, fucking, rubbing and oral. At one point, when Gander was going down on me, I stopped him and had him put his fingers in me as I masturbated while he watched. Oooh! That was great! Then we fucked a little bit more, and he pulled out and I stroked his balls while he masturbated. Ooh! That was great, too.
Then we raced back out of the room to stop the kids from destroying the couch while pretending to be dinosaurs.
All in all, we began to see the point.

Kinda-Kinky Mutual Masturbation

Life intruded and we were unable to really have any sexual contact for days and days. But last night, after talking with friends about spanking for a few hours, we got into bed and started fooling around. One thing led to another and Gander grabbed my hand, shoved it between my legs rather forcefully, and rolled me over. I rubbed myself furiously while he spanked me very hard. Yessiree! Then I rolled over and massaged his balls and he jerked off on my stomach.
Hooray!
Okay. I think we have the hang of it and we’ll be including it in our repertoire. Thanks Steff, for helping us break through a barrier we didn’t even know we had.

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BACK TO ME, LE SCRIBE STEFF: And thank you, you fabulous folks, for contributing to the series. True mutual masturbation is getting to the finishing point solo with your partner observing and responding in kind, it’s ALSO a weird-as-shit experience because of the embarrassment listed above. It’s not for everyone, but yeah, it’s highly recommended. Besides, varying sex is a good, good thing. And like these brilliant folk above, trying it once, twice, three times before you pass judgment is a smart move. It’s like trying anal or something — it’s not going to be a great fit with everyone, but when it works, well… y’all come back now, y’hear?

nature is a cold bitch




ever noticed how, in cold weather,
women get sexier with their erect nipples
while men get shrinkage?
guess we know why, in primitive societies,
women always went topless
while the boys wore their little loincloths?

Ah, damn you and the whores you rode in on!

No, it’s not just you, blogger hates me, too. Yes, the site’s been down tonight. Hopefully the last of the outages for awhile. They come in flurries, you know. Too tired and a little too tipsy to post Goose’n’Gander’s playtime tonight. Damn Gayboy and that actual palateable cheap red wine!

A bath beckons. If you know any good new jokes, share them. Comment away. I’d love a stupid chuckle. 🙂 Thanks. Had good sex lately? Do tell.

Humour us. Indeed, humour the masses in search of filth and dimestore sexual philosophizing who’ve logged in only to find the sloth of a smutress who keeps this rag alive is more intent on bathing with mineral oil than updating this whorey site. In short, appease them. I must bathe. 😉

A Perfect Partner’s Top Eight Qualities

Rachel, of Wicked Ink, popped by here to inform me this morning that I’ve been tagged for a Meme. Now, I hate memes. “Answer ‘em yerself,” methinks, “But don’t drag me into the fray!”
But, since appeasing people’s a rather special skill I have, I thought, “Hey. Sure.” It’s a relevent topic, and I think I have a couple different twists to my list. So, I sat my ass down and spent the last half hour doing this. In keeping with my personal feelings about memes, I shall not poke others into the act of doing such a list. But, I invite any readers to do their own and to clue me in if they have.

  1. Laughter – Must have it, mujst engage in it, must produce it. I was once with a man and during the coital act, some sound emitted – a particularly strange slurp or gloop sound – that took me by surprise, like some bad Foley F/X editor had laid a particularly weird sound effect over the sex act. Within a minute, I was laughing hysterically. My partner got all sensitive, even though I was saying, “Well, did you HEAR that?” and stormed from the bed, unable to see the humour. I was never aroused by him again, and the relationship ended within the week or so that followed. I just couldn’t get over his inability to exploit the moment. It was FUNNY. Life is filled with weird, awkward, breathtakingly odd moments, and if you can’t laugh them away, then get the hell away from me.
  2. Sexuality – Must have a high libido and a creative drive. I’m one of those chicks who likes sex a lot (muchos, senior) when I’m involved. Short-term, long-term, just gimme some — every single day, usually. You’d think it’d be a wonderful thing for guys, but oddly, some just can’t keep up. It’d be nice to have someone wear me out for a change – and that I want him to be skillful, open to new experiences, and as much a romantic as I am is just obvious.
  3. Intellect – I can be pretty irreverent and silly here from time to time, but I’m a smart chick and I need a guy who not only doesn’t get intimidated by that, but who can contribute to it by turning my lightbulb on to things I’ve formerly not been aware of. I love long conversations on the beach that hold out until sunrise in the summer. There’s an incredible sexiness about a man who knows things about the world at large, not just his chosen career. Woo me with vast knowledge about Ancient Incan mating rituals, how a star is born, and the dire news of the changing global warming scenario. Yes, it does turn me on. “My, Brad, what big brains you have…”
  4. Compassion / Awareness – I try not to let my heartstrings dangle too loosely on this site. I was recently told that my vulnerable/soft side’s a really endearing thing to share with folks, but sometimes some things need to stay inside until the moment warrants it. I’ve been guilty of living that way, but hey, it’s my choice. It’s also something I’m trying to work on. But I’m a profoundly compassionate woman when the time demands it. I’ve been through a lot in my 32 years and I’ve been taught the hard way what difficulties and struggles can do to a person, and as a result, I’ve changed my worldview drastically. Pairing my eyes-wide-open view on the world with someone who’s lacking that, well, that’d just be dumb.
  5. Creativity – Whether it’s in the bedroom, in making plans for the day, in the kitchen, in his humour and conversation, or in what he does with his hands, creativity is a huge, huge factor in my life. I take new and different routes to my destinations often, even though I’ve lived in this city all my life. I take ingredients in my pantry, mix them together, and invent meals I’ll likely never make again but were awesome for that one experience. I’ve painted and decorated my whole home. I’m a good photographer, I write in every genre. I’ve designed furniture I hope to one day gain the skills to build. Creativity RULES my life. A man absolutely needs to not only grasp that about me, but celebrate it for himself. (Creativity is living life in colour, folks. I long ago tired of grey, black, and white.)
  6. Honesty / Virtue – I’ve been told that my honesty is disarming. Everyone knows I tell the truth. You want an honest opinion, I’ll give it to you – in real life or in this silly cyberkingdom. Honesty is what it’s all about. What are you scared of? Tell the truth and deal with the fall-out. I need a man who gets that I’ll be pissed if I catch him in lies, but if he tells me the truth, “Well, honestly, I just really feel like hanging with the guys and watching a game tomorrow, I just need to be a little stupid for the night,” then I’m almost always gonna let it go. It’s not an issue unless you let it become one, and the honesty is always a great thing to have. God knows he’ll be getting it from me.
  7. Irreverence – I’m irreverent way too often, but I love the way it feels. It keeps me young, fun, and interesting. It keeps my brooding intellect in check, and allows me to still feel like I’m a rebel, even though the system bought and sold me long ago. It’s not just a behaviour, though, it’s a lifestyle attitude, and personally, I find irreverent men as sexy as hell. Sexy in the “oh, God, I wanna take him home and tie him up and teach him a thing or two” kinda way. There is just nothing sexier on a personality.
  8. Articulate / Open – Well, that’s just asking for quid pro quo. I’m articulate and open, and I absolutely need a lover who can express himself and what’s going on in his world, or what he wants from me. I’m not asking that he be Deepak Chopra or Dr. Phil, I’m just saying that it’s hard enough negotiating the big bad world of relationships without having all the required information. The more a man communicates with me, the more I drop these mighty big walls I tend to have around me. If he’s open, expressive, then I will be, too, and moreso than him, likely.

Other things a guy needs to be: Somewhat motivated – not in the “I’ll be CEO by 36” kind of way that honestly makes me ill, but motivated in the sense that he knows what he needs for happiness, and he pursues it. Whether that’s playing guitar, swimming in competitions, cooking, whatever. There’re passions we all have, and doing nothing with them does nothing for us. And he has to be sort of active. I’m not talking “he scales mountains on Saturdays,” or anything, but yeah, he breaks a sweat and helps keep me in line, in bed and out.
Thanks for the Food for Thought, Rachel.

A Shut-in Saturday Night

It’s a my-time-of-the-month movie night tonight. Legally Blonde is playing, followed by Miss Congeniality.
I so suck, I know. Normally, I’m a fan of those crazy things called Subtitles. I like artsy flicks and intellect and drama and suspense and sexiness (hence subtitles: bring on the Latin flicks). But when I’m feeling sorry for myself, I like the stupid shit.*
I screwed up my back again! JESUS CHRIST. What, is this the reality check of “Miss, you’re 32 years old now, you can’t DO that shit anymore”? Because, I tell you, I’m getting pretty choked.
You know what it is? When I’m exercising regularly, I’m fine. Right now, though, I’m trying to get back into exercising after having real life intrude with my willpower/etc. Ever since my bro’s accident, everything kind of just stopped. Workaholic, sick, obligations, all that stupid crap began to interfere, and I was WEAK. I was UNDISCIPLINED.
And I am PAYING for it now.
I’m lucky I’m normally able to feel as well as I am, when I keep active & exercise a lot. In the last decade of my life I have:

  • Been thrown from a horse.
  • Been in accidents where two cars were totaled (both other drivers running red lights and t-boning me.)
  • Been rear-ended twice.
  • Been in a scooter (ie: Vespa-type) accident where I was thrown off and landed on my back in an intersection.
  • Been in two wipe-outs on the scoot.

In short, I’m a fucking catastrophe on legs. I’ve had bad luck in the past, and though that’s all behind me now and life is good, I need to be more vigilant with being regular on the exercise thing. I get really passionate and dedicated, but whenever life turns up the heat, it’s the first thing I drop when I start losing my grip on things, and it takes a long time to get it back. If there’s anything I hope to change about myself, that’s it. I enjoy being active, I push myself fairly hard when I get into it, but this copping out and rough-ride-back bullshit is making me a little too cognizant of being over 30 and what the consequences of neglect-meets-age might be.
But isn’t that the way it always is? We forget how good “normal” can be, we let things lapse, they fall apart quicker than we’d have fathomed, and getting it back to par is a hell of a chore. And sometimes, you can’t help but start thinking it’s unthinkable, or even, “is it worth this?”
And this is what I’ve done, I neglected myself. I started living a lifestyle I hate – one commanded by work and money, not time and passion. And I forgot the little things I need to do to keep myself in the zone of Steff that I love the best, the one where I feel good, up, happy, and like a player. I love the vibe I have when things are good – so why do I stop?
Once I get to this point, I smarten the hell up for a good long time. Invariably, once every year or so, though, this happens.
It brings on another realization, though. The difference between blaming others, and blaming yourself. You’ll notice, I’m not blaming life – I’m blaming my own inability to better manage my time. I know the fault lies on me, and that’s the thing I need to know, because then I know I can change. That’s the beauty of accepting responsibility for shit: You know you’re not a victim, you know you’re in power, you know you can be an agent of change.
So, here I sit, bitter and angry at this world of discomfort I’m in, but I know it’s my fault, and this time is the last time for a while. I am now a stretching fiend. Limber is my name. Heh. Right?
My den of slack and agent of change (aka: living room and remote of control) are beckoning me back to the realm of sloth. I hear my calling, and I choose to accept the task before me. Later, I will go for the loser-slouchy-sore-back-girl walk around the block where I feel like an alien creature has infiltrated my spine, causing me to walk as if I’m auditioning for George Romeros.
How I dream of muscle relaxers. Anybody? Anybody?

*You thought I had something bright to say? Something new, exciting? No, no. It’s just whining.

Mutual Masturbation: Why to Rethink It

I don’t know if it’s the new rage, but there’s something pretty hot about it, you know? Sitting around, toying with yourself as someone repays you in kind. It’s the ultimate in voyeurism. You’re there, front and centre, watching – and satisfying yourself in the process of – someone experiencing the deeply personal act of giving themselves an orgasm.
I had a man recently ask me if – since I didn’t engage in sex-for-sex’s-sake sex – if I might be interested in masturbating for his pleasure.
Now, you have to realize that, before this point, this was one of the sexiest, most intelligent, and thought-provoking conversations I’d had with a man in a while. If there’s an iota of truth to the brain being the largest sex organ of all (and there’s plenty more than an iota to that) then suffice to say that I was about as aroused as I’d been in a while. (Unfortunately, he was married. I don’t go there.)
Some chicks look for big cars, some chicks look for big words. Which am I?
So, he asks me this. And I seriously considered it. I know it can be a really intense experience, if you can get behind the walls of bullshit we all conjure for the world at large, then yes, it’s a pretty intense experience to share with someone.
So, I was giving it due consideration, and then I realized that, for me, it would be as intensely intimate as fucking him would be, something I considered incongruous with my own ethics, as much as I really did want to do it. And I thought, wow, what a gift I’d be giving a guy I didn’t feel like I could afford to be that way with. Just, yeah… a gift, really.
The nature of masturbation, when you get down to the heart of it all, beyond that fleeting sense of ecstasy, that arrogance of knowing you’re always able to make yourself feel like that, the prideful sense of independence… beyond all of that lies the very, very simple truth of being literally absolutely naked with yourself. You think true thoughts, have real fantasies when you masturbate. I think there’s seldom a time in which we’re more brutally true to ourselves than when we masturbate… for good or for ill. It comes down to what it takes you to go there, the imagery you need to form, the thoughts that find their way into you.
To lie there opposite each other, and get there in the manner you would if you were naked and alone, it’s a very eye-opening, fly-on-the-wall kind of moment.
Yes, it can be incredibly hot.
But yes, it can also be incredibly weird. There are those out there who believe there’s no sense in bothering with the mutual masturbation – letting your partner start & finish fully without touching them, this is the definition of mutual masturbation. And they would be wrong. It really is about the ultimate in vulnerability with your partner. Not because you need to submit to their touch, but instead, you must submit to their scrutiny in your moment.
With that experience comes a different kind of bond than one just forged by sex and love alone. Vulnerable is the hardest thing to be in a relationship. I struggle with it. My independence and strength have been towers of power in my life, and to submit to vulnerability is to give up all that’s gotten me through to now. A small little seemingly insignificant act like mutual masturbation is enough to bring all that to the forefront. In sex, it’s easier to hide behind those eyes-closed moments.
Anyhow. I just need to clarify, as much as I believe mutual masturbation is a really important stage in your sexual evolution as a couple, and as much as I think it benefits on an emotional level, too, it can be a really intense emotional experience sometimes, and you sort of need to anticipate that, particularly if trust issues are something you’ve had in the past.
I honestly think, though, that it can do nothing but good for a relationship. And, hey, if you’re single, it’s truly safe sex.
In the meantime, please feel free to comment on experiences you’ve had with it, thoughts you have on it, whether I’m right / wrong, why, and if it applies, why you won’t / will be doing it anytime / sometime soon.

Guest Posting: EA's Account of His First Self-Gratification

One of my favourite male erotic bloggers is Easily Aroused. I like him for his lyrical prose that often, for me, evokes the intimacy of the encounter. The reason why you go over for one blogger, one author, over another is pretty simple, really. It comes down to style. Some have it, and some wish they did. He does, and I’m feeling quite privileged to have him along for the self-love ride.
With his ode to discovering how good he could make himself feel through exploring his body as a teen, here’s Easily Aroused. (Thanks, EA.) For obvious reasons, the photo is clearly not of a teen.

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My love affair with my cock started in earnest after my twelfth birthday. However, my desire for women (a desire that I anticipate prevailing until my final breath slips from between my lips) began to crystallise a little earlier than that.
It’s quite possible that its origins lie in the moment that I saw Sean Connery using a dermatome to cut the straps on Anna Dor’s evening dress in ‘You Only Live Twice’. As I watched him ease her zip down the line of her spine, the camera teasingly fading out just before her waiting buttocks were exposed, I was captivated.
I’ve been bewitched ever since.
It was at middle school that I first sought to emulate the brawny Scots spy. From somewhere deep in my genetic makeup came the nascent desire to explore and enjoy women with the same philandering style that Bond did. The problem was: how to do justice to such grandiose designs when you’re only ten years old? Beyond kissing – and by ‘kissing’, I don’t mean something Valentino would have nodded approvingly at – I had little idea what I was meant to be doing with the girls I dallied with; no concept of the true effect they were meant to elicit in me.
In senior school, the real differences between men and women started to become apparent to me. For one thing, girls matured faster when it came to sex. Much faster. It wasn’t long before the fairer sex was turning its collective attention towards older boys. By the time I’d reached my teens, the more sexually assertive girls in my class were dating school leavers, surly youths who sported Don Johnson stubble and driving licences. How the hell could my peers and I possibly compete?
And that was a problem. The girls I stood the best chance with were shy, demure creatures. They didn’t share the adventurous appetites of their more desirous sisters. They wanted to hold hands and giggle, to kiss with tightly pursed lips and their tongues safely out of reach. They swiftly moved your hand away if it got within a foot of their bosoms, slapped it sharply away if it dared stray towards their thighs. The sad truth was that they couldn’t hold a candle to the bad girls. Not at that point. So the mere fact that the bad girls had less than zero interest in me didn’t deter me from being drawn to them like a moth to the scorching dangers of a naked flame.
I don’t recall how it started, but I began writing fantasies about the girls who piqued my interest the most. My scribblings were confined to a hard-bound book which I secreted at the back of my wardrobe. There were no real favourites as such: my lustful attentions tended to flit between the most pronounced objects of my adolescent desire. I don’t remember the scenarios as being especially explicit, either; they were mostly concerned with undressing the girls to their underwear (and beyond) and indulging in some foreplay. Either I lacked the knowledge – or the confidence – to take things further, even when my desires were confined to the literary world.
Yet despite the naivety of my written fumblings (who knew what was to come, eh?), I found myself aroused by the words dancing across the pages, by the images that accompanied them in my mind. They provided my first self-delivered, earnest erections. I’d be lying on my bed, or sometimes the floor, my ears ever alert for sound of feet ascending the staircase, writing feverishly away. Without realising it, I’d be pressing my pelvis into the mattress or the carpet, my cock hard against my belly, trapped, squirming and thrusting as my excitement built.
Inevitably, on a warm summer’s evening, my excitement reached an entirely new stratum. The sensations emanating from my loins went from being ‘good’ to being unbelievably good, utterly consuming in their deliciousness. I began to thrust harder and faster as I wrote, until I reached for the first time what is now an unmistakeable peak. I didn’t realise what had happened right away. I saw the semen squirting from my cockhead and wondered, “Have I broken something?” But how could something that had damaged feel *so* good? And finally, the light bulb flickered on. I’d done it, achieved that mythical goal I’d heard about in the locker room. I’d ejaculated. I’d *come*.
Of course, in doing so, I’d circumvented the more traditional route to masturbatory success. The next step in my private education was to learn how to produce the same effect by using my hand.
And that is a whole other story…

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BACK TO ME: I must say, EA, I’m always quite the fan of a good tease. Nicely done.

White Power: Teeth Strips and Other Beauty Addictions

I want to be a sex goddess.
I know: I’ll buy teeth-whitening strips. That’ll do it.
Skill? Who needs skill? Communication strategies? Pshaw! No, I just need white teeth.
This is what the media would have you believe, isn’t it? Hey, she must be an all-American girl. See how white her teeth are? Geez. She really is the driven snow, but hey, I’d let her drive me.
Ahh, the media and beauty. If ever there was a more bastardly combination. Sigh. Where to begin? Where, oh, where, oh, where, oh, where?
Well, let’s go back from whence we came. Teeth-whitening. Well, I’m a cute gal. I’ve got a gap-toothed smile, though, you know. Just one gap, and not in the centre. I like it, actually. Character. I also have this one eyebrow with a crook in it, which leaves me easily delivering “devious” gazes in times of seduction. Those, and a small scar on my nose from when I had a tete-a-tete with a paintcan in grade two, are my flaws. But despite those, I have pluses. I’ve got warm green eyes that emote brilliantly, decent cheek bones, and even with their itty-bitty flaws, my teeth are pretty darned white, ergo I have a nice smile, and I’ve got nice, plush, full lips to frame ‘em. I’m all right, gap and all, ‘cos I’m just who I’m supposed to be, right?
Still, I did it. Those fuckers sucked me in. I bought them. I did. I justified it, though. ”I’m buying generic. I’m not a sheep. And hey, it’s on sale!” And I forked out $25 of my last dollars to pick up the fabulous, oh-so-now box of GLAM, BABY. Yeah, I bought the strips. What’s more, I bought the possibility of a less-flawed me. That’s what they’re really selling, after all.
Have you done this shit? Seriously. All right, we all know that getting sexy is an ugly, ugly business. Hair removal? Not attractive. Some ugly things go down when we’re alone and trying to get all sexed up. The things we inspect, the preening we strain to do. Oh, dear. It’s a wonder we come out of that with any self-esteem at all (even more mysterious considering those who willingly use the 10x magnification uberflaw-exposing mirrors — shudder).
But these strips? Dear, god. Insert them, and become a drooling mass of incoherence, a moisture monkey. Sex factor? Nil, man. I did one individual set of strips a couple weeks back and haven’t been back to do another set since.
I swear, you drool like Lenny when George has let him pet the rabbits too much. “But, George, I like to pet the rabbits. They’s so soft, George.”
Slurp, drool. It’s repulsive, really. Do not do this around your lover. It’d be so inconvenient to have them conjure a drooling-mass in-coital image of you arise to shatter — mercilessly — any hope of orgasm for that foreseeable moment.
And this ain’t no “God, I’m being pleasured ORALLY!” slurp of sexual satiation we’re talking about here. This is along the lines of “Granny’s having soup again, put her teeth on the counter”. So, unless you’ve a geriatric fetish…
But you know why they keep sucking us in? Insecurities. Beautiful means loved means admired means successful means laid, laid, laid. Oh, yeah, I’m in for the Kool-aid. Gimme some of that.
It’s our insecurities. I mean, hell, if you could find the ego as a bodypart, you could go and put an X for “hit me here” right on top of it. Our psyche’s one big soft spot. We’re all vulnerable in one way or another. We’re all judging ourselves a little on the harsh side, some people excessively so.
All our lives, we’re told to be better. Doesn’t matter who you are, where you are, you’ve been told one of two things: Be better, or conversely, forget better — you’ll never be any better, you’re trash. It’s all the same, still boils down got to look better, act better, live better, do better, speak better, better, better.
The cosmetics industry is playing that up like you wouldn’t believe. And now they’ve gone and gotten the boys all worked into a frenzy now, too. The last bastion of oblivion has been shattered, giving way to the rise of the metrosexual. Such pretty boys. I hate to admit it, I do like ‘em. They got that ready-to-eat look that conveys “yummy” and “sink teeth in” to me. Come on, you know what I’m talkin’ about. Some people are edibles. Some have “food group” and “recommended part of a balanced diet” all over ’em.
But there’s a lot to be said for rugged men, too, though. They clean up, and well. I like doing the cleaning, too. Rinse-and-repeat. Mostly repeat.
But you see? This is what they’re doing. Men are getting as compartmentalized and as stereotyped as women have always been. It started a couple decades ago, probably even as early as the ‘70s, but it’s blown out of the water in the last five or so years. Now guys are getting just as silly as the girls have been, via spending insane amounts on cosmetics and other beauty fixes. (Surgery, anyone?)
I’ve always been that type. My insecurities seemed tethered to my expenditures. “But it’s expensive, I’ll be beeyootiful the instant it touches skin!”
I’ve spent so damned much on the myth. I’ve always had a little bit of problem skin. I’m of Irish descent, so my complexion’s really fair, right? So, I’d often get blackheads on my nose. Every product I bought would do jack all about the problem, and I was spending $40 a bottle for this crap.
These days, I use a variety of skin cleansers, but when I want to exfoliate, I throw some sugar into it and lather up. My skin’s the best it’s ever been, my rosacea is completely gone for a more porcelain (ergo more corruptable, ergo good) look, and I’ve been looking five years younger since I started cheaping out. And my face is softer now, too. Truly. (Which is no mean feat since I ride a scooter and get exposed to the elements year-round.)
The irony is, They (the Man, et al) used to tell men that sugar was a great face scrub. I always thought, “Damn men, they’ve got all the luck.” I was gullible. But I put two and two together when the Queer Eye for the Straight Guy guys came along. At the start of the series, they’d tell the guys to scrub with sugar. It didn’t take long for them to be selling the “men’s exclusive facial care products” crap to the guys, though. “But it’s crushed avocado seed. It’ll give you…” rosacea, actually. Geez. That’s not exfoliation, that’s abrasion, dudes.
It took being broke to give me the best complexion I’ve had since my teens. Fuck H20, the Body Shop, and everyone else. Some things are worth spending money on, for sure, but I think the face-washing thing’s getting a tad out of control. My skin’s proof.
And this rant all started from me brushing my teeth before bed and eyeballing, guiltily, the box of whitening strips. My point? It’s a sad fucking thing that our insecurities cost us so much both financially and chronologically. Ah, if only being a sex god was simpler.