Sunday, 23 February 2014

Simultaneous lovin', baby

I hadn't taken part in a 69 for a long time.

In fact, I wonder why it's called a 69. The numbers, when typed out, aren't really an accurate depiction of the act. ♋ is too hard to pronounce (in that it doesn't have a pronunciation, really; I'd just term it "Cancer sign," which has other, more ominous, meanings) and "simultaneous oral sexual gratification" is a bit of a mouthful [insert 'mouthful' pun here], as well as sounding a little too clinical to be sexy [insert 'doctor/nurse roleplay' pun here]. But I think we all know what a 69 involves.

Even if you haven't done it.

Don't be so quick to judge when I tell you I, with my absolute unfettered love for oral sex, hadn't taken part in a 69 for a considerable amount of time. I can't actually remember the last time I'd done so. I was told by Esque that one needs to be somewhat flexible in order to do so, unless there's a considerable height difference. What with my first girlfriend, who was about half my height, that wasn't particularly difficult. But that was years ago. I digress.

Anyway, last night...

We'd worked it out pretty quickly. Her head was lying on my thigh, which gave her a good enough vantage point for her mouth to be able to reach the head of my penis. She was, if you will forgive the imagery, working very enthusiastically, the sensitivity causing little electric pricks to shoot up my spine. It was difficult for my legs to hold still. But then again, it usually is. I may have an insensitive cock at the best of times, but this... this was different.

At the other end of the bed, propped up on an elbow, my head was between her thighs, which were themselves splayed open through the grace of God and incredibly good positioning work on our part. Approaching her crotch from the side made everything more accessible to me, and my tongue could reach her engorged clit, her wet labia, her opening, even her perineum. I was spoilt for choice, really, so as she continued to suck me rhythmically, I alternated between flicking my tongue on her clit, licking backwards and forwards rapidly, and burying my whole face there when I had no idea what exactly to do. (Which, it turned out, I did a lot. She didn't seem to be complaining.)

One preoccupation I have about 69ing (if that even is a verb) is that there may be a lack of communication. You can't really see each other's faces, and in any case, where oral sex is concerned your mouth is otherwise engaged, so you can't really talk. When one person is giving oral sex to another, at least the recipient can verbalise what's working and what may not be, or at least make sounds like "oh!". But I was surprised, to be honest, at how much communication there was. Okay, so we both had each other's genitals in our mouths, there's got to be some amount of relation going on there! We reacted, however, with our feet, our bodies, and the sounds of skin against sheets, rather than anything else... but it worked.

However, the thing that I most enjoyed was how... close it all felt. It wasn't just mouths and blood-engorged genitalia. There was a general entanglement of legs, arms, feet, hands, faces and torsos. We were wrapped up in each other - just how these things should be, to be honest. After the day we'd had, nobody could begrudge us a little mutual gratification, surely?

And it certainly made her wet enough for the sex afterwards...

Monday, 17 February 2014

Microfiction: Boyfriend

I'm not averse to a bit of microfiction every now and again, but I rarely take the chance to put a bit here on my blog. However, the idea came up via Blacksilk to write a little microfiction with a couple of provisos:

(i) it should be on one side of a post-it note
(ii) there should be one key word which it starts with

I liked Blacksilk's version, so I tried my own today, in order to clear the creative block that's fast been forming in my mind. And here it is, in all its 10cm2 glory:

Boyfriend away. What to do, what to do? Perhaps I should play my 'cello; maybe play games instead. Drink some coffee? Read some books? Maybe I don't want to get out of bed at all.

Correction. I definitely don't want to get out of bed. This is warm and soft. Warm, soft... and certainly getting a little wetter. Perhaps I should've considered there my hand was going before I started talking to myself. I may, possibly, have wasted my time.

Still... boyfriend's away. I've got an afternoon on my own ahead of me...

Time to make up for lost time...

Sunday, 16 February 2014

Water under the bridge

During a food technology class in year 8, a guy called Mark asked me what I thought of Panayiota.

I should probably start with context - so I know what you're going to ask. Yes, food technology. My school didn't do what's commonly referred to as "home economics" (cooking); we took three technologies (resistant materials, textiles and food), up until year 9. For GCSEs we had to choose one of three, or design, as an alternative. I took food technology as a GCSE - but this happened in year 8, so we took all three.

Mark wasn't a friend, but he wasn't a nemesis either. He was a little guy, but kind of tough; he wasn't the sort of person I'd hang around with. But I had no ill will towards him, and I wouldn't think he towards me either. But it was the way that he approached me with a "you can trust me" that, with hindsight, predates David Cameron's similar rhetoric with about as much sincerity that put me on my guard. I was about 13 at this point, and was fixated on one specific girl.

Panayiota was a girl in my class who liked to be called "Yiota", with the T being pronounced as a D /jɒdə/, which inevitably led to her being called "Yoda" at points. The way some teachers handled pronunciation, you'd think that being called "Yoda" would be a better decision on her part. But I digress. I didn't know much about Yiota, beyond the way she looked and her last name (which I won't put here as, you know, anonymity). We had a few Panayiotas, being from a part of North London with a large Greek population, but I knew which one Mark was talking about.

I gave Mark a pithy response. I thought I knew what he was asking - did I fancy her? - but I didn't, and I wondered why he wasn't asking that, so I just fobbed him off by saying that I thought she was a girl, and that wasn't exactly a lie, she was a girl, so I technically didn't say anything wrong. Mark wasn't satisfied by my response.

Two years later, when I was in year 10 and still doing food technology, Mark bustled past me in a science lab and muttered something like, "hey, Yoita loves you," and then disappeared. I went to sit down at my desk, next to Yiota, who greeted me with her usual cheery, enthusiastic salutation. I returned it, blithely, before taking my seat and chatting to her for a bit before our teacher called the register. And, suddenly, it hit me like a ton of really hitty bricks which hit.

I wasn't supposed to fancy Yiota. She fancied me. 

That explained everything. Mark's initial question and his follow-up two years later, with occasional leading statements in between. Yiota's friendliness towards me even when we didn't often socialise and weren't really part of the same clique. She was friends with some of my bullies, actually, which made the whole situation odd. But we had good chemistry when we talked, and we made the whole class laugh during year 9 drama, in which we had to play a couple fanatically in love with each other. I did wonder why everyone laughed so much, even though it was a comedic scene and I was giving it my all.

But even if that was the case (and it all fits into place; my mind doesn't always do analysis, but when it does so, it does so well), it doesn't explain a few things. If Yiota was attracted to me - and no, I don't see how either, but never mind that - then why? We had absolutely nothing in common. We were in a few of the same classes, but had different interests. We took different GCSEs; we hung around with different people. We were in the same form for a while, but never sat together or talked together. Physically, I wasn't much to look at (although I didn't sit with my legs apart, which must have helped a bit). I just didn't see where the attraction was.

Thing is, I can't tell if I would have acted any differently if I had worked this out earlier - if, indeed, I am right in my assumptions. I liked Yiota, but as I say, I didn't know much about her. I wouldn't have had much to share with her because I had well-publicised attraction towards a whole host of girls who weren't her, and that would have been be a bastard move of the highest calibre. And as for Mark, well, his story went a different way eventually: a guy who looked like Dewey from Scream started dating a mutual friend of Mark's, Yiota's, and mine; he told me on MSN that he found hanging out with Yiota annoying; by year 13 I was in a relationship anyway, so nobody seemed to pay me any mind any more.

I wonder what happened to her. A quick Google search confirms that she's now rich.

Good for her, I suppose.

Thursday, 13 February 2014


That precise moment of penetration is very difficult to describe indeed. Since it's a completely unique sensation, it's almost impossible to liken it to anything, even using the most hackneyed of homilies - metaphorical description of penetration has been commonplace since Fanny Hill and well beforehand, although what I (at least) experience is so unique that it not only defies metaphor, but takes it outside, beats it up, steals its cash and shags its mother.

And now who's hackneyed, motherfudgers?

Anyway. What I'm referring to isn't really penetration itself, but the initial few moments of penetration - the ones you almost miss, in a way, when the tip of the head of the penis is just inside. There's something about the movement of the labia majora (and the inside walls, to an extent) which is unlike anything else, and which is, therefore, so hard to describe.

It's only that moment. Anything else I can kind of do. I described my first ever time (using a very thick condom) as like dipping my penis in an upside-down (she was on top) bucket of warm water. I feel comfortable describing how the warm, soft wetness of the inside vaginal walls contract and mould themselves around the shape of my penis inside her. I'm fairly confident with orgasms, having laboured to describe those since my first year of blogging. I'm even pretty good at describing blowjobs, particularly from a giver's point of view, although I mostly have to guess at that.

The moment of insertion's what I'm trying to get at. Last night I experienced it several times. Each time was the same. It occurred to me at one point that I still had no idea how I'd describe the feeling. And then I hit upon it.

I described the feeling as being like a small explosion.

Maybe that's more like what an orgasm feels like; perhaps it's lack of another explanation. But it feels less like going into something to me than it does changing state. The sensitivity of the tip of my penis (once my foreskin's rolled back) amplifies feelings tenfold, and the way the vaginal opening reacts upon penetration - something I once described as a "pleasant spreading sensation" - suggests to me, for a millisecond perhaps, that there is in fact something heading outwards from the tip, and that whatever the speed one cares to enter at, an explosion(ette) is the best metaphor I can think of.

Of course, there are more to come after that. But I'm claiming this one before anyone else gets their hands on it...

...and what better way to describe the beginning of a bang?

Saturday, 8 February 2014


Evidently I'm not the only one to have the occasional suspicious thought while travelling.

On my way back from Meg Philip's book launch last night (yes, I am one of those), I overheard a young(ish) man enquiring about the train on which we were travelling... or, to be more accurate, the stations at which the train would  be stopping. Akin to the girl who probably had a perfectly innocent reason for being on the train last month, he clearly didn't know where he was going and had to resort to asking me. And when we disembarked, he got off at the same stop as us, and was swallowed eventually by the gathering darkness.

Our conversation eventually turned to this person who we had no right to converse about. My thoughts up until that point had been focused mainly on my growing inability to speak and how the hell I managed to win the "dirtiest joke" competition. But it was Jilly who broached the subject of our man dressed in black.

To be fair, her suspicions were a little more left-field than I. What with his carrying a massive bag that I surmised might be for overnight clothes, I had the "meeting-a-lover" story down to a tee. Jilly, however, pointed out that the bag may have held something more similar to implements, and that with the unassuming but smart(ish) clothes, took a rather different view.

"He may be a visiting Dom," she pointed out. I had to admit this thought hadn't crossed my mind, although I did recall the one conversation I've had with a Domme who did the whole outcall thing.
"Couldn't really be an escort. I don't know many escorts who do outcalls which aren't in a hotel... unless it's a regular client."
"Although he could just live around here."
I ran this idea through my brain - the concept that people in London have a non-sexual reason for travelling on trains was, following seven years of sex blogging, totally alien to me.

I mean, really?

He couldn't have lived around here, actually, since he was counting stations and seemed to need a prompt from me to get off at our station. Plus... he had clearly put a lot of effort into slicking back his hair ans choosing his outfit. I do hate to say this, but it all fits.

What am I saying? I don't hate to say this at all! It's brilliant!