States Of Undress

This is kind of a follow-on from my post “To Cock, Or Not To Cock“.

As you can probably tell by the posts on my alter ego’s “Photo Album”  blog, I have a fairly relaxed attitude to being naked. I sleep naked. I happily wander around the house without any clothes on. When the weather permits, I will lie naked in my garden. When I’m on holiday, if local custom permits, I will happily lie naked when sunbathing. For me, there is nothing sexual in these situations, I am simply in a state of being undressed.

Western society, and by which I typically mean US/UK society has some very restrictive views on the naked body. Other societies, such as Germany or Scandinavia, are much more relaxed about such things (although I will admit that sometimes, even I find the Germans a little too relaxed about it).

In the US, and to a slightly lesser extent, here in the UK, nudity is pretty much synonymous with sex and is, at best, frowned upon. Although being naked in public is not an offence in the UK, per se, you can be charged with public indecency or breach of the peace.

Here, as in so many other aspects of our society, a sexual double standard exists. It is perfectly OK for me, as a man, to wander around naked above the waist. If a woman were to do the same thing, she runs the risk of falling foul of one of the above offences.

Why is this? Why is a woman’s chest deemed more sexual than that of a man. Why is a woman’s chest deemed more likely to cause public outrage and be an affront to public decency? Yes, I know we guys (and a lot of you girls) happen to find breasts sexy but, when all is said and done, they are still just the front part of her upper torso.  And let’s be honest here for a second fellas; more often than not, the female chest is a lot more attractive than ours, and, dare I say it, a loss less offensive to the eye than what some of us inflict on an unsuspecting world the moment the mercury rises into double figures.

Now, I’m not suggesting we should dispense with clothes and all become nudists. I’m Scottish and it’s far too bloody cold for that. Turning up naked at your Aunt Mabel’s funeral, or popping down to Tesco to do your weekly shop in your birthday suit are not really examples of acceptable behaviour.

I am, however, suggesting that we have over sexualised that most essential of organs; our skin.

Yes, nudity can be sexual and highly arousing. I won’t deny that when I’m ripping a partner’s clothes off, and she’s doing the same to me, with the sole purpose of getting each other naked and getting it on, it is highly sexual. Let’s be honest, we wouldn’t want it any other way.  That discovering (or reacquainting ourselves with) the body that lies beneath the outer clothing, the body that is hidden away from public display, the body that we desire and want to do sex things to, is all part of the sexual experience.

At other times, when I’m slobbed out on the sofa and haven’t actually managed to get around to putting clothes on, it is anything but sexual, or indeed sexy, it is simply me in my natural state of undress.

Being undressed does not equate to sex. There are worlds of difference between sexual and non-sexual nudity. Maybe, just maybe, with their naked zones, perhaps the Germans have got it right after all.


Mood Swings

Depression is a bugger at the best of times (although best of times and depression don’t realy fit well in the same sentence). For me though, the worst thing is never really knowing what my mood is going to be.  Usually I take this from day to day. There are times when I have to go from hour to hour. Sometimes even this seems like I’m trying to plan too far ahead.

I have been on antidepressants almost constantly since August 2004. In that time, I have been on:

– Paroxetine
– Fluoxetine
– Citalopram

– Amitriptyline
– Lofepramine

– Duloxetine
– Venlafaxine

I am currently back on Fluoxetine.

Each of the above have succeeded (or not) in different ways. Almost all have brought the sometimes violent tremors in my right arm under control. All of the above have had their side effects. Some have worked for longer than others before their effectiveness began to dissipate. One of them, Venlafaxine, didn’t agree with me at all and I had to stop taking it almost as soon as I started.

While all of the above have stabilised my mood to a greater or lesser extent, the one thing they have not been able to prevent are my sudden changes of mood that often come on with no notice and no real trigger.

Now, mood changes are “normal”, everyone has them. For me, it’s not the fact that my mood can change rapidly that is the difficulty, it’s the depths to which it can sink when it heads downwards. For the most part, I keep my head above water. I’m not a particularly good swimmer however, so this can take a disproportionate that leaves me worn out. The result is that when I do sink, I sink fast and deep.

It’s fair to say, I never really know what mood I’m going to wake up in and, having woken up, there is no guarantee that I will still be in the same mood by the time I next go to sleep. My mood may have varied several times during the course of a day.

If you encounter me, I’m afraid you just have to take me as you find me. Generally though, if you do encounter me, I will be wearing the same mask that I put on every day as I face the world; the one that whenever I’m asked how I am, will invariable answer, “I’m fine, thank you” regardless of whether I actually am “fine” (it’s possible I may be if you catch me at a good time) or not.

My mood is neither predictable, nor constant. There’s a slight irony in that that makes me pretty much just like everybody else.


Word for Wednesday – Transient

Transient: pondering the impermanence of things. It really is quite a sad word when you stop to think about. Moods, feelings, friendships, relationships, even life itself is transient. Things that grab us briefly, the fashions we no longer admit to following, the joys, the sorrows, the high and the lows; all those things that make us who we are, fashion us and affect us with their varying degrees of transience.

The passing of the seasons, every second of every minute of every day of every year; They all pass us by, leaving us as the sole constant.

The friends we knew at school but have lost touch with, the partners, the lovers, the one-night-stands; all have marked us by their passing.

The loved ones that time and age and life have taken from us; the joys of their lives and the sorrows of their leaving; time has claimed them all, leaving us with just memories.

And then, one day in the future, I will no longer be here, and how will the transience of my life be remembered by those who affected it and were apart of it; and whose lives I affected and were also a part of?

Can there really be a sadder, more melancholy word than transient?




Talking about sex can be a big deal. Not for me, so much; I’ve always found it fairly easy to talk about the things I like, and the things I’m less keen on. In the main, most of my partners haven’t been backward about coming forward about such things either. Most, not all.

When both partners are able to talk quite openly about the things they like/dislike/want/need, it’s quite easy. When both partners are thoroughly acquainted with each other’s bodies, it can be easier still. You already know what they like, they know what you like, and sometimes all the “communication” that’s needed are those noises you make when someone is doing something you really enjoy them doing to you.

It’s slightly harder when the other person is less comfortable about such things. In these situations, I’ve always tried to “ease” things along with a gentle interrogation; trying something then asking if they like it/if it’s ok.

It’s not always easy; although mostly, as I say, I’ve been fortunate in this respect, but it does pay dividends. For me, a great part of my own enjoyment comes from knowing that the other person is enjoying what I’m doing; those little questions eliciting feedback let me know that I’m on the right track; that I’m doing something she actually enjoys rather than is enduring because she thinks I’m enjoying it.

That’s not to say that I want some sort of ongoing running commentary, but I’m always open to suggestion.


The Myth Of The Perfect Blow-Job

#MasturbationMondayI am a guy and I will admit, quite unashamedly, that I love having my cock sucked. I’m going to go all typically male here and say that in the almost thirty years since I received my first blow-job, I’ve never had a bad one.

They aren’t the only women to have written on this subject, but, both Malin James and Girl on The Net, two bloggers that I hold In the highest regard  have written excellent articles on the subject of blow-jobs from a female perspective, and I thought I’d throw in my thoughts on the subject from my own male point of view.

Now, as I said above, I love having my cock sucked. Whether it be as part of foreplay, or an event in its own right; whether it be slow and leisurely, or hard and fast; each and every blow-job that I have ever had has been something to savour and enjoy for the experience itself.

When my cock is being sucked, in so much as I am able to think of anything at all, the two things that I am “thinking” are, generally how grateful I am that the woman I’m with has chosen to wrap her lips around my cock and take it into her mouth and, how much I’m enjoying it. I am most certainly not giving you a mark out of ten, I am not awarding points for artistic interpretation or technical merit, there is no tariff for difficulty. Neither, for that matter, am I comparing the person currently (hopefully) enjoying my cock with any other person, nor indeed (assuming the woman in question has sucked me before) am I comparing it with any other blow-job she has given me. There is no “Fantasy Blow-Job League” title that needs to be competed for. I am simply enjoying the experience of having my cock attended to by her mouth.

Now, it goes without saying, that the only person (and the only cock) I can speak about with any authority is me (and mine). What works for me and my cock may not work for another guy and theirs. I do not hold myself out as being in anyway representative of my gender and my particular likes and dislikes are my own.  But that is very much the point. It is a point that certain magazines with their “How to give the perfect blow-job” or “10 things to do with your mouth that will blow him away” articles spectacularly manage to miss. We are all different; every man, every woman, every cock, every mouth. Let’s even go one stage further here and say, every blow-job is different; each made unique by the circumstances and setting in which it is performed and the mood, needs and desires of the performer and performee.  The problem with these articles is that they assume we are all the same and that there is some magical “One Right Way” to do things, which is, of course, a total and utter load of horse manure. I’m pretty sure that no one who has ever written one of these pieces of sage advice has ever sucked my cock, so how the hell do they know how I like to have it sucked, and what right have they to tell anyone that if they suck it in a certain way, it’s guaranteed to be the best, most intense blow-job that I have ever had?

That’s not to say that there are certain things that I like to have done to my cock that will turn me on more than others; we all have our preferences, we all have our unique pleasure spots and things that we like to have done to them.  The chances are, no one going down on me for the first time is going to get this 100% “right”. How could they? They don’t know what I like other than the general, he’s a guy, he’s probably going to enjoy getting his cock sucked. Nor would I expect them to know.

The key, as with all things sex, is communication. Generally, the sounds I make will let you know I’m enjoying it, but I’m not adverse to giving occasional feedback. You know, the “That thing you did with your tongue just there, would you mind doing it again?” or “A bit harder/faster” or even sometimes “Please slow down a bit” kind of thing.

It’s not a performance. It’s not a test of skill. It’s an act of giving and receiving pleasure and of enjoying the experience, whether as the giver or the receiver. Practice may not necessarily make perfect, but it does give both partners a deeper understanding of what works for them.

Fuck the glossy magazines and their intensely patronising “Top 10 Tips For Fantastic Fellatio”. What do they know? If you want to blow my mind, just do what comes naturally and enjoy it. Surely that’s what it’s really all about.


To Cock, Or Not To Cock

For some reason, known only to the random patterns of electrons and collections of ones and zeros that make up the internet, the search term that most frequently directs people to my blogs is “Cock Pics”. Almost every month, without fail, if it isn’t the top search term, it is in the top two or three. This got me thinking, do I really display my penis that often?

To date, I have posted 125 photos on over my photo blog. Of these, my penis has been fully visible in 30 of them. So, 24%, or  as near as damn it a quarter of them. That’s a reasonably significant fraction of my photos that feature my significant fraction. Having said that, my arse features in 36 photos.

Of those 30 photos in which my penis makes an appearance, in the vast majority of cases, it has at best a cameo, or supporting role. Only in four posts could it be said to have the star billing, namely:

Now, granted, in “Penile Bombardment” you get four views for the price of one, but it was kind of incidental to the point I was making. “Dick(ie) Bow;” and “Christmas Is A Cumming…” are clearly intended to be at least mildly humourous. That basically leaves ““A” Is For Awakening” as the sole gratuitous “Cock Pic”.

Being a male blogger, and in particular, being a male blogger who posts naked photos of myself, it requires some thought as to which area of my body to focus on. Some readers like my hands, some my arms, others my shoulders. Some like my back, some like my chest, some like my arse, and some do actually like my penis.

By and large, however, with the exception of those four posts mentioned above, while my penis may be visible, it is not the focus of my photo. Depending on the viewer, the eye may be drawn towards it, but its presence is simply a side effect of me being both male and naked.

Do I feel any compulsion to show it off? No, not really; it’s just there, a part of me, just like any other part of me. If it makes an appearance in a photo (the aforementioned posts excepted), it is simply because it happens to be in shot, or in some way necessary to make a particular photo work.

I’m not saying my photos aren’t sexual; some people may find them extremely so. It’s simply that, by having a very relaxed attitude to nakedness, I have a different perspective.


Baring All

It will probably be no surprise to anyone reading this, especially if you are a regular viewer of my #SinfulSunday posts, that I am quite comfortable being in a state of undress.

I have written before on the subject of self-image, and I am, I guess, quite fortunate. I have always been pretty comfortable in my own skin and always been fairly relaxed about letting it all hang out. That’s not to say that I like all bits of my body equally. There are bits that I am not particularly fond of; my lopsided ears for example and my double chins.  The latter I can partially excuse on my hypothyroidism, the ears, however, I was born with.  There are other bits that I think are actually pretty good. Thirty odd years of running up and down rugby pitches has meant my legs (especially thighs and calves) are in pretty good shape, and the upper body strength required for the game means that my shoulders and chest are pretty well developed (although this causes issues finding shirts/jumpers/etc. that fit me in the sleeve).

There are other bits that I’m fairly ambivalent about. My mid section is a bit Meh!  I’ve let it go to seed a bit.  I can still hold it in easily enough to take a good photo, but in its natural state, it’s much more relaxed. My penis? Well, I’m male, I have one. I’m not going to reiterate my views on the aesthetic qualities (or lack thereof) of the male sexual organ; suffice to say that it does what it’s meant to do, and the women who have encountered it in the flesh have all seemed satisfied with it, so that’s all that I really need.

As I said, being naked is generally something I’m relaxed about.  I can happily wander round the house undressed. I’m not bothered, really, if someone sees me through a not quite closed blind.  I can happily go naked on a beach if local custom allows.  This latter bit is not out of any real sense of exhibitionism, just a preference because I find it so much more comfortable.

Getting naked for someone is a wee bit more challenging.  There is always a bit of apprehension and, indeed, vulnerability, about letting someone see you naked for the first time. Fortunately I’ve always been able to rationalise this away by the fact that I expect the other person is feeling similar things and I am concentrating on their body; appreciating it and enjoying it so that I’m not thinking about mine.

I’m not saying that, in those moments I’m not wishing that maybe my stomach was flatter or that, perhaps, my cock was a little bit bigger (it’s a bloke thing, OK; I’m completely happy with it, but I’d be completely happy with the next size up too…); but the woman I am with is also sharing her vulnerability with me, she is baring and revealing herself; and that, for me, is a wonderful thing to experience and share.

So, yeah, I’m comfortable with my body, I have no shame in being naked and am (generally) relaxed in that state. Granted, in certain naked situations, a part of me is most definitely not relaxed, but that’s the topic, perhaps, for another post.


Split Personalities

Like many people on the “darker” fringes of the blogging world, I split my online presence into Certificate-U “Vanilla” and Certificate-18 “NSFW” categories.  To keep them separate, and to avoid the risk of crossover, I even go so far as to use different apps for each; Google Chrome for Cert-U and Mozilla for Cert-18, Twitter App for Cert-U, Tweetcaster/Tweetdeck for Cert-18.

Even with that, my devices still sometimes try to merge my contacts across both personae, or suggest that one me might know the other me.

I suspect that this is not uncommon for members of this particular online community; a community where we balance openness with a need for privacy/discretion. Some people are fully out, and I am sometimes a little envious of their ability to walk freely among us; but I suspect the majority of us live much more anonymous/pseudonymous lives.

My situation is slightly more confusing.  Not intentionally, but it’s ended up that way. My NSFW side now has three blogs split across two personae.


As I said, accidental, not intentional.

I used to lump all things NSFW under the Kilted Wookie persona. My stories, my photographs and my thoughts and observations were all lumped together in one blog. It was simple. It worked.

Only one problem, my mental health

About a year ago I went through a bit of a meltdown. I tore everything down. I deleted pretty much everything to do with Kilted Wookie. The only exception was Twitter. Even there I actually deleted all the tweets from the account.  I didn’t delete the account itself because KW was and had been a very big part of me, and even if I wasn’t using that persona, I didn’t want anyone else adopting it, so I kept the account and left it dormant.

After a while, I relented to an extent, and put my stories, back online. I haven’t written any new ones, but they are still there for people to read and (hopefully) enjoy. I was still dormant in the community, but I at least had a presence.

Some of you may know that, writing (if you can dignify my efforts as such) aside, my big passion is photography. Now, in addition to the wonderful #SinfulSunday meme (of which I have been a participant of since 2015, Molly also runs February Photo Fest. It just so happened that by the time this year’s collection rolled around, I was in a much better place mentally. I also had a bucket load of photos that I had taken as potential #SinfulSunday  posts, but had never got around to sharing. I decided to take the plunge; #NaughtyHastags was born.

There was one small snag: TWITTER.

I still had the account, but I couldn’t remember the password. As part of the online purge, I had also deleted the email account that was associated with @Kilted_Wookie. The result was that I had no way back into that account and so, I became @ZenNudist.

Ultimately, by sheer fluke, the KW password insinuated itself back into my consciousness, and I was able to link up the photo blog to it (the writing blog had always been attached so if I had actually done any writing, that would have come through). By then though, @ZenNudist had become my established identity on Twitter and it would have been probably even more confusing than it already was to move back and re-establish @Kilted_Wookie.

So, there you have it: the mixed up, slightly strange journey to how I became two versions of the same person, with three different blogs, simultaneously.

Confused? I am, so I could hardly blame you if you are.


Self Image

I’ll be the first to admit, I’m a bit of an exhibitionist; whether it’s participating in #SinfulSunday, or sprawling bollock naked on a beach in the sun, I’m very much at ease. I’m fortunate that I’ve never really had what you might call body issues.

I’m no Adonis, by any means; I’m a 47 year old, slightly balding, more than slightly greying, former rugby player who enjoyed the social side of his sport (rugby was strictly amateur in my playing days) probably even more than the sporting side, and one who, when forced into retirement through injury, promptly exchanged his 6-pack for a keg.

That’s not to say there aren’t bits of me I wouldn’t change. I never did make it to 6′ (I’m, 5’9½ – and ask any guy, that ½” makes all the difference, and not just when it comes to height), I could probably do with shedding a few pounds (I’m about 196lbs – the UK version). And, since I’m a bloke, and I’m being honest, I wouldn’t complain if my cock was a little bit longer, but I digress. The fact is, I get lots of lovely, appreciative feedback on my #SinfulSunday offerings; from the male participants as well as the female, and it positively reinforces my feelings about that aspect of myself. The #SinfulSunday community is, without doubt, the most supportive and enabling bunch of people I have ever had the good fortune to encounter (and, in some case, meet).

But physical body image is only part of the story. No discussion on self-image is complete without pausing on a person’s mental reflection of themselves. That’s where things take a massive downhill plunge for me.

If you follow me on Twitter, then you you will probably know me as someone who is (I hope) witty, smutty, flirty and generally friendly. Someone who is fiercely protective and loyal to his friends. Someone who has a dry, wry, sardonic and frequently self-deprecating sense of humour. I am also someone prone to bouts of black depression.

In real life, I have battled depression for nearly 30 years. My exhibitionist streak aside, I am not overly blessed with self-confidence, I am socially awkward, I am, believe it or not, painfully, almost delbilitatingly shy around strangers and I am often given to prolonged periods of self-loathing. In work, and indeed out of it, I have developed a mask of easy-going, self confidence and competence that is completely at odds with how I view myself. I am constantly waiting to be found out. Pretty much every day is a struggle; first to get out of bed, then to leave the house, then to make it into work. I come home at the end of the day exhausted from the effort of keeping the mask in place.

Inevitably, sometimes the mask slips. This, naturally, only makes me feel worse. It makes me feel a kind of nakedness that I never feel simply from not having any clothes on.

And yet, I am completely open about my illness. I believe it’s only fair that family, friends and colleagues should know so that they can identify the signs (even sometimes when I’m ignoring them) and take account. I don’t want people make special allowances for my illness, that would only make me feel worse, and I never hide behind it, but I do believe that it’s better to be open about it. Nobody likes being the elephant in the room after all (unless that’s a complimentary comment directed at the size of my cock).


TMI Tuesday: Shame

  1. TMI TuesdayTell us a sexual thing/fantasy would you never want your friends to know you like or have done?
    This is an oddly difficult one to answer. On the one hand, the online me is quite open and frank about sex and sexuality, the “real life” me is a very private person and in that respect, my “private” life stays private. I don’t really want my friends and family knowing any more about my particular sexual tastes than I want to know about theirs.
  2. Has anyone ever found an item of sexy underwear, a sex toy or perhaps a picture on your phone that embarrassed you?
  3. Do you have any fantasies you could never go through with because you think you would feel ashamed?
    No, but see the answer to the next question for a fuller explanation.
  4. Have you ever felt shame after a sexual experience?
    Simple answer to this one is, once again, “no”. The reason for this is, that in my way of thinking, there is nothing shameful about any sexual act that is legal and comitted between two (or possibly more if that’s your thing) consenting adults. That’s not to say I haven’t regretted things that I’ve done after they’ve happened; I suspect most of us have at least one shag in our history that, with hindsight, would have been better avoided, but that is totally different from feeling shame.

    The sex poisitivist in me actually finds it very difficult to equate sex and shame. I don’t think there can, nor shoud, be any shame attached to anything that two (or more, same caveat as above) people freely and consensually chose to do together.

    Having said that, one further caveat. Although both legal and (presumeably) consensual, If I were cheating sexually on a sinificant other, then I suspect I would feel shame in that I would be deceiving the person I was cheating on, and possibly also the person I was cheating with if I didn’t make them aware that I was cheating. In that instance however, it’s the breach of trust that is the cause of the shame, not the sex in itself; even though the sex is the means by which the trust was breached.

Bonus:  Share a recent non-sexual moment of shame.
I genuinely can’t think of anything that I am actually ashamed of (and certainly not recently). While that may make me sound like a boring goody-goody, I should point out that I’ve done plenty of things that I’ve regretted, or been embarrassed as a result of, which I suspect falls within the spirit of the question), but the pedant in me is going to keep them to myself for now.