Word for Wednesday – Hedonism

Hedonism

/ˈhiːdəˌnɪzəm; ˈhɛd-/
noun
  1. Ethics
    (a) the doctrine that moral value can be defined in terms of pleasure
    (b) the doctrine that the pursuit of pleasure is the highest good
  2. the pursuit of pleasure as a matter of principle
  3. indulgence in sensual pleasures

I am a sensualist. When it comes to sex, I am all about the senses; the more the senses are involved, the more intense the experience.

Sight
Men are, apparently, visual creatures. I am no exception. I’m not just talking about the enjoyment of seeing my partner naked; although that is part of it. It’s about seeing their reactions. How a certain touch makes them respond. The involuntary twitches/flinched, the changes in their expression; it’s a form of visual feedback that is, in itself, a rewarding experience.

Wicked WednesdaySound
Sound is such a strong sensual element of sex. There are the sounds your partner makes; the moans, the gasps, the sighs, the verbal tics that demonstrate their pleasure. There are the sounds of leather striking skin, the sounds of the bed protesting beneath us, the sounds of two bodies moving together in a sexual collision. Then there’s the sounds of orgasm itself; mine and, more importantly, hers. It is the confirmation that I have taken her to that highest plane of pleasure.

Scent
I am anosmic. Not fully so, but my sense of smell is very weak. It is still an important sense. When I’m going down on a woman, her scent combines with her taste, making my enjoyment of this particular activity even stronger.

Touch
I am extremely tactile. I love touching and being touched. I love the feel of my partner’s skin against mine. But it’s also about how my partner responds to my touch. How she reacts as I touch her nipples, how wet she gets as I slide my fingers into her, the sensations as her lips slide along my cock. Then there is that wonderful feeling as her wet warmth surrounds my hardness; the insides of her thighs rubbing against the oustides of mine as our bodies move together.

Taste
From the taste of her perspiration on her skin, to the sweet richness of her juices as I lick her, taste is a deep sensual experience. When I’m face down between her thighs, I can gauge her arousal from her flavour.

Each sense provides its own sensations, it’s own element of the overall experience. For a sensualist like me, the more the senses are engaged, the higher the arousal, the deeper the pleasure and the fuller the enjoyment.

ZeN

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Intellectual Curiosity

#MasturbationMondayWhile this week’s prompt seemed to indicate that the topic under the magnifying glass (not literally, before any of us guys get an inferiority complex) was the penis, I’ve decided to go off on a bit of a tangent. I am male and, therefore, it kind of goes without saying that I have a penis. I have, in fact, written a number of posts on the subject of my penis. My penis and I have been life-long partners and have shared many wonderful experiences together.

So, as I said, I thought I’d go somewhere slightly different…

For the record, I have absolutely no desire to be a woman. PMT, periods, pregnancy, childbirth, menopause, having to put up with us guys, inherent sexism in society; no, not for me. My genetic role of the dice came up XY and for that I am eternally grateful.

However, as someone who writes about sex, and writes (hopefully fairly realistic) descriptions of sex, I am curious as to what it would feel like from the female perspective.

Now, even as a man, there is nothing stopping me from, if I were so inclined, sucking another guy’s cock, or taking a cock in my arse but (and it’s a big but), I am not so inclined. There are some sacrifices I will not make for my art.

So, when trying to write about sex from a female perspective, I have attempted to glean what it feels like from my various partners over the years.

I know what it feels like to be inside a woman and, conversely, I can sort of imagine how it must feel in reverse, but I will never know.

So, if I could spend a day a woman, how would I spend that day?

Well, it stands to reason that I would spend a fair bit of time exploring and getting to know my new bits, for the purposes of research, obviously, you understand. Experiencing both orgasm, and the frustration of its denial as a woman would give me a fantastic insight for some of my D/s stories.

And then there’s sex…

Now, this is where it gets interesting. As I’ve already pointed out, as a straight male, I have absolutely no interest, sexually, in my own gender. This poses a bit of a problem. Were my personality to be transplanted, as is, into the body of a woman, with no other changes, then presumably my sexual preferences would remain as they are; i.e. attracted to women, no interest in men.  Surely then, this would make me a lesbian?

I don’t have a real problem with this. Given my passion for cunnilingus, I guess that would still be an option, and I would get to experience it from the woman’s perspective, so it’s all good.

However, given that I’ve already said, any such switch would be for the purposes of research, and so to fully achieve this, being a woman would also mean sex with a guy, otherwise what is the point of the experiment? Could I do it? Would I be able to enjoy it is I did? How would the experience affect me when I reverted back to my own body?

Of course,  another way of looking at it would be that since I am heterosexual, the female “me” would be as well, and I would be able to fully experience and (hopefully) enjoy the feelings and sensations of what it is to be a woman being taken by a man; to experience as a “receiver” all the things I do with my partner in my natural state as the “giver”

In an ideal world, the female “me would like both men and women, but I suspect I’m possibly being greedy.

Now, if you have read any of my stories, it may be that you think that my descriptions of sex and the feelings experienced by both partners are fairly accurate, albeit that everyone’s senses and sensations are unique to them. That being the case, the exercise become somewhat academic because, ultimately, the only person whose experiences and feelings I can truly accurately describe are my own.

On the whole, I think I’ll just stick to using my imagination. It seems to work well enough. I can’t deny, however, that I do have a certain intellectual curiosity. As I mentioned at the start however, I am very happy being a man and, in particular, this man.

ZeN

Bottoms up! (Or making an arse of things)

In my experience, the women I have been with have fallen into two camps: those that took it up the arse, and those that didn’t. Those that did enjoyed it and those that didn’t were quite adamant that it wasn’t going to happen. In only one instance has it transpired that I stumbled upon an “uncertain” and that was simply because she had never tried it before. Once she had tried it, she was firmly in the “Yes” camp thereafter; so I can only assume I did something right.

Of the women I have done it with, there has been no general consensus as to how they preferred it done. Some liked it rough and hard, some preferred me to take it slowly and (as much as it can be) gently. All expressed a notion for it being somehow taboo, or illicit in a way that vaginal or anal sex were not. It was somehow darker, dirtier (if you’ll excuse the obvious double meaning) and that made it somehow more exciting.

Personally, when push comes to shove, it’s something I can take or leave. For me it has always been a case of “lady’s choice”. When the woman I’ve been with has wanted it, I’ve done it and enjoyed it. Similarly, when the woman hasn’t wanted it, I haven’t missed it. Also, in terms of what I do, I have only ever been a “giver”, “receiving” isn’t my thing.

What it comes down to, for me, is that it is simply one more weapon in my arsenal, one more string in my bow.  There are plenty of other activities that couples can enjoy that the presence or absence of this particular one makes little difference.  I don’t enjoy sex more when I get to fuck her arse, I don’t enjoy it less when I don’t.

Wicked WednesdayAs with everything, communication and respect is key. If the woman says its a “no”, then it’s a “no”; stop there, don’t try to coerce her into something she doesn’t want to do. In the case of my “uncertain”, it was something she was curious about but it was something where, ultimately, I let her set the pace; I didn’t force it, but from expressing an interest, we experimented and built up from fingering until she was ready for me to fuck her.  All the time the understanding was that if she didn’t like it or wanted me to stop at any point, I would.

As it happened, I stopped quite a few times. She wanted to persevere and after a few false starts along the way, we finally got there.  As I mentioned above, it turned out it was something she enjoyed and it is something we did fairly regularly after that.  Had I tried to force my way in on that first attempt, there is every chance I might have put her off it and, more importantly from my fragile male ego’s perspective, me.

All this is, I guess, is a rather rambling and long-winded way of saying that for me, its presence or absence is not a deal-breaker. I’ve always believed and strongly maintain that, first and foremost, sex should be enjoyable for the participants. If something you do enhances that, great; if it doesn’t, then concentrate on the things that do.

Ultimately though, if someone offers you their arse, don’t be one.

ZeN

Word for Wednesday – Reflection

Reflection

/rɪˈflɛkʃən/
noun
  1. the act of reflecting or the state of being reflected
  2. careful or long consideration or thought

Reflection is almost inevitable at this time of year. We look back at the things that have happened and how they have affected us. We look forward to the coming year and what might be for both good and bad.

The start of the year, although completely arbitrary, is almost by default, a time of reflection.

In my last post of 2017, I looked back at the highs I had in terms of my return to blogging. In this, my first post of 2018, my thoughts turn, as they often do, to the topic of mental health.

Helpful Numbers #MentalHealthLike many people, I find the festive period particularly difficult. I won’t bore you with my specific reasons, but suffice to say that by the time the end of the holiday period finally rolls around, I am more than happy to see the back of it. It is the one holiday that simply through the sheer effort of enduring it, leaves me more worn out and exhausted, mentally, physically and spiritually at its end than I was at its beginning.

I mentioned before, that I do not suffer from Seasonally Affected Disorder, but perhaps it would be more accurate to say that there is a very specific “season” that I find particularly hard to bear.

Every year, somewhere between Christmas Day and New Year’s Day, I make a conscious decision whether or not I carry on. In doing so, I make a positive affirmation that, having made it through the year just gone by, I will give it my best endeavours to make it to the end of the year that is to come. It isn’t a promise; it is simply a statement of what I intend to achieve. If I manage to achieve anything else between now and the end of 2018 then that is a bonus. The only resolution I ever set myself is that I try not to spend every day of the forthcoming year regretting the decision I have made.

This has not been a very positive post; mainly because I am not in a very positive place. For me it is the time of my darkest reflections.

ZeN

Winter

I must admit, I hadn’t actually thought about the kinky connections of winter. Having said that, as we hurtle towards one of my least favourite times of the year, I’m not really thinking about the kinky connections of anything.

First off, I am fortunate that I don’t suffer from Seasonally Affected Disorder (SAD). On account of my depression, I’m a miserable fucker all year round, the only difference between winter and summer being that it’s colder, so I generally wear more clothes.

There is something nice about snuggling up with someone in the comfortable warmth of indoors when the weather outside is cold and bleak and daylight is an increasingly rare commodity.

Whether its under a blanket on the sofa, in bed and a heavy tog duvet, or lying together in front of a log fire, there is very little that beats the intimacy and closeness of a good, long lazy snuggle (except, perhaps, when the “snuggle” is somewhat less lazy).

And that, possibly, is one advantage of this time of year; when it’s cold outside, we turn the heating up inside. There’s something about being warm and cozy that lends itself to activities of an amorous nature.  As the temperature rises, the layers of clothing can fall away. What started with a cuddle, can progress to sharing body heat in an altogether more vigorous fashion.

It’s kind of the ultimate “Netflix & Chill” where the “chilling” most certainly involves keeping warm. And as we approach the Winter Solstice and almost 16 hours of darkness, there is only so much Netflix you can watch, and there are much nicer things two people can be doing to while away the longest winter nights.

ZeN

Schrödinger’s Wanker

#MasturbationMondaySome of you will, no doubt, be at least passingly familiar with the concept of Schrödinger’s cat; the idea postulated to explain the strange nature of quantum superpositions, in which a quantum system such as an atom or photon can exist as a combination of multiple states corresponding to different possible outcomes. The prevailing theory at the time said that a quantum system remained in this superposition until it interacted with, or was observed by, the external world, at which time the superposition collapses into one or another of the possible definite states.

Still with me?

To illustrate this. Schrödinger  proposed a scenario with a cat in a locked steel chamber, wherein the cat’s life or death depended on the state of a radioactive atom, whether it had decayed and emitted radiation or not.

One of the obvious problems with this, aside from its inherent cruelty to the cat is that, depending on how long the radioactive material actually took to decay, the cat could die for a number of totally unrelated reasons, i.e. starvation or, more likely due to need for the steel box in question to be sealed to prevent stray radiation entering from outside, asphyxiation. Another possibility is that the cat could die out of sheer boredom. All of these deaths could occur without radioactive decay and would, therefore, render the experiment invalid (and pointless).

This did get me thinking, in an oddly roundabout way, about the internet and the way we interact with each other over it.

In this scenario, the “internet” is the closed box and I am the cat/wanker in question. Now, at the time of writing this particular piece of nonsense, I am most definitely not having a wank. For one thing, I’m male and multi-tasking is not my thing, and for another, my general lack of typing ability means that I primarily use my dominant hand for both activities; so if I’m doing one, I cannot be doing the other. QED.

But what about from the readers’ frame of reference?

Assuming anyone reads this, they will be reading it at a different point of time from when I wrote it. I am, therefore, unobservable because I am inside that box that is the internet. I could therefore, be wanking and or not-wanking when you read these words. As such, I would simultaneously be performing an act of masturbation, while also not masturbating at the same time. You, my dear reader, would never know unless you were able to somehow peek inside “the box” (presumably using a web cam or similar) while reading these words.

Ladies and Gentlemen of the audience; I present to you…

Schrödinger’s Wanker…

ZeN

Dominance Through Cunnilingus

Wicked WednesdayOne of the things I really don’t understand is the idea that performing cunnilingus on a woman is somehow an inherently submissive act. I get that it can be. I realise that porn abounds with images of the Domme female forcing her sissy male to eat her out. I understand, really I do.

But just because something can be done in a submissive fashion, doesn’t make it inherently submissive. You will no doubt have read the views of many female bloggers, women who identify as submissive, on the “power” and “control” they feel when they are sucking a cock. Does this suddenly maker the submissive woman Dominant in that relationship? No, of course it doesn’t. The chances are, while she may still doing it to please her Dominant; I suspect however, that rather than sucking cock as an act of submission, mostly the women in question are sucking cock because they love to suck cock.

The same is true for me and cunnilingus. It is something I love to do. I love the taste of a woman. I love her reactions as I feast on her. On top of all that, I love the fact that when my face is between her thighs, her pleasure is mine to dictate. I can choose how rough or how tenderly I treat her. I can decide how much teasing she has to endure before my tongue moves between her labia and works over her clit. I can dictate the pace and the power. Furthermore, I have absolute control over her orgasm.

TOSPI can chose to award her one quickly. I can choose to prolong the experience. I can take her to the edge over and over until I relent. I can push her beyond the limits of her endurance, driving her over the edge repeatedly until she begs me to stop (which I alone will decide whether or not I do). I can, on occasion, take her to the very brink and then deny her the final release should I so desire.

So far from being a submissive act, cunnilingus is simply another tool in the Dominant’s arsenal; a tool that, when used effectively can reward and punish in equal measure.

Ultimately however, the main reason I go down on a woman, is simply because it is something I thoroughly enjoy doing, whatever the end result.

ZeN

No Worries…

Penis ProjectIt’s a strange one, isn’t it? Ask a woman what size her boobs are and, assuming she’s willing to divulge such information, she’ll tell you. Ask a man how big his cock is, and you’ll probably be met with something along the lines of: “Um, dunno, probably about 6 inches”. If you are really unlucky, he may take that as an invitation to send you a photo of it.

Now I suspect one of the reasons women know their measurements much more accurately than we men know ours is that they have to get themselves fitted to wear an uncomfortable garment that, ultimately, is still the wrong size; whereas we don’t need to worry about such things. Also, a woman’s boobs, even when modestly covered are still pretty much on display; whereas what we men have in our trousers is, by and large, more discreetly concealed.

It’s not that we men are reticent about our penises; far from it. Indeed, we seem to take the opportunity to proudly wave them about at every opportunity, so why are we generally so vague on their dimensions?

Well, for one thing, their dimensions are decidedly inconstant. Mine changes according to the mood I’m in, the temperature, whether or not I need to pee, my partner’s state of undress or what she happens to be doing at any given moment. When I’m cold it can shrivel down to virtually nothing, when aroused it is, well, whatever size it is.

The fact is that the women I’ve been with have all seemed to like it. When I was younger, before any member of the opposite sex had even seen my member, I used to have some concerns that maybe, just maybe, I wasn’t “man enough” in that department, but such doubts were quickly dispelled by the first girl to see it (and subsequently feel it) and the comments that I have had directed about it have all been favourable.

#MasturbationMondayThe insecurity, such as it was, came from comparing my cock in its flaccid state with other lads my age. I am very much what you might describe as a “grower”. The other problem is, things always look smaller when you look down on them, and given that since my early teens I have been about 5′10″ that’s a reasonably long way down to look. Of course, even then, I knew that the size of a penis in its flaccid state bears no relation to its size when fully erect, but that was all I had to go on.

Even as I grew more confident, thanks to the appreciative comments of the women who saw it in the flesh, I’d still rather that their first view of it was in at least a semi-erect state.

I’m over such things now. Even when I had “hang-ups” I still knew that it wasn’t really the size that was the important thing, nor was my penis the only thing that gave women pleasure during sex.

I have learned that, ultimately, the important thing is, is that the woman I am with likes it and what I do with it. As for how big it is, um, I dunno, about 6″ I guess.

ZeN

Cheating

It’s one of those perennial “truth or dare” type questions that comes around now and again.

Have you ever cheated? If so, what were the reasons behind it, and how did you feel afterwards?

The honest answer to this question is: “Yes“. I’m not proud of the fact, despite the fact that some may say I had justification for doing so; but yes, I have cheated.

The circumstances, and I am not attempting to justify my actions, were difficult. My (then) wife had had at least three affairs that I was aware of. While not exactly turning a blind eye to such things, for the sake of my marriage and the fact that, despite this, I did love her, I was prepared to live with it. We were together for 16 years.

It was only in the last few, painful, months that I finally strayed myself.

Some might think it was a form of retaliation; it wasn’t. I didn’t actually go looking for someone else to have sex with, it just happened. The fact that the woman involved was, herself, married, only added to the generally fucked-upness of the situation.

I was at a pretty low place in terms of my depression (I had had a complete breakdown some months earlier) and I was flattered that, in my broken state, someone found me remotely attractive. The affair, such as it was, lasted about a year, continuing some six months after I eventually moved out.

Despite my circumstances, I still felt bad about it. Not because I’d held some moral high ground for sticking to my vows while my wife had flaunted hers, but because somehow I had become “that guy”; the one who uses his own sorry situation to get himself laid.

The sex, however, was very good. It filled a gap in what was left with the relationship with my wife. I didn’t feel guilty, nor did I feel a sense of vindicated retaliation. It was simply some very good sex, where there no longer was any sex at home (well, actually, there was sex going on at home, but it wasn’t me having it).

I still felt bad about it though.

Humans: we love to complicate things.

ZeN

Ssshhh! It’s A Secret…

Share Our ShitI’ve had a few chats about anonymity in the context of our community of late. It seems we occupy a very polarised section of reality.

There are some bloggers, who are pretty much “out”. I’m thinking along the lines of people like Molly Moore and Tabitha Rayne. Whether or not they use their real names or pen names, their identities are pretty much known. They show their faces, and other bits. They are out and proud.

Then there are the “halfways”. This time I’m thinking May More and Helen Scott. They use what may (or may not) be their real names. They blog openly about subjects that affect/interest them personally. They participate in (potentially) revealing memes like #SinfulSunday. And yet, for all that we know that both have cracking breasts, we don’t really know who they are; we never see their faces.

Finally, there are the “anons”. People like Girl on The Net and myself (not that I’m holding myself out as being in her league). For all that we frankly discuss the aspects of sex and sexuality that interest and/or concern us, we remain hidden behind pseudonyms, our identities hidden to all but a trusted few who have met and know us.

Now this, sadly, is quite understandable. While the activities we in the community discuss so freely are “normal”, so called polite society does not deem them suitable for public consumption. There are many people who would not approve of me if they knew I was a sex blogger.  I would almost certainly suffer professionally, despite the fact that the topics I write about are well within the bounds of what is considered to be normal human behaviour. It’s simply that, I write about a part of human behaviour that is conducted, for the most part, behind closed doors, and which, it seems, the majority of people would prefer not to be discussed at all.

Now, because I participate in #SinfulSunday, and occasionally post more explicit images on tumblr, it is, I guess, perceivable that my real identity could be gleaned by some sharp-eyed viewer. This is a risk I accept. Similarly, I enjoy meeting members of the community in real life and try to do so wherever my work travels take me. It is, after all, always nice to put a face to the boobs and/or arses I see every week. But every time I do so, I am entrusting them with my most precious secret, the real me. Of course, they are placing the same trust in me. There is, I guess you could say, an element of Mutually Assured Destruction in place.

Partially in jest, I once commented to Exposing40 that one of the bizarre things about our community is that often, the face is the last bit of each other that we see. It’s kind of inevitable I guess; It wouldn’t exactly be appropriate for us to meet up in a public location and try and identify each other by our naughty bits after all. That said, given that we would likely be the only people present with said naughty bits on display might make it a bit easier.

I fully accept and understand why those of us who blog openly about sex need to be protective of our identities, I just wish that now, in the 21st Century, such secrecy wasn’t required.

Which, finally, brings me to the point of this rambling post. \this community is what it is because of the wonderful people who contribute to it; the writers, the reviewers, the photographers, the bloggers, the readers, the commenters and the lurkers. We need to look out for each other. The more observant among you may have noticed this post is slightly more link heavy than usual and the reason for that is that we need to “Share our Shit!

Zen