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.




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.


Facial Hair

Most of you will no doubt be aware that I am “moderately” hirsute, to say the least. I have been shaving (my face) regularly since I was 12/13. My beard, such as it is, grows in pretty quickly and quite thick.

I have, possibly surprisingly, only ever grown a beard twice in my life, both times for charitable causes, and both times I couldn’t wait to get rid of the bloody thing.

Some men can grow a beard with relative impunity, others can’t. I fall most definitely in the “can’t” category.

For one thing, it doesn’t suit me.  I really don’t have the right sort of chin (or, since I’m being honest, chins) for it. There is also the fact that, despite being dark haired, it used to grow in with ginger streaks in it.  The ginger bits have now been replaced with silver, so I’ve gone from looking like a raccoon to a badger.

But then there is the itch. It starts after about 4/5 days and no matter how long I endure it, it just doesn’t diminish, and so, out comes the razor. Of course, I have very pale, sensitive, Celtic skin, and shaving irritates the fuck out of it. In my late teens and early 20s, when the job I did involved being in the presence of the public, I used to shave daily and I had an almost permanent combination of 5 o’clock shadow and shaving rash that was the worst of both worlds, no mater how well I moisturised.

Now, I tend to just tidy myself up twice a week. My skin is never really smooth because one side of my face has started regrowing before I’ve completed shaving the other side.  It is almost the facial grooming equivalent of painting the Forth Bridge.

Apparently, however, my prickliness, while making kissing me a bit uncomfortable, does have its “advantages” when I’m going down on a woman. I guess then, being a walking lint brush isn’t all bad.



It’s not just about the pain that it inflicts on the receiver; although that can be a big part of it sometimes, it is about so many other things.

Firstly, it’s about trust. It’s the trust that the receiver has in you, knowing that you are going to cause pain, but trusting you to keep it to what is acceptable.

It’s about exploring boundaries. Linked in with the trust mentioned above, there is the exploration of limits, of taking things that little bit further, of pushing the person on the receiving end to take that little bit more and, for them, trying to determine their own levels of endurance.

It’s about the senses. There is something animal, something primal about the sound of skin striking skin. There is something about that particular sound of hand coming into contact with buttock that has an electric feel about it; it echoes and reverberates in a way that is uniquely alone. There are the moans and cries of the receiver as the pain and the heat grow with each contact, the sheer animal nature of the other person’s response to pain. And then of course there is the wonder of the skin changing colour; from unblemished, through deepening shades of pink, to a fiery crimson glow. The receiver’s skin, a canvass on which I display my art.

It’s about caring and respect. No spanking should ever go unappreciated. The surrender implicit in the other person allowing me to subject them to such attentions should always be recognised, appreciated and cherished.

It’s very easy to get wrapped up in the physical aspect of spanking that, to the uninitiated, it is sometimes easy to miss the deeply sensual and emotional elements that go along with the act. Inflicting/enduring pain is, of course, a very obvious and visible part of the experience but, just like an iceberg, it is the elements that can’t be seen because they are below the surface, the feelings, the emotions, that go so much deeper.


White Lines

#MasturbationMondayIf porn is to be believed, the cumshot is the absolute epitome of the male climax, the Crème de la Crème of the male sexual experience. It seems we men are incapable of achieving orgasm inside the body of a woman. We just can’t help ourselves, it seems; as soon as we reach the point of no return, we simply have to whip our cocks out of whatever hole they have been pounding, and deposit our load all over the face, neck, boobs, tummy, arse of the object of our carnal desires.

Sometimes, I think the whole “mainstream” porn industry is some sort of advert for the Catholic Church’s Family Planning Unit. Cue:

“Every sperm is sacred, every sperm is great. If a sperm gets wasted, God gets quite irate…”

Given that there are around 8 billion of us on this planet, it certainly highlights the inadequacy of coitus interruptus as a form of contraception; but, I digress…

Now here’s the rub (pun possibly intended); when it comes to shooting my load, I actually like to be directed by the recipient of it. If she wants me to cum hard inside her, then that’s what I’ll do. If she wants me to unload in her mouth, then I’m up for that. If she wants me to erupt all over her an then rub it in, then I will happily oblige. If she wants some combination of all of the above, I’ll try my best but I can’t promise. It may require more than one shot at it…

Actually as an aside, and as someone who believes in safe sex, the majority of my sexual relationships, have been  what you could call “condom relationships”, so, with very few exceptions, cumming inside her actually involves cumming inside the condom, but that’s a minor technical point.

There is,in my opinion, something incredibly hot in seeing my lover streaked with my cum; it adds a particular stamp to the proceedings. I’ve never been with someone who wanted me to give them a facial, but any number of women that I’ve “entertained” have enjoyed me shooting forth over their boobs.

As Girl on the Net said in her post, I like to ask the woman where she wants it. I also love it when the woman chooses, completely unsolicited, to tell me where she wants me to cum. One of the hottest experiences I have ever had is when the woman I was with took me to the edge with her mouth, wanked me off over her boobs, then asked me to rub it in while I ate her out. For some strange reason, that got me hard again very quickly. There is something insanely hot about seeing her lying there with a dreamy well fucked contentedness on her face, wearing the mark of our passion proudly on her skin.

That said, the visual aesthetics of her wearing my load on her boobs, seeing it dribble from her cunt, or watching her lick it from her lips are all visual, post-climactic treats. At the point of orgasm, I’m not really caring about such niceties; if I’m concentrating on anything at all during those few moments of release it is on sensations of said release alone, not where it is ending up.

Do I have any preference as to the ending? Simple answer: no, not really. Whilst ejaculation isn’t something I can take absolutely 100% as a given, it happens more often than not. When it happens, it’s the act of release that brings pleasure.

So, with that in mind,  for me, the best place to cum is wherever she wants me to…


A Strange Nostalgia

#MasturbationMondayIt is often stated that porn, it seems, has decided that women should be hairless from the eyelids down. Now, whether or not porn is actually responsible (I have my doubts as people are capable of determining their own preferences, without having them rubbed in their faces, as it were) it is a look that many women chose, for whatever reason, subscribe to. Now, on the subject of rubbing my face in it,  as a man who has spend a lot of time with my head between women’s thighs, I will admit that there is something particularly appealing about going down on a lovely, smooth cunt; being able to explore every nook, every fold with my tongue as I take her (hopefully) on a journey to orgasm. I also know a few women who, having embraced the bare look, say that it increases the sensations for them, the friction on their clit is so much more intense because there is no barrier.

Now all of this is fine and good, and I would never tell anyone how they should, or indeed shouldn’t style their intimate areas but, damn it, I actually am very fond of pubic hair on a woman.

There! I’ve said it! I’m out and proud! I am a pube fan! I enjoy getting my nose tickled when I go gown on a woman.

Now that’s not to say I don’t have preferences; I do. My preference is for tidy, trimmed, short but not too short. If the lips are smooth, that’s an added bonus. But at the end of the day, I’ll take what’s presented to me. In a sexual career going back over quarter of a century, I’ve met all kinds of women with all kinds of styling; from wild and natural, to as bald and smooth as a cue-ball and, you know what? I’’e loved everyone of them.

But for me, pubic hair will always elicit fond memories.

As a randy teenager in the late 1980s, and an even randier young man in the early 1990s (OK, we’re talking mostly about my student days here), I used to experience a small feeling of triumph when, during the course of a heavy petting session, my fingers eventually worked their way down her body and sought out and found those soft curls; that triangle of hair that was pointing my fingers towards their goal. I used to (and still do if circumstances allow) run my fingers through that patch of hair, feeling it get progressively damper as I got closer and closer to her opening. When I went down on a girl, I loved the way those soft tufts tickled my nose. Yes, yes, there were those odd awkward moments when a stray hair lodged itself somewhere it shouldn’t, but that was just one of those things you shrugged off.

The first time I encountered a girl who had removed her pubic hair was a bit of a surprise. As I slid my fingers into her knickers, I was waiting for that customary contact; that furry reassurance that I was going in the right direction. Making contact with her clit, without first encountering anything to play with was, I’ll admit, a bit of a shock. Fortunately, she didn’t seem to mind that I’d gone straight there, and once I got over my sense of having missed out on something, I went on to enjoy myself with her, and her with me.

Since then, it seems the prevalence of smoothness continues to increase unabated, and the pubic bush seems to be heading towards extinction. Should this ever happen, I for one will certainly mourn it’s passing, if only for the memories of my younger days.

Oh, and for the record I keep my own short above, and smooth below. Well, you girls are no more fond of nature’s dental floss than we guys are…


Fine Dining

#MasturbationMondayIt seems that when it comes to going down on women, a lot of men can talk the talk, but many fail to deliver the goods. “I could spend hours eating a woman out” is, apparently, a common claim, I’ve even used it myself. The experiences that many of my female friends seems to be that this claim is very rarely backed up when it comes to guys actually putting her cunny where his mouth is.

Another common complaint from the fairer sex is that too many of us guys see it as something that’s done perfunctory, almost reluctantly. Something that is done and got out of the way as quickly as possible before moving on to the main event.

I’ve never understood this approach. For me, the only “main event” is the time spent pleasuring each other in its entirety. The passionate kissing, the stroking, the time spent exploring her body with my lips and fingers, the time spent eating her out, and the actual penetration are all individual events in their own right that add to a bigger whole; a sexual pentathlon if you will.

For me, part of the fun is the slow build up. The teasing of kissing her inner thighs, slowly getting closer but never quite touching. She knows that, eventually, my tongue is going to slip between her labia, and each time I approach, she hopes that this time will be the time. The point here is that I’m not just teasing her, I’m teasing myself too; I want to taste her, and I’m having to restrain and deny myself as much as I am denying her.

When the moment comes, and I allow myself to taste her, if I’ve done it right, I’m rewarded with a moan of relief as my tongue works between her folds and flicks over her clit.

Now, a thing about lady parts: some women like to keep theirs smooth, others nicely trimmed and tidy, where as others keep theirs in their natural state. You know what? I couldn’t care less. I’d be lying if I didn’t admit I have my preferences, but going down isn’t about her topiary preferences, for me it’s about her scent, her taste, and once my tongue is between her labia, her pubic styling, or lack thereof, doesn’t matter. OK, so if she isn’t completely smooth, there’s the risk that at some point I’m going to have to stop to disengage a wayward pube, and while dealing with nature’s dental-floss may mean putting me of my stride momentarily, but that’s just part of the risk/reward.

As for once I’m down there, it’s not a race to the finish. Yes, her climax is a goal, but how she gets there is up to me. It’s important to respond to her wants. Does she want me to concentrate on her clit? Does she want me to abuse her nipples? Does she want me to speed up or slow down? All these things can be communicated verbally and non-verbally; her hand pressing my head towards her, the little sounds that tell me what she’s liking.

Ultimately, it’s not a sprint, and it also doesn’t have to be a marathon. At some point she’s (hopefully) going to want me to fuck her, and I’m definitely going to want my cock to benefit from the time my tongue has spent getting her cunt warmed up. The important thing is that both parties should enjoy it fully.

And that brings me to what it is that I enjoy about it so much. I would describe myself as a sensualist; that is I am someone for whom my enjoyment of sex is enhanced by the interactions with my senses. When it comes to sex, for me at least, cunnilingus is very much a full sensory experience.

First there is the sight. The seeing my partner lying there, opened up for me. Seeing her moisture glisten on her labia, which are, themselves, pink and inflamed. It’s seeing the small movements, the involuntary flinches as I lick her.

Then there is the sound. The sound of my tongue as it laps against her. The sounds of my fingers inside her cunt as they assist my mouth with its task.  The sounds of her breathing, her moans and sighs as her pleasure grows and her orgasm first approaches and then ignites.

There is touch. The texture of her most sensitive flesh against my tongue. The wetness of her cunt around my fingers. The pressure of her thighs against the sides of my face and her hand on the back of my head, not letting me go as I feast upon her.

Then there is scent. That rich, heady scent of her arousal that I breathe in.

But most of all there is taste. That sweet, rich flavour; so individual to each woman. The way her flavour deepens with her arousal. That sharp, intoxicating change of flavour that tells me when she cums.

For me, when a woman reaches orgasm on the end of my tongue, it is almost like sensory overload. Every sense is involved. Every sense is participating, combining to enhance the experience, building my own enjoyment and pleasure from hers.

Yes, I am a sensualist, and cunnilingus is the greatest all-round “food” for my senses.