It Started With A Dick Pic

Share Our ShitBefore I go any further, I should point out that I was coerced; honest m’lud…

I’ll get to the meat of this (as it were) in a bit, but first of all, I’ll back up a bit.

Under the guise of my hirsute alter ego, I had been tweeting and posting naughty stories since early 2011. I had, in fact, been posting stories online since about 2001, but it was during a period of illness in early 2011 that I discovered twitter, and the rest, as they say, is history.

Although I had a blog, of sorts, on which to post my stories, I wasn’t actually a blogger as such. I did the odd bit of writing as the mood and inspiration took me, and that was as far as it went.

My writing did, however, bring me into contact with other writers of erotica, and from there I discovered that there was a rich and vibrant online community of writers and bloggers with whom I identified with and was becoming increasingly a part of. I still wasn’t a blogger though.

Very much still a lurker, I began commenting on the blogs that I was reading. Those comments meant that other visitors to those blogs “discovered” my site and started visiting and commenting on my work. A certain momentum was inexorably building.

Enter (not in the biblical sense) two very, persuasive women, Cheryl Kaye and Charlie Powell (or @HornyGeekGirl or @sexblogofsorts to use their twitter names) and we get, eventually, to the point of this post.

Between them they waxed lyrical about the dearth of male sex bloggers and how much they wished for “more cock on #SinfulSunday“. Eventually I took the bait and, three years ago this weekend, I posted my very first #SinfulSunday submission.

I had actually guest posted on Cheryl’s blog a few weeks earlier and, thanks to the favourable reaction my photos were receiving, I would later re-post that article on my own blog as another of my #SinfulSunday entries.

So there you have it, the story of how this introverted occasional peddler of filth was unleashed on an unexpecting internet.

Cheryl/Charlie, if you are reading this, the credit/blame is all yours…

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

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

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

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.

ZeN

Sexy

Wicked WednesdayBeauty, they say, is only skin deep. Sexy, on the other hand, goes right to the core. So what do we mean by sexy? Is it appearance, is it an attitude, or is it just some unfathomable quality that you see in someone?

Humans are a visual species, so it is impossible, I think, to completely divorce sexiness with physical attractiveness, but in my opinion, the two are not inextricably linked. While everyone has their own “standards” of what they find attractive in another person, simply finding them attractive does not necessarily mean that you also find them sexy.

Sexy is something more than just the physical. It may be an attitude, but what attitude?

Many people say they find confidence sexy; I’m one of them. At the same time, however, I would also say that I find a sexiness in vulnerability too.

I think much depends on the person; it also depends on the circumstances, and the situation.

In a club, the way someone moves when the dance may make them sexier than the other members of their group. The way someone smiles, the way they angle their head to listen and talk to you. The way they dress. The degree of confidence/hesitation they display. Our brains are constantly picking up these signals and analysing them.

So, is sexy just a chemical reaction in our brains?

Like all things human, sexy is subjective and, I think, highly individual. What I find sexy in a certain person, others may not. What one person finds sexy about me, others may be turned off by.

For me, it is a combination of looks and personality. I’ll be honest and admit that the physical attraction catches my attention, but it is the personality/attitude that ultimately piques my interest. Just because there may be a recognition of physical attractiveness does not mean that I automatically find a person sexy.

In this age of online friendships, sometimes the physical is actually the last thing we see, and yet, somehow, we can still engage in “sexual” stimuli; there is something that we find (for the want of a better term) sexy about that person that shapes the way we interact with them.

So while beauty and sexy may not be the same thing, they are very much, I believe, both in the eye/mind of the beholder.

ZeN

Nowhere To Hide

I am completely open about my illness. It is a part of me and, much as I would rather it were otherwise, it has played a major part in making me the person I am. It is such an ingrained part of me that I cannot even begin to imagine what life without it would be like. It never lets me forget. Even in those periods where I have the illusion of having it under some sort of control, when I am free from the worst symptoms, it is always there, lurking in the background, reminding me that it can return, without any warning at a time of its choosing.

Life is a daily battle. It’s a battle where the only “victory” to be had is to stave off total surrender and defeat. I know it’s a battle I can never win; the very best I can hope for is some soul-sapping rear-guard action – retreat, regroup, then retreat again.

It is tiring. Not just a physical tiredness, but an emotional tiredness, a spiritual tiredness; a tiredness that burrows its way into your very core.

There is no escape, nowhere to hide. There can be no hiding from your own mind. You are battling an enemy that knows everything about you, that knows your every weakness and how to exploit them. It’s an enemy that intimately knows every flaw in your character and can use them against you.

The darkness is real. You turn away from those who care about you because you are a burden and they deserve better than to have to put up with you.

At its worst, it is all-consuming; it’s not that you have depression, it is that you ARE depressed – depression has you. It becomes a whole body illness; physical as well as mental.

In my case, I find it hard to sleep, I lose my appetite, I lose my libido, I suffer headaches. In the worst cases, it has been known to manifest itself by giving me dental abscesses and then there are the violent tremors that afflict my right arm.

When the tsunami of depression hits, there is nothing really that can be done other than just go where it takes you. Trying to defy it is futile. Fighting it simply wears you down faster.

And that’s where I am just now. I am in the darkness. I am still falling. Getting to the end of each day doesn’t even feel like a win, it is just a statement of the fact that I am still here, and tomorrow the onslaught will begin again.

Every day, every hour, every moment is a battle in this on-going civil war of attrition inside my mind.

Respite is scarce. There is nowhere to hide from yourself.

ZeN

One Size Fits All

Penis ProjectI am a man, I have a penis. I have written about my penis here on this very blog and over on my other blog. In fact, if you’ve viewed the photos I share , over on that blog, you will have no doubt seen a fair bit of it.

It’s a strange thing, in my opinion. It’s not particularly remarkable in any way. It’s neither especially long nor is it especially short. It is, as far as I am concerned, not particularly aesthetically pleasing, but penises, in my view generally aren’t. If anything, the penis epitomises function over style. The general opinion that I’ve encountered is, so long as it does what it does well, what it looks like is pretty much immaterial. After all, when it is engaged in its more pleasurable function, it generally isn’t visible to the eye anyway.

So how do I feel about my penis?

Well, as I said, I don’t think it’s much of a looker, but it does what it’s supposed to. No one has ever complained about it (to my face anyway) and it has received its share of compliments.

Am I self-concious about it? No, not particularly. No woman, on seeing it for the first time has ever fainted in shock/horror, but at the same time (and much more importantly) nor have they ever exploded into fits of hysterical laughter, pointing out its inadequacy.

So, yeah, I’m happy with it. The women I have shared it with have been happy with it too. That said, they have also been happy with my hands, my fingers, my lips and my tongue.

And that’s the thing; sex isn’t just about the size of my penis and what I do with it. It is about how I stimulate, arouse and pleasure my partner. My penis plays a part in that process, of course. In fact, you could almost go as far as to say it plays a disproportionately large part in the process; but, be that as it may, it isn’t the be all and end all.

If I could magically have a bigger (longer/thicker) one, would I?

Yeah, probably. Not that I feel mine is inadequate in any way; nor that I feel it would make any difference in my ability as a sexual partner, but, well, you know… The next size up wouldn’t be too much to ask for would it?

Would I do anything (surgery/pills/potions/stretching devices) to make it any bigger?

No. It’s fine the way it is. If it ain’t broke, don’t fix it.

So, what have we learned?

I’m a guy, I have a penis. I’m happy with my penis. The women who have encountered it have been happy with my penis. It does what it’s meant to do and, based on the evidence I have had before me, does it pretty well most of the time. To me, that’s pretty much all that matters really.

ZeN