Browsing around the other day, it came to my attention that I'd never seen a sex blog without a toy review. Well then, this will be quick and relatively painless, as I own a grand total of one sex toy.
Yep.
It's my own fault, because I did it all backwards, as I tend do. I thought I knew everything - another one of my more annoying tendencies and went blundering in to somewhere, I suppose it was an Ann Summers, and bought my first vibrator before I was even legal.
I'd not even learned my body yet, didn't really know how to get myself off... I sort of thought I'd had orgasms, in the way you can only sort of think these things when you haven't, and was under the impression (blame Cosmopolitan) that this buzzy pink thing would be getting the job done.
Of course it bloody didn't. It turns out intense vibration does absolutely nothing for me, and the poor bastard thing was trying its best but it's too big, solid-hard, not something I'd even consider insertable these days but oh, I tried, because in my head that was what you did. No joy, really.
I've tried more than a handful of times since... and nothing happens. And it's not that I don't know how to press the buttons... just with my hands, I do fine. More than fine. There are times I'd quite like to buy my hands flowers and chocolates and take them out for dinner and a movie, maybe, and back to mine for the ever euphemstic coffee. But the vibe? Nope, lives in a shoebox in my wardrobe and I'm having to TRY not to leave it behind when I move out.
On the subject of moving out, here is where my sex toy education will come in. It's impossible to get that illicit, experimental thrill when you live with your grandparents. It has to be planned out way in advance, scheduled, hidden. Nothing sexy about that. Out on my own, on the other hand... well, living with my ex-Ann-Summers-Rep co-conspirator who knows more about my antics than I do at any given time, I shall find something which does it for me. I know this, because I will try EVERYTHING until I find it.
Debit card at the ready. I move out two weeks today!
Friday, 22 January 2010
Wednesday, 20 January 2010
"We're Temporary Anyway..."
I'm putting this down on record now, so that when I say I knew it was coming and am okay, I can prove it's not just a brave face.
This is only for a while, and it's a sex thing.
The end is already planned, for early summer. Yes, I'll probably still get upset.
It will doubtless get on my nerves that the girl he runs back to looks... like me, in ten years. Fifteen, if I feel like being unkind.
It's use, of a sort, but it's consensual, two-way use and I am going to use the fuck out of this as and when I can.
So, no one try to console me about the above, please. I know I'm asking for trouble: it's what I'm best at. It's fleeting, it's fun, and bloody hell will it give me something to blog about.
This is only for a while, and it's a sex thing.
The end is already planned, for early summer. Yes, I'll probably still get upset.
It will doubtless get on my nerves that the girl he runs back to looks... like me, in ten years. Fifteen, if I feel like being unkind.
It's use, of a sort, but it's consensual, two-way use and I am going to use the fuck out of this as and when I can.
So, no one try to console me about the above, please. I know I'm asking for trouble: it's what I'm best at. It's fleeting, it's fun, and bloody hell will it give me something to blog about.
Monday, 18 January 2010
Border Crossing
It's all about challenging perspectives, I suppose. Pushing your boundaries. If you don't try it, I suppose, you'll never know if you like it. The idea of sushi always freaked me out until I tried it, tried a bit more, liked it and will now happily tuck into raw tuna and squid salads. I'd have missed that if I didn't have this burning urge to give things a go, just so I can say I have.
There are two concepts which I've always found really odd, sexually: spanking and dirty talk. They both struck me as a bit false, like you'd feel totally ridiculous. Whipping, less so, things like that I could imagine the quick stinging thrill of, but the idea of being put over someone's knees and spanked like a disobedient child? Just seemed a bit wrong.
Turns out that's what's great about it.
Yeah, I had both of these ideas simultaneously blown out of the water. I agreed to give it a try - the combination of sexy man, which in itself is quite unusual as I tend to find women more attractive, and natural curiosity made it a bit more appealing. I thought I'd wuss out, to be honest, or crack up laughing, but having it whispered as a threat whilst you're trying to have a conversation with a bar tender just kills that dead. Finding yourself back at a hotel, in that awkward kind of lost momentum, and just being instructed to "Sit. Here," starts off the shivering and the reminder of what you've got coming to you, with lips touching your ear… that's hotter than it should be. Being gently but unexpectedly manhandled into position takes the awkwardness away; you have your skirt lifted up and suddenly this is actually happening and you don't feel weird at all, just excited.
And he speaks to you all the while, utter filth in that oh-so-gentle lilt with the undertones of 'shh, it's okay', and the things he makes you say are, if anything, worse but it doesn't make you cringe. It makes you shiver.
Ninety, was my figure - it's amazing how many misdemeanours you can amass in six weeks, and he was very gentle. By fifty, I was working out how to earn myself some more.
On a separate but related note of expectations… Glamour is sexy, so I'd always sort of presumed you need to maintain an air of glamour during sex. Well, there you have it: I was wrong. It makes you tense, if you care about how you come across, you're just not going to get into it.
Something obscurely liberating, therefore, about having your face shoved down in the pillows, your hands crossed over behind your back and fastened there, your legs shoved around at angles that wouldn't be possible if you hadn't been doing gymnastics for sixteen years and being fucked with your boots still on.
No chance whatsoever of thinking you look dignified then - even less chance of caring.
There are two concepts which I've always found really odd, sexually: spanking and dirty talk. They both struck me as a bit false, like you'd feel totally ridiculous. Whipping, less so, things like that I could imagine the quick stinging thrill of, but the idea of being put over someone's knees and spanked like a disobedient child? Just seemed a bit wrong.
Turns out that's what's great about it.
Yeah, I had both of these ideas simultaneously blown out of the water. I agreed to give it a try - the combination of sexy man, which in itself is quite unusual as I tend to find women more attractive, and natural curiosity made it a bit more appealing. I thought I'd wuss out, to be honest, or crack up laughing, but having it whispered as a threat whilst you're trying to have a conversation with a bar tender just kills that dead. Finding yourself back at a hotel, in that awkward kind of lost momentum, and just being instructed to "Sit. Here," starts off the shivering and the reminder of what you've got coming to you, with lips touching your ear… that's hotter than it should be. Being gently but unexpectedly manhandled into position takes the awkwardness away; you have your skirt lifted up and suddenly this is actually happening and you don't feel weird at all, just excited.
And he speaks to you all the while, utter filth in that oh-so-gentle lilt with the undertones of 'shh, it's okay', and the things he makes you say are, if anything, worse but it doesn't make you cringe. It makes you shiver.
Ninety, was my figure - it's amazing how many misdemeanours you can amass in six weeks, and he was very gentle. By fifty, I was working out how to earn myself some more.
On a separate but related note of expectations… Glamour is sexy, so I'd always sort of presumed you need to maintain an air of glamour during sex. Well, there you have it: I was wrong. It makes you tense, if you care about how you come across, you're just not going to get into it.
Something obscurely liberating, therefore, about having your face shoved down in the pillows, your hands crossed over behind your back and fastened there, your legs shoved around at angles that wouldn't be possible if you hadn't been doing gymnastics for sixteen years and being fucked with your boots still on.
No chance whatsoever of thinking you look dignified then - even less chance of caring.
Sunday, 17 January 2010
Sometimes I'm lucky.
I got my miracle. I got spanked, I got fucked, I got called names and tied to things and kissed and petted and treated like a princess. Mmm,mm mm. More when I'm more coherent.
As an afterthought, it never occurred to me that having child-sized hands would mean wrist restraints (quite fortunately, when you think about it) don't go down to my size. I could wriggle out of just about anything, if I wanted to, i could be bondage Houdini.
But what would be the fun in that?
As an afterthought, it never occurred to me that having child-sized hands would mean wrist restraints (quite fortunately, when you think about it) don't go down to my size. I could wriggle out of just about anything, if I wanted to, i could be bondage Houdini.
But what would be the fun in that?
Friday, 15 January 2010
An Embuggerance
Ladies, gents... mostly ladies, actually: The contraceptive pills.
Wonderous invention. Accredited with female sexual liberation, with preventing countless unwanted pregnancies. It decreases your risk of certain cancers, helps with acne and other hormonal problems, and theoretically prevents you getting your period when your weekend plans include an expensive hotel and a very attractive man who would have you lick his boots, or put you over his knees, give you a sharp spank and call you a fucking filthy slut.
Theoretically.
The word 'fail' springs to mind, although I'd prefer something a little less internet speak-y, but I'm more concerned with making contingency plans. Mostly, these include praying that the additional hormones will kick back in, working out what can be done in spite of the interference and drafting the apology/request for prompt rescheduling that may otherwise be necessary.
If I get my miracle, you'll get the full story, so cross your fingers for me.
Wonderous invention. Accredited with female sexual liberation, with preventing countless unwanted pregnancies. It decreases your risk of certain cancers, helps with acne and other hormonal problems, and theoretically prevents you getting your period when your weekend plans include an expensive hotel and a very attractive man who would have you lick his boots, or put you over his knees, give you a sharp spank and call you a fucking filthy slut.
Theoretically.
The word 'fail' springs to mind, although I'd prefer something a little less internet speak-y, but I'm more concerned with making contingency plans. Mostly, these include praying that the additional hormones will kick back in, working out what can be done in spite of the interference and drafting the apology/request for prompt rescheduling that may otherwise be necessary.
If I get my miracle, you'll get the full story, so cross your fingers for me.
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