theferrett: (Meazel)

One of the biggest problems that nice guys have: they think women want men who don’t want sex.

I think this attitude, unconsciously developed, stems from listening to women complain about the fuckheads who hit on them.  “All those assholes want is sex!” is what they hear their female friends lamenting, so they go, I’ll be the opposite.  I’ll be very quiet and never ever mention sex, or that I desire it.  This will make me a gentleman.

No.  It will make you a loser.

I think this attitude springs from this sad view of nature where they believe that women don’t really want sex, they just sort of endure it for the sake of the species.   So you have to sneak up on sex.  You can’t just mention it around women, because at the first hint of cock they’ll run like zebras from a lion.  No, you have to sort of sneak in the penis, waiting for the proper moment to, uh, bring it up.  This may take months.  And all the while, you’ll never ever mention sex, or if you do you’ll discuss it like you were handling a dirty diaper. Because that’s what women want.

So how’s that working out for you, chum?  Well, you’re probably standing by the sidelines while your ideal woman is going out and fucking these horrible behemoths, feeling resentful because you’re doing everything right and there they are – falling into bed with an oaf!

An oaf who actually expressed his desire for her, and she responded!  Carnally!  Why, it’s like she wanted to get fucked! But that can’t be the case, so these brutes must be, I don’t know, hypnotizing her with their gold chains and their Axe body spray and their abs or something.

No, dude.  What you heard was “All these assholes want is sex,” and came to the erroneous conclusion that sex was bad.

What she was saying was, “All these assholes want is sex.”  As in, “Remove my vagina, and I’m worthless to them.”  That doesn’t mean her vagina is some sort of null zone to be ignored. She wants to fuck, but she wants to fuck someone who wants to fuck.

And what are you doing?  By conspicuously not mentioning sex ever, you’re sending the impression that if she wants sex, well, it shouldn’t be with you.  You’re taking the default stance that as a guy you naturally desire it on occasion, like some sort of cyclical Pon Farr, but it’s not anything you need.  And if she really needs it, why would she want to fuck a guy who’s never said he really wants to, loves to?

Look.  What women like – what people like – like is passion.  And you being a wishy-washy huggabear will just make it clear that when you get into bed with them, she’ll have to tell you everything to do, making you kind of a voice-activated vibrator.  So she finds other guys who may have less attractive qualities but at least will satisfy her in the sack, and leaves you firmly in the friend-zone.

Why?  Because you never told a dirty joke, or shared an embarrassing sex story, or even told her how fucking gorgeous she is.  Not that she’s pretty, but fuckable.  And yes, there are creepers who make women feel awful by slathering them in filth, but the fix is to not go the opposite route and sanitize yourself so you’re as sexless as a Hello Kitty.  Yes, it’s awkward finding that fine line between “no sex ever” and “creeper sex maniac,” but if you squash your desires altogether then you’re lying to her about what you want… and you can’t complain when she doesn’t respond to a desire that she doesn’t know exists.  (Or that you’ve given the impression that you’d be bad at it.)

A lot of guys have this terrifically sad dance, wherein they never mention sex ever and if they do, certainly it’s not something they’re really interested in, no!, and then they wind up with women who aren’t that interested in fucking. Don’t do that.

Cross-posted from Ferrett's Real Blog.

theferrett: (Meazel)

I usually keep my explicitly-sexy writings to FetLife (theFacebookforkinksters!), simply because a) some of the erotica that I write is dominant, and hence like all hot sex is a little sketchy from a feminist perspective, and b) sometimes, the privacy of my sex life deserves to be what is behind, effectively, a massive friends-lock.  If you want to read those writings, you have to specifically seek them out, so no complaints when you get there.

Still, probably 70% of my FetLife writings are cross-posts from here to there.  (And they often do much better there – my “How To Tell If You’re Cheating On Someone” has nearly 2800 “likes” and 700 comments.)  Sometimes, though, I have a toss-off essay that I think is funny enough to throw over here.  Which I will do now.  It involves perving on amateur photos of women, which are posted by the score on Fet, but having been a fan of amateur photography (“Photographs, he asked him knowingly”) for years, this has been a constant distraction.

It’s also a window into how my mind works.  It’s not pretty. Anyway, it’s called “Things That Have Distracted Me From Your Naked Body”:

  • The terrible streaks on that mirror. You look like you have ghost hickies. Then I start wondering whether you can fuck a ghost, and then think that Paranormal Activity answered that question, but that wasn’t really “hot” so much as “creepy,” but then again somebody on FetLife has to be into invisible demon-rape, and oh shit, right, naked girl. Anyway, clean your fucking mirror.
  • That episode of “Everybody Loves Raymond” you left on when you were sucking your boyfriend’s cock. I mean, yeah, dick in mouth, but it’s impossible to fap when Marie is nagging Raymond. Unless you’re Raymond. That guy has issues.
  • That uncomfortable sex position you’re in. Man, your tendons have to be aching. There’s gotta be, like, five pictures after this – the blurred shot where he fucks you off the couch, the slow realization of the head wound, the frantic rush to dress, the paramedics arriving, and GODDAMMIT PHIL WILL YOU STOP TAKING PHOTOS THIS ISN’T SEXY ANY MORE.
  • Your DVD collection. Hey, is that pink-purple rectangle the complete Jem and the Holograms boxed set? Oh, man, it is! I haven’t seen that show in years. What else have you got there? Pulp Fiction? Next to Jem? Oh, crap, you’re one of those girls who doesn’t alphabetize her DVDs, we’d just fight all the time. Hell, I can’t think about fucking you, I’ve gotta clean up that shelf. You probably have stray DVDs all over the damn place, too.
  • The shakycam. Hell, dude, I’d probably have some pretty bad camerawork too if a girl that cute was gobbling my one-up mushroom, but I can’t tell if this is a blowjob or a fight with Jason Bourne. Get a steadicam.
  • Your cat. It’s quite prominently in your bed. You’re not sleeping with the cat, right? Right? checks your profile Okay, good. No felistiality fetishes. The lion sleeps tonight. WITH OTHER LIONS ONLY.

 

Cross-posted from Ferrett's Real Blog.

theferrett: (Meazel)

Finishing up a huge project for today, but over at FetLife (TheFacebookforKinksters), I wrote a humor essay on a neglected topic: How To Be A Super-Duper Ninja Sex Texter.

The obligatory sample:

So! You want to make people masturbate to thoughts of you, using only your phone. And yet whenever you text, “I STICK IT IN. I STICK IT IN!!!!!” you get nothing but awkward silences.

Possibly because this is because you accidentally sexted your mother. Or possibly it is because you do not know the secrets of effective sexting. And you know who knows all the secrets of effective sexting? Not me. Shit, that’s a deep well, dude. There’s like ten million ways to get someone off with your mind and an unlimited data plan.

…but I know a few.

The essay’s over here, and actually contains some pretty salient tips on writing customized erotica.  So go check it out, if you’re interested.  Ask questions.  Kick the tires, you know how it is.

Cross-posted from Ferrett's Real Blog.

theferrett: (Meazel)

I’ve been quiet here as I’ve been slogging through the usual Seasonal Depression, but I did post two essays over at FetLife (TheFacebookforkinksters) that you may be curious about:  “Depression. Fucking. Depression.”, which deals with how depression affects my sex life, and “Ropeweasels,” which deals with the issue of me being tied up. (There’s also “Fireplay and Me,” an oddly poetic musing on setting women aflame, which I don’t think I linked here but maybe I did.)

In addition, my humor essay “So I’m Going To Become A Dom” may be my most popular essay ever, with 612 comments and 965 loves.  I guess it’s all about the specificity.

Cross-posted from Ferrett's Real Blog.

theferrett: (Meazel)

Today, I have two essays for you, but neither of them are located here.  Sorry; you’ll have to click twice.  An inconvenience, I know.

The first essay is at a new magazine called Kink-e-Zine, a San Francisco-based online publication devoted towards sane and safe kinky sexual practices.  I’ve agreed to write a monthly humor column for them, and my first one is a letter called “Dear Dude Who Sends My Female Friends Pictures Of His Penis.”  It’s an analysis of why men are so trigger-happy to send women cock shots, and it starts like this:

Some women might be interested if your penis was, like, the Monolith from 2001, something so huge that people squinted and said, “Is that a sequoia?” But no. You introduce yourself with an excruciatingly average cock shot.

Now, I think I know why you do this, but let me explain my logic.

See, to you, women’s brains are basically this annoying lock to be cracked in order to get at the juicy sexiness beneath. You really could care less what they think; what you want are tits and a hot pussy, and if you have to mutter a few magical incantations like “I see” and “That’s interesting” to get it, well, you’ll tolerate some conversation.

But largely, to you, women are a buffet….

I go on from there, analyzing motivations.  But this happens a lot on FetLife, and I’ve heard horror stories from women on OKCupid. Really, dudes?  Stop making me look bad.

My other writing is on FetLife (theFacebookforKinksters), discussing scenes from Cleveland’s very own Kinko de Mayo festival.  They had all sorts of classes on various topics including erotic wrestling, needleplay, flogging to catharsis, and one pretty brutal crucifixion demo (which, unfortunately, I missed).  I wrote up my experiences of the weekend, detailing my first fire play with strangers, how I sprained my finger erotic wrestling, and my new toy.

The writeup is here, and I think it’s a pretty fun read.  Check it out if you’re inclined.

Cross-posted from Ferrett's Real Blog.

theferrett: (Meazel)

So over at FetLife (theFacebookforKinksters!), I chronicled a rather important journey in my BDSM life, as I bottomed for the first time during knifeplay in a public scene:

She was beautiful, and she held a knife.

I’d done some work with [X] before, standing in as part of a class she was teaching, and she had cut me as part of a demonstration about loving sadism. The cuts stayed for a month.

I love to be cut.

One of the most intense sexual experiences I’ve ever had was with Abby, a pouty-lipped sensual girl of eighteen, on the summer before she went off to college…..

Anyway, not to discuss it overmuch, but it’s here if you want it.  I learned some interesting things about bottoming != subbing.

Cross-posted from Ferrett's Real Blog.

theferrett: (Meazel)

So I started doing my “sex blogging” over on FetLife (theFacebookOfKinksters) about a year ago, when I started exploring some of the dominant sides of my sexuality.  Which, despite Fet’s often-depressing adherence to “traditional” sexual roles (OH GOD HOW MANY LEATHERY MASTERS AND WAIFY SUBS DO WE NEED?), has turned out to be a good idea.  I’ve made some nice friends there, and gotten some really useful advice when exploring some delicate stuff that I’m not ashamed of but don’t want to throw out to the world without an invite.

(There’s a fuzzy line between “being dominant with female partners” and “being a misogynist asshole” that’s often entirely based on context between a partner who’s agreed to things, and this blog is often very context-free.)

That said, I wrote somewhat of a retrospective today called “The Once and Always Vanilla,” where I discuss the changes that have been wrought in my life over the past year, and where I may (or may not) be going, and how I may still have the label “Vanilla” on Fet.

“You are so not vanilla any more.”

It’s been about a year since I set out on my exploration of BDSM, and my whole life has shifted to fit that. Even my “vanilla” sex now has overtones of kink to it – more hair-pulling, slapping, a bit of brutality in the softest of places….

If you’re interested, get an account and check it out.  And if not, pass on.  Not everyone wants to know what I do behind closed doors… but I can crack ‘em a bit for those who want to watch.  (In case you’re interested, I also wrote up some erotica, some essays on fire play, and a few others that I didn’t link to, but they are still there.)

 

 

Cross-posted from Ferrett's Real Blog.

theferrett: (Meazel)

I wrote another essay today over at FetLife, the Facebook for kinksters, where I discuss the more personal sex-related topics that I don’t necessarily want people to stumble across accidentally.  (If you seek it out, great.)  And today’s essay is how some revelations I’ve had on writing have led me to feel better about my sexual style:

All my life I’ve been insecure about my sexual ability. No, check that:

All my life I’ve been insecure.

In a sense, that insecurity is a good thing, because it drives me mad to correct my faults. When I fuck, I fuck with a considerable amount of skill because I am determined to become better in bed with every coupling. If a woman is kind enough to let me into her bed, least I can do is not kiss like a slobbering German Shepherd. So I work that shit, even as I still lose myself in considerable passion. (I was told this weekend I “fuck like a beast,” which I’m going to purr over for a bit.)

But with insecurity comes the badness: the need for reassurance, the anxiety of Doing It Wrong, the drive to sometimes push when stasis is not only fine but what’s needed.

That said, one of the things that Neil Gaiman said to me at my Clarion class resonates in a weird way with sex….

If you want to read it all, well, it’s in the usual place.

Cross-posted from Ferrett's Real Blog.

theferrett: (Meazel)

On my drive out to Connecticut, I was listening to a Neil Strauss book on Pick-Up Artists.  I always find that sort of mentality bizarrely science-fictionesque; here are these nerds who’ve mastered the arts of neurolinguistic programming to get over their fear of women.  And like most good science-fictionly things, the core of the Pick-Up Artists rest at this bizarre nexus of scientific theory and culture and morality.

I couldn’t help but think of “peacocking” over the past two days, though.

The theory behind “peacocking” is that you want to dress in an outlandish manner of some sort – giving women an easy excuse to talk to you, if they want to.  All they have to do is comment upon your crazy tie, and wham, you can walk them down the lines of anchoring and negging into your boudoir.

The thing is, like much of the Pick-Up Artists’ theory, though, it’s absolutely true.  Because I am peacocking now, whether I think of it that way or not.  I’m wearing a slick hat, a bright Hawaiian shirt, and I have this elaborate henna all over my hand.

At least five women have started up conversations with me in the past thirty-six hours.

Now, it’s probably some coincidence that they’ve all been women, but the whole Pick-Up Artist thing makes me wonder whether I could have leveraged some of those tenuous connections into bedroom shenanigans instead of awkward small talk.  And the answer is: probably.  Not because their talking to me meant OH TAKE ME YOU PUDGY STUDMUFFIN, but because I’m reasonably confident in my chances if I’m feeling attractive and flirty and given an option to chat.

I don’t have a spectacular need, though.  It’s cool for me just to meet people and say hello and walk away.

I dunno.  The whole Pick-Up Artist thing strikes so many chords simply because I have had, by many men’s standards, a wildly successful sexual history, and a lot of what they say resonates as, “I do that!  Without thinking about it, but I do that!”  One of the main lessons of the PUA crowd is that women actually want to have crazy, no-strings sex a lot of the time, often just as badly as men, but there’s so many societal restrictions around what women should want that men wind up having to reassure women that they won’t think less of them.

And I think one of the reasons I’ve been as successful in quote-unquote “seducing” women as I have is that I don’t think less of anyone for having sex.  I think people should have as much sex or as little as they want, and I don’t think of women as slutty for desiring it.  And upon some PUA consideration, that attitude gets me a surprisingly long way.

(The other attitude is that I don’t care if we have sex.  I mean, it’d be nice, but unlike many so-called “nice guys,” if you just wanna hang around and talk, I like that just as much.  Unless a lot of guys, who view women as a disappointment if they don’t put out, which I find more than a little reprehensible.  Which is why I have a problem of thinking of “Hey, if you want, I’m cool, or we can just play dominoes” as “a seduction technique.”)

The Pick-Up Artist thing has a potential to be a way of giving lonely nerds a pathway to find out how to be comfortable with women – which it is, on some levels – but as usual, some idiots take it to extremes and start treating women as something to be conquered.  which is just masking another form of insecurity – let’s sex up everyone just to see if we can!

Meanwhile, I’m in a hotel room in Connecticut, working alone on a Saturday night.  Could I use some company?  Sure I could.  But it’s okay to be alone, guys.  All those other women won’t fill the empty loneliness inside.  Trust me on that one.

Cross-posted from Ferrett's Real Blog.

theferrett: (Meazel)

In a Facebook discussion, a friend of mine said that, surprisingly enough, she didn’t want to have sex with someone who’d increased his penis size via irradiated cadaver tissue implants.  She said, and I quote, it would be “creepy to be intimate with the skin of more than one person.”  Which, hey, if you don’t want to suck the nuclear zombie cock, that’s your business.

On the other hand, my mouth is full of irradiated dead men’s bones.  They flayed my gums open and dumped in bone chips scavenged from corpses (WARNING: post full of pictures) in order to build up my gum tissue enough that they could put in implants.  And, as I noted, women are far more likely to kiss me than they are to make intimate contact with Little Elvis, more’s the pity.

So.  Because I am stupidly curious about such things, which is creepier?  Kissing a guy with dead bones in his mouth, or sexing up a guy with nuclear dead men in his cock?  State your opinion, and your justification!  I want to know.

Cross-posted from Ferrett's Real Blog.

theferrett: (Meazel)

So over on FetLife, the Facebook for Kinksters, there’s a thread asking you to rate how good you are in the sack:

A) I will rock your world. I’m so good you’ll be pissed off at all of your past lovers for all the time wasted that you could have been with me.

B) “The best you’ve ever had” doesn’t begin to describe me.

C) I’m so good you will want to put a ring on it.

D) I get no complaints

E) You wouldn’t kick me out of bed for eating crackers and leaving crumbs

F) Mercy fuck, and teach me some skills please.

G) Don’t bother with a mercy fuck. I’m beyond hope.

Now, I’d like to rank myself on this list, but the problem is that I don’t really think there’s a generic “good in bed.” There are certain baseline skills you can use to ensure that you’re not awful, skills which can be honed by practice, but everyone’s chemistry is so different it’s hardly worth comparing.

I mean, look, my wife and partners think I’m great in bed – but why wouldn’t they?  They’re dating me for the long term, which means they must have clicked with me sexually enough to go, “Well, I should get some more of that.”  And presumably, as I learn what they like, I get better with time.

Meanwhile, I’ve gone on dates with some women who it just didn’t work out with sexually… and as a partial result of that non-connection, they’re not currently with me.  That doesn’t mean they’re bad people, but why date someone who’s bad in bed for them – like me – when we could just be friends?

Plus, there’s the curve.  It’s hard to look someone in the eye after the intimacy of sex and go, “Whoo, that was spectacularly mediocre.”  I think I’ve gotten a sum total of one “You’re terrible” comment post-coitus in my life, even when I was achingly aware of how terrible this was for them.  Usually, you go for subtler things, like correcting them in mid-sex, or steering them towards different body parts, or even just declining a second go-around, rather than going, “Hey, can I post that sex on FailBlog?”

So you know, I’m awash in a sea of positive feedback, but it doesn’t mean that much to me because it’s self-selecting.  And I think some folks take that feedback to mean “Yeah, I am SPECTACULAR in bed!” instead of looking at the circumstances surrounding that feedback and compensating.

I know I’m good with certain people.  Does that mean I’ll be good with you?  Who the hell knows?  There’s that mysterious element of sexual chemistry, and sometimes that just doesn’t pan out.  Like I said, some careful attention to what your partner likes can smooth over a lot of gaps, but sometimes people are just hard to read.  Sometimes it’s just fumble after fumble no matter how you try.

You know when I know you’ll be good in bed with me?  When we kiss.  That kiss will tell me everything I need to know about how good we’ll be, because the kiss itself carries so much – how well we read each other, our sympathetic styles, the scent and taste of you.  One kiss, and I can tell you how good it’s going to be.. for me.

When do you know whether I’ll be good for you?  Hell if I know.  Maybe you know, but I sure as heck don’t. And I don’t think I can tell you from any generic chart.

Cross-posted from Ferrett's Real Blog.

theferrett: (Meazel)

(WARNING: This one’s a little more explicit than most of my posts.  Also, I’m exploring gender issues as gingerly as I can, so please.  Be gentle as I question and explore.)

The comedy “Yes, Minister” introduced me to the concept of irregular verbs that shifted depending on who you were talking about: “It’s one of those irregular verbs, isn’t it?  I have an independent mind.  You are an eccentric.  He is round the twist.”

Talking dirty has introduced me to a set of irregular nouns: “Slut” and “Whore.”

I’ve only recently begun to introduce more verbal erotica to my bedroom activities, but it’s been enlightening in the sense that calling my lover “whore” becomes a tipping point.  It’s an insult in real life, but once unleashed in the bedroom – and I don’t say it until she’s sufficiently squirmy – it becomes this volcanic release.

“You fucking slut,” I say, shoving my hand down her panties.  “Look at how wet you are.  You want it, don’t you?  You’re so enslaved by lust you’ll do anything, any time.  Not just for me, you want to fuck everyone.  You are filled with filthy fucking thoughts.  In the office, on the street, a dripping dirty whore…”

And they writhe, and cry out, and suddenly the sex is ten times hotter because that was like the key.  It’s on.  Sometimes they moan no, they’re good girls, and I point out that good girls don’t do what they’re doing to me now, and oh God does it get good.

But I’ve been considering that, because it seems to be a fair constant across a number of women I’ve either been having sex with or eroticaing with.  I’ve always been loath to call women “whores,” because I like women who fuck.  I don’t want to shame them for indulging in urges I consider not only beneficial, but actively healthy.  I like women who aren’t repressed, and as such slut-shaming them in bed seemed like a mean thing to do.

As time has gone on, though, I’ve come to the conclusion that the reaction is societal.  It’s not mean, in that context – society is so full of contradictions for women in that they’re told they should be eternally skinny and big-titted and desirable, yet keep your virginity for as long as you can because you’re not supposed to like that and don’t sleep with men unless it’s a stop on the cattle car to Marriageville.

Whispered in the right context, “slut” is freeing.  It’s an acknowledgement that yes, you have just as many lusts as men do, not just about me here and now but all the time – and in this moment here in the bedroom, I’m telling you that’s all right.  I like that.  I want you to be depraved, it turns me on, and let’s open up this space where we admit that the only difference between you and me is that society tells you that you shouldn’t but makes excuses for me.

It’s uncomfortable, viewed from that lens – being the gateway to a temporary freedom feels like I’m surfing a power given to me that I shouldn’t necessarily have.  Is it an exercise in male privilege?  I’ve been wrestling with that for some time.  But on the other hand, they do want it, or the women who trust me enough to share their sexuality with me wouldn’t keep coming back to have me whisper it in their ear…

And I think, after a lot of thought on the topic, that it is ultimately freeing.  I think that it’s chipping at that big old concrete wall with an icepick, letting women know that yes, they not only can but actively should harbor sexual desires.  It’s picking at a knot in their psyche that needs to be untangled, and sometimes that intersection between “the dominant culture says no” and “your desires say yes” leads to fucking explosive sexual heat.

And I mean, hey, I’ll tell you that here now in a non-bedroom context, as a take from J. Random Guy: it’s good to have those feelings.  It doesn’t make you a slut.  It makes you a sexually empowered human.  And the fact that you’re looking at that cute guy (or girl) behind the movie popcorn counter and picturing all the depraved things you want to do with them?  That desire is perfectly okay, and anyone who tells you that it isn’t has an agenda designed on some level to cripple and shame you.

But saying it here doesn’t have the impact that it does in the bedroom.  Here with me, with my hands on you, you can be a slut and it is such a good thing and you are such a good girl.  I’m crossing the streams.  It’s fine.

Cross-posted from Ferrett's Real Blog.

theferrett: (Meazel)

Once again, over at FetLife (the Facebook for Kinksters), I have chronicled a Tale of my sexual exploits… or kind of not.  This is unusual for me, since I’m retelling an old story with a slightly new twist, about what hickies and scars mean to me.  The beginning of the essay is as such:

There were thirty-two hickeys on my neck, each as precise as her kisses, these tiny blood-red ovals.

This was the only proof that we’d been together. And I didn’t even realize it until I got to school that day.

I suppose I should have been embarrassed. But to me, it was proof that a girl had touched me, had made out with me – which no one had before. Oh, my friend Sue had drunkenly kissed me when I was driving her home, but I was three months away from eighteen and that was all the action I’d ever gotten….

Long-time readers will doubtlessly recognize this tale as a variant on “The Great Misunderstanding,” which remains one of the best personal essays I’ve ever written.  If you’ve ever been beaten down in high school, and wondered how I walked away from that, “The Great Misunderstanding” gives you what is, quite literally, my origin story.  You discover how I lost my virginity and my shame in the same day.

The one on FetLife, “Immortalize Your Need On My Skin,” ties two memories together in a way that illuminates me.  It’s a smaller tale, I suppose.  But if you’ve been irked because I post the sexy-exploratory stuff on Fet, then go read “The Great Misunderstanding” (which is, ostensibly, about Magic: the Gathering but really it’s not) and you’ll get the gist.  And if you are on Fet, then you can see bookends.  In either case, if you like my writings, I’d head over.  And if not, enjoy Black Friday.

Cross-posted from Ferrett's Real Blog.

theferrett: (Meazel)

Hello!  Once again, today’s essay is over at FetLife, the Facebook of Kinksters, where I blog about the more personal sexual aspects of my life.

In this, an essay entitled “In The Forest Of Flaccid Cocks,” I talk far too much about penises.  Here’s your sample:

The first thing a man learns from watching porn is that every cock is bigger than yours.

The porn-cocks are so huge that women need to choke up on them two-handed like they were baseball bats, which in a way they are. They’re so huge that when the cock passes over someone’s face, the cock’s shadow occludes them in a penis eclipse. That’s no moon, that’s this dude’s cock.

And if you watch straight porn, then you learn that pretty much any dude can have an enormous schvanzstucker. Gay porn, all the guys have six-pack abs and a face that makes Brad Pitt look like a seven-day-old Jack o’lantern, so you figure those dudes have flown here from the Planet Of Unfeasible Fantasy anyway. But straight porn is filled with dudes who look like that creepy dude at the McDonald’s drive-through window, except here he is unrolling this fire-hose of a whanger to flop across this girl, pinning her to the mattress. Straight porn’s willingness to employ people of all attractiveness levels based on their cock size sends the secret message that everyone has submarine-sized penises, no matter what they look like.

So as a straight dude, I’ve always been worried about my own size….

The essay’s over here, the collected FetLife works can be found here.  Some of them are cross-posts from the blog, but you’ll find a couple of the evil things I’ve done to my wife and so forth, if such things are of interest.  If not, move on, citizen.

Cross-posted from Ferrett's Real Blog.

theferrett: (Meazel)

Looking through swingers’ ads, there are all these couples touting, “WHO WANTS TO TAKE US FOR OUR FIRST TIME?” And judging by their follow-up posts, they get a ton of responses.

Me?  I always think of FOR DUMMIES books.

See, when I used to purchase computer books for Walden’s, everyone was used to the sales pattern of other books: Stephen King’s latest novel was out!  And it would sell great guns the first week, pretty good for a month, then slide downhill.  If you didn’t have it in stock that first month, you missed out on something like 70% of the sales.

Computer books weren’t like that.  My management would pressure me to buy thousands of copies of WINDOWS 98 FOR DUMMIES, because Windows 98 was coming out this fall and when it did, hoo boy!  We’d be rolling in the dough.  They were frustrated when I lowballed the inventory, even though the publishers were offering all these incentives and sales to stock our stores to the roof with WINDOWS 98 WINDOWS 98 WINDOWS 98.

The trick was this: realizing that the day that Windows 98 came out was the day that the fewest people would own Windows 98.

That first month was actually the slowest, because most people don’t buy upgrades to their PCs the way they go after a movie or a game.  They get it when they get a new computer, or when a game they need demands Windows 98 to run.

So that first month of Windows 98 books was actually inevitably a slow, disappointing sale.  The first three months were slow, actually, panicking the higher-ups.  But as time went by, and more people converted, WINDOWS 98 FOR DUMMIES was our hands-down bestseller for 1999.

When I think of virgins, that’s what I think of: you’re the least knowledgeable you’re ever going to be about sex at that moment.  It’s not a bad thing, certainly not something to be shunned…

…but I don’t get why anyone would specifically seek out virginity as a specific kink, just because they want to take that virginity.  Those virgins are the new Windows 98, at their weakest; come back a year or two, when they’ve gained all this power, and it’s gonna be awesome. But now, they’re just experimenting, and chances are pretty good it’s going to end messily in one way or another as they make mistakes.

I don’t want inexperienced women sexually; I like women who’ve had a lot of sex and know what they’re doing.  I don’t want inexperienced poly partners; I like women who’ve got a good handle on what they need, and have spent some time protecting their boundaries.

And yes, my first time at the club was with someone who was as inexperienced as I was, and it was awesome… But I’m pretty sure whatever I do will be even more awesome a year from now.  If I was out to swing with a couple, I’d be scanning their profile to see if they were attractive, if their posts had proper grammar, if we looked like we’d be sexually compatible – and not at all allured by the promise of breaking that ground before anyone else.

I dunno.  The whole virginity fetish strikes me as having this nasty undertone, the moral equivalent of fucking someone and shouting “FIRST!” in their sexual comment thread.  If you want someone because they’re hot, sexy, and compelling?  Great.  But if you want them just because hey, you get to pop that cherry, well fuck you and keep your goddamned paws off of anyone around me.

People are people.  Not records to be broken.

Cross-posted from Ferrett's Real Blog.

theferrett: (Meazel)

So my friend Eric Meyer noted the other day that the phrase “three-minute wonder” may in fact be overlooking the idea that some women like partners who get off quickly.  Which is true.  I’ve known more than one woman who complained about some bohunk pounding her cervix for hours at a time, overstaying their welcome.

This leads to an interesting question: What’s your ideal sex time?

I know, I know, it all depends on the mood and the partner… but I think most of us have a rough time we settle into.  As my wife is so fond of noting, I’m extremely girly when it comes to bedtime activities; I like lots of snuggling and foreplay, so in an ideal situation it winds up being about twenty to thirty minutes of hot making out and other activities, and then about ten to fifteen of the whole PIV stuff.

(Is it just me, or is “PIV” perhaps the least-erotic acronym ever?  “Penis in vagina” just sounds like Animal is describing sex to Miss Piggy.  “PENIS IN VAGINA!  PENIS IN VAGINA!  EAT DRUMS!  EAT DRUMS!”)

So for me, satisfying sex winds up being about forty minutes long from start to finish.  Interestingly, you’d think my blossoming Dom tendencies would make this shorter, since I’d be more selfish when I’m just flinging my partners onto the bed, but then the actual PIV bits take longer because I’m abusing them when I’m doing so, and that’s distracting to my actual finish.  So either way: about forty minutes to an hour.

The question is, I guess, what sorts of sexual time work best for you, as a default?  If your ideal partner came and went at your command, what’s the range you’d be looking at assuming you had sex often enough to form a sort of baseline?  Is, perhaps, the three-minute wonder the better lover?

 

Cross-posted from Ferrett's Real Blog.

theferrett: (Meazel)

Over the past few days, I’ve seen posts from “inexperienced” women lamenting that their scant handful of partners makes them nervous about sex.  Will they be able to please their next partner?  What if they’re bad in bed?  What if they need more sex to be “skilled”?

I’m here to tell you that sexual experience doesn’t matter.

Having slept with roughly a hundred different women in my time, I’ve had enough of a sample size to know that sex boils down to three things: enthusiasm, chemistry, and experience.  And the last is the least important.

I’ve slept with women who’ve had four partners total, yet had hands that reduced me to jelly.  I’ve slept with women who’ve been around as much as I have and walked away with that slightly outraged feeling you get when all of your friends raved about how this movie was totally awesome, and it actually wasn’t very good at all.

You can be a novice and be very good in bed.  All you need to be is enthusiastic, by which I mean “wanting your partner with a cheerful willingness, and eager to learn.”  If you pay attention to what s/he responds positively to, and are expressing a happiness to be there, then chances are you’re pretty decent in bed already.

Now, you may have had a bad experience or two – and that comes down to this elusive “chemistry” element.  I had a friend of mine boast that he could be the best partner for any woman, ever.  He’d just adapt his style to hers, the chameleon of love, and then wham.  He’d be #1.

That may have been the silliest thing I’ve ever read on LiveJournal.

Sometimes, you get together with someone, and for whatever reason you just don’t sync up.  If you’ve been around you can sometimes cobble it together into a pretty decent evening… But bodies are strange things.  They crave some people and don’t crave others.  Sometimes, two people just don’t work particularly well with each other even if everything else works great, and in rare cases they require enough work that you might as well find someone else whose key does fit your lock.

Chemistry’s not a static thing, of course.  Some evenings are better than others, which is why sometimes you try things twice.  But I’ve hit it off with quote-unquote “inexperienced” girls whose every touch hit something that turned me on.  You do not need a big catalog of lovers to be good.

Why does experience count for so little?  Mainly because the skillset that allows you to charm your way into people’s boudoirs is not the same skillset as actually being good in bed.  I have slept with a fair number of women, but none of that happened because I am a wonderful lover.  How could they tell?  It happened because I’m good with words, and can make clever conversation, and am open about my desire for sex without necessarily demanding it.

None of those skills help me once the pants are off.

Do not confuse “effective flirting” with “being good in bed.”  I know a lot of guys who charmed their way into women’s pants, and turned out to be three-minute wonders.  I know a lot of women who claimed to satisfy a lot of men, and were mechanical and cold under the sheets.  Sleeping around a lot means you’re good at closing the deal, but not necessarily great at the act itself.

(Plus, most people who talk openly about their sexual skills, exaggerate them.  I’ve rarely heard a guy telling a girl, “Yeah, I’ve never gotten the hang of this whole ‘cunnilingus’ thing.”)

Then there’s the learning factor.  If merely cooking a lot made someone a chef, I know several McDonald’s fry cooks who would own five-star restaurants by now.  You can worm your way into people’s beds only to be a selfish git, and you can stall after you’ve determined that your home-brewed “bed-breaker” technique is so good that you don’t need to learn any other.

What experience can give you is a certain baseline level of success.  As noted, I’ve been with some women where I had awful chemistry – not many, maybe one out of twenty-five, but enough that it would have been awkward without it.  I had enough techniques to fall back on that I think I scraped by with a gentleman’s C… And for that, I’ll take it.

The failure state of experience, though, is something cold and clinical, where he’s pleasuring you distantly, which is always a turnoff.  Which brings us back to the core level of “enthusiasm.”

This is why, if you’re worried, I implore you: don’t worry about it.  Seriously.  It will just make you more awkward and hesitating in bed, and that’s rarely a turn-on.  You are fine the way you are, and you can be good for anyone.

Just be turned on, and ready to experiment, and pay attention to what your lover reacts to.  The rest is dross.

Cross-posted from Ferrett's Real Blog.

theferrett: (Meazel)

So-called “professional” writers tend to look down on self-published authors, thinking that they’re just clods writing “DICK ENTERS THE ROOM AND SAYS HI LINDA LINDA BE MAD AT DICK” novels on butcher paper in crayon.  But though the perception of self-publishing is that of a bunch of Harry Potter fanfic writers wanking it to Hermione’s freshly-grown wand, the truth is that self-publishing offers a freedom that no one else can offer.  Freed from the restraints of having to actually, you know, make money, self-publishers can offer titles that no traditional publisher would touch with a ten-foot pole.

Or, in this case, a ten-foot pole covered in a condom.

Cooking With SemenThat’s right; if you’ve been thinking, “I love it when my partner jizzes all over my face – now, how can I combine that subtle aroma with pancetta and a nice rosė?” thankfully, the fine folks at Lulu have, er, come through for you.  Fotie Photenhauer’s Natural Harvest – A Collection of Semen-Based Recipes is now available for a mere $24.95.

Notes the book: ” Like fine wine and cheeses, the taste of semen is complex and dynamic. Semen is inexpensive to produce and is commonly available in many, if not most, homes and restaurants. Despite all of these positive qualities, semen remains neglected as a food.”

One finds it hard to imagine why semen hasn’t caught on in restaurants.  I think we all would like to gulp down the potentially STD-laden load of our waiter, mixed with some asparagus and perhaps a dusting of saffron, so when someone asks, “Why are your lips so covered in sores you can’t speak without bits of your philtrum flaking off?” you can say with pride, “I, madam, am a gourmet.”

After all, as Fotie says: “Some tend to dismiss semen as food and describe it as bitter or salty. This is similar to a person who tastes wine for the first time [and] says it tastes sour. Like all other foods, the tastes and aromas of semen open up and are better appreciated when you are able to compare and discuss the different tastes with other connoisseurs.”

If that’s not the classiest blowbang I’ve ever seen, I don’t know what is.

As it turns out, this book of squirty enjoyment has sold over 25,000 copies, so my hat is off to Fotie!  She found a need and, er, filled it.  This truly is an example of what people can do when they set their heads to it.  I think this is just proof that traditional publishing is going down.

Cross-posted from Ferrett's Real Blog.

theferrett: (Meazel)

(NOTE: I originally posted this at FetLife as a humor piece, but figured it was amusing enough to post over here.  We’ll see how it goes.)

Looking over the FetLife profiles, it seems like “Dom” is the ideal career choice for the older gentleman who wants to get laid… So imagine my thrill! Here I am at 42, starting to pick up the whip! I thought my sexual career was over, but here I have at least another decade left in me!

Alas, I don’t have the look. I’m gonna need the look to get the babes. At least according to what I’m seeing on FetLife.

First thing I have to do is stop all of this inopportune smiling. I must always fix the camera with a steely glare, as though the camera was very naughty and needed to be punished. Perhaps, occasionally, rarely, a smirk may peek from the corner of my mouth, as though I am faintly amused at all of your frantic antics. But not often. For guffawing is not the realm of the True Dom.

Doms do not smileyface in texts. Ever. You can tell. Doms are SRS BUSNESS.

Next, I need to either scale up or scale down. Right now I’m a middlin’ tub o’lard – decent arms, beer belly, man-tits of maybe an A-cup. When I jog, things go swinging, but not enough to hit me in the face.

Ah! But the True Doms seem to come in one of two flavors. Either they’re elderly and musclebound, with that sort of workout fiber that says “MY FLESH WANTS TO SAG, BUT I STAPLE IT TO THIS HE-MAN PHYSIQUE SO ALL YOU NOTICE ARE SLIGHT RIPPLES OVER MY ROCK-HARD ABS.” Then I just wear a hat and leather chaps and wander around all day baring my gray-haired chest at people like it was Superman’s S.

Or I go the other route – gain a hundred pounds. Just get that big ol’ torture-room belly where I eventually look like the Rancor keeper, the look that says, “See that? Fuck you, society. I look like this, and I’m still gonna walk around in a loincloth. Because I don’t play by YOUR RULES. I am so confident that I will redefine cultural hotness just by LOOKING AT YOU, a black hole of expectation-twisting manliness!”

Then, of course, I have to shave my head. Can’t be a big ol’ torturer without a smooth pate.

Look how wrong my default picture is! No True Dom would ever have a default picture showing a lemur on his head. No, that lemur is topping me, my smile showing that I’m too willing to please, my face either too flabby or not flabby enough. I need a gaunt picture of me, perhaps at an SCA festival, impassively wrestling a lemur to the ground to show it who’s boss. THAT’S a Dom shot.

Then again, my photos are all wrong. The big problem? They’re of me. True Doms are all Leica experts, people who spend a lot of time in the darkroom perfecting glorious photos and videos of their subs. The goal of a True Dom isn’t to show what they look like, but rather to show off their attractive collection of half-naked women, a kind of fleshy charm-bracelet to jangle at other potential subs. It’s a way of saying, “Hey, this club’s full of hot women, and you could be a part of it! Fill out this application, we’ll talk to the bouncer. You can be a part of my kinky Borg collective.”

Of course, that means as a True Dom Old Guy, I’ll need to assemble my squadron of hard-bodied twenty-three-year-olds. They’re obligatory. You can’t get into the official Dom Resting Room at the airport without them (which is a lovely secret chamber to rest in between flights, with a St. Andrew’s cross and cigars and kneeling waitresses). I’ll need to get about seven or eight of them, perhaps hanging around the graduation ceremonies at Florida State University to try to pick some up on their way out the door.

Okay, sure, maybe there’s something a little weird in mackin’ on someone five years’ younger than my daughter, but here’s the trick: All those young women with the smoking hot bodies and the uncertainty inherent of being in your early twenties and not sure where you want to go with your life and the sexy pouty mouths and the willingness to try anything for the first time?

They’re all very mature for their age.

Truth, man. Every one of them, amazingly, is not just model-hot and willing to try anything at least once, but by some bizarre coincidence they’ve all got this intense wisdom that makes them, oh, just really so much smarter than everyone else their age. Except for these seven other identically-hot women over here of the same age that I happen to be playing with, they’re also all strangely wise beyond their years and also model-hot. But you? You’re special. Here, have a glass of good wine.

So yeah. I’m doin’ it wrong. I need to start bulking up one way or the other, and wrassle a lemur, and remove all these inconvenient smiling pictures. Then I’ll be on my way to a lifetime of hot babe-sex. What could be better?

Domminess, here I come.

Cross-posted from Ferrett's Real Blog.

theferrett: (Meazel)

You can tell that my FetLife essays are extremely personal, because my marketing sucks.  Normally, Mondays are the big day for new posts, certainly weekdays – traffic’s dead on weekends.  And you especially don’t post an essay at 2:00 in the afternoon when no one’s reading, because the hits will be tragically low.

But I did promise to mention it here whenever I wrote an entry on Fet about my personal journey into alternative sexualities, and this one’s a fairly major one: an entry about my first public beating of a girl at the local BDSM club.  Which either sounds way kinkier than it actually was, or I’m just getting really too fucking jaded.

Anyway, the essay is called I Beat A Girl, And I Liked It, or: The TealDeer Experience Of A First-Timer.  You know where to find it.

Cross-posted from Ferrett's Real Blog.

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