Part I: More Filth with The Filth – or the best birthday ever

I live in a small, city cottage with a cool Dutch girl who shares the same nick name as me. For these purposes we’ll call her Abbi 2. Abbi 2 is a relatively new addition to the house; she’s worked out well so far. But in no area more so than the one of just being sound about the sex. This very stylish little house is not cut out for both the residents to be independently getting it on at the same time. The bedroom walls are made of actual toilet paper. Not that that has stopped me before. I have of course attempted the silent disco with my housemate pretending to sleep in the next room. Or been at it in the bathroom while they were in the sitting room (the bathroom is downstairs so this is still an exercise in how to bite down on a towel) and my absolute worst and most proud; over the kitchen table as the housemate was upstairs. I can’t recommend any of them except the last one but that’s what being taken to dinner and shots of cafe Patrón will lead you to.
Shortly after Abbi 2 moved in she started sending me texts to let me know when she would be staying over in her boy’s place. That was unprecedented. She doesn’t have to do this but it’s so cool that she does. It tends to have the effect of forcing me to utilise the free house creatively. And then to top it off she one day added the caveat that if I ever needed the house to myself that she would make herself scarce. Could she be the best housemate?
And this worked out well until the cop.

The cop doesn’t live in Dublin and being a cop, obviously works shift. This wasn’t making for regular, casual easy visits. After the Spectacular Coup that was the Castle incident I went to visit him in the city he’s stationed in. Ironically, my home town. He booked a hotel, the standard of riding remained high, everyone went home sore and happy. I managed to not get spotted by anyone I knew, added bonus. He wasn’t so lucky.

After that things looked a bit bleak on the opportunity front. So bleak that I asked him to not contact me at all until he was free – I had to. His propensity for conveying my exact brand of underwear wetting, filth through texts is second to none. And unfortunately it was keeping me from getting anything at all done. He agreed, thankfully with flattering reluctance. Until I woke up to the text that he couldn’t take it any longer and we had to sort something out. That, was a great morning.
The arrangement we came to was that I was going to take a day off work and he was going to call in sick. Seemed like a fair trade off, if I was going to use my last day of annual leave. I was going to plan every bit of this, think of everything and make sure it was available for us. And I did until Abbi 2, the day before sex day, tells me that she can’t actually stay in her boy’s place on this occasion. I’m fit to cry. It’s 9:30am, I’m at my desk and I let out a Fuck, Fuck, FUCK, fuck……fuck. Jesus, what am I going to do? Everyone at work looked at me. I don’t think anything can send me into such a blind, stupid, rage-panic like the thought of my perfectly planned sexfest being snatched from me. I took a few deep breaths, tried to calm down and summon any iota of reason and rationale. And when the stupidity lifted I realised I could just book a hotel! – sure it seemed par for the course at this point.
I tell him I need to book somewhere and before I do he better confirm that he’s actually coming. It’s the day before; this shit will not be refundable, he had better be coming. And the fucker takes 4 hours to get back to me. I saw nothing, did nothing, achieved nothing in those 4 hours – they are utterly lost to sex stress. Of course he confirms and throws in at the end ‘make sure it’s somewhere we can make noise’ and that’s when I thought: I know exactly what I should book! Serviced apartment. Custom designed for our needs.

On the day I can barely contain myself. I am waxed and ready, I have the outfit chosen – bought actually, especially for this. I have two bottles and a punnet of strawberries in the fridge. My bag of tricks is packed and ready to go. He’s due to get into Dublin at 6:30, enough time for me to get home from work, grab my bag and taxi to the apartment. Every text he sends almost gives me a stroke thinking that it will be bad news. It isn’t. And then he asks what time will I finish work. I’m up to my tits and out the door busy, but I can leave on the button, I tell him, it’s understood that I have plans, the next day booked off; no one will insist I stay. No, he says, I don’t want you to leave early, I’ll be there early, and tells me to find somewhere he can fuck me.

I’m fit to explode. He’s serious, he’s going to show up at my office and fuck me. How do I get him in, the place is heaving today and I have loads to do? The excitement is beyond compare. I know how I get him in; I fake a meeting and find a room. But all the rooms are booked and this new building has glass doors everywhere. It will have to be a toilet. The ones by reception should work there’s a big disabled one in the ladies. It’s a good two hour drive from where he is to Dublin, and he is not going to make it easy on me. He texts instructions every so often. He asks what colour lipstick I’m wearing – bright red as it happens but I don’t wear lipstick, it’s lip-stain so it doesn’t come off. ‘Shame’, he responds with ‘I wanted to see you on your knees with your lips around my cock leaving red marks all over it’. I can not contain myself. I don’t know how he just seems to know how to push me even farther, every time.
He later texts telling me that I’m to take off my underwear and hand it to him as soon as I see him. This gets me so wet. I tell him I would, but I’m not wearing any, these pants are too tight. This isn’t strictly true, I usually don’t wear underwear with these pants but I did today, these very soft, microfiber ones that are lovely to the touch, perfect for my tender and sore freshly waxed lips but not so lovely to look at, they’re flesh coloured and I just don’t think they’re sexy enough. This isn’t the first time I’ve pretended this. And I cannot believe when I put them on that morning I hesitated – thought about throwing them out, they were past their prime and thought ‘Nah, I’ll wear them once more, and I’ll be changing before he sees me’. So I go to the loo and take them off. He tells me he’s going to eat the crotch of my pants so he can taste the smell of my pussy there. Oh he’s good, he’s really fucking good.
So I give him directions to my building – he now knows who I work for, and tell him what to tell security, where the loo is and tell him to text me from there. He texts, says he’s just parked and is on his way in. I grab my folder and security badge and head down. In the lift I get a message ‘The coast is not clear, there’s cleaners in the loo – I’m in the lobby’. And then the door opens and there he is. Fuck he looks amazing, very calm, not at all intimidated. I walk over and Jesus do I just want to eat him, he smells incredible, and stands all up in my space, breaths me in and tells me I look great. I try to be work-Abbi – we’re in reception, there are people observing us, I fail. We’re muttering under our breaths and being probably the most physical manifestation of guilt that there is Or at least I am.I loudly say ‘there’s no rooms upstairs’ as if this explains our meeting and loitering in reception, then add let’s step outside a sec. While there two colleagues pass us and the Cop is in no mood to make things easy on me. He says the stuff that makes me weak – this is not helping me to think, think where can we go so I can have his cock in me as fast as possible?????? Let’s take a walk – again I’m so formal because I am so utterly consumed with desire for him. How can he make his physical presence so all over me, without actually touching me, how is he able to do that?

My building has a back entrance and a short walk around the block leads you to it. This back entrance leads to the downstairs toilets and the disabled cubicle. That should give us enough time for the cleaner to be gone. As we walk he tells me that he’s rock solid, I nearly stumble in my heels as I try to touch it, he’s not lying. His cock is massive and straining against his pants. I want him so fucking badly, he’s so calm walking beside me, massive erection for the whole of the street to see.
The more confident he is the more it makes me crumble.
And I don’t know about the CCTV cameras! I’ve no idea where they are, how many or if indeed they work. For all my bravado I’m so fucking nervous. This is work, this is my job, what would happen if we were caught? There’s no one by the back door we’re in and the door is locked behind us.

Before he has a chance to do anything I whip off my heels and get on my knees I need his cock in my hands, in my mouth, in my cunt. I need to feel it. He has his belt open and pants down as fast as I can get to my knees. ‘Oh fuck yeah, good girl’ he says as I get it in my mouth and I try not to moan out loud.
I don’t know what to do next – bend over the sink? Sit on him on the toilet? I want it all, I want him everywhere. And yet I’m so conscious of people walking past to the other toilets. It’s so hard to stifle the noise I want to make, I haven’t seen him in 2 weeks and he has been building this tension spectacularly all day. I’m not in any state to be teased I want him and it has to be now. I get up off my knees and we kiss like we’re devouring each other, then tell him to fuck me. I pull down my pants, put my two hands on the sink and beg him to plough into me. He does and it feels exquisite. It hurts but I love it. I am wet and I do want it but there was no foreplay, I wanted his cock and it was thick and long – so yeah, it was the right side of pain. It took a few goes to get it all in and I think I’m going to come just that second. I beg him to go harder and he tells me that he’ll do what he likes, perfectly timed as ever. He puts a hand under my chin and raises my head up as he leans into me. With his other hand he reaches around and rubs my clit. I can barely stand it. I can barely contain the noise; I want to scream his name out, beg him to fuck me harder than he ever has. But the sink is right next to the door and a group of people stream past into the main Ladies toilet. They’re chatting so I don’t think they hear my panting but I want to move this to the other wall, I feel like the wanton heat is radiating from this tiled, sealed cube.

As I move away from him he pulls the rest of his clothes off – it’s summer and this non windowed box is stifling. The sweat is dripping off of both of us and my eye makeup is smudged. I look like I’ve been having sex. I laugh at my reflection in the tiny mirror, barely able to catch my breath. He tells me to get my top off and as I lean my ass against the sink to do so he drops to his knees in front of me burying his face in my thighs and cunt. I want this, I want all of this but I can’t keep quiet, I need to be away from this bloody door. So I pull him up and demand to taste my own pussy, he lets me but has his fingers straight in where his mouth had just been. That’s enough, I need his cock. He pushes me over to the wall and bends me over, two palms flat against the wall. He pulls my hips in close to him and shoves his cock deep into me again. I try to maintain the position as he holds onto my hips, working them at the pace he wants. As loud a whimper as I can manage I beg for more, beg him not to stop. I don’t notice but he has a hand up, anchoring himself on the metal arm that is in disabled toilets to aid actual disabled people who need to get on and off the loo, not help rampant reprobates like us have illicit work sex. As I beg for more and he works me harder the metal arm gives way and makes an almighty noise. We both stop like rabbits in a headlight – did anyone hear that? Are they going to knock to see if the occupant is ok? We stand like that for a second then giggle into each other, pulling at each other again. That’s when I notice the time, it’s actually after 5. I have to get upstairs and wrap up.

We pull our clothes on quickly and quietly – belt buckles and high heels are treacherous, he heads out the door back into reception and I head into the ladies loo to fix myself a little. I can barely keep from laughing. It’s nerves and excitement and sheer thrilling joy running through me.
I come out to the lobby and he looks like nothing has happened. Fuck he’s cool.
I walk him to the door and tell him I’ll see him at my place, I just have to run upstairs to finish up I’ll probably be there before him. Although god only knows how I’m going to cycle with my cunt such a mess.

He’s already at my place, parked outside when I get there. I tell him I just have to grab my bag and I’m ready to go. After all I wasn’t expecting to see him so early.
He follows me upstairs, tells me he’ll behave. He doesn’t. As I try to throw some of the last things into the bag he reaches for me. I bat him away saying, I’m a sweaty mess and let’s just get to the place so that we can get down to it properly. He stops for a second, sits on the bed. But not for long he’s up again as soon as I bend down to reach something, he’s up and has his hands on my hips telling me he can’t wait and he wants to eat me now. I stop, let his hands gently run over me, nothing was ever brutish about him, even when he was insistent. I’m facing away from him, he’s kissing my neck and it takes me all of half a second to say: Fuck it and start opening my own pants again. I get them halfway to my knees when he spins me round and pushes me onto the bed, he kneels in front of me and pulls them the rest of the way off. He makes an appreciative noise at the wax job and then he’s gone, lost to my cunt.

He makes me come like this; mouth on my clit, fingers in my pussy and a little finger in my ass then climbs up and into me as I am still writhing on the bed. I love this, this right here; when someone knows how to keep it going and give me exactly what I want after I’ve come – a good hard cock in me. I’m sure my neighbours hate me I’m making so much noise. I love how this guy fucks me, how it all seems so easy for him, and I’m a quivering mess. He flips me over as and when he wants. But at one point he has my knees pushed up to my chest and he flips me on my side, as he does this our thighs intertwine, our legs are sort of scissoring each other but he’s deep in me. I think it’s his thigh that is pressing down on my clit as he works himself in and out of me, steadily. Oh god it’s so fucking good. His pace and rhythm are hard but slow and I can feel the most massive orgasm build. And then it erupts and I swear I’m not sure I’ve ever come that well – I was blind and it went on for ages.
I had to stop I couldn’t breathe or talk or even tell him what happened. I’m sure he got the gist of it but I wanted to tell him just how intense it was but I couldn’t. He rolled beside me, laughed and kissed my head. We lay there for a bit the bliss radiating out of me.

But we had somewhere to be and a LOAD more fun to be had.

On Female Masturbation – and my first hand job

I’m not sure where to begin with this shameful admission. And I’m not sure which bit is more shameful. You can decide.
I have never read 50 Shades of Grey. And yet – I’ve happily slagged it off. I’ve read reviews, extracts, I’ve listened to opinions. I’ve heard all of what my friends have said about it and yet never picked it up and read any substantial amount of it. At the same time I loathe when people assume they will dislike something without ever finding out for themselves. But in my defense, everyone and I mean everyone, advised against wasting my time on it. I’m a busy girl, why would I be wasting my time on this mediocre text when I could be having better sex and writing better sex? But I hate not being thorough and I hate not having my own opinion so when someone recently asked me what my thoughts were on it – I gave them, based on my scant reading of it and decided … that I was going to read it and damn well finish it and make my own mind up. Jesus I got through Dan Brown didn’t I. Shudder.
I won’t lie. I’m struggling, but only a little bit. Not least because I hate the lead character, cannot fathom why she can’t find ANY word to use for her holiest of holies and constantly refers to it as ‘down there’(always italicized) but mostly because I really think I could do a better job! And there aren’t many things in my life I would say that about.
I could fill my own book with what I dislike about this one. But what’s the point in that? I hate loads of books. I’m just going to focus on the one main anomaly that is tormenting me so far. Female masturbation.

So the female lead is a virgin (yawn) and has never been kissed (or something) even at the age of 21*. Not only that but she doesn’t, and apparently hasn’t ever, touched herself? I can’t fathom this, I really can’t. And I can’t reconcile how someone can go from having no sexual urges AT ALL to being so totally clued in and in tune with her body (and that of this guy) that she gives the perfect Bj first time?
But let’s leave that aside or I might fall into a blind rage of how this woman is the most successful author of all time**.
I’m not sure what’s at play here? That women just don’t do it, or that maybe there’s a large population of them out there that don’t do it. Or that to make it more palatable for demure audiences it was ok to have it thrown in there because in this century we’re still afraid of female sexuality and urges? All fine with a male partner, but absolutely not ok to do it by ourselves?
This can’t be it. Really are there huge numbers of (grown) women out there that don’t touch themselves? And never have. So many that it was ok to suggest the main character  in a book doesn’t and for it to seem normal?
Or is it still not ok to talk about female masturbation, once again so much so that it CAN’T be put in a book for mass publication?

Ok. I’m not saying that it’s super easy for everyone and we all got there so easily. Because I know that’s not true. Of course some women find it hard to climax or don’t know that they can do it themselves but that’s not the same as implying that most women have no interest in it unless a man is doing it for them? (obviously it would be great if there was always someone to do it for me, I’m inherently lazy and the presence of a cock always makes things hotter for me. But I can take care of business when I need to)

So I’m going to tell you about how I feel about it. When I first did it and all my thoughts, issues and limitations on it since then and how I prefer to do it now. Because as ever I can only really talk with authority about my own experiences.

I think I was 14. I think this because I was pretty old. Or I felt I was old. I could possibly have been 15. It was a weird year. I had been kissing boys since I was – well honestly I think I was 4, I actually can’t remember a time when I didn’t want to kiss the boys. When we played kiss chase, I always got caught – cos I wanted to be caught. When I got to 14 (I think) things were going further. I know I’d had some sex education in school, I knew what sex was and how you got pregnant but I just wasn’t putting two and two together. Let me explain. I had been tentatively touching willies but not really getting my hands on one. One evening, it was summer, out on the green, behind some bushes I was kissing a boy. Probably slightly older. I don’t know if he put my hand there or I did but I fully had one in my grip, properly and I was in awe. He must have guided my hand to show me what to do, I’m sure I didn’t know the rhythm. I was in thrall, I wasn’t even looking at him, I was just watching it. But it was getting late and I was supposed to be home. I could hear my friends calling my name. So I told the boy I had to go. He softly, convincingly, implored me to stay a few minutes more, got me to shout out to my friends that I was ok and wouldn’t be long. I continued to rub it and then decided I’d seen enough so went to leave. That’s when he changed and said, in probably not the kindest way, ‘Do you even know what’s supposed to happen?!’ I should have, I just hadn’t connected the dots. Of course not wanting to seem like a baby I retorted with ‘Yeah, of course I do’ and so continued until he finished. Then I ran away. All the way home, giggling and telling what had happened. Thrilled with myself, very excited and naturally because it was Ireland in the 90s, swearing my friends to secrecy lest I get a ‘name’.

So that’s the kind of thing I was getting up to all the while not having any guy seeming to want to do it to me, make me climax that is, and all the while not doing it to myself. Until one night in bed I am itchy down there (!), just a little bit but when I go to scratch it feels nice. It feels really nice, so I keep rubbing and the sensation changes. I’m not sure what it is but I like it and I practically take my skin off I rub so hard. I have an inkling that something is supposed to happen but I’m not sure what? I don’t manage it that night. But I don’t give up either. I give it loads more tries, furtively, quietly, waiting for my sister to be asleep. I’m sure I’ve heard the word orgasm and I definitely know what masturbation is but it’s still not matching up in my head, for some inexplicable reason.
In my conversations with myself (because I’m obviously not talking to anyone else about it) I call it the spread-y out-y feeling as it seems to touch me everywhere.
Jesus? For all my raging desires I was such an innocent. Finally one night, I manage it. And I want to run around the block and do a lap of honour. I feel evangelical, does everybody know about this? Of course they do, that’s why people talk about sex, that’s what’s been going on inside me, that’s what I want boys to do to me. ….. But why is it never talked about?

And that’s how it continued. Just me in my head not really thinking about anything just focusing furiously on trying to make it happen. It wasn’t always successful. And things moved on with the boys, I always had the pent up need that was never released. I had boyfriends, none of whom seem concerned with making me climax. One (circa aged 17) was even lucky enough to get blowjobs from me, successful ones at that, and hand jobs. Regularly enough too. But I don’t ever recall any desire on his part to discover what I might like or there being any discussion about me climaxing? And the weirdest thing of all? I didn’t question it either. I wasn’t having regular sex I might add it was just the hand jobs and blowjobs.
My first time (aged 15) had been such a disaster I was terrified of doing it again. This trapped me in an awful circle of wanting it desperately and not wanting it to be desperate. It was the literal manifestation of frustration. And that’s how my teens were spent.

(the very observant of you will have noticed that in a year I had gone from not knowing how a hand job finished to actually having sex. It was a steep learning curve.)

In case you’re curious it was the first boyfriend in college who managed it. More than managed it, was eager to do it and wasn’t stopping until he did. He was determined. But … it was weird for me. I’d never let anyone see it, no one had ever done it. And so the first time I did come, I didn’t tell him. I told him a few days later after he managed it a different way and was thrilled with himself. I’m not sure why I told him maybe because he was just so self-satisfied? Just so taken with the notion of being the first guy to make me come and reveling in it just a bit too much.
When he had made me come the first time, I was too embarrassed to tell him. It had snuck up on me and caught me by surprise and …. I was embarrassed as to just how it was achieved. We were lying on his bed, kissing, groping for ages. He had his hand between my legs rubbing my crotch, with his thumb pressing on the seam of my jeans perfectly rubbing my clit. It felt great but I didn’t think I would come. The kissing got more intense and I leaned harder into his hand and then it over took me. Wave after wave of it. I was moaning into his mouth with the kissing anyway but I stopped making noise as I lost my breath and was so shocked.
For some reason, because it was outside my clothes it seemed somewhat shameful to me? And so I didn’t tell him. He was very annoyed that he hadn’t gotten to bask in the glory of the first time someone else made me come. Tough break. He wasn’t delighted that he had done something nice for me, he was delighted that he was the first guy, it was his own achievement he was proud of.
But apart from that it was the start of a very fruitful 4 years of riding the holes off each other. Learning everything we could trying anything we thought of.

But back to me and masturbating. How is it now? Well, I don’t enjoy anyone watching me. Can’t explain that, I just don’t. If someone does ask can they watch, I’ll oblige but I won’t come or at least I haven’t ever so far. I’m fairly sure the logic in the part of my brain that allows me to let go and orgasm goes something like this: Why would I do it myself when I just want you to touch me?
Don’t get me wrong, if you’re fucking me from behind and I’m close I will happily get my hand down there and help myself along – again, not ideal but it does work. Sometimes.
But if you want me to sit in front of you while you watch me – well I’m afraid it just doesn’t turn me on.

I don’t generally find visual stimulation the most successful.
I can do it with someone on the phone to me, but I selfishly need them to just talk to me, if they want me to focus on getting them off too, then I can’t. It has to be one or the other. I need to just be in my head conjuring something up, lost in it myself.
But if something was to get me going, like properly so that I needed to start on myself? Then 100% it’s reading something hot that will get me needing that release. This can even be texts, if the sender is particularly skilled.
And up until recently I had to be at home, in bed where there was no chance of being discovered or disturbed.
But lately, I have managed it in my bathroom and more intriguingly – in the toilet at work. A freaking miracle for someone who had been so self-love repressed. It started off at home, it was early evening, I was just in the door and someone had been mercilessly texting me incendiary stuff all day – I had been fighting off visions of him taking me from behind standing up. Without knowing what I was going to do I dropped my bag and went straight to the loo. I locked the door and lifted my skirt. I faced the door and leaned against it with one hand, arse out, as if someone was taking me from behind. And in less than 2 minutes I was done. It was glorious. It was the relief of something that had built all day and it was a barrier broken down in my head.
I now knew that I could do it somewhere other than in my own bed, and, standing up. So that opened up the possibility of other places.

There are a couple of guys who’ve been really skilled at sending the texts that get me worked up. Or sometimes I write Abbi stuff at work. Always a mistake but sometimes I just need to get it out of my head. If I’m left alone and no one (from real work) bothers me, I can get lost in the story and start to relive it, this also gets me stupidly wound up. So not long after the standing-up-in-the-bathroom-coming I was compelled to at least try to give it a shot, try to find release.
Again, another issue for me and making myself come, my surroundings have to be nice. At least clean – possibly somewhere that I could imagine having sex. Thankfully the ladies toilets in my office are very pleasant and frequently empty in the late afternoon. With swollen lips and an engorged clit I went to there, leaned up against the tiles of the cubicle, much as I had at home and thought of someone (yes a particular someone) taking me from behind right there. And to my absolute ecstatic joy it worked.
And once it had worked once sure I knew it would work again. And it did.

I have to be outrageously aroused before I can attempt this at work. I have to be in desperate need for release a feeling that overrides any other worry of maybe getting caught. And also when I’m at that point, it will only take me about 2 minutes to get there. Pretty good odds that I won’t get discovered.

But it’s not always successful for me. Unless I’m seriously stimulated by something else first I probably can’t make myself come in the way that I want. Orgasms are not standard, they come in different sizes and intensities. And I want the giant all consuming, I don’t know my own name orgasms. Not the, just reached a peak and then disappeared and the urge is now gone, itch scratched but no lasting bliss, limping to the finish, orgasm.
But I still do it, I still want to do it and I still enjoy it.
Would I rather there was someone there to do it for me? Every. Fucking. Time.

Now before anyone points out that I haven’t mentioned porn – well that revelation is for another day.

 

 

 

 

*can I just point out that I am in no way berating anyone for being a virgin at 21, or for not having any sexual experience, but it’s specific usage in this novel is a trite old ploy I find tedious. And I mention it as a precursor to the next sentence in the paragraph.

**I did finish the book. And I didn’t hate it utterly. It moved at a nice pace and it did have a bit of a plot to it, though I’m not sure why it takes 3 books to get there. I can’t find any redeeming feature for the main character or any of the characters for that matter? But maybe that’s because I can’t relate to her on any level, she doesn’t wear makeup, she doesn’t wear heels, she doesn’t work out and she’s skinny because she appears to be terminally allergic to food and NEVER eats a fecking thing – unforgivable in my eyes.
There’s absolutely no discernible character development. And I certainly didn’t at any point get aroused to the point where I had to relief myself – actually I was quite annoyed when I was talking to my sister about this and she claimed that it was quite effective, I said I didn’t feel the same and her response was that I was numb to subtleties because I was used to harder stuff? That was unfair, she’s never read any of mine. But I digress. Different things turn different people on. And while I don’t think this story is high literature and I do somewhat resent just how popular (read: how rich the author now is) I don’t begrudge her. There are way worse books out there, just because this one isn’t to my own taste doesn’t mean I don’t want it to exist. It’s a start. Maybe there will be more and in a more female positive vein? Maybe people will open up more about sex? Maybe I’ll get my own book deal because it’s been proven that erotica can be big money… who knows. Anyway. I didn’t fling it across the room and out a door. I was able to get through it relatively easily. Can’t say that for every book I’ve picked up

Part II: More Filth with The Filth – Or The Best Birthday ever – I hope

We get to the serviced apartments. I have my hand on his cock the whole time we drive there. It’s so flattering that he seems to be rock solid around me all the time. I do not get bored of this.
As we check in they tell us that we have been randomly upgraded to the penthouse. I’m beside myself with the hopes that it’s a great view. Then they ask for our passport numbers (this is weird in my own city, I somehow feel guilty and sordid, and I love it) and this is when I discover that it’s his birthday. And now I am so fucking delighted with this, he says he hates birthdays and they’re always a let-down. Well not this one, I am going to make sure of that.

We’re straight up to the top floor, burst into the place and start running around. The receptionist had told us there were two bathrooms which is always a plus as far as I’m concerned but there isn’t. While he’s busy opening every door I’ve found the stairs and doors to the roof top terrace.
Hey Garda, get up here, you have to see these views. (I don’t call him that, I use his surname)
He’s up the stairs and out to me in a flash. We have 360 degree views of the city – every major landmark. It’s fantastic.
It’s also windy this high up. He stands behind me and I know what he wants immediately. I’m leaning forward, he’s behind me and he has his face next to my ear. He bites my ear and whispers ‘How many people do you think can see us right now?’ He hasn’t gotten to the end of that sentence before I have my hands in his underwear pulling him out and getting my own pants down. There on the balcony he gives it to me, again hard and fast and I am pushing myself down on to him as hard as I can.
I scan the buildings for faces, to see if anyone is watching. I don’t care, it doesn’t matter to me if they can. I see no one, but it’s still bright and we’re in full view, no doubt someone is getting a show.

We take it inside. He sits on a chair and pulls his pants down – I’m ordered to sit on the couch opposite and watch. He starts working his cock. I think this is particularly cruel but know better than to complain. Then he tells me to come over to him and kneel in front of him. He keeps me there for a while before he lets me have it – but only the balls first. He’s still working his cock slowly and he orders to me suck one, then the other. Finally he tells me I’ve been a good girl and he gives me his cock in my mouth. He tells me I’ve done a good job and deserve something but before he can let me have it I have to take his cock down my throat until I gag. Of course I do as I’m told and my reward? He tells me I can now sit on it. I face away from him and lower myself onto his cock, it’s starting to hurt we’ve had so much sex already but I don’t care.
I work myself up and down on him, grinding down on to him, starting to moan and get out of breath – delighted that I’m safe in the knowledge that I can make as much noise as I want.
After a few minutes of this he’s clearly had enough and wants the control back. He tells me to go lean over the couch and wait. He stands up, kicks himself out of his pants and comes over to me. He’s still solid and he hits my ass with his cock. He asks me do I want it, am I ready for it. I am whimpering for it. He bends me further over the arm of the couch and pushes my head into the seat, tells me to reach back and hold my cheeks open and he digs his cock deep into my cunt. I am making so much noise someone, somewhere has to be able to hear it and I don’t care. He pounds me into the couch then tells me to take a hand and rub my own clit. I beg for it harder and he gives it to me. I tell him I’m close to coming and he say he is too. I come and he comes not long after. I’m amazed he lasted so long he says he was disgusted he came so quickly?

I’m starving at this point and it’s definitely time for a drink. And both of us need showers – we haven’t even gotten to my bag of tricks.

I order sushi and we walk around the block to collect it. It’s a lovely evening and the stroll is perfect for catching our breaths after all the sweating.
I know this is his birthday but I am having one of the best nights of my life.

After we’ve eaten and gotten through a bottle of Prosecco he announces that he has to get clean. That he’s going to go first and when he gets back, he’s going to have another drink and I better get myself ready quickly – as he’ll be waiting.
He has no idea.

He hooks the laptop to the TV and puts on episodes of The IT Crowd for me. I sit and sip and laugh my arse off. And my excitement rises. When he comes out, smelling fantastic I foolishly think I can touch him. No chance. There’s a split second where he bends down kisses me, looks at me, asks am I doing ok and then it switches. Soon as he has the confirmation that I am; he casually takes my drink off me, takes a sip and asks me what am I waiting for.

I shower and make sure my skin is perfect. I have stockings, a black skirt and tiny see through white blouse to put on. I’m thrilled with this outfit. It’s office-y but so provocative. The blouse is too sheer and the skirt is short but not tight, it flips up easily.
I am getting wet again just putting on the stockings and pulling on the pink underwear. I don’t know how he’s going to react or what he’s going to do to me.
I walk in and apologise for being late. He says nothing.
I sit on the coffee table in front of him and cross my legs so he can see that I’m wearing stockings. He doesn’t touch me he just looks. He calmly tells me that it’s ok that I’m late; I can make up for it now and he’ll tell me how, establishing his authority. He tells me to get his drink from the kitchen table a few feet away. I walk away to get it when I turn back, he tells me to bring it to him on my knees.
I crawl over to him and hand it to him. He simply says ‘Good’.
He says that he’s disappointed that he’s had to wait so long. I go to protest and he silences me with a look. He tells me to stand up. He’s sitting there in his underwear looking amazing, his legs wide. I’m fully clothed and standing between his legs but he has all the control.
I’m ordered to turn around and put my hands flat on the coffee table, flat to the elbow. He leans forward and his head is level with my ass. He flips my skirt up and makes a noise appraising my underwear. As he smooths a hand over my silk knickers I let out a sigh and he quickly slaps me and tells me I wasn’t given permission to make any noise. He brings his head right in to my crotch and he licks my pussy through my silk knickers. I make more noise, I can’t help it. He tells me I have to be punished.
I’m told to kneel on the arm of the couch and watch as he pulls his cock out of his tight underwear and starts playing with it. He makes me watch knowing that I am gagging for it. Knowing that I am craving it.
He’s good at punishment
He asks am I ready to behave, I swear that I am, and he tells me to lean forward then he makes me keep my face next to his cock. He orders me to stay there for a few seconds then tells me I can have it in my mouth and that I better do as I’m told from here on in. I eat it with glee. And then he gets me to face him and squat over him, slowly lowering myself onto him.
Again he looks like this is all incidental to him, I know it’s not, but fuck does it turn me on that he can act like that. I’m straddling him going up and down on his cock, he’s got his hands under both my ass cheeks, squeezing them as I squeeze his cock. He says the words again and I shudder with sheer desire for him – ‘Good girl, yeah, squeeze that cock, work it’. He can’t keep this up for any length of time, I know he wants to pound me, he lifts me off him, flips me around and fucks me hard from behind.
This doesn’t last long, I’m getting quite sore every time he goes in, I don’t care but he does. I let out an ‘ow’ that I hope sounds like I like it, he sees through it and stops. Won’t give me any more. It’s time for us to have a drink anyway. We’ve another bottle to get through.
And we take it from the sitting room area up to the top bedroom with the 3 walls of floor to ceiling windows, the sun has set and Dublin has lit up. We pull all the curtains back and sit on the bed admiring the really breath-taking views of some of the best parts of Dublin. God I love this city.
Annoyingly they’ve shoved two beds together in this room, so we’re not planning on sleeping here, we’re sleeping downstairs in the room closest to the bathroom, which later on works out to have incidentally been the best choice.

We lie there still marvelling at the set of events that led us to being here on this night? I’m still having the time of my life and it’s probably not even midnight. We’re both enjoying this immensely, lying there chatting, stroking each other and finishing the last bottle of Prosecco but it gets to a point where it’s no longer languid and before he has a chance to get the better of my desires I think it’s time this fantasy I know he has gets played out.

We go down to where we’ve decided to sleep, where both our bags are, I tell him to sit on the bed and I disappear to get ready.
I’ve worn the strap-on a few times, tried it on that is, but haven’t used it on him. I love the look of it. It’s a black, latex, average-ish sized dildo in a beautiful leather harness. I love the look of it on me. And I’m not entirely sure why. I don’t think it makes me feel powerful, I feel like that most of the time in good underwear – this is something else? I’ll need to think about it but if I had to say, I think it’s because it’s just so dirty. It’s not something that you can easily discuss with your peer group and it’s so fucking exciting. I want to do this so much.
He’s done this before and he knows what to do and what to expect, I’m sure he’ll guide me.

See, I knew he had a pegging fantasy, of course I did, he told me it’s why I bought the thing – but I’ve never actually done this before. Never properly fucked a guy like this, but I want to, oh so fucking badly. And I think it’s about time I had some control this evening.

I come back into the room, he’s lying on the bed, underwear off, completely naked now. Except for the look of satisfied expectation across his face. I still have my skirt on so he can’t see it immediately, I lift it up and show him. I start to stroke it. This turns me on. It seems having anything that is cock-like in my hand is enough to excite me. He looks at me with what I feel is a look a wolf has circling its already beaten prey, his eyes dancing, knowing he’s going to get what he wants, regardless of supposedly being in the submissive’s shoes. He watches me and strokes his own cock. I tell him to pass me the lube and ask him does he like what he sees. He smirks and nods then hands me the lube which is on the bedside table near him. I get on the bed and between his legs, all the while stroking my cock. I take my top off because I can see the end game and I know what I want to happen. Still between his legs I tell him to take his hands off his cock, he reluctantly does and I put it in my mouth. I get it really wet, I gag on it to make sure my saliva is dripping down his balls and further towards his hole. I’m rubbing my cock, getting some of my spit on to it too and he hasn’t taken his eyes off me for a second. I tell him to get on all fours because I want to tongue fuck his ass. He doesn’t need to be asked twice. I spit onto it and get my tongue in there, he makes an appreciative noise that pleases me every time. I get a finger and work it in, again he makes that noise I like so I push it deeper and at the same time reach around for his cock. With my tongue and a finger in his ass and my other hand on his cock I stay at him like this for a minute or two. Then I ask him does he want another finger, of course he does, so I give it to him. I move between his asshole and his balls with my tongue and my mouth. I love every utterance that comes from him and I am greedy for more, I want to hear him cry out with pleasure, I want to do to him what he does to me. I want to see the reactions I can elicit and I want to revel in them.
But I’m not sure if I can get this right. I hope I can because I love this.

I finally lube up the dildo and ask him if he’s ready. He says he is but reminds me to go slow. I’m possibly too excited for this. It’s not the right angle and I can’t tell if I’m doing it right. So I get him to turn around and face me. I am once again between his legs and I ease the tip of the dildo in. Slowly. I get more lube and spit on it too. I love that sound. I can’t take my eyes off him I don’t know who’s in control anymore. He has his hand on his cock as I push a bit further into him, still slowly. I can barely take it, I am so turned on by how he looks, his expression, the way his breath catches. I take his hands off his cock and use mine and keep pushing into him with my own cock. I finally get in all the way in and it’s not long before the finish. I cannot get enough of the look on his face. I love that I did this. With hindsight I wish I had not been in such awe, so I could have made him tell me that he loved it and gotten him to beg me for more. But in that moment I just wanted to watch the ecstasy on his face. He comes on my tits, just as I had wanted all over my perfect, pink, silk bra.

It’s almost a shame when a guy comes for me because that’s when I’m the most turned on. But there’s still some booze and I’m happy to drink that and drink in the thrill of what just happened.

But that’s not the end of the night and it’s not the end of the firsts either.

Not long later he recovers, as he always does so well, and we start to have sex again, he’s in control, I can’t remember what position, I think we’re quite drunk and it could be messy, falling around, laughing sex. Glorious. It’s definitely not any crucial moment so I tell him that I have to pee – we are quite drunk and we’ve been riding the holes off each other. I jump up and skip the 5 steps out the door across to the loo. He follows me but hovers at the door to our room at a just-respectful distance. Just in time before I have the door closed he asks can he watch, or would I (there’s a slight hesitation but he continues) be willing to pee on him. I’m not sure if I can but I want to do anything he wants tonight. He’s extremely adept at being persuasive without you knowing it. He’s at the door to the bathroom now and I’m about to sit. I really have to go and he’s already in, the first hurdle cleared. I sit to pee and he comes and kneels by me and starts to rub his cock, I’m surprisingly into this. My guard is down and everything seems ok tonight. I’m not sure I’ll be able but I want to. So I stand up and pee on him and I fucking love the noise he makes.
He tells me, with his next breath, that this is an actual fantasy come true. And me? Well I am delighted to be the girl to do that.

I head back to the bedroom and laugh to myself as I dive onto the bed. Incredulous at what I’ve done, amazed with how far he’s taken me. I know he sorts the bathroom out and fixes himself because when he comes back to the bedroom I’m half asleep. He slides in bedside me and pulls me to him. He whispers into my ear that he’s had a great night, possibly the best birthday ever, which is all I really wanted. I think I’m about to fall asleep but I know we have sex again before I pass out. And again the next morning before we check out.

I know this night will go down in my own history as spectacular and I’m pretty sure he wasn’t asking for his money back either.

Me & Vanilla Sex: the modern Madonna Whore Complex

As usual I was having a conversation about sex with a boy. We were talking about the most exciting sex or having a very fulfilling sex life – but how that rarely tied in with a fulfilling relationship. I hate this notion. I hate the idea that the two are mutually exclusive. How did that ever come to pass?
This boy offered up a theory: that maybe girls only offered up the vanilla sex because they were afraid of being labelled; seen as someone that you don’t go out with, not girlfriend material. Labouring under the notion that boys only marry or settle down or build a life with a certain type of girl. And this type of girl is not the filthy, dirty, sexually open kind. And I think he might just be right.
There’s a vicious circle of self-fulfilling notions here: boys judge girls for being liberal and so girls then stop showing their dirtier sides. And the result is nobody is happy. Or at least there’s a large proportion of unsatisfied people out there.
Ok, that’s a massive sweeping generalisation there. But I think there might be real weight to it all the same. Ok, some boys judge girls and deem them unworthy and some girls risk a fantastic sex life for fear of being labelled, but that idea is massively present in today’s culture so much so I think it’s having an overall effect. Girls are judged more harshly than boys for the very same behaviour or tastes. And boys do purport to feel like they should settle with the safe girl. I can think of several examples of people in my own life.
I think it might just be as simple as that.

I can’t talk for everyone or every girl. But I know my own experiences and I know full well how I’ve been labelled, categorised and judged. I know I’ve gone out with people and I’ve hidden parts of myself, hidden my sexuality – not all of it, just hidden what I may have gotten up to in the past. I’m not proud of it (the withholding of info) and with the 20/20 vision that comes with hindsight; I can now see that I was on a hiding to nothing if I couldn’t let this guy see who I really was.
But before you run off and judge me, put away your wagging fingers for a second and let’s consider the alternative? I could just choose not to tell him what I had or hadn’t tried in the past (that was his issue, he hated feeling that I was more experienced than him) and in return I got to have a pretty great relationship?
OK, I didn’t like it, it didn’t make for me being very open about suggesting things to do or try – but again I can see all that from this position of hindsight clarity. At the time I was of the opinion that if I didn’t upset him and never suggested anything, just hoped that he’d come up with stuff I liked, that it would all be ok. Of course it wasn’t, I was mostly happy to do what he suggested but I had to always pretend I hadn’t done it before. Which didn’t work out well when it was something I wasn’t keen on doing again and had to explain why. And this created its own self propelling nightmare: I get caught out having lied that I’d already tried something, he gets upset that I lied, and feels (unjustifiably) inferior because again he feels I’ve had more sexual experiences than him. Which has the knock on effect that I just don’t want to upset him so I lie even more and become more wary of suggesting anything new. And on it went.
So why did I put up with this? For the very same reason I think anyone out there is accepting any issue with their sex life that they’re not happy with; because we had a great relationship otherwise. Because I loved him and I was sure he loved me too.
Now from my experience no one is going to give up love, real actual love, because they’ve had to compromise a little somewhere else.

But how much compromise is too much? When are you just not being at all true to your real self and when are you making a measured compromise that is worth it?
I can’t answer that for you, that’s something I think you need to weigh up for yourself. But what I will say is this; apart from my hiding what I did in my past, I was having great sex. Up until that point, this guy was the best sex of my life. He wanted it as much as me, he was always ready, would drop everything to have sex with me – he openly encouraged my gropey side and was never fazed by my salaciousness. I felt that was worth the sacrifice. I didn’t notice or realise that it was actually stifling me. Not being able to say what I had done in the past for fear of upsetting him, always wondering was I going to trip myself up… it was a major contributing factor to why we broke up in the end.

Ok, that’s not exactly the same as someone accepting/settling for vanilla sex when they’re craving excitement and filth – and accepting it just because they think ‘good’ girls are who you go out with. But it ismy experience of me hiding who I am for the sake of a relationship. I generally don’t hide who I am, I want to be with someone who is into what I’m into and I want to give a partner the same. If that scares you or intimidates you – where does that leave us?
I am very tired of hearing boys say that girls are repressed and only want the vanilla sex – well from the other side I can tell you my experience of proffering an alternative hasn’t always been positive.
Whatever you think of me, my whole life is not about sex, I’m not walking around all day in a g-string and hooker boots (again, unless asked) – I am just a girl. If you manage to be lucky enough to get me into bed more than once, then you will see a bit more of the Abbi side of me. I am very average and non-threatening, mostly. But I do want the sex and I’m very tired of hiding this just so I allegedly don’t scare a guy off. I’m very tired of pretending to not want the sex because I’ll be labelled ‘easy’ and not someone you go out with. I’m very wary of showing just how dirty I want it for fear of all of the above. Just because I want dirty, filthy, nasty sex, because I want it hard and I want it often does not mean that I can’t ever be girlfriend material. But that has been how I think I’ve been deemed on a number of occasions.
And this is why I am currently single. *And mostly satisfied with that.
I refuse to pretend to be someone I’m not and if this scares you then you’re not the (temporary or otherwise) boy for me. If you want to judge me for it, then you’re not the boy for me. If you want to think that you can have sex with me on the side and go home to your safe girlfriend then you are not the boy for me.

Yes, sex is hugely important to me. I believe good sex is the cornerstone to a great relationship; it’s how you build intimacy. I believe. I think you can have mind blowing sex with someone who you have a mind blowing relationship with. I’m not saying there has to be earth shattering sex every, single, time but there needs to be real electricity and a genuine wanton desire for each other. At least that passion at the very start. At least start at that point? And I will always hold out for that. I will be losing no more sleep about any boy who wants to judge me, sleep with me and then decide I was too easy. Or indeed any boy who thinks I’m a whore because of the things I want him to do to me.
Those days are passed.
So why am I ranting about it like I’ve just discovered the Madonna Whore Complex for the first time? I get enough sex (total lie, it’s never enough) I get more than my share of attention? I’m ranting because it makes me sad that this is still the way of the world. That there are girls and guys out there not getting the sex that they both want and for ridiculous reasons.
And shamefully….. because I know there were boys not giving me a chance because they had me filed under ‘not girlfriend material’, while my rational mind knows I shouldn’t care and my historical mind remembers that it doesn’t work out with a guy who would judge me – I can’t help it, sometimes it still bothers me. As much as I want to be a robot, I’m not, I’m sadly susceptible to human emotions on rare occasions.

So I’m not judging anyone for the choices they make or the relationships they choose to be in. I can’t promise that I won’t be tempted into once again tempering myself for a boy I lust after desperately. But I would urge us all to be maybe a bit brave? Suggest something, reveal something. It might work out in your favour. And to not waste anyone’s time if you don’t want to be in that relationship.

I mean really, is it too much to ask for to find a boy who is an absolute whore for me so I can return the favour? (Insert filthy smile here)

 

 

 

 

 

*Nobody’s sex life is perfect, shockingly, not even mine.

But I promise to let you know when it is x

Hey ladies, here’s the Good news –

So this week I’ve managed to talk someone into writing a piece for me. We’re going to call him Bonsai Poseur for reasons that are probably only amusing to me (he owns a bonsai, and he’s admitted he’s a bit of a poseur – a forthright admission that endeared him to me even more. My estimation of people tends to go up when they don’t take themsleves serisouly, so fair play)

Anyway, I asked, he said he would and I never thought I would get something so good but I’m glad my pushy request paid off.

Now while I would question some of what he says, I think the overall message is something that girls really need to hear (I won’t spoil the ending). I hope you like it, because that would mean I can coerce him into writing more and at another point I can sit on my laurels for a week, posting more boob pics on Twitter. Everyone wins!

(If you missed it, last Saturday was ALL Boob Saturday on my Twitter page Abbi Cranky @OCDCrankypants)

 

 

WHAT MAKES A WOMAN GOOD IN BED. A MAN’S PERSPECTIVE

Over the years in my many, many conversations with women about sex, the one question I get asked more than any other is this: What makes a woman good in bed? Or more to the point, what makes a woman bad in bed!
It’s pretty much the same question except that when women overhear men discussing such things, or when such things are brought up in discussion, it’s usually ‘what made her so bad in bed?’ rather than ‘what made her so good in bed?’

Firstly, a little bit about myself. I’m in my mid-thirties. For the most part I’m just an average guy. Slightly below the average height for a man, but slightly above on the attractiveness scale (if I do say so myself). My penis? Look up the average length and girth online, add a little bit and that’s mine. There are some things in life, sexual, physical, mental, what have you, where I’m way above average. And probably for the sake of balance, there are things I’m below average on, also. But you won’t hear me going on about those. I drink less than the average man, but read more books than average. I like football more than the average man, but talk (get angry) about it far less than average. I have no interest in cars or what mileage they do to the gallon, but I’ll happily perv on a cute ass or pert nipples on succulent breasts through a thin shirt on a cold day along with every other guy. So, it’s safe to say, for the most part, I’m your average guy.

I remember a conversation I had with a female ‘friend’ not so long ago. We were discussing our sexual partners and such over a pint or three. The topic had somehow meandered to ‘who was your best and who was your worst.’ Now, I know one of those answers straight off the top of my head. As for who was my worst, well that took some thinking and I listed off a handful of names, when I fucked them and under what situation i.e: girlfriends, one night stands, how old I was when I fucked them and so on. And the more I listed them off, the more I found that other names kept getting added to the list. I found that I could have recalled anything up to twenty women who I would have considered bad in bed. My friend started laughing and asked me did I ever fuck anyone I actually enjoyed fucking? Truth is, even the ones who were bad were still okay.
Then my friend took more of a serious tone and asked me, ‘well what was wrong with these women that made the sex so bad?’ I knew the answer but didn’t actually know if she’d believe me because to me, it’s so startlingly simple. Instead, she interjected with a knowing smile and said ‘let me see if I can guess.’ I was happy to play the game.
‘They just lay there.’ Some of them did, some of them didn’t.
‘They were too quiet. The silent ones,’ and she laughed. Some were quieter than others and some were louder.
‘They were shit at sucking cock. Or didn’t suck cock at all.’ It was true, some didn’t suck cock and some were poor at it. But not all of them.
‘They didn’t want you going down on them?’ She asked this knowing how much I love eating pussy. But no, almost all of them had no issue with me getting my head between their legs. Although a small few didn’t let me. (One thing I’ll never understand by the way.)
‘Hmmm I don’t know. Too passive? Too aggressive? Not kinky enough? Big ol’ loose cunt on them? What???’ She was now a bit confused. Some were passive, some were aggressive. Some were even kinkier than what suits my own tastes and yes, some pussies were tighter than others but that wasn’t it.
But let me change tack here for a moment and talk about some common myths that surface when it comes to good and bad sex from a man’s perspective.
Men love older women because they know what they’re doing and/or know what they want. Having been with my fair share of ‘older’ women through various stages of my life, there is only a tiny grain of truth to that. Christ, the older I get now, the conversation seems to be more turned towards ‘riding a young one’. So I would say no, older (or younger, depending on your age) does not necessarily constitute better sex.
The ‘sluttier’ a woman dresses, the better she’ll be in bed. Okay, ladies believe it or not, this is actually something that some men believe to be true. As if how you dress signifies your willingness to have sex or how wild or kinky you are in bed. I don’t really believe that men truly believe this, but often a comment I will hear (and might have uttered myself) when a scantily dressed lady walks past me and my mates table when we’re out is ‘Jesus, the body on that. Bet she’s a whure in the sack.’ And of course by the word ‘whure’ we mean dirty, kinky, wild, no holds barred kinda thing. This however, is also a false proposition. Having on occasion pulled such a woman on a night out, the results are 50/50 when it comes to whether they were the ‘whure’ I was expecting or not.
The last one I want to mention is based on attractiveness. I had a friend once, many years ago, who when we went out for a night, he would always go for the larger lady. His rule was simple: If when he hugged her, his hands met, then she wasn’t large enough. He was under the illusion that ‘fat birds’ don’t get much sex so when they do, they’d ride you into the floor and leave nothing behind except a stump where your cock used to be. Now I can’t say how true that is or not because I’m not attracted to larger ladies myself, but he swore by it. However, I know now that he’s married, to a rather slim lady so maybe he was fibbing all along.
One thing I can testify to however is this. I’m somewhere between a 7 and an 8 on the looks scale. I know it’s all relative and to do with perspective (someone might look at me and see a 7, someone else would see a 10) but if we play it based on standard models of what’s regarded as ‘hot’ I’ll say I’m 7.5. Over the years I have managed to pull a few 10’s. Women that could have been glamour models. Slim bodies, large breasts, round ass, soft skin and the face of an angel. More than half of these ladies have not been very good in bed. There is a real arrogance to them that comes across in such a way that says ‘hey, I know how hot I am, and you know how hot I am and you’re damn lucky to have me here in your bed, naked.’ It’s almost as if they see themselves as a prize and they are there to be fucked, but give nothing in return. Now, that’s not all ‘hot’ women. I don’t want to sound unfair, but just going from experience, more than half of the ‘hot’ ones were terrible in bed due to their own arrogance. So, if you’re one of those ‘hot’ ones, remember, just you being there with all your hotness does not mean diddly shit if you don’t put your back into! Okay, I’m being a bit pedantic there but you get my point.
However, that in and of itself is not what makes a woman bad in bed.
To finally show that, let me tell you about the best sex I ever had.
I will be brutally honest here so as to leave you in doubt as to what I mean. This woman’s body was nothing to write home about. No, she wasn’t unattractive, of course not. But there were little folds of fat around her stomach, her breasts sagged slightly, she never waxed her pussy (which is something I fucking love by the way. The pussy being waxed that is), she was up there with one of the worst blowjobs of my entire life and she almost never initiated sex. Confused? I would be too. Until I fucked her. We went out for quite a while in fact.
When we had sex she lost herself completely. It was almost as if she lost all idea of who she was and where she was, and god help my ego, but even forgot who she was fucking. Me! When we weren’t having sex she was incredibly conscious of her body. Quite often she would cover up coming out of the shower and I always could tell how uncomfortable she was getting changed in front of me. But during sex! My god! It was like a different person. I can still remember her on top of me, her hands grabbing my ankles as she lay back and ground her pussy slowly back and forth along my cock. Forgetting her slightly saggy breasts and slightly rotund stomach. Her eyes closed and her face a mask of pure pleasure. I can still see her stomach tighten and clench and feel her legs shake as her orgasm ripped through her. Watching her face as it contorted itself into all manner of expressions and shapes. The way she would cry out and fall down on top of me, her body drenched in sweat and shaking with pleasure, my cock still inside her and feeling her pussy tighten with each orgasmic spasm that ripped through her body. I can see her face now, aggressive and animalistic, almost feral, as she slowly started to fuck me again. Getting faster, her face becoming almost angry as she bore down on me with such force and intensity, her hunger for another orgasm, her greed for it, overtook everything else.
This is why she is the best I’ve ever had. Oh sure, I’ve had lots of great sex with other women too. Mostly for the same reason. Their complete willingness to forget themselves for the length of time we are fucking. Their absolute inability to do anything other than just be in the moment.
And this is also what makes a woman bad in bed. Regardless of how hot you are, regardless of your technique (although I will say, when you’re on top ladies, you’re not riding a horse. Forget this hoping up and down craic. Grind on that cock for fuck sake!!!!) or how good you can suck cock or how kinky you are, if you are too aware of yourself, then you can’t fully invest yourself in it. And that is what constitutes bad sex. Some women can do this partially, some not at all. The more you can fully invest yourself in the moment, the better then man will enjoy everything. And I fully assume vice versa to be true too.
Some examples. I have often been with women where I can see and sense their uncomfortableness with regards to their bodies. They won’t let you put their legs over their head because their belly will crumple up. They might get on top but will lean forward so the man can’t fully see their body. Let me make one thing very clear. If a guy is in bed with you, HE’S NOT LOOKING FOR FLAWS! I can absolutely guarantee it. And if he should see any, he’s not going to mind one iota if you can fuck him like he doesn’t even exist. There is no greater thing in this world than to see a woman completely in the moment of pure pleasure. It is the single greatest thing I have ever seen or experienced and it is without a doubt the difference between bad, okay, good and great sex.
Worse still however, is women who have watched too much porn and are trying too hard to be seductive. I’m sure there are plenty of people reading this who know what I mean. I’m not saying you’re acting, but you’re not being yourself. You’re being an idea that you think the man wants and although your heart is in the right place, we can spot it a mile away. Be yourself. Let yourself go and just BE in the moment.
However, one final thought. No matter how in the moment you are, and how free and wild you let yourself go, if the lights are turned out then it doesn’t count. It’s easy to be yourself when the man can’t see your supposed ‘flaws’. Men are visual creatures, so leave the lights on, forget he’s even there and I promise you, he’ll remember you.

Oh and one final note. I’m not saying disregard technique in kissing, oral sex, or in intercourse or in any other form of foreplay: massage, role playing, sexting and all the other million ways we have to turn each other on. These are, of course, still things that are wonderfully and amazingly erotic and pleasurable. Still pay attention and be open and communicate with your man about what you both like and don’t like. But remember, good sex is not what you can do, but what you are.

Now go forth, put aside your doubts and worries about how you look with your legs back over your head, or how unattractive you think your cum face is. Trust me, if you give yourself over to the sexual experience he will not see one flaw or one thing that is remotely unattractive in you. I promise.

 

 

 

While I will always strive to believe that any boy I’m with is not actually sleeping with me simply to find and mock my many physical flaws, I think this is something that is very hard for girls to overcome. We’re bombarded day in day out from the time we can read with notions that anything less than perfect is not good enough. It takes an unrealistically steely resolve to not have any of those punches land. Just letting ourselves go is easier said than done.

But we could do with being reminded that boys aren’t are harshesr critic, every now and again. Cheers Bonsai.

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