The Cure and The Cause

Drink isn’t my thing, neither are drugs. I’m not anti either of them, they both serve their purpose but as vices, as downfalls  – neither of them are what I choose to perish on.


I’ve never had heroin. I’ve never been addicted to anything – at least not in any life altering or destroying way. But I feel like I know what that’s like. What it’s like to lose yourself in something that is sweet oblivion to whatever ails you. To have something to turn to when you want to destroy everything that weighs on your mind. To know that you can have this one thing that you can do that will stop you feeling pain for a brief respite – no matter how bad you feel afterwards, or how damaging it is to you while you continue to do it.


Sex is the vice I turn to more than anything, the one that gets me in trouble and causes the most grief. And of course is where I can lose myself; lose the worst parts of me, the bits I hate, the darkest pieces that eat away at me. I can shake them for a small while.


As with any good drug it makes the good times better and the bad times tolerable and it always solves boredom. It’s what I want, what I crave – blocking out anything that I need to obliterate. When I feel good, I want it as a celebration to heighten my joy. When I feel shit, I want it to make me feel better and distract me from whatever is causing me pain. Exactly like the very best of drugs, the ultimate vice.


Yeah, I know what heroin is like in the figurative sense. I know what it’s like to have that vice. Not just any sex, not just sex with a randomer it has to be magnificent sex, mindblowing, spectacular sex. And that tends to be with someone I’m probably not supposed to be sleeping with – not always but a good portion of the time. For whatever reason that it’s not above board; they aren’t single, I like the person more than they like me, they’ve strung me along or I’ve strung them along. And for some reason the sex was addictive.

I will call up someone I’m not supposed to see or get back in touch with someone I’m meant to leave be. Or I’ll start something new with someone – if I can’t get satisfaction from any previous beaus. One way or the other when I’m on a downward spiral the thing I will turn to, to make it better and worse is always sex.

I’m just not so interested in drink or drugs, they never wipe things away so entirely for me, they rarely have the power to make me forget, to give me a brief period of not just solace but of relief from being me. Therein lies no escape.

I don’t feel lesser when I’m having sex, I don’t feel like a failure. And when I feel like everything is wrong (even if it’s someone I shouldn’t be with) for a small time I will feel like something is right.

Even when it probably isn’t and the comedown might be hell.


It is the cure and the cause.

Is Your Penis Too Small for Me?

….. I can pretty much guarantee that your penis is not too small for me. (I mean, I feel like I have to point out that it might be, but odds are that it isn’t)

Size does matter. To say it doesn’t is to negate reality and people’s feelings of insecurity in a way that’s far too glib to be helpful or even accurate. It’s like saying money doesn’t matter or looks or formal education.

They shouldn’t. But we all know that they do.

Not them alone of course but as attributes they sure don’t hurt to have. You’re not gonna be worse off for being a millionaire super model with a first class honours degree.

But still, it’s what you do with your looks or your money or your PhD that count. Them alone aren’t enough to get you where you want to be. More crucially, you can be devastatingly attractive if you’re not deemed conventionally pretty. You can be happy if you’re not rich, only a small population of the world actually is. You can succeed without a masters or a PhD. These are things you can readily get by without, it’s what you make of the rest of yourself that counts.

And it’s the same for a cock. Sure a big one can feel great but it’s really of no use unless it’s wielded well, unless its handler has learned how to wrangle it or to do any of the other myriad things that make up for a great sexual encounter. It isn’t a show maker or stopper. But it’s so hard to talk about. It’s so hard to address. We are so afraid of upsetting the penis that we don’t talk about it. As if addressing it was some kind of insult in and of itself. Well it’s not.

I have a large pointy nose, a fact not an insult. I have unevenly sized breasts, fact not insult. I have cellulite covering all my arse, hips and most of my thighs; I don’t love hearing this, admitting to this or having it pointed out, but again these are just facts. Maybe how you address it with me might be an insult, if that was your intention, it would be pretty easy to do. The point is though, simply talking about your penis size is not automatically insulting. It doesn’t make it less useful an appendage if I call it small or indeed average.

Every guy has a different one, some are bigger, it’s just a fact but all are capable of giving pleasure. Is there such a thing as too big? Probably. Is there such a thing as too small, again probably. But what is ok for one person is not what’s ok for everyone. And I can love your dick just fine even if it isn’t huge. I can love it for a million attributes before size is one of them. Most notably its propensity to get hard when it’s near me (insert heart eye emojis here). I am usually in love with the dick on the person that I am in love with. I have been lucky to love and have been loved by several penises in my life time, and it has been a pleasure to love them in return. And while I loved them as they were I’d still have taken an extra couple of inches if a Penis Fairy Godmother was dolling out extra penis inches. I’m sure some of those penises could say several things about my vagina – and they might have wanted to change a few things about it too. Does any of that mean that I didn’t worship those beautiful dicks when I had them? Nope. I cherished them.


You can love yourself just fine and still take a change if it was offered to you. Yes, I’d like a big dick over an average one, there’s no point lying. But that big dick would want to be hard as an iron bar, attentive as a new puppy and attached to someone who can make me squirt* over and above just being large.


*I really have to stop referencing this. It was only one guy who did it and I can’t seem to replicate it. Christ I hope I manage it again some day.



I’d just like to state that this is not a coverall, get out clause for anyone being horrbile to you about your body. If someone is openly telling you that they would fancy you more if you lost weight or beefed up. Or telling you that they think your penis is too small or your vagina needs less folds – this is not what I’m talking about. That is something altogether different. I flat out love my tits, they are small but pert size Bs but if I was offered Ds I would take them without even breathing. And if I was with a partner who thought the same i.e. that he’d be happy to squeeze them for the rest of his life but he wouldn’t say no to the Ds either then fine – as long as every time I took my bra off he wasn’t saying: God I love these, I just wish there was more of them. We all get that, right? Good.

Hand Jobs

There isn’t much about sex that I don’t like. It’s one of the only things sold to you when you’re young as this amazing thing adults get to do – that when you get to actually do it, it lives up to the hype. Or for me it did.

(not immediately, my first time was shit)


Not only did it live up to the hype, it surpassed it. I may be alone in this or at least not in the majority but sex gets better the more I do it. There is always something to learn or try or discover. It’s a gift that keeps on giving. Possibly because I’m so fascinated with it.


But there’s one thing that I’m sure I’m not any better at; hand jobs. I can take a guess that as I got past being a teenager eagerness of both parties to move to the more glamorous thing (blow job, sex, anal) has brought it to a stage that I cannot remember the last time I finished a guy with my hands alone. (it definitely doesn’t count if my mouth was involved)


I’ve been thinking about this since I read this piece about hand jobs – crucially it’s written by a guy and that is what resonated.

Let’s go back a step. See, I love being fingered, absolutely adore someone with deft fingers bringing me to climax with just their hands. And I know I’m not alone in feeling this, girls (I know) seem to love this or at least bemoan the fact that they don’t get to experience it so much as an adult. Super credible research on this came from the responses I got when I wrote about being fingered here and here i.e. people left comments and girls chimed in with the chorus of how it seems to be a forgotten art.


I love it. I think because it reminds me of being young and that was all you did, and how arousing and frustrating and exciting it was. And now with someone who might know what they’re doing, someone who might be able to finish the job successfully, it’s an even better experience. And yet, it’s not something that I will do for a guy.


Surely if I like it this much, and if so many girls like it so much it follows that there has to be a percentage of guys that do to? A point that was confirmed by Exhibit A in his piece – hand jobs feel great, even more so when they’re not perfect as that in and of itself is a tease that you can’t get with your own hand.

I hear all this and I still struggle.


Which is a shame because I love having a cock in my hand. I love squeezing it between my fingers, Kneading it, feeling it get hard. Running my hand up and down it, back and forth over the head, slowly, deliberately. If I can be left to do this while leaning over him, kissing him….

Adding a bit of spit to it, to ease the strokes.

I’m aroused just thinking of it.


And yet I rarely if ever do it. And I’ve been trying to ascertain what the barrier is, and I’m still not sure. It’s most likely a collection of things. I think I’m doing it wrong, or that I’m hurting him; this is especially true if the guy has been circumcised, as I am wholly convinced that without a protective foreskin that I am torturing him. I have no idea where I got this from.

I think he’s probably not enjoying it, that he’d prefer if I put it in my mouth or that I stopped altogether and just got on with the fucking. Back to me thinking I’m doing it wrong, all fucking wrong, so wrong I should just go and burn my hands and be done with them.

Maybe not the last bit.


And I’m robbing myself of the chance to get better, or worse, I’m robbing myself of the chance to make a guy come where I can see it and direct it. To watch it shoot out on top of me, or to have it ooze down in between my fingers. I honestly cannot remember the last time I had that pleasure. And it is a pleasure.


Maybe I’m wrong, maybe guys don’t want handjobs, maybe you’re all delighted that you’re over 18 and have graduated to the other things, the more important bases and you have no desire to be pleasured with my hands? I don’t know, and I won’t unless I ask or try or suggest.

I want to, but even thinking it in my head is daunting! If I think of any of my recent beaus, I think I would still be tentative in suggesting it.


I need to work on this. For sure.