OK, so I’ve been asked to elaborate on things… I could tell you what I had for dinner or when my washing machine is due for a service, but I thought I’d give a frank account of my taste in porn for wanking. Or at least one kind, for truly it depends on my mood.
Truth is, ok sure I like those…
How things have changed (by Crafty Dogma)
omg it should go back to being like this.
The ad is from 1937 America. In the wake of the Great Depression, a skinny body (which, just 10 years before in the plenitude of the 1920s had signified Modernity and Youth) meant ‘poverty and overwork’. It would not be until the 1960s (again a time of economic plenty, social change, and value again placed on ‘youthfulness’) that the skinny body became desirable again. Female body shape ideals are, in part, linked to economic cycles of boom and bust, so long as those cycles connect to the availabiity of cheap food. This is of course just a piece of the puzzle, but an important one.
What more can I say? Geekyvamp has said it all. All I can add is that my own personal preference is for Christina Hendricks/Marilyn Monroe types so this advert appeals to me slightly on that level. Even though it’s still pretty sexist telling women then need to gain OR lose weight, I find it disheartening that many women try to change to something I find personally unattractive. I guess seeing this is just a nice change in modern times. Ideally, we shouldn’t be trying to encourage anyone to be anything but healthy. But each to their own and may everyone find someone who loves them for who they are.
I suddenly feel like I need to lose some weight to be attractive…
after my shower this morning. just naked nude and with my derriere looking slightly ‘rubenesque’ (I love that euphemism)
There is something about the way this lady carries herself that screams wit, intelligence and a naughty side. I really wish there were more like her in my acquaintance.
My First Embarrassing Outpour
I guess I should start things off with the first things I can remember.
My memories are a little vague now, but I recall my father telling my sister and I about the facts of life at the same time. We were both fairly young. Less than ten at any rate. And I’m pretty sure I had a lot of questions at the end of it which I kept to myself. My father was a pretty upstanding gentleman, but in some respects his working class background still shone through. We lived in a fairly large house in the nicest part of town (albeit, not the nicest town). The interior was expensive, but not overly so. We were bang in the middle of middle class. All the same, my father was sitting on the toilet when he had the ‘talk’ with us. I can’t recall now if he was actually using it, but it seemed inconsequential to the conversation. All I can really say about the conversation is that it would not have equipped me to procreate.
I was told that a man could put his penis into a woman’s vagina and that it would (somehow) make her pregnant. A baby would grow in her tummy for nine months and would then come out the vagina in the painful exercise of birth. I was also told explicitly that I was not to put my penis inside a woman’s anything until I was much, much older. My father went on to say that this process could result in spreading diseases that could kill you.
My thoughts at the end of all this? Where were these diseases coming from and how could you be sure not to catch them? How did we ever discover that this was the way to make babies? Did all people who made babies have these diseases? And why did it take nine months to grow the baby? Of course, I kept these questions to myself, lest I seem stupid in front of my father. But the number of important things that were left out of the discussion was astonishing. I guess my Dad just wanted to tell us enough that we knew to avoid it.
I didn’t think much about the talk after that, though it was perhaps the first time that I really felt a strong divide between my sister and myself. We were clearly on opposite sides of some eternal sport. It was perhaps coincidental that my first sexual experience came shortly after.
My family would spend Friday evenings watching comedy shows and I would always end up lying belly down on the floor. One Friday, while the sitcom weaved its silly story, two of the characters finally got together and kissed passionately. And suddenly, for the first time, it didn’t seem wrong. It was weird. Girls were clearly gross and kissing was just disgusting, but somehow, this shot of two of my favourite fictional characters getting together seemed… okay. More than okay. It seemed romantic and passionate. These were two concepts that were unfamiliar to me, but I knew that’s what I was seeing. A close embrace with the man pulling the woman into him with his strong arms. Her small, elegant frame fitting next to his like they were moulded together. Like a perfect fit. And as if it was the most natural thing in the world, I felt I should be that man. I should be the one pulling that woman into me and kissing her deeply with all the conviction of my soul. Then, for a moment, I felt like she was there. There was something pushing against my body as I lay down on the floor. I shifted around a little and realised it wasn’t in my head, but it wasn’t the woman either. It was me.
I had no idea what to do. I didn’t know what was going on. I just knew that I felt immensely embarrassed and couldn’t possibly let anyone see the medical condition I was now suffering from. I moved a little to try and make it go away, but to no avail. If anything, it just seemed to make it larger.
But wait a second… without my full weight on it, this felt… good. Really good. But there was no time to think about that. How on earth was I going to get rid of this thing? I decided just to wait and see if I could come up with a plan. Soon I got pulled back into the plot of the sitcom and the next I thought about it, it had gone.
It was a pretty mysterious evening for me. The next day, I waited till everyone was upstairs and then I went to the living room and tried to recreate the events of the previous night. I put on the tape of the sitcom (my Dad used to tape the episodes in case he fell asleep) and waited to see what would happen. Sure enough, the growth came back. I moved around a little to see if I could get that good feeling back. Again, success! But… wait… this was amazing. Without having to worry about anyone watching me, I could gyrate much more freely. I moved side to side, around and around, up and down, putting my whole weight on it then letting it barely brush the ground as I moved around. It was a pleasure that I’d never known but I felt I should stop and let my penis return to normal before someone came downstairs.
I repeated this activity several times over the next few weeks. Usually right after school when my sister was upstairs, My Mum was cooking dinner and my Dad was still at work. It was a thrilling exploration but I couldn’t help wondering why I had been given this gift. Was there something wrong with me? Could other people do this and I just didn’t know? But that couldn’t be right. If everyone could do it and it felt so good, wouldn’t someone have told me about it?
One day I was alone in the house. No one was home but me. I decided to spend some time with my new hobby, but this time I really let loose. I was jiggling and thrusting around on the floor and it was just getting better and better. The pleasure was so intense and it seemed like there was no end to how good it could feel. Every time I thought I’d hit the limit, the sensation grew even greater. And the more pleasure I got, the more I wanted. Faster and harder I dug myself into the floor and I could hear groans coming from me that filled the room. It was so good, so good, so good, so… oh no. Oh crap!
I stood up and ran to the bathroom. I couldn’t believe it, I’d pissed myself! I pulled down my clothes but I wasn’t peeing any more. I’d have to clean this up and try to get my clothes dry before anyone got home. I started using toilet paper to soak up the urine. Then I realized it wasn’t that at all. I didn’t know what the hell had happened, but my pee had come out sticky and viscous. And it didn’t smell like pee. Man, what the hell was wrong with me!? Is this how I’m going to pee now? That can’t be normal. Am I going to die!?
Well, I was ten. I didn’t know any better. I stopped my little activity after that. It took me a while to gleam enough information from my friends to figure out what was going on (talk about the blind leading the blind). I finally made the connection to the stuff my Dad had told me about. I still had a lot of questions, but at least I didn’t think I was going to die. But I still couldn’t discount that there was something wrong with me. After a while, I started the activity again, but not as regularly. And I always made sure to stuff my underwear with toilet paper before I started. It made things less pleasant, but it was easier to hide what I’d done. And after I’d experienced that first climax, going back to rubbing without release wasn’t an option.
It was a long time before I discovered masturbation with my hand. It just didn’t occur to me. I always lay down, facing forward and thrust into the floor or my bed. But I could never get rid of the feeling that maybe I was the only one doing this. I couldn’t help but feel a little ashamed. It wasn’t until years later that I started to feel good about it…
The Point
I haven’t had a lot of sex. When I was young, I swore to myself that I wouldn’t have sex until I’d been in love, and I’ve only been in love once. The girl I fell in love with lived in another country, so most of my sexual experiences took place over instant messaging and webcam. But there were a few times when we met in person. I’m lucky that we got a chance to really be with each other before it all fell apart.
Despite my romantic oath as a teenager, the realities of making love surprised me. Although I truly loved the first girl I slept with, sex wasn’t always sweet and gentle. Some of the times we were together, we were truly making love. It was tender and emotional. We were there for each other and we felt so close that we were almost one person. But other times it was raw and charged. Sexual pleasure was all that mattered. We weren’t making love, we were fucking.
These experiences changed a lot of my attitudes towards sex, but I have not yet resolved those thoughts.
I have greatly admired people who explore their sexuality, even more so when they have been willing to share it with the world so that we might all benefit from their experiences. Using them as an example, I hope to explore my own sexuality here.
However, my journey will probably be a little different. As I have already said, I don’t have much sex. I’m not sure exactly what I will write here, but it is likely to be reflections on past experiences and my expectations for the future. I guess this is a sex blog for the single people of the world.
