I live above a shop that sells body lotions, hand creams and massage oils. It’s safe, middle-class and wholesome: ‘Of warm and savoury character’, reads one of the advertising stickers on the window.
The product on display in my window is less wholesome; less safe. Like anything though, it’s on sale.
For the right price.
(If you want to use this photo for my Sinful Stories competition, please be my guest!)
If you follow me on Twitter, this won’t come as news to you, but for anyone who’s missed my relentless (and thoroughly shameless) plugging of Chemical Sex, I have an announcement: I’m going to be published!
Ever since I started this blog, I’ve maintained that I write purely because I enjoy it. I see it as a hobby, not a profession…and certainly not (God forbid) a ‘calling’. All of that is still true, but on the 13th November I’ll be forced to acknowledge that perhaps I am a bit more serious about it than I tend to admit. For the first time, something I’ve written will be available to buy on Amazon; not only that, it’ll be squeezed into an actual anthology, alongside other stories by proper authors, whose work I’ve admired and enjoyed for months (and in some cases years).
That anthology is called Chemical Sex, and it’s the brainchild of the wonderful Oleander Plume, who was kind enough to invite me to contribute a story. I’ve read most of the other submissions now, and they’ve only served to make me more excited about being part of such an incredibly talented group. I’m not going to list my favourites here – hit me up on Twitter for that if you like – but there’s not a single story that I didn’t enjoy, and I’m actually fairly picky when it comes to erotica.
Anyway, don’t take my word for it. The anthology comes out on the 13th, but it’s already available for pre-order here, and you can find a shitload of information about it on the Chemical Sex blog, including my bio and an excerpt from my story, Flat Warming. It’s super-gay, because sometimes that’s just how I roll.
Thanks again to Oleander for giving me the chance to be a part of such a cool project, and for putting together both a fucking fantastic book and a great blog to support it. If you like sex, chocolate, good writing, or any combination of the three, you’ll want to get your hands on this…
This isn’t the post I was going to write. The other day, I was looking longingly at my rather neglected bag of sex toys, and thinking about how long it’s been since someone properly fucked my arse. That led to a rather nostalgic fantasy about the first woman who took me that way, and I decided I’d blog about it when I got the chance.
That woman was called Nat, and she was a pint-sinking, rugby-playing, pierced-and-tattooed 19-year-old, who worked as a bank clerk in my home town. We were both fairly new to kink, and I was shy about exploring strap-on play with her, as she had been when discussing her own desire for anal with me. Pegging appealed to the domme in her though, and she was certainly strong enough to toss me around a bit once we’d both properly warmed up to the idea.
Both of us lived with parents at the time, so we mainly used to fuck in (or on) her car, out on one of the back roads near town, and I have a very vivid memory of a cold, clear, starry night – so cold that we kept the car heater on full blast throughout – and loud rock music drowning out my grunts and moans as she nailed me hard from behind on the back seat, the door open to give us more room.
That’s what I was going to write about. It was only when I started thinking about the details that I realised that Nat wasn’t just the first woman to fuck my arse: she was also the woman who introduced me to female ejaculation.
—
Squirting was on my mind already. A couple of years ago, I hooked up with an American who had moved to London to do her PHD. Sadie had excellent East Coast liberal arts school/sex-positive feminist credentials, and was generally a pretty awesome fuck. We’d seen each other a few times, and had moved quickly from ‘let’s just have lots of sex because sex is great’ to ‘hmm, I have this thing I really love and what do you think about trying it with me?’ In her case, that thing was receiving incredibly energetic anal sex, while using a vibrator on herself.
“I don’t know why, but I just come so hard when someone properly goes to town on my arse. I don’t like asking for it though, because it makes me squirt everywhere, and most guys aren’t cool with that.”
(Wait…what? Seriously? Yeah, we’ll come back to that…)
Anyway, half an hour later, I flopped down onto the only dry bit of bed sheet, shiny with sweat, lube, and Sadie’s cum, which ran in streaks down the insides of my thighs. She’d gushed so much that it had soaked through to the mattress, and the middle of the sheet was translucent with her juices. I stared at it in something approaching awe, and knew instantly that I’d be wanking over that sight – that feeling – for months to come.
—
Longer than that, in fact, because when Sadie sent me a ‘hey, how are you doing?’ email last week, that puddle of cum was the first thing that came to mind. She’s in a very happy relationship with a lovely guy, so it’s not an experience I envisage repeating, but it’s certainly one I’m unlikely ever to forget.
With Nat, it was different. It came as a real shock to both of us, in fact, because it wasn’t something we’d realised was possible. One minute I was going down on her – three fingers in her cunt, one in her arse, and my tongue furiously working her clit – and the next I felt a warm jet of liquid shoot down my chin. She sat bolt upright and looked at me open-mouthed.
“Fuck, what was that?”
“No idea. Did you know you could do that??”
“Nope! Um…want to see if I can do it again?”
And that was that. Whenever we met up, and regardless of which one of us ended up getting fucked, I’d always go down on her first, my fingers and tongue probing together in a greedy attempt to find the magic formula that would unlock what she uncertainly referred to as her ‘squirt reflex’. To a very inexperienced 22-year-old guy, it felt like the ultimate validation. ‘Look, look’, I wanted to say. ‘Look what I can make this person do!’
It’s happened with a few women since then, most memorably Anna, who I wrote about here for the Brit Babes. As with Sadie, ‘squirting’ is an inadequate word to describe the river of girl-cum with which Anna would soak me, the bed, and anything else within a ten-mile radius of her cunt whenever we fucked. Her internal muscles were so strong that I would have to fight to keep my cock inside her when she came – she pushed down incredibly hard, and more often than not I’d pop out of her despite my best efforts, along with another stream of fluid.
Our sessions together were always really long, because I got addicted to feeling her squirt over my fingers and face; I used to get comfortable between her legs and just work her G-spot as she hurled obscenities at me, and stuffed a pillow over her face to keep from screaming, until arousal turned to exhaustion and she went limp under my hands, unable to endure further stimulation.
—
I spent a couple of days pondering whether to write this at all. I know that relatively few women can squirt, and in talking about how much I love those who do, it would be very easy to imply that sex with those who don’t is inferior in some way. It’s really, really not. Squirting is just one of a long list of things that ought to make us appreciate how awesome the human body is, and how varied our sexual experiences can be, if we’re open to challenging narrow definitions of ‘normal’.
In the end, I wrote this because I remembered what Sadie said. Maybe she was just pushing my buttons – “come on big boy, show me how right-on and sexually-liberated you are” – but I kind of doubt it; equally though, I find it hard to believe that ‘most guys’ have a problem with squirting. That suggests it belongs on the depressingly long list of things that women are taught (by society rather than experience) to believe are shameful or embarrassing about the female body. Stuff like that becomes self-fulfilling: you try to avoid doing it, which means you never get the positive reinforcement required to bust the myth that it’s weird and unnatural.
So consider this a small part of that positive reinforcement: squirting rocks.
I write in all sorts of places. I write on public transport, hunched over my laptop or furiously tapping away at my phone. I write in greasy cafes, and gastro pubs, and gourmet restaurants. I write in serious work meetings, when I’m meant to be taking notes, because I get a thrill out of doing things that I know I shouldn’t.
Most of all though, I write at home. When no-one else is here, I sit at the kitchen table – reassuringly solid and homely – with a glass of wine rarely more than 18 inches from my laptop. When my flatmate is around, I squirrel myself away in my room, and spread out on the bed. I listen to the street noise, and the pitter-patter of rain on my window. I relish the feeling of soft sheets on naked skin, and I let my fingers dance across the keyboard. I’m happy and relaxed when I write like that.
I think it shows.
I do my best work in bed.
Or so I’ve been told.
Back in April, I linked up with Molly Moore to run a short story competition. Writers were invited to use photos from Molly’s Sinful Sunday project as inspiration for erotic stories, and boy did they deliver. I was overwhelmed by the volume and quality of the submissions, by the generosity of some really brilliant sponsors, and by the general enthusiasm the contest generated.
Six months later, it feels like time to see whether lightning can strike twice. Molly has been kind enough to agree to another Sinful Sunday tie-in, and once again I have some fantastic prizes lined up for the winners. Excited? You should be…
The Challenge
Write an erotic short story, no longer than 2500 words, using a photo from the November 9th edition of Molly Moore’s Sinful Sunday meme as the inspiration (please please read the full rules below for more details)
The Prizes
Winner: a £50 (~$80) online voucher for Sh!, London’s multi award-winning sex store; and a $15 voucher for Dreamspinner Press, the hottest gay erotica publisher around
Runner-up #1: an electronic or paperback copy of Candy Box, the latest illustrated erotic anthology from Sweetmeats Press
Runner-up #2: a paperback or electronic copy of Chemical Sex, edited by Oleander Plume
Readers’ Choice Award: TBC
Huge thanks to Sh!, Dreamspinner Press and Sweetmeats Press for agreeing to support this competition for a second time. They’re all lovely, enthusiastic, sex-positive organisations, which I’m happy and proud to be associated with. If you’re planning to enter the contest, or if you have any interest at all in sex toys and erotic fiction, please do check out their websites and enjoy what they have to offer.
If you’d like to get involved and sponsor either the second runner-up prize, or the Readers’ Choice Award, please do contact me by email or DM.
The Rules
If you have any questions, or feel there’s something important that I haven’t covered here, please do get in touch.
I loved running this competition last time round, for the buzz it generated and for all the super-hot stories people submitted. I’d love to get the same sort of response this time, so check out next week’s Sinful Sunday (note: not this week’s), put on your perviest thinking cap, and…happy writing!
When I was 17, I won the Best Speaker Award at a schools public speaking competition. It was a bittersweet moment: as a team, my two friends and I had fallen just short against a field of intimidatingly well-groomed, well-drilled, well-dressed private school kids, and the individual prize felt like a bit of an anticlimax.
For a long time, I was sure that the thing I’d regret most about that day was not winning the whole competition. It gnawed at me for months, through A-Levels and beyond, in a way that I can only look back at with faint embarrassment. I realise now that I should have cherished the experience and the camaraderie, but most of all I should have shown some fucking appreciation for what we – and I – had achieved…and for how elusive that sort of success can be.
As an adult, a lot of the prizes you win tend to be ironic. At my company’s Summer Away Day, I watched colleagues stand up and collect awards for being the worst-dressed person in the office, or the person most likely to be found in the kitchen making tea, or the least punctual member of staff (amazingly, I was nominated for none of those, though could easily have won all three). Recognition more typically comes in the form of a good review at work; a pay rise; the congratulatory posts on your Facebook wall when you buy a house/get married/have a child.
None of those things are bad – at all. They’re usually the reward for hard work, devotion, and integrity. They matter.
Other things matter too. I don’t often get the chance to hug myself with glee, but fuck it, that’s what I did tonight. Back in February, I wrote a story for an anthology. I liked the brief, wanted to get involved, and after a couple of very funny conversations with a brilliant friend, I settled on an idea. I wanted it to be deeply, almost offensively inappropriate, and nothing seemed to say ‘offensively inappropriate’ more than a punishment gangbang over a church altar, especially once I chucked an order of pleasure-giving monks into the mix.
The story was rejected, for what I will readily acknowledge were sound commercial reasons. Still, I was bloody proud of it, and posted it on my blog in April. In June, I had another go at getting it published, and got knocked back for a second time – again, the fit just wasn’t quite right.
Right now, I’m even more bloody proud of that story than I was in April. I can’t quite believe I’m writing this, but tonight it was announced by @SweetRori as the 2014 Erotica Post of the Year, and I am over-the-moon-happy in a way that my guarded, blase teenage self would never have allowed himself to reveal. I’ve read so much fucking amazing erotica this year, so to see that pop up on my phone this evening was a genuinely thrilling (and shocking!) moment – I actually whooped out loud on the bus, which in London is the sort of unpredictable behaviour that causes fellow passengers to give you side-eyes and edge slowly towards the stairs.
The story is called Brother Simeon, and you can find it here. I also strongly recommend checking out the two runners-up, by Molly Moore and Bangs & Whimpers, both of which (and whom) are fantastic. I look forward to going back to Rori’s site this evening, and tomorrow, to find out who’s won Op-Ed of the Year and Educational/Review Piece of the Year.
My 17-year-old self understandably failed to grasp how fleeting and unpredictable success can be. At 33, I’ve been around the block enough to know that nights like this don’t come along very often, so I decided to enjoy it. Thanks again, to everyone who helped with the story (especially Oleander & Malin!), and everyone who took the time to read it – I love you all.
C
Since I started doing Anonymous Sinful Sunday back in June, I’ve been lucky enough to host some fantastic images and words. The two October submissions not only meet the standard established over the last few months – they arguably raise it. Both tell a compelling story, and both manage to be extremely hot, while revealing comparatively little. They made me think: about why we send sexy photos, and whether we do it for the recipient or for ourselves; and about how hard it is to truly expose ourselves sometimes, and let others not only see us, but represent us as they see us.
I hope you enjoy them as much as I did, and if you want to be featured here on the last Sunday of next month, please get in touch.
[EDIT: One of the people who submitted a photo for this post has asked for it to be removed.]
My Portrait
He got in touch because he was going to be in London for a week and he and the friend he was visiting wanted to watch each other with someone else. He thought it might interest me. It did. But what interested me more was that he was an artist. “Will you draw me?”, I asked. “I’ll draw you like one my French women”, he joked, paraphrasing Titanic.
I revealed my motivations. I told him about Sinful Sunday, the amazing sense of community and encouragement I see amongst the regulars each week, and how once a month my friend donates his page to anyone who wants to post anonymously. I told him how much I’d already got out of contributing photos each month and that he had now got me thinking that if I was going to take advantage of my friend’s generosity with his blog to face my own body issues then I may as well take the bull by the horns and really expose myself: surely time spent sitting for a portrait, being studied, would be much more of a test?
Despite everything else that happened in that hotel room that afternoon this definitely felt the most intimate. There’s a vulnerability in sitting there, still, hearing the sweep of pencil on paper but not knowing how your body is being interpreted. But I loved it and I am very glad I did it. And I definitely wouldn’t have had the confidence to do it a few months ago, so thank you to Molly, Exhibit A and everyone who has written lovely comments about my other contributions. And thanks, of course, to the artist for my drawing – I’m going to have it framed.
I first posted something on this blog in October 2010. I first posted something with words in January 2013. Since I started writing regularly 13 months ago, I’ve given serious thought on several occasions to removing those pre-2013 posts. I’m not embarrassed by them, exactly, but after everything I’ve written and read and thought and discussed over the last year, they feel crude and immature. It’s impossible to see something like the excellent Critique My Dick Pics project, for example, and not wince at the thought of some of the photos in my blog archive, and the way they’re presented.
Initially this site was about boosting my self-confidence, and having a space in which to express the stronger exhibitionist urges that didn’t seem to have a home elsewhere in my life. I liked the thought of strangers looking at my body, at my cock, and maybe getting off on what they saw – or at least being turned on by it. The anonymity meant that I generally didn’t need to know about the people who found my photos ugly or sexually unappealing. Over the last couple of years, that need for validation has largely disappeared, and I’ve also met – both electronically and physically – a whole host of people who have a better understanding of how I feel and what I want when it comes to sex and exhibitionism.
I’ve also learnt to consider the impact of what I post. Someone called me out on Twitter a while back for having a timeline full of cock shots, without any content warning to alert people I follow, when they check out who I am: it really brought home the fact that I’m not just operating in isolation, pottering around in my own little corner of the internet, doing as I please with no consequences. Even people who choose to follow me on Twitter don’t necessarily want to be bombarded with context-free, attention-seeking photos of my dick, and in most cases they’d probably appreciate some warning or explanation when that kind of picture does come along. Y’know, basic stuff, but also issues that I hadn’t really given sufficient consideration, for the most part.
I made the decision at the end of last year to change the way I posted photos, both here and on Twitter. I unfollowed people for whom my timeline content was obviously inappropriate. I changed the banner on my blog, and added both a warning header and tags to allow people to navigate away from the dick. I tried to make the photos I posted less gratuitous: plenty of them are still explicit, but hopefully in a way that has something more to offer than just “hey, here’s my cock – isn’t it great!”
As @moscaddie has said repeatedly on her site, there’s no longer an excuse for men to take, send, or share lazy, uninteresting dick pics, and there’s neither justification nor defence for imposing explicit photos on other people – especially women – without seeking (and gaining) their consent first. I’ve been guilty of that in the past, and I’ve done my best to change my ways.
I didn’t remove the pre-2013 posts because they’re part of the history of this site and – more importantly – part of the evolution of my understanding of issues around aesthetics, privilege and consent. I don’t like all of them, but they’re still representations of my body, and I’m not ashamed of what they show. Neither do I believe that they all fall outside some universal consensus on what makes a ‘good’ dick pic.
People like @moscaddie are doing sterling work in educating men on the things they should bear in mind when photographing their penis for someone else’s pleasure (it’s all about the hand placement, right?). But it’s a bit like teaching people about food, or art, or literature. It’s good to eat healthily and well, and to have an appreciation of how different tastes and textures combine to make a good dish; it’s good to understand what distinguishes a well-composed painting or sculpture from one that lacks perspective, skill or story; and when we write books, it’s good to be able to identify how to construct a novel around themes and ideas that will enrich the reader’s understanding of human nature or the world around us. We need that, as a society, and as consumers most of us want to eat, look at, or read things that bring beauty and nourishment into our lives.
At the same time, not only do we tend to disagree with each other on what makes a great meal, there are also nights when we do just want that dirty kebab. We want the basic watercolours, and the manufactured pop music, and the trashy airport thrillers. We want to see tits, or cocks, or people fucking, and we don’t care if they’re in our faces, devoid of subtlety. The bigger and more obvious the better, in fact. Our palates might have been nuked by years of bland, tasteless food and bland, tasteless dick pics, but that doesn’t mean we don’t still crave mindless consumption from time-to-time, when we’re hungry, horny, or just plain bored.
All of that is a long-winded of way of saying that I do still get asked for basic, no-frills cock shots. Mostly by people I know fairly well, but occasionally by those I don’t.
“I’d love to see it sticking through your fly”
“I want to see how hard it is right now”
“Can you take a photo of the head for me?”
“Seriously, I just want to see your cock.”
That kind of stuff. The sort of shot that takes 30 seconds of fumbling around with a camera phone, and a couple of clicks to send. I don’t tend to post that sort of picture online any more, for the reasons outlined above, and because they’re generally taken within the context of a specific conversation with a specific person. Yesterday though, I took what could only be described as a bog-standard, basic dick pic, and this morning I had the urge to post it. There’s no real story behind it – I was at work, feeling horny, and decided to take a photo – but after sticking a filter on it I decided it looked alright and the exhibitionist in me reared his head.
Cocks shouldn’t be imposed on women without their consent, and they don’t represent a lightning rod to the pleasure buttons in the female crotch, whether in photographic or flesh-and-blood form. They are neither as interesting nor as important as most men think….but on the flip side, they’re more interesting and more important to a lot of women than we’re sometimes willing to acknowledge. To assume that dick pics always require context to be attractive to a female audience is to echo those who assert that women aren’t turned on by porn, or that they don’t love casual sex. It’s reductive and sexist: just as men do sometimes want nothing more than to look at tits, so plenty of women enjoy staring at cocks. As a man, the important thing to consider is how you enable that without imposing it, and how to select the right time, place and safeguards before electronically whipping it out.
This is just a dick pic, which I’m posting here (after the page break!) because it pleases me to do so, and because I hope it might please other people too, while not offending or upsetting anyone who sees it. I’m ok with that position, I think.
I haven’t always been a fan of the locker room. I haven’t always been a fan of my body either, and those two things are certainly not unconnected. These days though, I think nothing of wandering around naked after a hockey match, or casually chatting to my team-mates in the shower, even if my legs are burning and my back is sore and my cock is soft and starved of blood.
I like to take my time over getting changed, and sometimes that means I’m the last one in there. Or the first one, if my team-mates decide to prioritise food over the showers. When that happens I like to take a moment to sit back, close my eyes, and let my entire body relax. Any muscle ache is accompanied by a rush of satisfaction and pleasure; it matters (greatly) whether we’ve won, but even if we haven’t, I’m always glad that I’ve pushed my body through 70 minutes of pain.
The changing room is not an especially sinful – or sexual – environment. Girls’ nights in do not typically end in pillow fights (or so I’m led to believe) and my post-game shower has never descended into an orgy of cock and sweat and pent-up testosterone. Well, not really.
More’s the pity – that’s what I say. I’m always exhausted when I get in there, but still something about sitting naked on that bench today made me realise how often I’ve thought about sex in those minutes after a match, when my adrenaline levels are still elevated. How often I’ve wanted someone to come in and take me in their mouth, sucking my cock till it renounces solidarity and leaves the rest of my body to its limp tiredness. I’ve still never done it: post-match sex, in the locker room, with a girlfriend, fuck-buddy…or team-mate. It will happen one day, I’m sure. Till then, I’ll continue to let it distract me each week, as I slowly strip off my kit and get ready to shower with the boys…
I am not, by nature, an angry person. I can be impatient and crabby and cutting, and all those other words that basically mean ‘a bit of a prick’, but I think I’m too much of a control freak – especially where my emotions are concerned – to succumb to the sort of unfettered rage that seems to consume some people on a regular basis.
However, some days are just so shitty that even though I’m tense and frustrated more than boiling mad, angry sex is the only thing that feels like it would help. Angry sex takes two different forms: there’s the kind where your (probably mutual) anger is directed at the other person, and most of us know how unbearably hot that can be; but there’s also the sort of cathartic, cleansing sex you have when something unrelated to your partner has properly fucked you off. That’s the kind which essentially acts as an alternative to punching a wall or, worse, another person, and it’s the kind I need right now.
What does it involve? Well, in my case it brings out whatever intermittent dominant streak I have. I got changed out of my suit a few minutes ago, and when I slid my belt out through its loops I had a sudden urge to curl it around my hand and give someone a fairly energetic beating. Or, better still, to offer her the prospect of that beating while getting her to crawl over to me on all fours and suck my cock, arse in the air, ready and eager to be turned various shades of scarlet.
When I flung my shirt in the general direction of the laundry bag, I thought about ripping someone’s top up over her shoulders, and roughly squeezing her tits. I’d just pull her bra down, rather than off, and make her wait like that, exposed, desperate to be touched more, lower, harder. I’d want her to be wearing make-up that I could ruin, leaving her lipstick smeared around her mouth and her mascara smudged. I’d make sure that when she left a couple of hours later, there were sooty prints all over the room from it, evidence of where she’d been shoved against a wall, or restrained on all fours with her face pressed into the pillow.
I’m getting more worked-up just typing this, and thinking about the noise that kind of sex makes. The grunts and the moans, and the little sighs of pain or pleasure, yes, but it’s more than that. It’s the smacks and slaps of every description, from the palm of my hand or the leather of my belt on soft, tender skin, to the way our bodies collide forcibly each time she pushes back to meet my urgent, desperate thrusts. Sometimes I’m very quiet during sex, but when I’m feeling angry and aggressive I want to talk, as if channelling that rage into a steady stream of filth will help flush it out of my system more quickly. It’s not the kind of dominance where I want to tease or train my partner; less the dominance of denial than it is the desire to fuck someone into whimpering, mewling submission.
Generally, I’m not a fan of degradation or humiliation, but this is probably as close as I get. There’s still a connection with my partner, but I want it to be clear that her pleasure is entirely at my discretion; it exists as something for me to trigger if I please, but basically the main priority is fucking her so hard that her legs will shake as she walks home afterwards, counting her bruises…
…because that’s what I need. That rough, sweaty, exhausting fuck, which leaves my mind clear and calm. Her role is to respond to my demands, take what I give her, and make sure I’m satisfied at the end of it.
The reason why I’m writing about that kind of sex tonight rather than having it is that you can’t do it with just anyone. It requires trust, and a certain level of intimacy; it’s sex you have with someone you know and like, rather than sex with someone you bring home from a club. Like any D/S activity, you have to be careful to place any aggression or force within a clearly-understood and agreed context – both of you have to know that while you’re not ‘playing’, neither are you actually behaving in a violent way towards the other person. There are limits and boundaries that you both understand and respect.
This evening, I will take out my anger on a good steak and a bottle of red wine, albeit after pacing furiously along the streets of Islington for half an hour. The other thing though – the other thing is fun to think about, at least…