What if you saw me from across the street?
What if I saw you?
What if I invited you in…
Category: Other photos
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Sinful Sunday: Gifted
I’ve struggled with this month’s Sinful Sunday prompt. It’s not that I don’t love Christmas – I do – nor that I have any problem thinking up ways to make the festive season sexy. No, it comes down to something far more mundane than that: timing.
I grew up in a family where Christmas didn’t really start till the 24th. At this point in early December, there would be no tree in our living room; no tinsel on the walls; no candles in the window. In fact, my siblings and I would go to bed on Christmas Eve with the house looking pretty much as it did for the rest of the year.
“You know it’s Father Christmas who brings the tree, darlings,” my mum would say as she tucked us in. The implication of that was clear – if you haven’t been good this year, it’s not just presents that’ll be missing when you come downstairs tomorrow morning.
Sure enough though, we’d burst into the living room on Christmas Day – after being made to sing a carol outside the door – to find a whopping great fir tree, decorated with baubles, lights, lametta, the works. My dad would draw the curtains and light the candles, someone would turn the key on the wind-up Santa till Silent Night jangled out across the room, and Christmas would officially begin.
Anyway, long story short, while I’m all on board with festive music at this point, and while I’d never dream of harshing anyone else’s Christmas buzz, I simply couldn’t think of anything clever to fit the prompt…because that’s not where my brain’s at right now.
Where is my brain then? Well, my brain is here…
I got this message from a friend earlier, and immediately it set my mind racing. Look, there are lots of bad reasons to think of sex as a gift, but the second as I started picturing this super-horny scenario, all I could think about were the sexy, filthy, good ones.
Being passed around a group of women at a party till my tongue aches, and all I can taste is cunt.
Hanging out with a partner and her flatmates, and dropping to my knees any time one of them casually lifts her skirt.
Being sent to someone’s house like a midweek takeaway meal, knowing that a full report will make it back to my partner before I do – and that it will determine whether or not I get to have an orgasm of my own that night.
First though, I’d have to prove that I’m worthy of being shared. I’d have to strip down and get on my back, so she can hike up her dress, straddle my chest, and put my mouth to work. She adores her friends, and she only wants to give them the best – it’s what they deserve. If I can’t make her come – make her grind down onto me until her legs shake – then what’s the point?
Christmas is a time for giving, after all…
…and if you’re really, really lucky, a time for being gifted.
One of the things I think about most often when posting photos here is how much of myself to show, and how much to leave to the imagination. How explicit I should be.
That’s not a dilemma rooted in any sort of prudish concern about reader sensibilities, nor in a fear of showing off my own body. It’s more that the photos I put up here are going to be viewed by people with very diverse views on what constitutes ‘sexy’, and I’m perhaps overly conscious of that – for every person who tells me “yes, more cock, more cock!”, there’s someone else saying “mm, just hint at it – that’s hot.”
This week I went back and forth…and ended up with this. The original image obviously shows a lot more (well, like another 4″…), but I feel like it works better with some of that cropped out. Maybe…
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Sinful Sunday: Sideways
Another week, another photo from Luke Austin’s Butt book that caught my eye. Or caught someone’s eye, anyway.
Austin’s model is languid and light, but to me this felt like a darker image. I wanted pools of shadow falling around me as I lay there, waiting for someone to join me…ready for whatever they might need…
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Dick Pics interview
Back in August, I was lucky enough to be interviewed by Rachel Kramer Bussel for her sex column in the Philadelphia City Paper. It turned out to be one of the newspaper’s final editions, as after almost 34 years it ceased publication on the 8th October.
I obviously don’t live in Philadelphia, but by happy coincidence Molly Moore and her husband were visiting family there when my interview with Rachel was published. They were kind enough to bring back a copy, which Molly handed over to me on Friday night.
At the age of maybe 10 or 11, I was certain I wanted to be a journalist, and when I read the paper each morning I would visualise my own name above the articles I loved the most. Perhaps for that reason, it feels ten times stranger (and more wonderful) to see my pseudonym and photo in a physical newspaper than it did when I first clicked through to the online edition. I don’t know what I’ll do with this blog in the long run – things change quickly, and planning too far ahead is always dangerous – but if I walked away tomorrow I think that interview (silly as it may be) would sit alongside Chemical Sex and Eroticon as one of the coolest things* to happen as a result of writing it.
While I’m tempted to frame the column and hang it in my bathroom, that would obviously raise a few uncomfortable questions, especially when my parents come to visit. Anonymity definitely has its drawbacks. Instead, I’ll tuck it away in a shoebox, alongside all the other bits and pieces of my life that have to stay hidden. Before I do that though, I wanted to share a photo of the article here, and to say thanks (again) to Rachel for having me…it was really cool just to be asked.
*I’m not including in this list all the amazing people I’ve met. They are their own separate category of awesomeness.
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Sinful Sunday: Cat
It’s been, for one reason or another, a pretty turbulent week. Lots of highs, a couple of real lows, and lots to process both mentally and emotionally. It culminated yesterday afternoon in a physically exhausting game of hockey, after which I felt broken in just about every sense.
When I got home, I cancelled my Saturday evening plans, opened a bottle of wine, put on some music, and chilled the fuck out. By this morning, I was feeling a lot happier – rested, if not fully restored and recharged. After tea and toast, I padded back down to my bedroom, just in time to see a beautiful patch of sunlight form across the end of my bed.
During the week, a business operates from the two windows directly opposite mine. For obvious reasons, that limits what I can do in my room when the curtains are open. On Sundays, no such restrictions exist. I shucked my dressing gown, crawled up onto the bed, and stretched out on my stomach. I could feel the sun warming my back; soothing the sore muscles in my arse and thighs. My cock was pressed between my stomach and the sheet, tight enough that it started to get hard without me even having to shift and thrust my hips.
I eventually rolled over, closing my eyes against the blinding sunlight. I arched my back and tensed my abs, letting my arms slide up the wall behind my head. Even though I knew no-one could see through it, the open window in front of me was somehow very exciting, especially when I pushed my legs apart and wrapped a hand around my throbbing cock.
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Friday Flash: Torrent
She sends me out just as the storm hits. Her kiss is brief, almost perfunctory, but her hand lingers on my forearm for just long enough to tell me that she knows – that the timing is not a coincidence.
Few things turn me on more than being properly caught in the rain. I’m not talking about your pissy, London drizzle – the weather equivalent of having someone repeatedly sneeze in your face – but instead the sort of torrential downpour that leaves you gasping when it first hits your skin. Rain that churns up a shimmering cloud a foot high and makes it impossible to see the ground in front of you.
It’s a battering I’m powerless to resist, so I close my eyes, spread my arms wide, and embrace it. Who wouldn’t? We are drawn to that sort of elemental fury, precisely because it strips us down, layer by layer, and leaves us feeling utterly exposed. Pinned under nature’s microscope.
I love the way water always finds a path. Always. It sneaks down my collar, and gathers in the hollow at the base of my throat. It spatters and freckles the backs of my hands, clinging to the hairs that tuft out of my jacket sleeve at the wrist. When I touch my face, it is like skimming a stone across the surface of a lake; the skin dimples under my fingers, and is filled quickly by the water that already covers it in a thin, cool film.
Sodden and heavy, my clothes plaster themselves to my body. It should be unpleasant, but even the cold denim wrapped tightly around my thighs sets off a shudder of arousal rather than discomfort. It prickles at my nerve endings, leaving me twitchy and primed; charged with a restless sexual energy that makes me want to toss my head back and scream at the sky.
The heat rushes to my stomach and groin as I splash through the puddles. I must look half-mad, with my head bare and a smile so wide that the corners of my mouth start to ache. Saturation is liberating somehow, and I am so giddy that I start to feel like I’m floating above the spitting, bouncing raindrops as they hit the ground.
She is waiting for me on the doorstep, a towel draped over one arm. She makes me stand there in front of her, stamping my feet impatiently, my cock starting to push out a dark blue bulge in the front of my jeans.
She takes a half-step forward and extends one arm, just far enough to brush my chest with her fingertips. The rain attacks her bare skin immediately; it is fierce and greedy for her, and we both stare as it runs off in fat, glistening streaks.
I clear my throat to speak, but she shakes her head and pulls me towards the door. When it closes behind us, I am momentarily disorientated by the change. It is quiet here – the surge and roar of the storm replaced by expectant silence. By the low hum and purr of her voice, as she looks me up and down. Slowly, and with deliberate, obvious intent.
“Come on. Let’s get you out of those wet clothes…”
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Sinful Sunday: Butt
In New York last weekend, I picked up a little gem of a book, by a photographer called Luke Austin. The title of the book – actually more of a super high-quality magazine – is Butt, and within its 60 pages are countless gorgeous images, all focused on the male arse.
I tweeted photos of a few of my favourites during the week, and have enjoyed flicking through it so much that it seemed only right to take inspiration from Austin’s work and make my own butt the subject of this week’s Sinful Sunday post.
In the stairwell that connects the two levels of my maisonette flat, there is a mirror. Actually to be more accurate there are 21 small mirrors, arranged in a 3×7 grid on the wall. I’m rarely a fan of my own reflection, but something about the way it’s broken up and spread across those 21 shiny discs often captures my attention as I move from one floor to the other.
Tonight I stopped to take a proper look at what they showed me; while I stood there, trying to decide whether I liked what I saw, I had the sudden urge to feel someone else’s eyes on me from above…pinning me down on their mental page, and studying my arse…just like I’ve studied Austin’s models this week.
Halfway through a leisurely brunch in a NoHo restaurant this afternoon, I got warm enough to peel off my jumper, exposing the shirt beneath it. My friend gasped, and clutched at my sleeve, dragging it towards her.
“You’re wearing cufflinks. Have I ever told you how sexy I find men in cufflinks?”
I watched her as she studied them, her face rapt. We spend hours styling our hair, doing our make-up, choosing our outfits, and tweaking a million different things about our appearance, with the aim of inducing that sort of response in a date.
Enough time and attention, in fact, to make us forget that sometimes it’s the little things that really count…
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Sinful Sunday: Rule 34
A couple of weeks ago I was chatting to someone at a party, and she mentioned Rule 34. I was unfamiliar with the term, so she explained it to me. Rule 34 of the internet states that:
“If it exists, there is porn of it – no exceptions.”
We were in the kitchen at the time, so immediately started looking around for something with which to test this maxim. One chap pointed at the kettle.
“Surely no-one’s made kettle porn,” he said. “Have they??”
Yes. Yes they have.
‘Young hot brunette teen teases & fucks her wet pussy with a kettle’ is the title of that video. I watched it so you don’t have to…seriously, some things just can’t be unseen…
Anyway, I thought about that conversation again this afternoon. My flatmate is away, and I was hanging out naked in my kitchen, making a cup of tea. I boiled some water, grabbed a mug, and just as I was about to pour, I decided to make my own contribution to the kettle porn genre – and to proving Rule 34.
