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I’m a 24-year-old male and I lost my virginity to my girlfriend last year. She is three years younger than I am, but I am the 10th man that she has fucked. This is not a problem with me as I am not a jealous guy. What bothers me is that she is unwilling to perform oral sex on me. I enjoy giving oral to her. I am really in love with her and could see myself marrying her but I need to be assured that I will get a blowjob at some point in my life. She says she doesn’t like the taste of semen, which makes me just the slightest bit jealous because that means she has done this for other men but won’t do it for me, a man whom she is ostensibly considering marrying.
Been Lost Oral Woman |
I am a GGG girlfriend, and I’m up for pretty much anything my boyfriend wants to do. I also love giving head, and he loves receiving it. But he will not reciprocate. We talked about it, and he said he just doesn’t eat pussy. This really bothers me, but should I just deal with it if I like him, or is it a dump-worthy problem?
Wanting More |
| Dump her, BLOW. Sucking cock can no longer be regarded as some sort of above-and-beyond-the-call indulgence. Blowjobs are standard. Any make or model that doesn’t come with blowjobs should be immediately returned to the showroom. | Dump him, WM. Eating pussy can no longer be regarded as some sort of above-and-beyond-the-call indulgence. Cunnilingus is standard. Any make or model that doesn’t come with cunnilingus should be immediately returned to the showroom. |
About time somebody said it.
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Tuesday, January 18th, 2005 -- by Bacchus
It’s been awhile since we’ve visited that hoary old topic about why so many women love jerks and shun nice guys, while whining that their boyfriends are jerks and they can’t find any nice guys. It’s a rare man on either side of the jerk/nice-guy divide who hasn’t noticed this phenomenon, although a fair number of women still deny that it happens.
Now, for the first time on Eros Blog, some input from a bad man (his term) who speaks up with the jerk point of view:
Now, for all of my “nice guy” readers, all the shy guys who don’t understand why “she’s with that jerk and not me” and the rest, I believe that it can be summed up thusly:
We’ve got balls, and you don’t.
Another country heard from….
Thursday, September 30th, 2004 -- by Bacchus
Although it’s hardly a new conceit, this article from the San Francisco Bay Guardian is fun and funny. After the author discovers that moving in with her boyfriend did not lead to more sex, she set out to try all the “enhance your sex life” tips from the women’s magazines. After a variety of failed experiments (mint ice cream by candle light, rubbing all over him with her gym sweat) she reaches the inevitable conclusion:
I’d figured out that I could read every sex tip in the book, from Allure to Vogue, but nothing would ever take the place of spitting out three monosyllabic, easy-to-pronounce words: “Let’s do it.”
I’ve said it before and I’ll say it again: subtlety is vastly over-rated.
Tuesday, September 7th, 2004 -- by Aphrodite
I forgot it was the Labor Day weekend! I’ve been busy the past few days getting the place squared away before fall’s chill begins kissing the land — it happens early where I live. I also took the opportunity to freshen up my bedroom. I painted it a deep blushing-pink almost-red shade, and it’s gorgeous. It looks like a spectacular sunset all the time (and when the sun does come into my room, in the late afternoon and evening, it’s all the more dazzling).
Seeing the paint going on and drying, and being even prettier than I had hoped when I selected the shade, got me thinking about what an even nicer love-making nest this room will be in its new color scheme. And that got me to thinking back on past good times … and the best time I’ve had, sexually speaking, so far.
The guy wasn’t a great love of my life; I can’t even really say that we were boyfriend and girlfriend. He was in a college class with me. One night I saw him at a bar, and he was the only guy I knew there so I started talking to him. We hooked up that night, and it was pretty good … but that’s all.
We got together occasionally, but our schedules never really lined up well to get together a lot. As it happened, our last time, toward the end of the semester, was far and away the best sex of my life …J and I always had fun together, joking and laughing, even during sex sometimes. I told him after class one day that I always seemed to have thoughts running through my head — not just consciousness of what I was doing, but “word-based stuff” in my head. I’d tried meditation to help clear my mind and focus it, but it hadn’t succeeded. That was hard for him to understand, and he declared he was making a project of helping me clear my mind. For weeks afterward, he’d do silly things to try to jolt my brain out of thinking. Nothing worked, but it was fun anyway.
On an early December Friday night, I was getting stressed out by projects and upcoming exams, and decided to go for a walk. My college town was small, and a short walk from the edge of campus was all it took to get to the farmers’ fields that surrounded the town. A half moon grinned through platinum ribbons of high cloud; a few corn canes clattered in the occasional push of chill air. My pace was slow as I soaked in the quiet and cold, both soothing my mind.
Having gone about a mile down the road, I was surprised to hear footsteps behind me — not hurried ones, but deliberate and measured, like mine. Glancing back, I recognized the gait as J’s, and slowed to allow him to catch up, if he wanted.
He did. We walked for a bit in amiable silence. Finally he murmured, “Getting away from it all too, huh?”, and I nodded. We approached one of my favorite spots on this walk — a small stand of trees that huddled together, cornered by a small stream and ancient fencing. J inclined his head, and I easily leapt a low spot in the barbed wire, the spot he’d indicated being one I frequented as well.
We lay on the ground, which was not yet as cold as the air. Even so, I was thankful for the long coat I’d chosen. J’s kiss was an intoxicating mix of cold lips and nose pressing to my face, and warm, sweet breath. My body responded immediately, its sensual desires having gone unfulfilled for weeks.
Rather than indulge those desires, J acted as if he hadn’t noticed. He returned to star-gazing.
I cuddled closer, pressing my breasts against his arm, thinking that would send an unmistakable signal.
Nothing from J.
What the fuck?! I thought. J had never been slow or shy before, so his lack of response was a total surprise. I decided to display my interest in a more obvious way.
Leaning over to return his kiss with a more ardent one, I swung a leg over his body and pressed close, feeling J’s erection. As he opened his lips slightly, I gyrated against him, tongue and pelvis matching rhythm. As the kiss ended, J reached up, gently stroked my hair, then firmly grasped my shoulder and pushed me down, reversing our positions.
Ignoring my hunger or oblivious to it, J langorously slid his fingers down my skin, unbuttoning my shirt and allowing the cold to sweep over my skin. My nipples, already taut, crinkled further, then even more as one received the warm attentions of his tongue, the other teasing flicks from his cold fingers. A long sigh of release and desire escaped my lips.
My attempt to return the favor was rebuffed; J gently but firmly pushed my hands down, then unbuttoned his shirt himself. The warmth of his chest against mine was brief, as J slid down to kiss and caress my breasts again. His other hand glided over my belly to unbutton my jeans.
Still impatient with his pace, I moved to help him pull my jeans down. Wordlessly, J again spurned my action and slowly pushed them down, leaving them as an awkward but effective restraint around my ankles. Finally understanding that J would only proceed as he liked and at the pace he wanted, I lay back and contented myself with teasing his nipples and seeing his growing excitement.
After what seemed an eternity of slow, tender kissing and stroking heightened by the contrast of chill air and warm skin, J removed his jeans and prepared to enter me. I was so wet I could have taken him all in one thrust, but his unhurried pace continued. I began to rock my hips in anticipation of the orgasm building within me, but J pulled out.
Understanding immediately, I ceased my motion, and after an agonizing delay he entered me again.
J’s uncharacteristic slowness focused my full attention on every movement, every touch. Slowly in, not quite fully, then slowly out … all the way out? No, thank god … and again … again … The caress of his hair on my cheek as he bent to kiss me, never altering his rhythm …
I felt suspended in near-rapture, perpetually on the edge of orgasm. Then a slight increase in J’s pace and erection signaled his impending orgasm, tumbling me over the edge in a slow-motion release. His full thrust into me as he came sent me off again … every nerve seemed to transmit my shuddering release. J blanketed me, holding me close as our orgasms finally subsided.
It wasn’t until long afterward, when we were walking back to campus, that I realized J had at last reached his goal of completely clearing my mind of words. Unfortunately, I never told him … and even more unfortunately for me, no other lover has come close to matching that amazing night with J.
Monday, August 2nd, 2004 -- by Bacchus
Dear Miss Manners: My boyfriend and I very much enjoy giving each other head, and we are both very good at it. However, shortly after an explosive orgasm on his part, whereas my tendency is to keep sucking on his penis with the same enthusiasm and painstakingly perfected technique which I have been employing throughout the blowjob, he quickly begins making high-pitched whimpering noises, groaning “No more!” and pushing my head away from his crotch. I gather from his reaction that the intensity of pleasure has reached a pitch which he no longer finds bearable, and I have always considered that the courteous response is to withdraw and let him catch his breath. However, when I have had multiple orgasms from cunnilingus and try to wriggle away to indicate my fear that I may lapse into unconsciousness if he continues his activity, he simply grasps my hips more firmly and continues with more vigor than ever! Should I take this as an indication that he wishes me to override his requests for “no more” as well?
Discuss among yourselves.
Thursday, March 25th, 2004 -- by Bacchus
Lately Fleshbot has been all over (if you will pardon the expression) the fake celebrity facial photos genre. First they linked to Project Barkley, and now they’ve found another resource (which alas seems to be staggering under the load just now).
Although semen on a woman’s face is not really my thing, I’m enough of a fun-minded pervert to understand the appeal of the fake celebrity angle. After all, doesn’t Willow seem more approachable when you see her with “your” own cum dribbling from her lips? And who wouldn’t enjoy those gorgeous eyes and that smile under similar circumstances? A man would have to be dead.
I do have to wonder, though, how the celebrities in question feel about it. Yeah, I know, they are well paid and richly compensated in other ways by the popularity which nominates them for this particular indignity, but these are still real human beings with husbands and boyfriends and maiden aunties and little brothers and other such folk in their lives who might find this sort of imagery disturbing.
I’m not going to lose any sleep over it, but we now live in a world where your face and mine and Britney’s are all equally fair game — raw material for whatever digital mix might amuse a fickle public. Already you know that high school boys are circulating “photos” like this in the locker room, starring the homecoming queen and the entire cheerleading squad kneeling in a sticky row. How long until you can beam a mugshot of your cutest co-worker from your phone cam to your DVD player, which will cheerfully paste her facial features onto the lithe body of Vivid’s latest superstar porn model?
Tuesday, December 23rd, 2003 -- by Bacchus
Here’s a link featuring video of an impossibly sweet partial striptease by a young lady for (presumably) her boyfriend. She addresses the camera at the end, warning him not to share. Alas, he appears not to have been worthy of her trust, or of her for that matter.
I’ll confess the link title and on-page caption (terming her a “dancing slut”) make me grumpy. There’s nothing slutty about her sweet gesture, and there’s no reason to think she’s one of these women (like several on my blogroll) who are knowingly laying claim to whatever positive connotations the word has for them. It’s an excellent piece of video with a crappy subtitle. Grrr.
Wednesday, December 3rd, 2003 -- by Bacchus
I want to share an interesting set of comments I found over at Steve Gilliard’s News Blog. I’ve commented before on how most of the sex blogs I link to are written by women, and how male voices in the sex blog community are so vanishingly rare. When you do find ’em, they are guys like me ‘n Daze who talk about other people almost exclusively. Or we just link to porn pretty pictures. Now, why is that, exactly?
Steve says:
There’s a new spate of sexually oriented blogs. Some are fascinating, some droll, but they are mostly an outgrowth of women expressing themselves online. Not exclusively, but enough to make it an outgrowth of more political and social expressions of opinion.
But what a lot of feminists and their fellow travelers do not understand is this: it is incumbent upon men to be discrete.
The social code of men doesn’t encourage the sharing of sexual secrets with other men, forget women. Which is why Clinton lied, which is why my toes curl when I’m asked about women I’ve dated. One of the big tenets of an adult masculinity is not bragging. You don’t have to do much to let your friends know you’re sexually active. And that’s all that is required.
He also says:
[M]en are judged when they talk about sex. Yes, men tell sex stories, but they leave out the details. Sure, they’ll tell you what happened, but they leave out the details. Most men do not want to know what other men do in bed. Men do not usually hunt down old boyfriends to get details of what they did before. And, no, most do not want to be friends with the guys you’ve slept with. In fact, they like to ignore them. They won’t think they’re good guys or any such nonsense. It’s physics: two bodies cannot share the same space.
Men withhold details to prevent being judged by their peers. Guys do not say “yeah Bob, I really like sucking her toes and brushing her hair after sex.” That’s not anything a guy wants to know about another guy, ever.
Most of which strikes me as pretty much right on the money. There’s a class of guys who tell graphic lies in the locker room, but real men mostly ignore and avoid that, as the crass adolescent posturing it generally is.
Thursday, November 20th, 2003 -- by Bacchus
Rupert the Wired Guy starts the most interesting conversations. His essay “Mistakes Women Make About Sex” has a number of amusing bits that had me nodding my head, such as the part about miscommunication:
“Don’t stay up too late” is often a simple expression of concern that we get enough sleep. “How soon are you coming to bed?” means “I want you there while I’m still awake.” Don’t say it if that isn’t what you mean.
Don’t make us think too hard about “codes” like this. “I’m going to turn in early” could mean you had a hard day and you’re legitimately exhausted. If you want us there too, you have to ask, “Are you coming?”
On second thought, screw subtlety. Just grab our dick. That’s unmistakable.
“If you want to.” When we say it, we genuinely care whether you want to. We know that sometimes you don’t, and sometimes we can’t tell. However, we always want to; we think it’s obvious that we want to; and we assume you are aware of that. So when you say “I will if you want to”, we think it can’t possibly be meant at face value: we think you’re really saying that you don’t really want to, that you’re going to endure it for our benefit, and that you’re setting us up for you not having any fun. So when it goes wrong (as it inevitably will, if you don’t want to), then it’s our fault. We hate that.
Of course, when he says “We always want to”, it’s in his context of a woman responding to a guy who has just asked. Obviously there are times guys don’t want to, but they tend not to be initiating sex at those times.
Lilith had an entertaining response to him, but I couldn’t agree with her when I saw it because on the one hand she’s much more committed to functional communication with her men than most women, and because on the other hand she missed that crucial point about context:
Uhm, men do this too. Miscommunication goes both ways, and in my experience, is far more likely to be a male fubar than a female one. Women (in general) seem to have a lot more experience and comfort level with verbal communication and social interaction than men (in general) do.
…
Oh please, that old “we always want to” line? Bullshit. There are always going to be occasional times when you’re simply not up to the task physically (due to injury or illness or exhaustion), or when you’re far too conflicted about something mentally or emotionally. And assuming anything is usually a piss-poor idea, especially when it comes to emotional chicks–best to tell us you madly desire our lusciously bodacious selves, in the most alluring way possible. Make me feel like a goddess, and I’ll be one for you.
Not bullshit. Truth – when we are asking, we want to. Never heard of an exception. Was never present for one. Can’t imagine being present for one.
Things start getting really interesting when Dalemar The Secondary Boyfriend (it’s complicated, you gotta read these people for awhile to imagine just how complicated) weighs in, confirming my impression about Lilith’s atypically communicative approach:
Uhm… Hah! Speaking as someone who has almost always lived with women, I beg to differ on that point. Fabritzio ladies such as yourself are far more well-adjusted and comfortable with verbal communication that the rest of the world, and a very rare breed at that. I have sat back many a time and watched in wonderment as the various ladies in my life have failed miserably in trying to convey a simple concept.
Take the EMC, for example: when going out to eat, she would often reply to the “where” question with “I don’t know, why don’t you pick one.” Simple, right? Wrong. What she really meant was “I really don’t care where we go, but I can’t understand why you would think I would actually let you pick the restaraunt,” and she would proceed to shoot down my next three suggestions before I would tell her to decide, which is all she wanted in the first place – and I had already given it to her. I sometimes had to stop the car until she chose.
Every straight guy I know at one point or another has come home to find a certain chill in the air and a lady who promptly replies “Nothing!” when asked “What seems to be the matter?” This is followed by several hours of the guy wracking his brain and questioning every move he’s made for the last week and cold-shoulder terse replies to all attempts at conversation until she finally tells him (at near the top of her lungs, and at length) about just what is wrong.
Now, had she merely told us at the beginning of the evening, we might have sorted things out in short order and gone back to enjoying each other’s company.
Not to say that guys don’t miscommunicate, only that we generally do so un-intentionally. I have noticed in the past that women will often put the worst possible spin on a man’s words and twist them into a completely different meaning. The poor bloke is left standing there with his hat in his hands wondering why she just burst into tears and fled, or worse, dodging flying crockery and running for his life, all the while thinking “all I said was ‘you look good in that dress’!”
Dalemar, it is clear, has been around the block, seen the elephant, and returned to tell the tale. He goes on to make the critical point about context:
You may have missed the real point on this one: when we ask “would you like to get naked and have wild weasel sex?” the proper answer is not “I will if you want to.” Since we have just asked you, there is good reason to believe we do indeed want you to tie us up and get out the whips; a “yes” or “no” is what we’re looking for. “I will if you want to.” is an open-ended response that may lead us to believe that you are doing it just to please us, and that you probably won’t be having much fun – thinking about this breaks our concentration and pretty much ensures that you won’t be getting there, and we end up dissappointed in ourselves. I’d rather you said no than put me through that.
Just so, just so. Of course Lilith has more to say, basically in the vein of “here’s why it’s obvious to me why I’m feeling like throwing crockery”:
Actually, what I think is closer to the truth is that I’m trying to get something accomplished and he gets in my way, or obliviously goes about having fun while I’m trying to do chores and whatnot that he said he’d take care of and totally spaced on repeatedly until I got sick of it and did it myself (instead of nagging). Or something along those lines. Or I worked at my job, ran errands, did housework and laundry and helped kids with homework or plans for their next day, basically had a busy day doing for everyone else…and he wants me to cater to him at the end of the day instead of veg out and have some destressing time to do whatever the hell I please?! Yeah right.
Which is pretty funny coming from a lady who is acknowledged by her men as being more communicative than your average woman. To Dalemar’s suggestion that men just want a yes-or-no answer, she rightly rejoins:
Uhm, wrong. It’s not a “yes” or “no” that men are looking for in this situation. An unqualified “yes” is what you’re looking for.
True! But Dalemar is right – an unqualified “no” is much preferable to a grudging yes. This is true despite Lilith’s other true observation:
Because the more common situation (though there certainly ARE exceptions) is that the man in a relationship wants to have sex more frequently than the woman does. And sooner or later, hearing her say no is going to get pretty damned tiresome and lead to him not asking much anymore, unless he’s a total pig. Then she thinks he doesn’t find her attractive because he’s not asking much, so she’s less willing to say yes when he does ask. Vicious circle commences, and the sex life goes out the window.
Uh, yeah. But saying no indirectly, or saying yes grudgingly (“if you want to” can be either one, depending on the guy and the girl and the moment) does not make this better. A “no” isn’t nicer because it’s said with four words, and there’s nothing more horrifying (to a decent guy, anyway) than realizing during sex that his lady’s heart isn’t in it. Which means “if you want to” must be processed as a “no” by any prudent man, with all the negative results Lilith mentions.
This has gotten way too long, and there are lots of wonderful points not quoted here. It’s worth reading through the whole conversation!
Monday, November 17th, 2003 -- by Bacchus
Lilith always makes me giggle when she describes the way she blows off steam with her female friends and vents about her complicated relationship life:
Last night, Nic and I got together after work for a drink over food at the Rose & Raindrop…. The general theme of the evening seemed to be “Boys are stupid; throw rocks at them!”
Unfortunately our male stupidity isn’t always so entertaining. Longtime readers of DeeGee Girl will remember BoyFriend (BF for short), and will have been jealous of the way she, and sometimes her friend CutePal, treated him like a prince — nay, like a sultan. This is the thanks she gets — a ridiculous and self- contradictory breakup speech of the “let’s just be friends” variety:
He said I was his best friend, that he was probably making a huge mistake and that I was the one that had his heart.
That he didn’t want to hurt me and his kids a year from now when he and I would break up.
That he didn’t want to get into another marriage.
That he could only handle the type of loose relationship we had this summer.
That he was doing all this for me — cause he didn’t want to hurt me.
That once in his life he was doing the right thing.
That he knew he would regret it.
Dumb ass.
Finally, and at the risk of making people queasy, I had my own moment of stupidity this weekend. I hurt The Nymph’s feelings by saying “if you come and visit” instead of “when you come and visit”. It wasn’t even a conscious thing – is it ever? – but it certainly wasn’t the smartest thing I’ve ever said. Fortunately I believe she forgave me. When she comes to visit, I’ll find a way to make it up to her.
Monday, July 21st, 2003 -- by Bacchus
In a recent column by John Ross I stumbled across an amusing tale of his encounter with a predator-woman whose attentions he inadvertently managed to attract. Since she started by sizing up his wallet in full view of her date for the evening, he has a little fun with her:
“What do I look like I do for a living?” she asked, throwing it back at me. This was getting better. I considered the question, and made a point of looking her over. I thought of Miss Adelaide and the Hot Box Girls, the antithesis of this woman’s understated elegance.
“You’re a stripper.” (Understand that preposterous as my “guess” was, I delivered it with a straight face, and there are more than a dozen strip clubs within a half hour of where we were sitting.) Her jaw hit the floor. “So I guessed right, huh?”
“I’M A MOTHER! I have two children!”
“And stripping pays a lot better than being a receptionist, so you can work fewer hours and be with your kids more,” I said as I laid some bills on the bar to cover the cost of the chili. “That makes perfect sense to me. StripperMom,” I said, nodding. “I like the sound of that. See you later, Scott,” I said as I put on my coat. “Bye, StripperMom. It was nice to meet you and your boyfriend.” I stepped out into the damp air, jingling my car keys, feeling good, thinking of Jean Simmons, and wondering what eventualities I might have set in motion. I was certain I’d run into StripperMom again.
John plays hard, boys and girls, so wear appropriate safety gear if you try to follow along at home. Not for amateurs!
Tuesday, February 4th, 2003 -- by Bacchus
This article [link gone] contains a chilling tale of Google Revenge by (who else?) a scorned woman:
Amanda created an alternate digital identity for her former boyfriend – a personal Web page that would, in all likelihood, be accessed only by those people Googling him by name. On this over-the-top Web page, the guy makes a series of mock confessions that, if taken seriously, would be toxic in any future dating situation. He “admits” to being untrustworthy, jobless, sneaky, a lousy lover, and, finally, a carrier of venereal disease. Hey, Mom, let me tell you a little bit about my new boyfriend.
Confession time. When Bacchus first read this article, it gave him an evil urge to go and do likewise to an arguably-deserving ex. The urge was quickly suppressed, after mere moments of consideration, on purely pragmatic grounds — she could, and would, do unto as done upon, and belike with an evil genius of even higher calibre. Best not to go there.
But Alina promptly leapt for, and attained, the moral high ground:
In the end, we each get what is coming to us in some shape or form– a natural consequence of our good or bad decisions. The most poetic justice is the kind that never shows its hand. So don’t bother. Vengeance sullies the soul of the bearer more than the soul of the intended target. Limit the collateral damage. Call it a day. Thank ex-man/woman for what he/she may have taught you about the world, about human relationships, and more importantly, about yourself.
But wait, don’t grab for your insulin yet! Alina may be high-minded, but she’s still human:
Life, love, and the pursuit of happiness prove far too beautiful and elegaic to be drowned in revenge fantasies. That said, it can never hurt to check the google galaxy for unfortunate slips. Picture me grinning.
Friday, December 20th, 2002 -- by Bacchus
Alert readers will have noticed the recent appearance on the sex blog list of Pornblography, a fun new blog [since gone defunct] that’s all about the movers and shakers in the porn biz. Frankly, to an outsider it’s just a bit bewildering — these people are not most of them household names, although they will be familiar in some cases to heavy porn consumers and regular readers of Adult Video News, the New York Times of the adult entertainment industry. But it’s a delightful and eye-opening read all the same. Do you know what a suitcase pimp is? Nope, neither did your humble scribe. It turns out:
A “Suitcase Pimp” is the industry term for any boyfriend or husband of a porn chick. They are often, but not always, jobless….
Suitcase Pimps can usually be seen carrying the bags of the actresses when they arrive on a set (hence the term Suitcase), and they are often to be found on the cell phone handling the business affairs of the girls (i.e. “pimping” them out to whichever producer will pay the most money for a scene). This activity takes place much to the consternation of various film producers and directors, who would MUCH rather deal with the porno chicks themselves, for various reasons.
Carly, who writes Pornblography, also has great taste, having averred that ErosBlog “fucking rocks”. Thanks Carly!
Saturday, December 14th, 2002 -- by Bacchus
The lovely and mysterious Babs explains a sure-fire strategy for a woman to get a man’s attention:
When Babs asked her friend why she was so sad, she told her that her boyfriend was doing beer bong hits and totally ignoring her. Babs didn’t have any sage advice at the time, so she summoned Trevor, one of her closest guy friends, for help. After talking with him for a few minutes, the depressed girlfriend started to grin and wandered off to find her brew-swillin’ dude.
Babs caught up with her friend in the bathroom about fifteen minutes later.
“You’re pretty happy. What happened?”
“Oh, Trevor just told me to go unzip my boyfriend’s pants. It worked. Now he has eyes only for me.”
Wednesday, October 16th, 2002 -- by Bacchus
It is reliably reported (er, in People Magazine) that Spice Girl Mel B likes a good sex spanking. Her ex-boyfriend, who reportedly is a bit peeved that she violated their mutual confidences, tells all:
“She particularly liked to be spanked on the bottom in the middle of it. She loved to talk dirty and learnt lots of dirty words in Icelandic and would shout them out when we had sex.”
And Mel loved the thrill of sex outdoors. Fjolnir said: “We made a point of doing it outdoors in the famous Blue Lagoon hot springs in Iceland.”
“We also joined the Mile High Club on a flight to America. We sneaked into the toilets and were at it for probably 10 minutes. She was moaning so much I put my hand over her mouth.”When we came out a stewardess gave us a knowing smile. Mel didn’t care and shared it all with the other Spice Girls when we saw them next.”
