According to the September 17, 1926 issue of Arts and Vanities magazine, this impressive movie kiss features actor Stuart Holmes and an actress not identified in the caption.
I always love the ambiguity of these “divided by prison bars” images, because each one tells two different stories, depending on who you imagine is inside the bars versus who is outside them:
There’s only so much that a man in a pressure suit can accomplish with an amorously-inclined mermaid, but these two appear willing to push that erotic envelope as far as it will go:
What makes this comic illustration entertaining for me is its early date. In a 50s men’s magazine it would be almost unremarkable, but in the September 1926 issue of Frolic magazine? Amazing!
I don’t have a source for this, but a vintage magazine, surely. The hygienic kissing screen never caught on, for which we all are, I do not doubt, suitably grateful:
It does rather seem to prefigure the latex dental dam, which enjoyed (if I may use the word loosely) a certain currency among sex educators for a time. (How broadly it was actually adopted is a fact I don’t possess.)
Here at ErosBlog I have been exploring for more than a decade the most obvious reason why rich men buy boats. This vintage postcard image speaks instead to the perhaps-related question of why men who can’t buy boats are still willing to rent them:
Sam has yet to discover some important life wisdom. A woman who deploys the reflexive “not here!” response to public displays of affection won’t stop doing it when the two of you are in private:
I am a big believer in not asking questions if I don’t want to hear the answers. In like fashion, one shouldn’t sneak around and spy upon that which one doesn’t really want to see:
There’s really not so very much to object to regarding this advice on kissing in the Louisville Weekly Courier from 1856, even if it does come from a preacher. Allowances must be made for different times I suppose, so he’s allowed the one cryptic admonition about excluding “soul” from the proceedings:
The Rev. Sidney Smith once said, in writing of kissing: “We are in favor of a certain amount of shyness when a kiss is proposed, but it should not be continued too long; and when the fair one gives it, let it be administered with warmth and energy. Let there be no soul in it. If she close her eyes and sigh deeply immediately after it, the effect is greater. She should be careful not to slabber a kiss, but give it as a humming bird runs his bill into a honeysuckle — deep but delicate. There is much virtue in a kiss, when well delivered. We have had the memory of one we received in our youth, which has lasted us forty years, and we believe it will be one of the last things we will think of when we die.”
For a man who admits to being badly out of practice, he seems to have retained a solid grasp of the basic principles!
This article appeared in the August, 1921 issue of The Tattler. Despite a few obscure references, it remains a rip-roaring defense of kissing, which appears to have needed a bit more defending back then than it does today:
Oh Joy! Kissing Is O.K. By De Vaux Thompson
A GOOD deal of water has run under the Brooklyn Bridge since the first dour and long-faced reformer tried to put a crimp in the gentle art of kissing.
The number of kiss microbes that have frisked about this locality since they were discovered, is according to our statistical expert approximately 134,786,982,563,874,563, although he may have missed one or two in the count. A microbe census is never exactly correct.
The battle against osculation has been long and bitter. Scientists with long flowing whiskers who haven’t been kissed in years and who never had a real chorus-girl kiss in their lives have been trying to take the joy out of life for many years.
Latterly the reformers have been after the eight-foot screen kiss. They claim that a three-foot kiss is long enough and that when a kiss is three feet and one inch in length it is against the peace and morality of the community. In the early days of the motion picture the sixteen or twenty-foot kiss was common but that was when there was plenty of celluloid and producers were willing to waste it on frivolous things. Nobody has ever measured the park bench kiss but some of them run to one thousand feet.
Dr. Kotsoff, a scientist, in an address before a philosophical society, recommended kissing as a stimulant to health. He did not recommend one-half-of-one-per-cent kisses, either, but regular old-fashioned sockdologers like Olga Nethersole used to pass out six nights a week and Wednesday and Saturday mats. “Kissing between lovers or sweethearts,” said Dr. Kotsoff, “sends forth ethereal and hypnotic waves, traveling with great velocity and electrifying and rejuvenating every psychic, mental and physical cell structure of the body. It is a most potent agency for courage, good-cheer, optimism, hope, health and longevity.”
Yea, bo! We’ll say she do!
It is even proposed that squads of kissable young women be sent out to make the rounds and restore young men to perfect health by kissing them. They would make us a nation of Bernarr McFaddens, of Dempseys, of Strangler Lewises. And the next nation to go to war with us would be sorry, that’s all.
Much obliged, professor. In behalf of the park benchers, the Coney Island boaters, the Fifth avenue bussers and the great army of Broadway osculators, we thank you.
Now they will feel authorized to go on kissing. They would anyhow.
Seduction was a different and apparently more hazardous business back in the 1920s, but a bold man could make some progress, as in this cartoon by Field Smith in The Merry Magazine (March 1929):
The caption reads:
She: “I never thought you would dare to kiss me!”
He: “Well, there was a good deal of danger about it, so — er — I thought we’d better face it together.”
When people used to illuminate their Christmas trees with actual candles in the pre-electric age (and they did!) it’s said that “fire was practically inevitable”, so much so that in 1908 “a group of insurance companies collectively refused to pay for fires started by Christmas trees with candles.” I’m the son of a fire department trainer, so the twee Christmas card above (from Curt Teich publishers, dating to the early 1900s) is, for me, more horror porn than season’s greetings. And that’s even before you contemplate the horror of getting a kiss from someone whose head is at once on fire and melting away!
That said, it’s cute and it’s passionate. Merry Christmas!
There’s a famous 1931 German film called Mädchen in Uniform about a repressive Prussian-style boarding school for young women. Let’s allow B. Ruby Rich writing in Jump Cut to help frame the movie’s context for us:
If we are to understand Maedchen In Uniform fully, it is important to keep in view the society within which it was made. It was the celebrated milieu of Berlin-avant-la-guerre, the Berlin with dozens of gay and lesbian bars and journals, the Berlin of a social tolerance so widespread that it nearly camouflaged the underlying legal restraints (which were to grow, rapidly, into massive repression).
Although Mädchen is primarily understood in our time as an early film about lesbianism, and is most notorious visually for a kissing scene between student and instructor (of which more later), the film is said to have been primarily appreciated by its contemporary German audience for its anti-authoritarian sentiments. From an IMDB review:
Though the film goes as far as it can in its theme of (awakening) lesbian feelings and sexual feelings of young girls in general, shifting emphasis automatically meant concentrating on the theme of the cold and inhumane authoritarian (Prussian) way of life and upbringing, a way of thinking still present in the Weimar republic and in 1931 already considered a danger to the young republic. Then audiences were more interested in this aspect than in the sexual one… A political stand this film certainly takes not, but, as the original title “Yesterday and Tomorrow” says, this film makes a plea for a more liberal and humane society. Of course the film was banned after the Nazi take-over (though for some obscure reason Goebbels liked the film “as film”).
Here’s Rich in Jump Cut again with more to say about that:
Most important to the film’s reputation through the years has been its significance as an antiauthoritarian and prophetically anti-fascist film. To be sure, the film has suitable credentials for such a claim. Any film so opposed to militarism, so anti-Prussian, so much in support of the emotional freedom of women, must be an anti-fascist film. Add to such factors the fact that the film was made on the very eve of Hitler’s rise to power, just prior to the annexation of the film industry to Goebbel’s cultural program, and the legend of Sagan’s proto-subversive movie is secure. In emphasizing the film’s progressive stance in relation to the Nazi assumption of power, however, film historians have tended to overlook, minimize, or trivialize the film’s central concern with love between women.
In my considered opinion, overlooking that must have taken considerable effort!
And what of the celebrated kissing scene in the dormitory?
Here’s the clip:
Rich in Jump Cut is much better than me at describing what we just saw there:
The scene is set in the dormitory on Manuela’s first night in the school. It is filmed with the soft focus and radiant light of a Romantic painting, say one by Friedrich. The lights are even dimmed, by Fraulein von Bernburg herself on-screen, to make the scene more seductive to the viewer. All the girls are poised on the edge of their beds, kneeling in identical white gowns, heads upraised to receive the communion of her lips touching their foreheads, which she holds firmly and ritually as she administers each kiss.
Rich again:
This extreme fetishizing of the kiss, by both the nature of the teacher’s gestures and director Sagan’s cinematographic style, is emblematic of the unspoken codes of repressive tolerance. The kiss is permitted, to each alike, but it is at once the given and the boundary. Nothing more may be allowed or even suggested, although the tension of that which is withheld suffuses the scene with its eroticism of shimmering light and grants the teacher her very power. The kiss is the minimum and the maximum, a state of grace and a state of stasis. The entire equilibrium is founded upon this extreme tension – which is snapped when Manuela, overwhelmed by the atmosphere and her feelings, breaks the rules. She throws her arms around Fraulein von Bernburg’s body in a tight embrace and receives, not a punishment, but a kiss. A kiss, not merely on the forehead, but full on the lips.
Without spoiling the subsequent plot of the movie for you, it ends surprisingly well, with no tragic suicides or dire fates. But Rich, writing in the 1980s about this 1930s film, makes an argument about the movie’s ending that’s still compelling today:
The bells and bugles that sound periodically throughout the film, casting a prophetic pall upon the love of Manuela and Fraulein von Bernburg, are waiting just outside the gates for us as well. The ending of the film can be interpreted as a warning to heed to forces mounting outside our narrow zones of victory and liberation. When, at the film’s end, the Principal appears to be defeated, she exits through a darkened hallway. But at the end of the hallway is the light of the outdoors, site of the buglers and the patriarchal forces mobilizing against any such victory.
The Nazis didn’t just ban this film, they tried to burn all the copies (source). Fortunately, they failed; some prints had already been dispersed outside Germany, and a very few of those survived the war.
This artwork appears all over the web in ten thousand uncredited places. It’s been circulating so long in so many different forms that it was extremely hard to track down a credit. But at such tasks your humble narrator excels, and I persevered until successful: according to The Village Voicein 2004, it’s artwork by Mirko Ilic.
There is some atavistic male impulse within me that wants to disclaim these photos with a warning that the dick in question is not “real”. Which perhaps says more about my constrained notion of a “real” dick (warm living flesh attached to a man) than it does about the reality of the pictured dick:
In any case I should think one would want to be certain of one’s safewords and escape routes before telling domme Darling that the dick she’s wielding in these photos isn’t real. You there, you tell her. I’ll just be over here tightening up the laces on my running shoes.
There’s strong and suggestive evidence (very suggestive!) that Oscar Wilde and Walt Whitman may once have had sex. At the least, they drank elderberry wine together, spoke of the insipidity of the love of women, and got on famously. Oscar’s after-action report:
“I have the kiss of Walt Whitman still on my lips.”
And this is an awesome intro to the tale:
You are either the kind of person to whom this matters a great deal, or the kind of person to whom it matters not at all. To the latter I say: yours is the narrow road and the straight, and I extend to you a hearty and fulsome handshake, as well as my sincerest wishes for your continued good health. To the former I say: Want to hear about the time Walt Whitman and Oscar Wilde (probably) hooked up??
Of course you do. You’re my kind of person. Why do we ever talk about anything else? Let’s never do that again.
Saying it now instead of next week because I’ve been in a bit of a minor funk regarding the progress and direction of our sad old world, and this heartwarming photo is the first thing I’ve seen that actually gives me some hope for the new year:
Petty Officer 2nd Class Marissa Gaeta, left, kisses her girlfriend of two years, Petty Officer 3rd Class Citlalic Snell at Joint Expeditionary Base Little Creek in Virginia Beach, Va., Wednesday, Dec. 22, 2011 after Gaeta’s ship returned from 80 days at sea.
This sex vignette from Under His Hand reminds of the sort of blog post I was always looking for (and too rarely found) back when I would sometimes do Sex Blog Roundups for Fleshbot:
He was standing on his side of the bed when he started stripping, looking at me.
There was an animal in his eyes.
Standing on my own side of the bed, I started stripping, too. Cooperative prey, I am.
He climbed up on the bed, on his knees, and started toward me. I followed suit, climbing up and walking on my knees to meet him in the middle.
“Only in missionary and with the lights out.” I said playfully, thinking of the prudish behaviors we’d been mocking.
He gripped the hair at the back of my head and crushed his mouth to mine in reply.
Prudish wasn’t happening.
This was one of the rare times when kissing hit me as I assume it hits others. One of the rare times that I leaned into it, encouraging his tongue to probe and explore. His appreciative moan sent shivers down my spine and I went on my own exploration with my own tongue.
When we pulled away, wiping wetness from our lips and chins, there was a bit of animal in both of us. I felt bold and uninhibited, seeing the goosebumps, goosebumps that I gave him, peppering his arms and legs.
And his cock. Stiff and jutting. I grinned and went back in for more. Taking the initiative and grabbing, wanting, nipping at his neck and shoulders, his nipples, my fist wrapped around him.
I’m not usually the aggressor in bed. I’m much more suited to the submissive role— go figure, right? And generally, he’s not much of one for laying back and taking it.
He wasn’t this time either. He met my aggression with his own, sinking his teeth into the spot where my neck curves into my shoulder and growling. My movements on his cock, so sure and determined before, faltered. My head bowed and fell against his chest.
I tilted my head to the side, exposing myself to his mouth. Normally I dislike biting, finding the sharp pain of flesh trapped between unforgiving teeth to be jolting and unpleasant. But this time… this time, the pain came in delicious waves, seeming to start at the point of the bite and working their way down to my cunt, in a seemingly endless influx of pleasure.
“Oh.” Lightly, softly, the surprise carried in my voice. “I like that.” I felt his lips curl against my skin. “I knew you’d see it my way eventually,” he said, his mouth opening for another bite.
Across my collarbone, down my chest, back over my shoulders. My own body rippling into goosebumps; still we stayed as we were, up on our knees, face to face.
I wondered how I could get his cock in me from that position.
It was still wrapped in my fist. Hot and dry, smooth as velvet. And hard. So. Very. Hard. It was also about even with my belly button, and hot as belly button fucking sounds, I wanted him in my cunt. Now.
I tilted my hips forward, rubbing against him, inviting, wordlessly begging. Without loosening his teeth, he shoved a hand down between my legs and attacked my pussy. He chuckled at finding me so wet, greedy greedy cunt, and easily slid in a finger, two, then three, fucking me with them while I wrapped my arms around his shoulders and hung on for the ride.
And what a ride he is.
I came, hard, soaking over his fingers. When pulled his hand away, his gleaming, glistening hand, he pushed my head down to his crotch. As I took him into my mouth, I felt him wiping the warm wetness of my pussy juices across my back, in my hair, down my arms.
As Paris would say— that’s hot.
The smell of sex filled the air. I didn’t suck him long before I was rolling over on to my back, spreading my legs, a wanton whore inviting him in.
My first relationship and experiences with a woman were when I was a freshman in college. I met a beautiful girl the first day of orientation by running into her. I was juggling books – looking for the piece of paper that told me where to go next and I literally ran into her…a beautiful girl with long wavy red hair, pale skin with freckles and green eyes. She was one of those people that walks in a room and the whole room stops talking and looks — she was that beautiful.
I of course wanted to sink into the crack of the sidewalk and melt way as I was totally embarrassed. But she was so nice. And made me feel at ease telling me not to worry about it as she remembered what it was like trying navigate the campus for the first time. She introduced herself….Morgan. We stood there and talked for a bit. And before we parted she insisted on trading info so that she could check in on me make sure I was finding everything.
Heh. Purely altruistic, I’m sure.
Jumping way forward in the story, and skipping the preliminary seduction, though you should not:
But on to the first time we had sex….It was hot too with her pushing me up against a stall of a bathroom in a club. We were dancing, kissing and touching and she lead me to the bathroom – into a stall and pushed me against the wall of the stall and pushed my shirt up and pull my tits above my bra and sucked and unzipped my jeans and worked her fingers into me. She told me to beg her to “let me orgasm.” The place was a club – grimy but it just made it even that much better. I begged and she brought me close many times but would always stop. Finally she stopped and told me I only got an orgasm at home where I would undress for her. I had been being shy to this point not wanting her to “see” me. So she worked me up so much that of course got what she wanted. Because she brought that slut side out – I wanted to do anything she asked and was willing to spread my legs or whatever she wanted me to do because I was so turned on. We went home and I undressed for her…
This, presumably, falls into the category of “Be careful what you wish for.” Apparently muscleman Rosario Faria fell into the trap of telling Dante “Kiss my ass” or something close to it. Which can be a mistake, no matter how rough and tough you are, when you’re all tied up. Dante’s kissing it all right, but unless I’m misinterpreting those red finger marks, he hauled off and smacked it a few times first:
I’m really not old enough to remember the era when smoking cigarettes was supposed to be sexy. I’m thankful for that; my reaction to cigarettes is revulsion in varying degrees depending on proximity. I’ve always been one of those people for whom the idea of kissing a smoker is like the thought of licking out an ashtray — which is to say, retch-inducing even in the imagination.
Given that, images like this always strike me as particularly jarring:
Sometimes I wonder: if the tobacco industry spent a century and untold billions selling the notion that people who smoke are sexier than people who don’t, why hasn’t ADM and the rest of the modern mechanized processed-foods industry managed to use its advertising billions to convince people that a physique born of corn syrup and white flour, deep fried in canola oil, is sexy? If you’ve see the people in WALL*E, you’ll know what I’m asking — why isn’t that future here now, being reinforced throughout our popular culture the way smoking was in 1950?
(Please don’t misunderstand — although I’m personally closer to the WALL*E vision than I am to the sammich-deprived fashion-industry ideal of good looks, I wouldn’t approve of the food industry winning that propaganda war any more than I approve of the way the tobacco industry won theirs for many decades. I’m just curious why they don’t seem to be fighting it, when they’ve got the deep pockets and the profit motive and the utter lack of conscience that would let ’em do it.)
Thanks to a commenter, I realized that the last post was a quite unfortunate thing to have at the top of the page on Mother’s Day. So I quickly cast around for something to put up, and I chanced upon this old magazine illustration, which does a much better job of illustrating how you should be treating the mother of your children, today and probably every day:
It’s the King of The Robots, about to get a passionate kiss from a woman:
Found at Urod.ru under the caption Старые фото о главном, which translates to “Old photos of {blank}”, where {blank} is a word I don’t know and which Google Translate renders unhelpfully as “main”.
This has got to be absolutely the tamest / cutest photoset I’ve ever seen in the pages of Taboo magazine, which has been happily notorious for explicit bondage sex photography since well before anybody (well, it was Kink.com, actually) dared to do it on the web. But not in this photoset! Nope, this is just a fine lady and her maid, prepping for another hard day of languishing around the manor in outfits of loosely-arranged lace:
“Why, you careless hussy! You caught a tangle and hurt my pretty head! I ought to…”
The remonstrances continue: “You indolent wench! I’ll rip off your lingerie and slap some sense into your silly head!”
“Bah, slapping isn’t enough for course slatterns like you! Bend over, I’ll pretend to spank you with my silver hand mirror while secretly using it to peer at your pussy!”
And, then, inevitably, there has to be the kissing on the ear and the whispering of sweet nothings:
How else are they going to segue into the inevitable hot-and-sweaty lesbian makeup sex?
Pictures are from the August 2004 edition of Taboo magazine.
From much the same era, or perhaps a bit earlier, in which Chairman Mao was trying to swap away ten million women, we have American Airlines grousing about people stealing its friendly stewardesses. The following was captioned “People keep stealing our stewardesses.”
And the explanation:
Within two years, most of our stewardesses will leave us for other men.
This isn’t surprising.
A girl who can smile for 5 and a half hours is hard to find.
Not to mention a wife who can remember what 124 people want for dinner.
(And tell you all about meteorology and jets, if that’s what you’re looking for in a woman.)
But these are not the things that brought on our problem.
It’s the kind of girl we hire. Being beautiful just isn’t enough.
(We don’t mean it isn’t important. We just mean it isn’t enough.)
So if there’s one thing we look for, it’s girls who like people. And you can’t do that and then tell them not to like people too much.
All you can do is put a new wing on your stewardess college to keep up with demand.
Apparently there was just a big porn convention in Vegas, and Gawker Media was there. You may know Gawker Media for its several stylish blog titles, but it’s Fleshbot you’ll be most familiar with as an ErosBlog reader. Well, now I’ve been introduced to one of their newer titles, which also looks very promising indeed. Here now via Jezebel is Jezebel editor Tracie “Slut Machine” Egan’s Last Night I Boned An AVN Award Nominee, complete with “pictures or STFU” proof in the form of her triumphal hickie photograph:
They had this dude — the one I blew for a little bit in the bathroom — who was very easy to convince to come back to my hotel with me.
…
Back in the hotel, I decided I could use another drink (I really didn’t need it at all), and the dude I brought back with me said he wanted french fries, so we went to the Grand Lux Cafe (which is like the same thing as Cheesecake Factory) in the casino of the Venetian. We didn’t even touch what we ordered. We just drunkenly made out hardcore in the booth, and then I put my hand under the napkin on his lap and started jerking him off. Nobody blinked an eye. People weren’t even looking at us. When I remembered for a minute that I was in public and came up for air, I looked around and saw that people were too immersed in their own 3 AM dramas played out over extra large servings of fried food. One lady was crying next to a tight-jawed man, who was looking anywhere but at her face. The middle-aged gay couple next to us were arguing over whether to share or get their own meals. And the waiters were just happy that we weren’t bothering them with requests.
The dude put his dick back in his pants, we got the check and went back up to my room. (I’m sharing it with Jonno and Dash from Fleshbot.) We have an awesome suite; there are two beds and a sofa bed. Since I was the last one home, I got the sofa bed in the living room area, but that was fine for my purposes. Me and the dude went into the bathroom (I don’t have a picture of it, but it’s pretty grand) and just went at it. He lifted me onto the marble counter top. I wrapped my arms and legs around him, koala-bear style, and he fucked the shit out of me. He ruled and his dick was nice. I told him that he should maybe consider working in front of the camera instead of behind it.
We stayed in there for a little bit more and he finger banged me. I ended up squirting all over the damn place — which hasn’t happened to me in what seems like ages. It was shooting out sideways and shit, getting on both of our legs. I’m always a little afraid for that to happen in front of dudes, ’cause it’s such a fucking mess sometimes, but he seemed to be really into it.
Then we went to the sofa bed and I had every intention of falling asleep and not fooling around (the boys were just like 10 or 20 feet away), but he kept kissing me, and he was really too cute to turn down. I ended up blowing him again, and then he came on my tits. What the hay! We’re in Vegas!
We passed out, but I think I was only sleeping for like an hour before I felt his boner pressing up on my ass again. I pushed back, and before I knew it, we were spoon-fucking. Seriously, this guy is more of a machine than I am. I woke up in the morning with this:
I was kinda pissed about it. I’m not thirteen, you know. But Jonno put it into perspective for me when he said, “Consider yourself lucky that you fucked someone at the porn convention and all you got was a hickey.”
Sex tourism in the modern world takes three forms. The first is a sort of legitimate jurisdictional arbitrage — traveling to a place where something (usually prostitution) is legal, from somewhere it isn’t. Amsterdam and rural Nevada are just two of the places that see this sort of sex tourism.
The second sort you could call “illegitimate jurisdictional arbitrage” — seeking out jurisdictions where illegal behavior is more likely to be overlooked. There’s some disgusting and terrible stuff in this category.
Third, and by far the most common, simply involves taking advantage of the fact that “money talks” in the game of sexual competition, by means of travel to jurisdictions that are relative poorer than one’s own. Many a prosperous young man traveling in Eastern Europe has had a babushka ask him if he needs a wife, or had a devushka in a club make a similar but more immediate proposition. Certain places in Central America are notorious among Norteamericano “players” — who’ve learned that, if they show up for a winter vacation flush and ready to party, it’s not hard to attract a stunning and friendly girlfriend for as many days as the party lasts. And so on. Friendly local girls coming out of the woodwork wherever a (relatively) wealthy traveler goes are, frankly, as old as travel itself.
Normally, however, one thinks of sexual tourists as being men. Which brings us to this Reuters report on women traveling to Kenya to enjoy the company of younger men:
MOMBASA, Kenya (Reuters) – Bethan, 56, lives in southern England on the same street as best friend Allie, 64.
They are on their first holiday to Kenya, a country they say is “just full of big young boys who like us older girls”.
Hard figures are difficult to come by, but local people on the coast estimate that as many as one in five single women visiting from rich countries are in search of sex.
Allie and Bethan — who both declined to give their full names — said they planned to spend a whole month touring Kenya’s palm-fringed beaches.
…
The white beaches of the Indian Ocean coast stretched before the friends as they both walked arm-in-arm with young African men, Allie resting her white haired-head on the shoulder of her companion, a six-foot-four 23-year-old from the Maasai tribe.
He wore new sunglasses he said were a gift from her.
“We both get something we want — where’s the negative?” Allie asked in a bar later, nursing a strong, golden cocktail.
She was still wearing her bikini top, having just pulled on a pair of jeans and a necklace of traditional African beads.
Bethan sipped the same local drink: a powerful mix of honey, fresh limes and vodka known locally as “Dawa”, or “medicine”.
She kept one eye on her date — a 20-year-old playing pool, a red bandana tying back dreadlocks and new-looking sports shoes on his feet.
He looked up and came to join her at the table, kissing her, then collecting more coins for the pool game.
…
Obvious in the bars and on the sand once the sun goes down are thousands of elderly white women hoping for romantic, and legal, encounters with much younger Kenyan men.
They go dining at fine restaurants, then dancing, and back to expensive hotel rooms overlooking the coast.
…
Many of the visitors are on the lookout for men like Joseph.
Flashing a dazzling smile and built like an Olympic basketball star, the 22-year-old said he has slept with more than 100 white women, most of them 30 years his senior.
“When I go into the clubs, those are the only women I look for now,” he told Reuters. “I get to live like the rich mzungus (white people) who come here from rich countries, staying in the best hotels and just having my fun.”
At one club, a group of about 25 dancing men — most of them Joseph look-alikes — edge closer and closer to a crowd of more than a dozen white women, all in their autumn years.
“It’s not love, obviously. I didn’t come here looking for a husband,” Bethan said over a pounding beat from the speakers.
“It’s a social arrangement. I buy him a nice shirt and we go out for dinner. For as long as he stays with me he doesn’t pay for anything, and I get what I want — a good time. How is that different from a man buying a young girl dinner?”
You’ve got to love any essay on kinky sex that starts out:
I didn’t just want to write a wank post. There are plenty of posts on the internet about how kinky sex is all whee and shiny and woah, just look at me go!
I. Win. At! Perverted! SEX!
I didn’t want to write one of those. But I wanted to write something that was as real and close and true as I could get it.
I rush the start. The shortest sharpest route to hurter and hurtee. Most often: hair pulling. I love hair pulling. It hurts, you can move the head around, it’s dehumanising. It has everything. It always seems to make the mouth go squooshy and limp. Open and aroused. That mouth thing again.
There is only one problem with hair pulling – aesthetically I love the shaved head look on a guy. It’s that stupid submissive+masculinity fetish I have. Imagine my dilemma. Oh, the quandary. Shaved-head vs pulling-hair. The trial of my life. Who’d be me?
Anyway, so if he has no hair or a super short crop (mmm, joy/frustration/joy), I’ll twist his nipples or find some other hair to pull. ‘Cause he’s naked, right, you knew that? I’m probably not naked, but probably not dressed. And certainly not *dressed* *up*.
Oh, and this stage is really *the* *best* if he is on a chair, in the cuffs and I am on his lap. *The* *best*. All interrogationy – and super hot to the power of motherfuck.
I like to kiss him while I hurt him. I love kissing. This type of kissing is compulsory. Some guys seem to like cold and calculated. Not actually visibly turned on. With me no kissing is a deal breaker. I mean that for real. I have stopped a thing before it started because he had a girlfriend who was fine with play but not kissing — or so he said — and that was probably a lucky escape.
Anyway that icy thing, that isn’t what you get with me. I get very turned on very fast. I am usually more turned on than the guy I am with from quite early on. And doing most of the panting and moaning.
…
I get a lot turned having d/s sex (that being mostly the reason why we are all here) on and when I am turned on I like to kiss. Mouth fetish. I like sticking things in men’s mouths. My tongue is my favourite of those things. These pain flavoured kisses while he’s *hurting* are the best kisses.
I like it when he screams into my mouth.
Like?
I *adore* it when he screams into my mouth
I often keep going with the hurting and kissing until he can’t hold it together to kiss me back anymore. Assuming he’s a submissive or a masochist he’s usually very hard at this point if he wasn’t already very hard, like, you know, when I met him at the railway station.
I often put clamps on him now and if he doesn’t scream really fucking loud, I take them off and put them on him again. And that’s really painful.
And then there’s the hitting:
The hitting, I think, is kind of the equivalent of your earth foreplay. It’s not instead of kissing or fingering or oral — ’cause I might do any or all of those things too. But it’s kind of like that. Another layer. Sometimes more than one body part is required — but most men have more than one body part.
This — I want to be clear — is where it is. This is the point where I know who I am and what I am with absolute abiding clarity. Whatever else I say. All my other fancies and frills. You could take them all if you left me this. I hurt a man and I feel the most intensely pleasurable sensations I think my body is capable of. There is no intrigued here. No one else could have made this of me. I live here. This is home. This I know.
I am a sadist. I get turned on hurting people.
I like pain. I like it quite simple. I don’t want to be distracted or have my concentration focused outside of my body. I don’t do anything flash. I’m generally uncoordinated and clumsy. I know there is little point in me trying to be all fancy with whips or anything too clever or hard to handle. I’m not dexterous. I can’t put on a show. I don’t insert things in his urethra or breathe fire. I don’t tap dance. I miss sometimes. The first ten are always practice. I lose my grip. My skill set is tiny. What I do is often unaesthetic and messy and awkward. But I’ve been doing this a while and what I do works. It hurts and it doesn’t rupture internal organs. It turns me on and I am now at point where I know that that is fine. That hurting men can be something that is decidedly not performance art and that is fucking damn okay. It’s sex, not cabaret.
Ancient Romans also used kissing as part of political campaigns. However, several “kisses for votes” scandals in 18th century England led — in theory — to candidates kissing only the very young and very old.
Kisses for votes? How did that work, exactly? I can see it now, George Clooney and Halle Berry, they could flip a coin to see who’s at the top of the ticket, a runaway “Kisses For America” campaign.
Sir and I met up after work. We drove to one of favorite parks since parks are pretty much all we have right now till summers over. It was a nice night to be outside. It was hot and humid but it was comfortable at the park near the water.
We sat on the bench together and started kissing. Our kisses grew more and more passionate. My whole body surged with excitement as I could feel Sir’s passionate burning desire for me there in his kiss.
…
Anyway back to that burning passionate kissing that left me a melting dripping slut. We kissed like that for a good while and then I just couldn’t take it anymore. I had to have some cock. I reached down and felt the stiff pole through his shorts. God it was hard! God I wanted it. We got his pants unfastened and I held his cock in my hand. “Do you want to go over on the picnic table?” He asked. “Yeah, that would be nice.” I answered. Then I added, “Come on hurry up! I want to suck that cock!” He laughed at me and we walked up to the picnic table. He sat up on the table. I sat on the bench and opened my mouth and took in that nice hard delicious cock and sucked it hard. Mmm, my lover has one tasty cock! I felt that steel like shaft with the silky smooth skin sliding across my tongue as the swollen head worked its way into my throat. Oh how I love to have a mouthful of cock! It’s the best!
It’s a very suggestively shaped bollard, I agree. And the Russian is tantalizing: “Here you may…” with a verb I don’t remember from my college classes, one that the online translators won’t translate. But really, I just like the photo:
Maybe I was a pervy kid, because stuff like this sure would have got my attention when I was supposed to be learning my letters and numbers. Instead I was kissing boys!
The sunburst at the meeting of the pelvises would have been pretty back then…..now I know what it means. How I love that feeling!
The full alphabet and other beautiful art are available beginning at this first page of an Erte gallery. The thumbnails are fun teases!
Here are a few words from Chelsea Girl about the prospect of a threesome:
This is the story of being the girlmeat in a boybread sandwich.
…
In the grand spirit of nothing exceeding like excess, the threesome promises a surfeit of pleasures. More hands, more mouths, more flesh, more limbs, and, in this case, more cocks. I’d had the girl/boy/girl threesome a couple of times–and in fact the week after my boy/girl/boy threesome I’d have another g/b/g one–but I’d never been with two boys at once, and I liked the idea.
I liked the idea of being the warm womanly center of the all male maelstrom. I liked too the idea of being doubly objectified, doubly penetrated, doubly used and doubly pleasured. I liked the idea of having a cock in my mouth while a mouth was at my pussy, and while that scenario is obviously open to the g/b/g threesome, I liked the idea that I could then be fucked by the cock belonging to the mouth that was at my pussy.
I didn’t really think a lot about the boys kissing, touching or whatever together. It would be exciting–I like hot boy-on-boy action as much as the next sexually progressive chick–but it hadn’t really entered into my fantasy extensively, to be honest. Mostly this fantasy centered on me, my body, and those two boys who would in tandem be doing their utmost to pleasure it.
Of course, as is the way of things, the reality was a little different than the anticipation.
Over on Donny’s Ramblings, softcore porn producer Donovan Phillips makes some suggestions for hard-core porn producers about things to include in hard-core porn. This one set me to to musing:
Kissing – doesn’t have to be lovey, dovey kissing. Some firm, “Oh my God I want to fuck you!” type kissing helps get the women I know going. The male shows some aggression but in an “I really fucking want you!” way instead of a “You’re my cum bucket” type way. Know what I mean?
I think that distinction between aggression and contempt is important. What’s with all the contempt for the talent in American porn, anyway? It’s possible, perhaps even normal, for people to enjoy depictions of sexual aggression, but I don’t really know all that many men who buy into the “cum bucket” contemptuousness and distaste. In my life to date, I’ve heard only one man actually utter that phrase in all seriousness, and he’s widely known to be an exceptional asshole. When I see pornography that buys into the whole adolescent large-talking locker room “bitch/whore/cunt/slut” foulness, I’m always tempted to assume that the pornographers in question are letting their own personal issues cloud their understanding of their market. Most men (all real men) can readily distinguish between sexual aggressiveness and sexual contempt. The former is good dirty fun in appropriate contexts, and often quite well appreciated by the women in question. The latter just leaves us thinking “What the fuck?!”
The shirtless rogue in this picture really knows how to steal a kiss. Tying up the pretty girls may not be politically correct, but it seems to be working for him:
Of course, the next thing he’s going to do is unbuckle that big belt buckle. And then she’ll be kissing something else.
So, we’re standing on Holloway road, kissing like two drunken teenagers on a night out; snogging away, oblivious to the people milling around us trying to get the last tube home. The warm summery air is making us both frisky: our hands explored each other eagerly as our mouths moved in synch. We stood there and kissed, and the world revolved around us. Magical.
I was it is fair to say, very turned on. And from the feel of him pressed up hard against my thigh, he was too. The heat between us was intense, the passion fired up. So when he asked me, if he could “feel” me, I didn’t question what he meant: it felt only natural to go with the flow (so to speak).
Even when he slid his hand underneath my jeans and pushed two fingers inside me.
After being away for a while, I finally got it through my stupid head that I won’t have something better to say here until I finish the R story. It wasn’t easy to do, and it isn’t very pretty, but here it is, behind the “more” link. If you don’t know what I’m talking about, the third part of the story includes links to the first two parts.
R and I spent Christmas on a skiing trip that was awesome and horrible. I liked learning how to ski, and even made it down the hill once or twice without falling on my ass. The mountains were beautiful, and while we were in public R was his attentive, charming self. He told me to pack for a sexy cold trip…..I thought he meant the cold would be outside. But it was inside too. He told me we’d be together…..except that he never slept with me. In his house, in all the hotels we stayed in, R never stayed with me in bed all night. At first, at his house, I thought it was to give me some privacy, but since he constantly walked into the room I used without knocking whenever he wanted, I don’t think it was for that. At the hotels, we stayed in the same room, but always in seperate beds. But I’m getting ahead of things already.
That first night, at R’s house, was very different from our fun at Thanksgiving. He was formal, like he was trying to decide if he should hire me for a job or something. R welcomed me warmly, but it didn’t seem very sincere, more like it was what he had been taught to do and say to a woman that would be staying with him. He didn’t seem to like it if I touched him first, I found out quickly. After dinner, which was focused mostly on eating and small talk about family and high school friends, he said that he was tired from working so much and that the next night he’d give me a proper welcome. I offered to rub his back, the way I used to, but he said no, and said I should probably sleep too as jetlag would catch up with me and make learning to ski in the mountains harder. He walked me to the room where I’d put my bags, which I thought was his bedroom, barely kissed me, said goodnight and walked down the hall to his room.
I wasn’t expecting a romantic candle light bath, or rose petals all over the bed, but after the hot sex we had at Thanksgiving, this was a real shock. He wasn’t even going to sleep with me! One of the things I hate about being single is not having a nice-smelling man to snuggle with. Here I was with a guy that used to make my knees weak, I thought I did the same to him, and he barely touched me all evening! I went to bed thinking What the fuck?!
The first time we had sex was the second day of the ski trip, up until then it was one lame-ass excuse after another. R was skiing with me down one of the bigger beginner runs, and when I fell for the jillionth time, he started laughing at me. He was close enough that I pulled him over too, and he fell on top of me. We were both laughing, then the next thing I knew he was kissing me, hard. A small clump of pine trees was close by, and he rolled us over into it, laughing and kissing me the whole time. There wasn’t much to hide behind, but there weren’t many other skiers. I undid my entire front down to the sexy thermal top I bought specially for the trip, but he stayed mostly dressed, just undoing enough to release his very hard, very hot cock and plow it into me. I don’t know and don’t care if anybody saw us, I was so glad to finally be getting fucked that I didn’t even think about it. Fast and furious and hot and cold…..I didn’t come, but it was still damn good.
That night at dinner R started to explain what he meant when he said he didn’t know if he could show me how he is now. The way he said it, I thought he was into rough sex, and since that’s not something I’ve done a lot of except fantasize about, I told him that I thought we could work up to some things. After I said that he relaxed, and was very sweet and more like the highschool boy I’d fallen for.
Remember, I didn’t tell R that I contribute to a sex blog. So as far as he knew, I was just some normal chick that was willing to try some kinky new things. Some were fun and really got me going, like these vibrating nipple clamps. Most of the time it seemed like he didn’t care if I would like something, and didn’t bother to even think about that. R didn’t seem to understand the need for lube with some toys, or going slow, so it ended up sometimes that his stuff hurt, it wasn’t sexy, and when we did have sex, it was like, just get it over with so I can go to sleep.
On our last night, after a very fun day just hanging out together, he decided to do a twat test. I needed to keep whatever he put in my pussy totally inside it, or he’d punish me however he wanted. The idea was he’d keep trying smaller things, but the first thing he put in me was so small and smooth that even clenching my tightest, it peeked out. I tried to tell R that it would be a good start for a teenage virgin, but not someone like me, but I got spanked for my “sauciness.” We both ended up frustrated and mad because his game wasn’t working. He said he was going to tie me up, and when I asked about a safe word, he said that he’d be able to tell if he was pushing me too hard and that stuff like that was for chickens. My questions made him madder, and he finally yelled that no slave of his was going to get away with talking to him like that.
That pushed me over the edge, because I never said I’d be his slave, and he never asked. I went to the room I was staying in, and R came after me, telling me that I was his for the entire trip and I’d better start behaving properly if I didn’t want to get seriously punished for my insolence. I didn’t want to do it, but I was so mad and so frustrated by his impossible demands and not having much sex that I started crying. R had been so sweet and affectionate whenever we were out in public anywhere, but when it was just the two of us alone all that vanished. I tried to tell R that if he had shown me just a little of that sweetness in his house, I’d probably be licking his shoes that very minute, but with his Jeckyll-Hyde thing going I didn’t know what to think, and I didn’t trust him to tie me up. He said he did care for me, and he knew that I just needed some good discipline to see that, and that after he gave it, I’d know I could trust him. I told him I didn’t work that way, I had to trust before ropes or cuffs came anywhere near me, and if he wasn’t okay with that then this was it. R didn’t seem to get anything I was saying, he didn’t seem to even understand the difference I saw in him going from public to private, so, since I was almost all packed anyway I grabbed my stuff and left. I told him not to bother calling me or returning my other stuff, and walked out.
He didn’t call or anything, until April. He had a business trip, he said, that required that the men have female companions with them. He told me I’d be perfect for the trip, that I’d love it, that he’d let me set the rules this time, if only I’d agree to go on the trip with him. He was so sweet and so persuasive that I almost said yes……but then I remembered how it was over the holidays, and how confused and awful I felt for alot of the time. I also started wondering exactly what this “business trip” was, and wondering if he had some kind of kinky thing worked out. So I said no, told him not to call me anymore, and hung up.
But his call made me start thinking about all we had done…..Thanksgiving, which was totally hot and fun…..Christmas and New Years’, which had some fun stuff but mostly was wierd and scary to me. Did I do something wrong to make it all so bad? Maybe I am more of a prude than I think…….but I don’t really think so. And now I don’t know if I’ll find someone else to try with….if I can trust a guy again. I don’t like being like that.
I am so not a porn writer, just to warn anybody who hasn’t read the first two parts yet…..but some readers are still interested in this tale, so I’ll continue to tell.
R called my folks’ house Thanksgiving evening to tell me that some problem had sprung up and he’d need to go back to Washington sooner than he’d planned…like, tomorrow. I agreed to meet him early Friday morning, even though I was unsure of what I wanted out of our re-established relationship, and less sure of what he wanted.
Over breakfast, R tells me that it’s been alot of fun, reconnecting with me, and especially venting some of those teenage fantasies…..But…..the pause draws out uncomfortably. Finally he looks up from his coffee and finishes, “But that’s not how I am now. And I don’t know if I’ll ever be able to show you how I am now.”
Intrigued, I reply, “Well, how’s about you tell me how you are now?” His glum face furrows into a frown. “Telling is even harder. [another long pause] If we lived closer, and if I didn’t have to travel so goddamn much, it might be worth trying…..”
Trying what? I wonder. Instead, I say, “You know me R, I’ll try anything once, and if it doesn’t kill me, I might just try it again.” Expecting him to smile at that, I’m instead baffled by an expression of thoughtful pondering, followed after another long pause by, “Mmmm…..yes, you’re still adventurous…..”
Finally R emerges from his thinking and says, “If you’re game, I’ll put on my thinking cap and see what I come up with.”
My curiosity is just about killing me at this point, so even though some small corner of my brain is going, WTF is this all about?, I reply, “Hell yes I’m game. Just give me enough notice to juggle my work.”
The conversation then turns to other topics. As we’re leaving the restaurant, R asks me to say goodbye to my family for him. Then, he pulls me to him, opening his leather jacket as if to enfold me in it. Our goodbye kiss starts innocently enough, but quickly becomes passionate, and almost involuntarily I hungrily press my hips forward. R shifts slightly, still kissing me….brings a hand up to my breast….and tweaks my nipple, hard. My gasp of surprise and pain breaks the kiss, and I see a glint of something far beyond impish in R’s eyes. He pulls away, saying, “I’ll let you know what I come up with.”
As I watch his SUV move away I realize I’m soaking wet, and desperate for a fuck….almost as if R hadn’t slaked my hunger at all.
I’m gonna borrow the DirtyTalkinGirl’s serial format for telling this story, so that I can focus on the bits and pieces of it, and so that it won’t be one huge blog splat to read through. (I see she’s started another series, the vixen. :D ) I also thought about pulling out the best parts of our story, and creating a story out of them….maybe a site like Sssh would buy it….but my writing needs lots of improvement before I’d be able to sell something! Anyway, I promised to tell the story to you first, so here we go…
Looking back over the ErosBlog archives, I see that I didn’t provide alot of detail about our Thanksgiving adventures. Since the story really starts there, that’s where I’ll begin today.
R was probably my first serious romantic interest. My hormones were just starting to percolate when he started talking to me in school. It was all innocuous stuff, sports and homework and music, but he was friendly, and cute….and I noticed that I was feeling new things, caused by his attention. Even though I liked talking to him, I’d often get distracted by his appearance, or his yummy smell…..that happened pretty regularly when we’d be doing something together. The new twitchings and longings happened more when I’d think about him, especially as I was lying awake in bed at night, trying to fall asleep. It was a mystifying, maddening, yet delicious torture! As I said in my first entry about R, we never were able to hook up throughout school, though we both wanted to. And we both thought about it a lot over the years. That made our unexpected reunion pretty predictable….and explosive.
So, I’m standing there in the store trying to decide what liquor to buy, when the jangle of the bell announces someone’s entrance. I hadn’t been paying any attention to that before, but this time I look up, and my heart flips. It looks like R!! Nah, it couldn’t be, I tell myself, he wanted to get away from this hick town as bad as I did. It’s wishful thinking. But I couldn’t pull my eyes away….the walk, the hair….it’s him. At about the same moment I decide to approach him, R turns and sees me looking at him. He seems to have none of my doubts–his face blooms into the big, happy smile that I’d burned into my mind all those years ago. Seeing that dissolved my uncertainty that it was really him….and suggested he was as happy to see me as I was him.
Our purchases completed while making reconnecting chit-chat, we step outside, and each of us exhales deeply. Neither wants to say goodbye, but who wants to make a move? Remembering how he liked my wackiness, I strike first. I say something like, “I so do not wanna go back to the oldsters yet. You got somewhere to be, or do you want to cruise with me?” He says that sounds like fun, and we choose his bigger SUV to drive around to all our old cruising places.
As he drives we’re still catching up on news and stuff, and I’m not paying a lot of attention to where we’re going until he stops the car. It’s Lover’s Lane (yes, that’s its real name), but it’s even better now because it’s just as deserted and the trees and bushes along the old curvy road are bigger…..and after he stops the car, R turns to me and softly says, “I never stopped thinking about you, or wanting to find you.” I answer by launching myself across the seat and delivering a kiss that tries to make up for all we hadn’t been able to say or do back in school.
He’s surprised but recovers almost immediately, and returns the kiss enthusiastically. Then we start giggling….then talking and kissing and giggling more, as we shed any lingering shyness and spill the things that remained unsaid for so long. Pretty soon, the talking slows……then the giggling follows suit, and our kisses become more….intense. They’ve all been intense, but it’s clear what we’re both wanting to happen next.
I begin to caress his body, stroking lower down his flanks each time as his enjoyment of my touch is obvious. He responds by grabbing both my breasts at once in typical high-school-hornboy fashion, which provokes an outburst of giggles that is smothered by hotter kisses, and gasps of pleasure from me as he massages my breasts. My hand dives to his crotch, and finds an ample reward. Even through the thick cloth of his jeans, I can tell he’s rock hard….and pretty large. He softly moans his pleasure at my strokes.
What happened next is kind of hazy in my mind. Somehow we shifted from the front seat to the back, and we’re going at it like two crazed teenagers–no taking clothes off except to uncover the bits that so crave attention, no safe-sex discussion or precautions, no what-happens-afterward talk, no attention to techniques and tricks–just heat and wet and the all-out explosion of pent-up passion. And I do explode, again and again…..R is very generously endowed in both length and girth, and he fills me and rides me hard, lasting a surprisingly long time before his orgasm overtakes him.
He remains inside me for a bit, as we catch our breath and regain our faculties…..neither of us seems embarrassed or uncomfortable with what just happened. Finally we separate, tidy ourselves up a bit, and with some more general, comfortable conversation, he drives me back to my car at the store parking lot. There, R gives me that big, irresistable smile again, along with another mind-melting kiss.
Once I get home and take a swig of the hooch I’d bought, I decide that since I had been such a forward lass, the next move would be up to him. I suspected it wouldn’t be long in, er, coming … and I was right.
As planned, I spent Saturday at His Place (a nice-sized property), and we did lots of fun things together. Mostly rambled around the place, walking through the woods and fields, with lots of talking and throwing sticks for his dog. At night, it’s so dark there that you can see a gazillion stars (yes, I counted! :P) and usually, all you can hear is the wind swirling through the evergreens (sometimes the barn owls make some really weird calls too).
Yes, I spent the night — but not in the sense that some of you were probably hoping for. His marvelous kissing does apply to parts other than my lips, I discovered … but no sex, yet. Neither of us is in that big a hurry. We don’t feel comfortable with it yet.
So, how can I be so happy when it’s still months since I’ve had sex and I’d make all kinds of deals with devils to get a good fuck? Easy … I don’t want my first night with him to be a fuck. I want it to be making love.
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.
I realize (as if the comments and emailed queries could allow me not to) that some of you want more frequent updates about The Nymph and our lubricious shenanigans. I’m sorry to have disappointed by my silence, but it’s hard to type a good substantive update (as opposed to the facile “a link and a quote” entries with which I have been fobbing you all off) when she leans over from her adjacent computer chair and starts (as she puts it) “kissing on” me. I’m sure you understand….
Too, we remain in that stage where we spend a lot of time being sappy together, which is enormous fun but doesn’t make for great reportage. Everything is going very well indeed, and despite having moved a great distance so that we can be together, she remains her happy and loveable self. She’s got a job lined up and has met (and been approved, not that it matters) by the local members of my family. Life is good.
Oh yes, and one other thing: the folks at Eros Boutique, being persistent folks with a lot of great merchandise to market, sent along another box with an additional assortment of promising-looking vibrators. So we’ve got product testing to worry about. Ah, the burden of research! Details to follow.
Noah Webster, the famous lexicographer, was once found by his wife while he was kissing [or, alternatively, undressing] the cook [or maid] in the pantry. The wife said, “Noah, I am surprised at your action!” To which he replied, “No, YOU are amazed and offended, dear. WE are surprised…”
Here’s one of those “news” stories that’s more an illustration of parental terror and the power of hearsay than anything to be taken seriously. The only source for this information is “according to a local television station” and “some teens told the station” – not a named source to be found. If there’s any truth to the tale, I’m betting it’s a tiny kernal indeed. Nonetheless, here’s how the story goes, and don’t miss the fear-mongering headlines:
‘Sex Bracelets’ Cause Parental Concern Some Teens Said To Use Bracelets To Signal Sexual Intentions
A fashion accessory may have a lot more meaning than you realize for your teenager, according to television station WCAU.
Jelly bracelets are making a comeback. But instead of a fashion statement, they may be making a statement about your kid’s sex life, the station said.
…
Only this time these jelly bracelets have a new nickname: sex bracelets.
These bendable pieces of colorful rubber have a whole new unwholesome meaning: They’re a sexual code to many teens, WCAU said.
Some colors mean different things, and people wear them for that reason.
Here’s a common breakdown, from what teens told the station:
Yellow: hugging
Purple: kissing
Red: lap dance
Blue: oral sex
Black: the full monty
In a game called snap, if a boy breaks a jelly bracelet off a girl’s wrist, he basically gets a sexual coupon for that act.
It’s become such a problem in some middle schools in Florida that districts started banning the bracelets.
In a real news story, that last sentence would have been followed by, like, you know, identifying one of those districts and having a quote from a named administrator thereof talking about the dire need to prevent fornication in the hallways.
So, does anybody know the real rules to the game of snap?
Here’s an amusing anecdote about one of the reasons young ladies sometimes make out with each other:
One evening my closest school friend and I were ineffectively trying to get these two guys to come drink with us. They, being Amherst Men, could not drag themselves away from their dip and Nintendo. The night had already involved some girl-on-girl action and we suddenly hatched a foolproof scheme to get the boys to play with us. After we made out in their doorway
for mere moments they were turning off the TV and running to the bathroom to spit out their plugs. I still don’t know what they thought was in store for them, but we got what we wanted: the four of us playing Go Fish, drinking beers late into the night. This story highlights one of the most common reasons straight girls kiss other girls: to get men’s attention.
Amherst men? Figures. Ladies, unless things have changed in the last ten or fifteen years, I’m sure you’d be much happier with some Ephs.
Kissing School! No, really. From an article in the Seattle Times:
A self-described “luscious” kisser, Byrd came up with the kissing-school idea while dating a man, 57, who, in her opinion, “didn’t know how to kiss.” She taught him and found her calling.
Her theory is that technique itself doesn’t carry the kiss it’s the energy transmitted, the emotion behind it that informs the kiss. Technique may translate the intention skillfully or not, but that’s more a matter of finesse, Byrd believes, and perhaps even more the quality of presence within the act.
The whole things sounds rather fun, and who wouldn’t benefit from this?
Some people will doubtless think this is sick, repulsive, or offensive. Fortunately, it is the firm editorial policy of this sex blog not to care about that. Besides, I think it’s cute and harmless:
The formerly shell-shocked Shell from Across the Atlantic provides this anecdote, proof that children don’t need to be trained to be extortionate little pirates:
While in line at the bank one afternoon, my toddler decided to release some pent-up energy and ran amok. I was finally able to grab hold of her after receiving looks of disgust and annoyance from other patrons. I told her that if she did not start behaving “right now”she would be punished. To my horror, she looked me in the eye and said in a voice just as threatening,”If you don’t let me go right now, I will tell Grandma that I saw you kissing Daddy’s pee-pee last night!” The silence was deafening after this enlightening exchange. Even the tellers stopped what they were doing. I mustered up the last of my dignity and walked out of the bank with my daughter in tow. The last thing I heard when the door closed behind me were screams of laughter.
Now that I’ve introduced myself, you should buy me a mind bending beverage so that I can see that you aren’t cheap and that you find me attractive. I will need this mind bending beverage to flirt with you outrageously, thereby procuring your number or vice versa, and to keep you interested for the rest of the night so that you actually want to call it. I’d love to have sex with you as well, but since you are relationship material, I have to make you work for it and buy me a few dinners first. I might allow you to hug me or do something equally chaste such as kissing my cheek at the end of the night, but don’t count on anything overtly sexual for the next 2 dates. If this is not enough encouragement for you, you are simply a pig, a pervert, an asshole, or a man. My friends tell me I can do better.
Here’s a long article on kissing from South Africa. Now, articles on kissing are like “how to pick up girls” books — they are everywhere and they all repeat the same six stale chunks of received wisdom that are necessary to getting the job done but not sufficient to really teach anything useful. This one, at least, offers up some suggestions (for better or for worse) that aren’t on that tired old standard list:
Use each other’s mouths to recreate the motions of sex, with lots of thrusting. It can be especially stimulating if the woman’s the one doing the thrusting, as this reverses the roles of intercourse. She inserts her tongue between his loosely closed lips and slides it in and out. To enjoy this technique to its best effect, try it when you’re actually in the missionary position.
After that last cheap blogshot, I suppose I should put something more useful up. How about strengthening international ties by explaining the mystery of “snogging”? Those crazy Brits are always snogging, or talking about it — and it’s never been quite clear to me exactly what that means. I’ve always thought it was a rough synonym for “making out” (or, to use a dying euphemism, French kissing) — but with a more vigorous connotation, sort of like “sucking face” but not quite so crude.
Now all is explained, at Sunday magazine length, in the Guardian Unlimited Observer, and it turns out I’m right:
“And so I had to explain that snogging is a bit like kissing but more aggressive, a bit like sex but strangely far more intimate, and that probably as a result, many people who happily have sex with their partners on a regular basis can’t countenance the idea of snogging them in any way.”
1. Kissing revs of production of saliva and helps wash away bacteria and break down on gum damaging plaque! Yes, so now you have a medical excuse to start sucking face. You will be your dentist’s dream patient. In fact, if he’s hot, you should start sucking his face.
