Erotic romance writer Chloe Thurlow
I remember my first love as if it were last night below the full moon with the sea slipping over the beach. The experience was overwhelming, painful, obsessive and I didn’t sleep for days. We may believe our first love is more intense and magical than anyone else’s. But that’s not true. It is always intense. Always magical. In fact, researchers have found that first love remains lodged in our minds and influences our attitude to love and sex for the rest of our lives.
According to BBC Science, first love is so potent it echoes the bond between mother and child in infancy. First love burns brightest and, even when it burns out, the experience, researchers say, is ‘similar to using cocaine, so pleasurable it’s like an addiction.’ The study identified three phases of love.
Lust and attraction sound the same to me. Teenagers race from one to the other, rarely reaching the attachment phase, making the experience so strong and vivid, the light that come on stays on, a glow that glimmers behind each new relationship.
My first love was a boy I met in Spain. I have a photograph and he looks so young with his tentative smile, green eyes and swept back hair . He is deeply tanned, angular, his eyes not staring into the camera but through the lens at me taking the picture.
His name was Ricardo. He did not speak English, and my schoolgirl Spanish was at the level where I could ask for little more than a café con leche. Ricardo didn’t need to speak. He just stared at me with those big green eyes and I my breasts tingled as I stared at him with his wide shoulders in a white tee-shirt.
He was with his parents and two younger sisters at the same hotel where I was on holiday with my parents and brother. Like in a scene from Thomas Mann’s Death in Venice, I would see him passing in the lobby. In the restaurant I watched across the sea of tables as he cut peaches in quarters and shared them with his sisters. I saw him on the beach. I wore a yellow bikini. He wore red shorts decorated with yellow suns. We smiled. We said Hola, and I took his photograph.
First Love Last Night
Then it was Friday. There was a disco at the hotel. The moon was full. We danced. We moved towards the exit as if drawn by a magnet and gripped fingers as we hurried down to the beach. We continued around the coast towards the rocks where I had seen him diving. He made a swimming motion and I nodded. He stripped down to his underpants. I stripped to my bra and panties, and then I did something that I had not planned to do and can’t imagine how I ever got the courage to do it: I took off my underwear and walked into the sea.
I turned and waved. He was watching me as he lowered his boxers. He swam out through the swell. We raced childishly. We ran back to the beach and kissed, a long salty kiss. We made love that night beneath the moonlight and next day I stood in the shade outside the hotel as his family climbed into a taxi. Ricardo waved out the rear window as the car drove away and I thought my heart was going to break. I had discovered emotional feelings and desires I didn’t know I had and imagined that I would spend my entire life searching for the boy I had made love with on the beach.
The intensity of my feelings passed, as the survey in BBC Science said it would, but my first love remains unforgettable and the memory is like a breath of warm air on the bitterest winter night. Do you remember your first love? Do share the memory in the comments. And share the post on social media – just click below.
Anal orgasm is like walking on water. A tiny miracle. Anal orgasm is like a secret, something stolen, an unexpected gift. Women don’t always understand that anal orgasm brings her more pleasure than she ever imagined.
Anal pleasure comes from exciting the nerve endings around the entrance to your bottom and the delicate membranes lining the passage inside. Thanks to the brilliant designer (whoever she was), the pudendal nerve, the anal nerve system and the dorsal nerve secreted in the clitoris, are all connected in a fine web.
During sex, the hormone oxytocin – which creates feelings ecstasy – is released into the bloodstream. The skin tissue in your bottom is so fine, the oxytocin rush is more intense. During intercourse, stimulating pulses reach the clitoral crura, the bands of tissue around the clitoris. The stimulus causes the clitoris to swell with blood and become more sensitive, resulting in more intense and longer-lasting orgasms.
Anal Orgasm Tips
My recent blog Anal Sex didn’t mention butt plugs and I am grateful to Robin who left this valuable comment: “Butt plugs are sex toys that can be worn for hours or days. They greatly improve anal sex by allowing the sphincter to expand, increasing enjoyment and significantly reducing the risk of pain. They are available in different sizes. With a set of three, you start off with the smallest and graduate to the medium as soon as it is comfortable. Whether you ever get to use the large size is a matter of personal preference; often the medium size offers a good compromise between pleasure and the reduction of pain. Wearing a butt plug means that anal sex can be enjoyed within a short time.”
Robin also made this observation regarding lubricants. “On lube, it can be a mistake to use the same water based lube that you would use for vaginal sex or with a sex toy. The best anal lubes are silicone based. They are extremely slippery and a little goes a long way and lasts much longer than any water based lube. Silicone lubes were developed due to strong demand from gay males. They should know what works best.”
Anal Orgasm Preparations
The secret of good anal is preparation. Foreplay is the watch word – the more play before penetration, the easier, smoother and more enjoyable the consummation. Once couples can get it into their heads that anal sex is not him violating her, but her taking him inside this sensitive place for her pleasure. And pleasure shared is pleasure multiplied.
There are anal douches (put the words in your search engine) that give all the dark places a spring clean. Along with butt plugs and a good lube, as mentioned above, there is an infinite variety of phalluses in every colour, shape and size known to woman. Jiggle balls and vibrating anal beads stimulate the web of nerves that line the inside of the bottom – insert during foreplay and extract at the point of climax for a more explosive anal orgasm. Ever.
Any questions or comments on anal sex, just pop them in the box below.
Related articles across the web
Anal sex is like diving from a high cliff into a silent sea. Poise and preparation are everything. Sinking into the unknown is mesmerising and, once plumbed, what emerges from the depths is the thrill of new experience.
Anal sex is like seeing the sign: Don’t walk on the grass, then walking on the grass. It carries that sense of being wanton. The very word anal is itself anal, abstract, gloriously tempting. If you have a box of chocolates with ten flavours and you’ve tried nine, why would you stop at the tenth?
Anal sex has always been the forbidden fruit. But the barrier is down and the sweet tang of taboo is fading. According to one study published in Salon, almost half the girls in the United States between the ages of eighteen and thirty have given anal a whirl and report they either love it or hate it. Some people feel the same way about oysters, so I suppose it really does depend on how the dish is served.
Contrary to popular belief, anal sex does not appear in the Bible. It is alluded to in the tale of Sodom and Gomorrah. A group of roughneck Sodomites set upon two angels in the form of men. It has long been assumed their intention was gang rape, although descriptions of anal sex didn’t get by the censors. The word sodomy comes from this biblical account, but it merely means ‘The sin of Sodom,’ general mischief and debauchery.
Anal Sex Lessons
What separates the sexes? Men rush. Women hate rushing. This applies more to anal sex than any other bedroom activity. Men have learned (finally) that the clitoris thrives on attention. A girl’s back door is the same. At the entrance to the anus there is a muscle called the sphincter whose function is to push the unwanted out. With plenty of spit and tongue pressure, the muscle can be persuaded to work in reverse and draw inwards rather than push outwards. Is there a secret? Absolutely: patience.
In my blog Spanking Girls, I pointed out that your partner must know your bottom like his own hand. This is so important and leads me to ask this question: does he adore oral sex? I bet he does. Likewise he must grow to adore anal foreplay, wetting the rosebud entry point and learning to extend his tongue inside. Even then, all that licking and spittle is not sufficient lubrication and a good quality lube (of which there are hundreds of the market) is vital. Apply after foreplay and the penis will slip in comfortably. He must move slowly, rhythmically, no hurry, no force, the walls of the passage are designed to stretch and, as they do so, all the delicate nerves endings light up like landing lights at a busy airport.
Preparation. Relaxation. Lubrication. These are the three steps to good anal sex. Even then, you must take care not to cause rips and abrasions, however minor. Sex without condoms (generally preferred, it has to be said), increases the likelihood of spreading bacteria and sexually transmitted diseases. If you bring anal sex toys to the party, make sure they have first been washed with hot soapy water.
What is the best position for anal sex? The position in which you feel the most at ease: doggy style, girl on top, folded together like two spoons in a cutlery case. You find your own position, relax and move like honey being poured from a jar in a steady constant stream. Slowly now, take it slowly. Now you’ve managed to enter the forbidden garden, what’s the rush?
French philosopher Georges Bataille describes spanking girls as ‘the illicit pleasure of all pleasures.’
When a hand comes down again and again on your bottom, the sting is quickly followed by a prickling numbness. The pain vanishes and the heat generated from those slaps sends lines of electric fire through all the tissues and nerve endings, ripples of warmth that gather in a wave of sensations, a million tiny kisses that lap over your clitoris and take you to a breath-taking orgasm. That’s why girls like spanking and spanking girls is a unique pleasure.
Someone new to spanking girls does not release this fount of ecstasy, but inflicts an agonizing burn that hurts for days when you sit down. A heavy handed spanker leaves bruises and the triumphant finale of the big O is the ghost in the haunted house that fails to appear.
Spanking girls in an activity that should only be pursued by mutual consent. That established, the spanker must know the posterior he’s about to spank like the palm of his own hand. He must adore those domes of pink flesh, each slap with his spread fingers a caress that warms the skin and spreads through and subcutaneous tissue immediately below the dimpled surface. The spanking must be steady, rhythmic, slap, slap, slap, slap, slap, moving from one area to another until both cheeks glow with a rosy bloom that lights the charge and sends the electric message to the restless clitoris.
The best position for spanking girls is over the knees in such a way that your fingertips and toes just touch the ground and your bottom is at an angle that makes it easy for the spanker to maintain a metronome beat. There is something overwhelmingly feminine being exposed in this way, breasts full and pendulous, eyes pressed shut, your mind clear and your body free to plunge into absolute sensation.
Spanking Girls & Spanking Boys
Spanking is about pleasure, not pain, and contemporary couples of my acquaintance swap positions so that she has a turn at spanking and he submits to her loving hand. He does not have a clitoris, of course, but an erection heated by a good spanking is firmer and lasts long into the night.
Whipping, caning, chains, restraints, the cat-o’-nine tails and many other devices of pain so beloved of the Marquis de Sade are a whole other ball(gag) game, and are employed in more extreme sado-masochistic relationships. Everyone to their own. But a nice, warm, friendly spanking never did anyone any harm.
In his book Eroticism, Georges Bataille says there is an innate gratification in falling from grace, that the supreme pleasure of love is illicit love, a feeling that you are doing wrong. Spanking girls and being a girl receiving a spanking captures that feeling, that beyond the pleasure enhanced by the pain is a sense that you are being just a little bit wicked.
Opinions? Please leave them in the COMMENTS BOX below – there are no silly puzzles, no doors with fuzzy numbers on them, no need to join the site – although, if you do, you can download FIGHT 69 for free. Happy spanking – and read on if you want to know why sex every day is good for your health.
Crista Martin Guest Blog
One of my sexual fantasies is to have sex outdoors. Me and my man on a desert island next to a waterfall surrounded by tropical flowers. We’d skinny dip in our little oasis. He’d lead me over the rocks and we’d make love with the surf slipping over us like in a cheesy music video for an ’80s ballad—Chris Isaak singing Wicked Game.
The problem with those seemingly romantic situations is sand gets in your vagina and you’re likely to have a bladder infection next day. Another thing, whirlwinds of spontaneous passion rarely occur when you actually think to bring your condoms along to the oasis. And if you’re not an exhibitionist, chances are you’ll be worried sick that a peeping Tom might be watching.
I am an expert at creating sexual fantasies. But being too neurotic to go through with them, I was thrilled to find another way to fulfil my desires—sex toys. After some secret surfing, not on the desert island, but the web, I washed up on the shores of Adam & Eve and came away with my first vibrator. Oo-la-la! Like having a glass of champagne, one leads inevitably to two and now my goodie drawer is a treasure trove of perfect companions when I need some quality solo time and, better still, bringing sex toys into bed with my partner turned out to be, well, incredible.
Personally, I adore the bullet varieties and finger vibrators, which are small and discreet. They are not intrusive, whatever your preferred positions, but powerful enough to provide amazing stimulation to your clitoris during penetration. Since my guy and me started mixing things up every once in a while with a vibrator, I can honestly say our sex life has never been better. Not only do I get off just as often as he does, but he’s become more relaxed. Using the vibrator during sex takes a lot of pressure off him to make me orgasm and we’re both in the moment.
I have also stepped outside of my comfort zone and tried some bondage toys. I always liked a little spanking, when done right and in the heat of the moment, but my sexual fantasies do not include whipping or anything similarly painful.
To each his own, or course, but it turns out that for those among us intimidated by the really masochistic paraphernalia, there are playful devices that fall under the same bondage umbrella. Blindfolds and light restraints add an air of mystery. They’re perfect for making one of you “captive” to the other’s pleasuring. And of course, pleasure given is pleasure received. It may be difficult get used to the idea, but according to a study published in Live Science, people who engage in bondage are more relaxed and “might be psychologically healthier than the general public.”
If you’re nightstand has nothing but condoms and a sleep mask (that you only actually use for sleeping), maybe it’s time you started your own little treasure chest. And hey, if you ever do get out to that desert island, bring some sex toys along in your backpack. There’s no reason not to have the loudest, most intense orgasm of your life when there’s no one around to hear you.
Crista Martin is a blogger from Charleston, S.C. When she’s not working, she enjoys playing with her dog Sammy and cheering on the Clemson Tigers.
When the politician stands in front of the flag, hand on heart, and says: ‘I love my country,’ don’t be like the prisoners in Plato’s Cave deceived by the moving shadows and the echoes that vanish to silence.
In Plato’s Cave, a row of prisoners are chained up facing a wall. Behind them, a fire burns. Between the fire and the wall there is a walkway on which the people passing carry objects on their heads. The prisoners only see the shadows of these objects and believe the echoes they hear are the shadows talking. The world they perceive has no substance, even the voices are distorted, the mumblings of empty shadows.
When a prisoner escapes, he learns that what has passed for wisdom in the cave is totally false. Should he return to tell the other prisoners what he has discovered? Would they think him a liar or, worse, would they come to see that their beliefs were empty and groundless? Is it better to leave people in ignorance? Or is it the duty of those who have become enlightened to share their knowledge?
Plato was born in Athens around 425 BC and was a pupil of Socrates. In the cave allegory, he draws the distinction between people who believe knowledge comes from what we see and hear, and those who reach the truth through study and weighing the evidence. The allegory is designed to show that those who trust only in empirical knowledge (their eyes) will end up trapped in a ‘cave’ of misunderstanding.
The hand-on-heart politician appeals to our senses. His message of love of country moves us in such a way that we fail to notice that it has no meat and fibre – and, anyway, we are too busy looking at his good hair, nice wife and perfect children. He, or she (with perfect hair and children) omits to tell us what they plan to do about education, health, pensions, the minimum wage, unemployment, college fees, foreign wars, the growing imbalance between rich and poor, the fact that more children in the US and in Europe are malnourished today than there were 20 years ago. The planet is heating up, more species of animals become extinct every year, and nearly two centuries after the abolition of slavery, sex slaves and labour slaves cross porous borders across the entire world.
Plato’s Cave Revisited
We look to our politicians to provide answers to these problems; that’s why we elect them. But our politicians, bought by lobbyists and in union with corporate heads and bankers, have learned from the marketing men that the mere promise of a better, more equitable life is sufficient. It is the way the promise is delivered that matters, not whether or not it is credible. We want to believe we will look younger with the new bio-face cream, run faster than a speeding bullet with the latest trainers, lose those 5 extra pounds with bio-yoghurt. We want to believe the politician with his good teeth and ready smile will lead us to the Promised Land.
When the prisoner in Plato’s story returns to the cave, the other prisoners do not believe his descriptions of the real world and threaten to kill him if he tries to set them free. They fear the knowledge he brings and cling on to the perception of truth provided by the shadows – the TV news, the commercials that echo subliminal messages.
After the financial crisis in 2007, voters in the United States, the United Kingdom, France, Spain and most major western countries chucked out one set of politicians and elected another – from left to right and from right to left. Every country had been led to the brink of financial chaos by the mismanagement and greed of our banks. In every country the politicians, left and right, right and left, took money from education, health, pensions and social services and gave it to those same bankers, who rewarded themselves bonuses for being so clever. Viewed from another planet, the aliens would say the people on Earth are insane.
What is the answer? Study the allegory of Plato’s Cave. Don’t trust in what you see and hear. Trust in your own analysis, your own deeper intelligence, and remember, beneath the flag the politician wraps himself in are empty promises, vast ambitions, mouth-watering bank accounts and women more beautiful than Helen of Troy.
I have a hard-cover brown folder in which I keep the printed pages from the book I am writing. This small possession has no value. But I would be sorry if I lost it. My laptop does not conjure up the same emotional attachment. As for my printer, it hates me and often flashes the message in green capitals that we are incompatible.
Our Stone Age ancestors stored fruit and meat in caves to keep them going through the winter. They painted murals on the walls. They made talismans and jewellery – the first possessions. It is human nature to accumulate and, as I look around the room where I am sitting, I wonder if we reach a point where we stop possessing our possessions and our possessions begin to possess us.
In the digital age, possessions take on a new significance. Before colour printing became inexpensive, if you wanted to see the Mona Lisa you had to visit the Louvre in Paris. Since the construction of the Royal Library of Alexandria in the 3rd century BC, scrolls and books have been available (certainly for a privileged few), and personal libraries have been a feature of our evolving humanity for centuries.
Now, we no longer need cook books or photograph albums. Our computer is a vast brain with a limitless memory. The web contains every thought, idea, quotation and image. Van Gogh’s Sunflowers. Robert Capa’s Pain of War soldier photographed mid-air after being shot. The complete works of Shakespeare can be downloaded – free. Studying Chinese? There are endless courses. Type Mozart’s Clarinet Concerto into YouTube and you’ll find a choice of orchestras who have interpreted this masterpiece. Did you miss the documentary of the Rolling Stones by Martin Scorsese? Or the last episode of Breaking Bad? Type and hit enter.
With every facet of culture at our fingertips, it gives many of our small possessions less practical value and greater sentimental value. A drawing by a friend becomes a religious reliquary; The Dark Side of the Moon on vinyl like a piece of the Cross. I occasionally take from the shelf one of the books I have moved from flat to flat - Camus’s The Outsider, perhaps, the Penguin edition with the orange spine and those sentences underscored in pencil half a lifetime ago, the phrases a reminder of who I was and how I have come to be who I am.
With globalization, rare fruits are picked, frozen and flown to major cities from far away places to ignite our taste buds with exotic flavours. Yet, the apple picked from the garden will still taste sweeter. As, indeed, a hand-made birthday card arriving in the mail will be more cherished than the FaceBook message.
As all culture is a click away, those things that moved our hearts and souls before we acquired our electronic devices become more important to us. Our stuff stops being just stuff and becomes snapshots of the past. We are not possessed by our possessions, we are blessed by them. Still, I really do have to take some shoes to the charity shop before they start breeding in the dark corners of the closet or, worse, cosying up to my printer.
Sex is good for you. Regular sex is like walking, like breathing: absolutely essential. Like coffee every morning and a glass of red wine at night, sex every day will make you look younger, feel younger, sleep better, even smell better. Sex relieves stress, burns calories, makes your heart fly like a bird and lowers the risk of heart attack.
I promised with the title 25,000 reasons to have sex every day – so, onwards and upwards: regular sex increases the antibody immunoglobulin, an immune-booster better than fresh orange-juice for fighting off colds, flu, fever, sore throats and most other minor irritants.
Missed the train? Late for an important meeting? Stressed to the heavens? Phone up, apologise, tell them you’ll be late and read my blog while you have a coffee. A daily session between-the-sheets not only lowers stress, it increases the ability to combat stress by producing endorphins that calm ragged nerves and make the blue in the sky look brighter.
Orgasms make us feel one with the universe. As you gasp oh yes, oh yesssss, the hormone oxytocin multiplies five fold and acts as a natural pain killer that reduces lower back pain, cures migraine, muscle fatigue and that all-over lethargy that comes from watching too much television. Get up from the sofa, take your clothes off, switch the TV off and just do it. It is believed that oxytocin inspires trust, intimacy and is a major contributor to general happiness. Research results differ, but I believe in being positive.
The Big O also releases dehydroepiandrosterone, an appropriately long word as the hormone triggers longevity. The hormone also improves immunity, repairs tissue and keeps skin healthy.
Men who chalk up at least two orgasms a week live longer than their limp buddies because the workout increases the heart rate and pumps fresh blood to the organs and cells. Blood is constantly being used up and regenerated. Exercise creates fresh blood and the toxins that make you feel weary are expelled with the tired blood. Sex makes you build up a sweat and sweat also rids the body of toxins, it’s healthy and, well, sort of sexy, too.
The female hormone oestrogen is a natural perfume that makes you smell desirable and protects against heart disease. It’s that scent that attracts the male and makes their macho hormone testosterone surge, increasing passion, strengthening muscles and bones; it lowers cholesterol and is good for their hearts (if they have one).
Sex Every Day Superyoung
Our ancestors did not live as long as we do today, they didn’t have the medicine, the science, the Nike trainers. Lacking other forms of amusement, on those long nights wrapped in furs in fire-lit caves they must have stayed strong having sex every day. Did they follow the missionary position? I don’t think so. Without knowing it, our shaggy ancestors probably practised chakravakasana: girls on hands and knees, spine bowed, bottom out in such a way that you can roll your backbone, breathing in and out, a motion that makes the body more supple, builds abdominal strength and is ideal for doggy fashion and anal sex.
You look younger having sex every day? According to David Weeks, who did 18 years exhaustive research before publishing his book Secrets of the Superyoung, in tandem with keeping your brain active and eating good stuff, sex holds back the hands of the clock. Is the good doctor right? Is it true? Does it matter?
Researchers have shown that regular sex lessens the pains of arthritis, reduces your chances of developing prostate cancer, helps bowel function, bladder control and erectile dysfunction. That’s right. Sex makes the blood warm and race, reaching those peripheral points that need a hot shot of plasma. Sex regulates menstrual cycles, hormones, and increases the supply of oxygen. A bountiful sex life makes semen healthier, a dream come true for those who want to have babies, and what a way to get there.
After sex you sleep liked a church angel. Total rest makes you feel more energetic and more inclined to go to the gym or the pool or the park for a fast walk next day, which makes you healthier, slimmer and ready for more bed action – continuing the cycle. Sex burns 200 calories an hour – about two chocolate cookies, so make love, don’t eat the cookies and that’s 400 calories and a leaner sexier you.
25,000 Reasons To Have Sex Every Day? We are programmed to recreate ourselves. It is embedded in our genes. There are (more or less) 25,000 human protein-coding genes and what those genes crave is sex, all 25,000 of them.
Sex life dull? Need some inspiration? Chloe to the rescue. Leave your reasons for having sex every day in the COMMENT BOX (no number puzzles!). Need more info? Out there on the web there are 25,000 reasons why sex is good for you – and I’d like to add one more: it’s fun.
One Woman’s “Trashy” is Another Woman’s Treasure
Sárka-Jonae Miller Guest Blog
I don’t often read negative reviews of my books because despite having the initials S & M, I’m not into masochism. But when a 1-star review of my contemporary romance novel, Spin Off, popped up I took a peek. I’m glad I did because I learned an interesting lesson: one woman’s trashy is another woman’s treasure.
The reviewer, let’s call her Prue, complained that Spin Off contained “trashy” sex scenes. Although I pride myself on being a wordsmith, this made no sense to me, so I checked to see if the definition of “trashy” had changed. The closest synonym that could possibly apply is ‘indecent,’ since there was nothing trash-like in the scenes. No doing it in an alleyway against a dumpster or using a trash bag in lieu of a condom. Since there were only a few short sex scenes and they were between loving, married couples (one gay, one straight) I couldn’t understand how ‘trashy’ applied. Unless a married couple invites a prostitute, a goat, or a clergyman into their bedroom (or dungeon), I don’t understand how anyone could be offended.
If there is one type of sex everyone, even clergymen, agree is okay, it’s sex between a married couple. Sex for money, pre-marital sex, divorced sex, teen sex, sex between very old rich men and very hot young women… the list goes on for what people judge, but married sex is never something people complain about.
That left only two possibilities, Prue was upset because one of the married couples included two women (the book takes place in California, where we believe in that whole freedom and equality thing guaranteed in the Constitution), or because one scene involved a strap-on. Homophobic or afraid of sex toys? Perhaps I’ll never know Prue’s problem, though she’s entitled to her opinion.
Sex Toys Perception
In a modern society where inmates pleasure themselves with screwdrivers on popular Netflix shows and the Secret Diary of a Call Girl was one of the most popular shows in recent times (featuring quite a few sex toys, dungeon scenes, and sexual fetishes), it’s hard to imagine that readers would be hung up on the use of a single strap-on. Admittedly, it did vibrate. Does that make it trashy?
Before you answer, consider that the vibrator was invented as a medical tool, not a sex toy. Victorian doctors once used their fingers to bring female patients to orgasm when the women were suffering from “hysteria,” a vague condition most likely caused by sexual frustration. The lazy men wanted a faster way to get the women off and go about their day (has anything really changed?), so the doctors invented the vibrator. Let’s review: doctors (not known as a trashy profession) invented vibrators (medial equipment) in Victorian times (known for being modest, if not sexually repressed), but if you stick a vibrator on a harness and wear it you’re a trashy whore? Hmm…
As early as the 13th century doctors prescribed dildos for “hysterical” women. If women have been using dildos on themselves as a medical cure for a sexual problem for hundreds of years, how is a woman using the hands-free version to pleasure her partner indecent?
The problem is perception (isn’t it always?). Put a strap-on or a dildo on an adult website and it’s trashy. Would it seem classier advertised on a hospital website? Probably. But, there’s a deeper issue here, one that’s been going on for all of recorded history: people are uncomfortable with the idea of women enjoying sex. History is filled with ridiculous notions that women aren’t sexual, don’t have sexual feelings (it wasn’t until the 20th century that American and European men came around on the idea of women being capable of sexual pleasure), and that romantic love or sexual acts between women were, at best, trivial and, at worst, sinful. If you can’t enjoy reading a well-written (imo) lesbian sex scene because of a sex toy, blame your male ancestors. Ironically, I’d imagine their male descendants would find the lesbian sex scenes quite interesting.
What’s the cure for hundreds of years of wrong thinking about women’s sexual needs, lesbianism, and the respectability of sex toys? I’d start with four seasons of Secret Diary of a Call Girl, three lesbian movies, my two novels Spin Off and Spin Control, and one trip to a high-class sex shop to study the sex toys. If that doesn’t open one’s mind, there’s always therapy.
Sárka-Jonae Miller is an award-winning novelist – www.SarkaJonae.com
Women are obsessed with their hair. Men, predictably, are obsessed with our pubic hair. Being bullies, or babies, or both, men usually get what they want. And what most men want, is seems, is to find beneath their girlfriend’s knickers a shiny shaved mount that gives her the look of a porn star. Or a plucked chicken. Or the little girl you once were.
Which brings me to Gemma. My best friend has cut her pubic hair into a whoosh. Yes, a whoosh. ‘Why?’ I asked and she shrugged. ‘You know: Just Do It.’ Which means Gemma doesn’t only wear Nike when she’s at the gym, she’s logoed by the Nike tick when she takes her clothes off for a shower. Or whatever. ‘I was going to get a Brazilian,’ she adds. ‘But the whoosh is, you know, more original.’
I’m not sure that’s true, but since porn became mainstream, cropping your pubic bush has been a part of the cool culture and girls daily face that Shakespearean quandary: To Be Cut? Or Not To Be Cut?
Guys are infatuated by the shorn, sea-shell look. It’s cleaner, they say. It’s healthier, they say. It’s less smelly. But are they right?
First, male readers, here’s some topography. Girls’ exterior apparatus is called the vulva, and consists of the labia majora and labia minora, big lips and small lips – although, to make it confusing, sometimes the smaller inner lips are bigger than the outer lips. The vagina is the internal grotto holding the urethra (for pee-pee), an invisible sense receiver called the G-spot, and a minute magic mushroom – the clitoris, the altar in the palace of divine pleasure.
Nestling sleepily a little below the vaginal opening is something called the Bartholin glands. When aroused, they grow moist, easing penetration before sex, and leaking in your panties if arousal transpires from unexpected or extraneous stimulation, a problem (or not) for right-brained girls wired for sex. Before we leave the genital scenery behind us, between the vulva and the anus is the perineum, a largely neglected oasis that enjoys the occasional visit.
The pubic mount, or mons, or mound of Venus, sprouts hair at puberty, slender silken threads or vast shaggy carpets. Like riddles and secrets, there’s no telling what you are going to find. But hirsute or short-back-and sides, and contrary to urban myth: pruning the fuzz IS NOT healthier, but actually increases the risk of sexually transmitted diseases and infection.
Shaving leaves invisible nicks and cuts in the skin. Bikini waxes inflame the follicles – more breaches for bad guys to slink into and contaminate. Removing pubic hair removes the cushion between you and your partner, increasing friction and, you got it, pushing up the chances of infection and STDs.
Quite aside from infantilising women, the scalped mons makes the male thingy look bigger – useful, I suppose, for the porn shoot, but it’s not how it appears but how it performs that’s of interest to women, Gemma more than most. When I showed her a draft of my blog, she blushed red as a ripe pepper and refused to explain why.
Coco Channel famously said: A woman who doesn’t wear perfume has no future. Did she have in mind the sweet aroma that accompanies female arousal? We shall never know, but isn’t that the elixir the alchemists have always been seeking?
On Sunday I shall mask my face with blue and white stripes on one side and bars of red, yellow and black on the other. The gladiators of Argentina and Germany will face each other in Rio de Janeiro’s Maracana Stadium in the beautiful game’s grand finale.
I will be watching with friends in a bar with a big screen and drinking beer from the bottle. I don’t particularly like football – or soccer. I don’t understand the offside rule. But I do appreciate the passion football inspires when passion for politics is dead and passion for all things artistic will follow as art becomes business and artists are in the business of accumulation and repetition.
By a quirk of my father’s career and constant reassignments, I was born in Brussels. I took my first steps in Italy fourteen month later. Family legend has it that my first words were ciao for now. Should I, when Argentina knocked Belgium out of the cup, felt some hurt national pride? With so much expected, and so little delivered, should my patriotic hackles have risen after Italy’s ignoble exit?
Then, I am neither Belgian nor Italian, but English, and our gladiators slid home like Richard the Lionheart with his bedraggled army after the Third Crusade. The World Cup is war. We fly our flags, paint our faces, dress in the costumes of the players in a show of nationalism, patriotism, loyalty. When Germany thrashed Brazil by an unprecedented 7 goals to 1, the host nation went into mourning. I saw grown men cry. Players were on their knees as if beseeching an unfair God.
Rather than empathise, I thought this was the best possible result, a crude but necessary awakening. Brazil spent $14 billion on the World Cup, the most ever, with close to $1 billion on security alone, according to CNN. Secure from whom? Surely not the one million street children being molested and damaged in Brazil’s cities, little girls not yet in puberty selling their bodies for 25 cents to buy food? Had the Brazilian government built one less stadium and saved $1 billion, they could have built the schools and hostels that would have solved the problem for street children forever.
Gladiators, Bread and Circuses
Do nationalism, patriotism and loyalty still have the same significance? I mentioned where I was born because where we are born is a quirk of fate. Samuel Johnson in 1775 coined that famous phrase that patriotism is the last refuge of a scoundrel. If we look beyond the geographic accident of our birth place, our loyalty must be with the one million street children, not the shapes and colours of the national flag. In a world where what separates people is less our nationality and increasingly the widening gulf between rich and poor, loyalty to a nation becomes loyalty to the banks and corporations that own the politicians, own the means of production and distribution and own our thoughts through the media. Brazil lost the semi-final match, but while their compatriots in yellow jerseys are weeping, the players, whatever flag, remain winners with the average $5 million a year they take to the bank.
In ancient Rome, the gladiators fought to the death in the arena to amuse the ‘shallow populace,’ the creation of public approval through ‘diversion and distraction’ described by the poet Juvenal as Bread and Circuses. The World Cup and Olympic Games are our bread and circuses. On balance, I believe they are a good way to bring the people of the world together. But while we wear our colours, we must not forget the darker sides of patriotism that leads to conflict – while we wait for Sunday’s final, the tanks are rolling and the guns are firing somewhere in the world, usually for reasons hard to understand and directed by politicians few people have any trust in and believe it is probably in some way to their advantage, not anyone else’s.
When the next candidate for office says: I love my country, take it as Juvenal would have done, with a pinch of salt. Truth, Lies & Politicians? Read on before the KICK OFF. Feeling passionate? Leave your thoughts in the box below.
“Do You Want To Eat My Knickers?” is an exciting new TV concept where the world’s top chefs including Ferran Adrià, Jamie Oliver and Heston Blumenthal will go head to head to create the tastiest dish using women’s panties.
Actresses, weather girls and young celebrities famous for being young celebrities will peel off their undies before a live audience and the chefs will reveal their wizardry baking, grilling and sautéing these delicacies with such erotic ingredients as truffles from the Hanging Gardens of Babylon, unicorn tears, phoenix eggs from the moon’s Sea of Tranquillity and ambergris from the deepest depths of the Dead Sea.
The idea came to me in a Eureka moment after discovering the hosiery brand Ballerina’s new Hush Hush line of stockings and tights that come imbued with pheromones – the female hormone that drives men into paroxysms of desire. I wasn’t aware that men needed a whiff of chemicals to lose control, but the combination of women’s undergarments and the macho motions of the kitchen clearly lends itself to the small screen’s appetite for exotic foods spiced with a sizzling dash of sex.
Finding unusual uses for lingerie is not new. Vending machines in Japan selling used panties worn by schoolgirls for up to $80 a pair made somebody rich, the practise expanding into what are known as burusera shops. On the web you can find at Lingerie Diva the inimitable treat: ‘Women’s Edible Panties Strawberry Gummy’ ($9.18), as well as a variety of edible knickers and thongs at $4.99 with flavours including passion fruit, Pina Colada and chocolate with peanut butter. Sweet fun foods include the candy bra and G-string set, candy nipple tassels, candy cock rings, edible tattoos and chocolate body paint. Delicious.
Invest in My Knickers
Panty fetishism is called Paraphilia, which describes people moved to sexual ecstasy wearing, observing or handling certain types of underwear; watching women putting on and taking off their knickers; or putting undies on and taking them off themselves. One in ten women, according to one survey, feel aroused going commando, that is not wearing any knickers at all, and feel they project a sexy aura without having to lash out $30 on hormone-scented pantyhose.
“Do You Want To Eat My Knickers?” is still in the planning stage. Broadcasters and investors who want to get in early with a bid can contact me through www.chloethurlow.com and advice in the comments box will be given careful consideration.
Kay Jaybee Guest Blog
One of the joys (and the challenges) of writing erotic stories, is the constant opportunity to push the boundaries of perceived ‘proper’ behaviour. I don’t mean that once I have a pen in my hand I instantly dive into the illegal, dubious, or downright wrong. I mean that within the realms of the fiction I write, I am able to grapple with ideas and fantasies that fascinate me. I can sculpt scenes of sexual action which I would never want to take part in, but which live happily in my mind as erotic dreams – dreams which I have the privilege of sharing with my readers on paper.
The massive range of erotic fiction out in ‘book world’ is testament to the fact that the sexual adventures that exist within the privacy of our minds, are far more excessive than the acts of sex that most of us actually perform – or would even want to perform. The images and scenarios writers of the erotic genre create, work precisely because they take our own boundaries and push them – sometimes a little, sometimes a lot – opening up the imagination, and freeing our inhibitions a little.
A Special Kind of Freedom
As Kay Jaybee, I have something of a reputation. I am frequently referred to as the ‘Queen of Kink;’ and when I meet people at readings, I’m often seen with a paddle in hand, skimpily clad, and whip wielding. This ‘adopting of a fantasy’ role is just that: a fantasy. I am, after all, in the happy making business! Would I really want to spank the odd arse and tie up the occasional passing person? Well – yes – of course I would. But would I actually do it? Would I push my own boundaries beyond the realm of paper and pen? Well, that’s up to you and your imagination to decide…
After almost a decade of writing smut I’m more and more convinced that one of the main issues people have with erotica writers isn’t a disapproval of what we write, but a sense of being threatened by it. They (and I know I’m generalising here) are uncomfortable with letting their own imaginations widen; of pushing their own private boundaries a fraction. Are they perhaps afraid of what they may discover about themselves?
If that sounds like you, then try, just try. Read a little erotica, after all, what happens within the safe confines of your own mind while you are reading it, is for your knowledge alone. The boundaries we push within our own heads – like our dreams – are ours and ours only. They are, in their own way, a special kind of freedom.
Kay Jaybee is the author of The Perfect Submissive Trilogy, (Xcite, 2011-14), Making Him Wait, (Sweetmeats Press, 2012), The Voyeur (Xcite, 2012), as well as the numerous novellas and short stories.
Raymond Chandler said: Alcohol is like love. The first kiss is magic, the second is intimate, the third is routine. After that you take the girl’s clothes off.
Routine dries the soul and turns it into a desert. Routine gives you that sense that time is racing and you’ve been left behind. Routine can set in like woodworm, or migraine, or cancer. Routine is a habit, an addiction that can only be cured by the healing power of change.
What can we do to break the routine?
There are almost as many make-over ideas on the web as porn sites. How to find the partner of your dreams on the latest dating hub. How to be tall. How to be happy. How to lose 30lbs in 15 minutes. We all want to be the most we can be and have more than we’ve got. This is the human condition and the marketing men tune into that fact with unrelenting skill.
The answer isn’t to make sweeping changes but small, realistic changes. By breaking the routine, we create a new mind-set that sends out an unexpected pulse that pumps the blood around the body at a different rhythm and can even renew our perception of life itself.
Start with something easy. Buy a bike, or take the old bike out of the garage and go for a ride in the country. Go apple picking for a day. Buy a sketch pad, walk to the park, sit on the grass and draw a tree. Go somewhere you have never been before without a plan to do anything when you get there. Just see what happens. Explore. Let your eyes wander over fresh sights. Breathe in a different air. Breathe deeply. It feels good and it costs nothing.
Feed the Hungry
Routine is a cloud blocking the sun; a veil that makes everything seem dimmer. If you do the same things every day, time doesn’t merely appear to go faster, it does go faster. When you change the daily grind, it will feel as if a magnet has pulled back the hands on the clock. You feel refreshed, sparky, younger. Routine conjures up thoughts of eternity and eternity is not an extension of time, but an absence of time, a void.
The problem with life-changing makeovers is that they are hard to keep up and we hate ourselves when we give up. Brief excursions from the predictable are not only easy to achieve, they stick in our minds – the tree you drew in the park is still in the sketch pad, better than any photograph.
People save for years to take a cruise or spend two weeks in Thailand or Bali or in Africa on Safari. Such adventures do stay in the memory, but after the money’s spent and the video has been shown to family and friends, the routine returns, more soul destroying than ever.
Try learning a language or to play a musical instrument. Take tap dancing lessons. Join an amateur dramatic society. Start a book club. Clean out all the closets and anything you haven’t worn or used for three years, give it to charity, or have a yard sale, a good opportunity to renew friendships with the neighbours.
I just read an article with statistics from the United Nations World Food Programme: 842 million people in the world do not have enough to eat. What can we do? How can we change our routine AND help the starving people of the world?
You could start a group on Facebook. Call it…I don’t know: People Aid. Ask me to join. It’s free. It’s easy. Post your opinions and see what other like-minded people have to say. The more involved you become, the more likely you are to see a way to achieve your own goals – and you may save some lives, including your own.
Do you have any ideas for making simple changes? Leave them in the comment box – no puzzles, all free. And there is one more place where you can feed your brain and stop the years passing like the wind: in the pages of a good book.
A femme fatale is defined in many ways: low voice, an air of individuality, mystery and masculinity together with flawless femininity. She smells uniquely delicious. Her lips and hair colour are true and bold. She is set apart.
She’s the kind of woman others want, but shouldn’t have. Is the femme and her cigarette seductive? Are the two irresistibly linked? Is smoking sexy?
The first advertisement for snuff and tobacco products was placed in the New York Daily in 1789. Advertising was an emerging concept, and tobacco-related advertisements were not seen as any different from those for other products. The World War One Tommie would smoke in the trenches. During World War Two, cigarettes were included in soldier’s rations and tobacco companies sent soldiers their smokes for free. Specific brands used macho imagery and found a new loyal group of customers when soldiers who smoked their cigarettes returned from war.
Today, the nanny state treats us as if we are unable to resist temptation by prohibiting tobacco companies from sponsoring sports, music and other cultural events, and prevents the display of tobacco product logos on clothes. A moral war is being fought on the back of scientific research, which proves that smoking kills. Eventually. A factor unlikely to concern the combat soldier.
Uber-hot motor racing isn’t quite as sexy since the ban on advertising those sexy brands we love to smoke and in the British supermarket, the tobacconist is concealed behind a sterile, ugly façade, like a flasher’s cock hidden by a raincoat. Sliding doors are opened a crack revealing an array of brightly-packaged products akin to a tantalising glimpse of stocking tops on a breezy day. The aromatic, inviting, TARDIS-like purveyor of all things smokey, formerly housed in a Tudor building in London’s High Holborn, vanished in a puff.
Smoke Signals from Ad-Men & Madmen
On re-reading Truman Capote’s Breakfast at Tiffany’s, one wonders if Holly Golightly’s provocative me, me, fragrance is channelled through her impossibly long cigarette holder? Is Cool Hand Luke as sensuous without a dangling cigarette? Heartbreakingly hip smokers Amy Winehouse and Janis Joplin, two interchangeable femmes, sans fatale, but fatal, seem naked without a cigarette held in fingers or lips. Even super-shiny Gwyneth Paltrow enjoys a sly fag; confessing a Saturday night inhalation after a hard week’s Goop. Somehow, images of Gwynnie, or the equally goodie-two-shoes, Jennifer Aniston, with a smoke don’t have the same impact as modern femme and unapologetic smoker, Scarlett Johansson.
And yet, there’s vanity. Even if you don’t care about your hidden organs turning black with tar, take a look at your bewitching skin and come-to-bed ultrabrite smile. You’ll say goodbye to both and hello to smoker’s face after a couple of decades’ nicotine addiction. Just sayin.
Perhaps all smokers want to quit eventually, after all, shelling out for a pack of twenty erodes your funds, as well as your lungs. Maybe a cigarette has become an anachronism? Enter the not cheap, not big, not clever, electronic cigarette. Manufacturers have attempted injecting sex and sense appeal into the unerotic e-cig, ‘totally wicked liquid.’ Er, no. At present, you’re allowed to drag on your e-fag here, there and everywhere, but they’ll ban it everywhere. Eventually. Nanny doesn’t like citizens to enjoy sex, fags, drugs and/or rock-n-roll. They conjure up wet rock festival weather out of spite. They will have you quit the weed if it’s the last thing they do, and collect their sex kills tax via something else you love to love.
The Kiss is a life-sized marble sculpture created in 1880 by Auguste Rodin. Inspired by Dante’s Inferno, the French artist portrays from this cautionary tale the Italian beauty Francesca da Rimini with puckered lips almost but not quite touching the lips of Paolo Malatesta.
It is impossible to know whether the couple have just kissed, just parted from a kiss or have been caught kissing in flagrante. What Rodin shows is that the kiss is more than a kiss. The figures frozen in marble are naked and the fleeting peck is illicit. Francesca is not married to Paolo, but his older brother, and Dante delivers the customary punishment. Giovanni Malatesta, a nobleman, does the noble thing. He kills them both.
Rodin spent seven years carving the sculpture. He clearly fell in love with Francesca da Rimini and lent her name to the title of the work. When it was finally unveiled he explained that the nude portrayal was ‘a homage to women, not just submitting to men but as full partners in ardour.’ The dignitaries, for reasons impossible to interpret, thought the title too controversial and suggested it be changed to Le Baiser – The Kiss.
The sculpture was created to adorn the entrance to the Decorative Arts Museum in Paris and was a part of a larger work called The Gates of Hell – a pair of ornately decorated bronze doors standing 20 foot high, the doorway topped by a group of reliefs, of which Le Baiser was one. Rodin began The Gates of Hell in 1880 and worked on the commission until his death 37 years later in 1917.
So as not to offend public taste, The Kiss was removed from the display. A smaller, bronze copy of the sculpture, sent to the 1893 World’s Columbian Exposition in Chicago, was likewise considered too lewd for general consumption, and again removed. As Rodin so rightly realised and so brilliantly reveals, the kiss is more than a kiss.
As a picture tells a thousand words, so a kiss says everything that’s important. Prostitutes never kiss their clients. It is too personal, too human. We kiss to say I love you. We kiss the rings of the self-important. The feet of conquerors. The rich dark earth when we reach the promised land. We kiss our hands and wave as loved ones begin a journey. A kiss beneath the mistletoe. A kiss after midnight. A kiss before dying. The devil’s kiss. According to Matthew’s Gospel, when Judas leaves the Garden of Gethsemane after the Last Supper, Jesus says, ‘Friend, do what you are here to do,’ and the infamous Judas kiss is thought by some scholars to contain a complicity, a brief touching of lips to seal the terms of fate.
Two spacemen touching in anti-gravity is like a kiss. But then, there is nothing like a kiss. A kiss is a rare bird. The first sip of champagne. The fleeting glimpse of a shooting star. The kiss is uniquely human. We exchange bodily fluids with a kiss. A great kiss is like eating melon on a picnic. Like diving into a warm sea. A French kiss is a battle of tongues where everyone wins.
A really good kiss is like a secret you want to share. A really good kiss reminds you why it’s hard to decide on the right lipstick. The first kiss stays in you’re mind – forever. Time expands with a really good kiss and you add another few seconds to the end of your life.
Making love requires no thought. You move as the fronds of a palm tree move in the breeze. It is all instinct. All wonder. When you love someone, your lips are incomplete until they are oiled by a kiss. You can say ‘I love you’ a thousand ways but you can say it better with silence and a kiss.
Auguste Rodin understood all that a kiss meant. When in Paris, you can find his masterpiece at the Musée Rodin – on full public display, Francesca da Rimini as beautiful as ever, her lips almost but not quite touching the lips of her lover, her breasts gleaming like snow. If breasts are to your taste you will probably enjoy A Short History of Breasts - but first, tell me about your first kiss: who, where, when? I know you remember.
I saw Gemma the other day and she looks much better now the doctor’s put her on the bee and grasshopper diet. She blamed Robert for providing nothing but low-protein dishes. But I told her, it was her own fault. If you are going to name your robot Robert, you can expect reprisals. I’ve had Sebastian two years and he’s totally devoted.
My story is set in the not too distant future and is inspired by the World Health Organization (WHO) report that of the world’s seven billion people, one billion are malnourished. The lack of food stocks is caused by over-farming, soil degradation, deforestation, climate change, and a population that grows by over 200,000 every day. There are water shortages across the globe and a developing world demanding the same annual growth and consumer products that people expect as normal in the developed nations.
According to UN estimates, by 2030, the world will need at least 50% more food, 45% more energy and 30% more water, at a time when a changing environment is putting new limits on supply. Dial forward another 15 years, and the world population will have reached nine billion, which brings me back to Gemma and her bee and grasshopper diet.
Insects are free, high in protein and, when you think about it, no weirder nutritionally than oysters, eels, frog’s legs, blowfish, pig’s trotters, sheep’s eyes, blood sausage, shark fins, sweetbreads and caviar – though in the last case that is probably best suited to Russian oligarchs, selling, as it does, in gold tins at $25,000 a kilo at the Caviar House & Prunier in Piccadilly.
Steve McQueen’s character, in the 1973 movie Papillon adapted from Henri Charrière’s memoir, stays strong and survives by eating insects while in solitary confinement in the French penal colony on Devil’s Island. It seems more than a coincidence to me that his nickname was “Papillon,” butterfly in French, an insect. “Papillon” is also slang in France for a parking ticket!
In her wonderfully titled book Creepy Crawly Cuisine ($14 on Amazon), biologist Julieta Ramos-Elorduy lists the most popular edible insects, popular, that is, in her recipes: grasshoppers, crickets, locusts, the most popular and high in protein; beetles; butterflies and moths at the caterpillar stage, high in iron and protein; bees and wasps taken from the hive; flies and mosquitoes – which take on the flavour of the food they feed on, like asparagus, I assume; waterboatmen and backswimmers with eggs like caviar; stinkbugs, smelly but high in iodine; and ants, which are low in calories but high in protein and calcium.
Chocolate-covered ants made by Columbia’s Guane Indians are a famous delicacy and only £6.99 at Selfridge’s, the departmental store in Oxford Street. I bought a box for Gemma, her birthday’s coming. I won’t tell her the crunchy centres are ants until after she’s eaten them. That will give Robert a good laugh.
That’s right: good sex TONIGHT.
Desire requires mystery, novelty, risk, excitement. Desire is a battery. When it runs low it needs a hypercharge to put the oo-la-la back in the bedroom. Not tomorrow. Not at the weekend. Not on his birthday. Tonight.
Hang a new dress in the closet for a year and it’s an old dress, out of style, the crispness gone. Time like the sun fades everything. Long relationships – long can be three months for some people – create the same sense of security as an old pair of slippers. Love has to be revitalised. Like the strings on a parachute, affairs have to be renewed or you pull the ripcord and nothing happens.
Familiarity breeds contempt. Or worse, kindness. Familiarity is like a pair of dirty socks in a dusty corner, dull, commonplace, a sign of negative energy. It’s a yawn.
Now, take a deep breath. Here’s 7 sexy ways to switch, the negative back to positive and set fire to the bedsheets. TONIGHT.
- Underwear. Splash out on something exciting. A garter belt and lace-topped stockings drive them wild. Buy new sheets in sensual colours, gold, ivory, sea green, scarlet. Wear white silk underwear with black sheets, or reverse it, black silk undies on white. That blend of yin & yang will add some Oriental spice to the candlelit bedroom. That’s right: candles. The flicker of light and dancing shadows shimmers in all the right places.
- Cook something messy like spaghetti vongole. Spaghetti and sea food is sexy for some reason and when you splash some tomato over your shirt you can take it off and finish eating in your bra. Did I mention music? Try something Latino, Brazilian, perhaps, or set Spotify on sexy, slow and sizzling.
- The Pizza Man ploy is fun for those who can’t abide the kitchen and have the chutzpah. Have a pizza delivered by surprise and go to the door in nothing but your underwear to collect it – it will make the pizza guy’s eyes leap from their sockets and your shamelessness will turn your lover into a fizzing firecracker.
- Read aloud in a dark sexy voice the best pages from a great erotic novel. Men are obsessed with girls’ secrets and spend their lives trying to find out what they are. I should suggest my idol Anaïs Nin, but I’m feeling brazen and really insist on my novel The Secret Life of Girls. Start reading from P127 – when Bella is seduced by the rock star Dallas McTee and the heavenly Rupert, her ebony god of a manager.
- After tucking into the messy vongole or the peppery pizza, say you’re going to take a shower – and don’t return to the living room. When he comes to find you, you’ll be naked behind the glass covered in soap bubbles. If that’s not an invitation, I don’t know what is.
- Masks are my personal weapon of choice. You feel different in a mask and he will see you through different eyes. With a mask you can introduce an arsenal of accessories. Depending on taste – you don’t want to rush him – you can add velvet handcuffs, a ballgag, sky-high heels and that silky soft underwear the pizza man still dreams about.
- No.7 is not for the faint-hearted, but love pains require bold remedies. If all else fails, ask a friend to join the party – it goes without saying, she has to be fun, sexy, willing and dipped at birth into an erotic pool of that quintessential crème de oo la la. If you are up for it, he will be.
Do you have a special way to put the oo la la back in the bedroom? Do tell. All will be published unabridged and added to the list for future research.
Promiscuous? Wanton? Sex mad? Man hungry? Woman Hungry? Just plain starving? Stop beating yourself up about it. It’s not because you’re immoral, licentious, a slut. It’s genetic. You have a right-brain poetic soul. You’re wired for sex.
That’s the result of research carried out at the University of California by a team studying sex drive, where it comes from and where it leads (although the last bit seems pretty obvious). They began by asking volunteers to list the number of partners they’d had over the past year. They then wired them up to an EEG, an electroencephalographic monitor, and showed them more than 200 images including portraits, neutral shots, like skydiving, sensual scenes and porn.
What they discovered and published in the current issue of the journal Social Cognitive and Affective Neuroscience is that those volunteers whose brains bounced highest up the graph when shown explicit images were those who tended to wind up in the sack more often and with more partners.
Nicole Prause, a PhD assistant research scientist at UCLA, one of the authors of the study, says the research suggests that those with the greatest sex drive were those most sensitive to the x-rated imagery. ‘If your brain responds strongly even to tame pictures of sex, then you seem to be easily sexually excited in the real world, too.’ She adds. ‘If we show explicit sex pictures, eventually everyone’s brain responds strongly. It is those weaker images, just hinting at sex, that show the difference.’
So, there you have it, show people wired for sex a picture of a pomegranate and they’ll go screaming up the stairs to the bedroom. The team also discovered, that those who had more sex, and with more partners, ‘may increase a person’s sensitivity to sexual stimuli,’ says Prause, a sort of self-fulfilling prophesy.
Does that mean sex is all in the mind? That’s what the nuns at school used to say, But, then, what did they know? They were all celibate. Or were supposed to be.
Is the model in the illustration wired for sex? Leave a comment – you don’t have to join the mailing list and, if you do, you can download Flight 69, totally free and totally wired.
I bought a new pair of shoes with pink insoles and lofty heels. When I wear them, my shoulders straighten and my chest pushes out. I feel sensuous; elegant. The shoes are aesthetically pleasing. I could wear them at a garden party with Kate Middleton. If you were to put the shoes in a glass case in a museum with the word: Erotic, everyone would understand. If Porn were the single world caption, it would make no sense.
Porn is not erotica. Porn is dull. Porn is repetitive. Good sex like good art never repeats itself. Porn is not sex. Porn is simulated sex. A rubber doll with a microchip can imitate human flesh without human feeling. Porn leaves an emptiness inside. Erotica sets up a vibration in the mind that sends pulsing waves through the body. Porn is about orgasm. Erotica is about suspending orgasm.
Images of girls with pert butts and melon breasts, the type that figure on calendars in auto-shops, are pornographic, poses that make the guys go oorah like Marines before battle. An erotic photograph is like a still from an unfolding story that makes you wonder what might already have happened and what is going to happen next. Porn exposes genitalia, male and female. Erotica prefers costume, veils, shadows, masks. Nudity is selective, subtle, understated.
Erotic fiction is literate, a search for meaning and self; a psychological exploration into the hidden parts of our nature. Porn is pulp, endless descriptions of naked entanglements peppered with obscenities and short on story. Porn is a quick fix. Addictive. Unsatisfying.
An experiment at Cambridge University showed that when numerous metronomes were placed on a stage and set off at different times, after a short period, they start to beat together. They are not individuals, but members of the herd connected by the rhythms and thoughts of those around them. We all have a dark side, mysterious places hidden even from ourselves. Once you allow the erotic to sweep away the conditioning you stop ticking along with all the other metronomes. Erotica is a journey to self-knowledge and sexual pleasure.
My blog Let’s Talk About Sex warned of the harmful effects pornography has on children. I will end by quoting a comment on the blog from writer Sarah Daltry: “Porn often perpetuates violence, thus perpetuating sexual slavery, rape, and abuse. Does all porn do that? No. Do all men and women who watch porn believe those things are acceptable? No. Does the discussion need to take place regardless? Yes. Thanks for attempting to guide it.”
The gorgeous shoes in the illustration are by Lolita Abraham. Do they make you think of all things porn? Or are they just a little bit erotic? You can leave comments without number puzzles or joining my mailing list – and if you do join the list, I am not the Air Force, so no bombardments. Read the related BLOG: Let’s Talk About Sex.