Writing and Reading Erotica

This week there was an article on BBC Radio Four’s “Woman’s Hour” about female writers of erotic or pornographic (depending upon your personal views) novels.

The programme referred back to an interview in the 1990s with Erica Jong – author of “Fear of Flying” and “Any Woman’s Blues”.

She explained how she thought some women had seen female sexual liberation as a panacea when, in her opinion, true liberty came from enjoying your own company and developing a strong sense of self-esteem. She talked in length about how some women involved themselves in sexually free relationships, thinking that this was going to give them the release from mundane middle ageism, only to find that such a desire for mind-blowing sex became a bondage  - not a freedom.

I would concur!

Actually, it’s not quite as simple as that, but for me there’s definitely some truth in the need to like yourself, enjoy your own company and make sure that it’s this, not an attachment to another human being, that truly liberates and makes you feel free.

Having said that, there is also a huge amount of freedom from being sexually liberated; the empowerment and enlightenment felt from this can’t be underestimated.

The topic then concentrated on writing and in particular the issue of women writing erotica.

The two guests on the programme, Louise Doughty and Nichi Hodgson  - both of whom write erotica – had a very stimulating discussion about the merits of female writers of erotica, about the failings of “50 Shades” and how much of the issue regarding female sexual liberation was about economics. They suggested that the real fantasy of “50 Shades” wasn’t the sexual excitement but more to do with the fact that the lead character was obscenely rich!

That reminded me of a comment from Victoria Coren who once wrote that the main attraction in Christian Grey from “50 Shades of Grey” was that he allowed his partner to eat anything she wanted – and that was the real attraction.

Again, I would concur.

The economic issue is huge – one that is too huge and requires a post of its own, as does the whole issue of finding yourself and being comfortable with who you are.

For now, I want to concentrate on my personal experience of writing and reading both erotic and pornographic stories.

As both Louise and Nichi said, there’s a considerable amount of dross in this area. Some of the writing is over-laden with explicit adverbs and graphic scenes that end up feeling functionary rather than fantasy or arousing.

Essentially it all depends on your frame of mind. If you are in a moment when you want to be sexually aroused or stimulated, you can be so – even if the writing isn’t particularly good. I have strong memories of lying in bed, listening to erotic writing being read to me, and feeling completely overwhelmed by a desire to replicate what was being read.

Other times, when I’ve been alone and in need, yes need, of an orgasm, I’ve deliberately chosen some pretty crass writing to get me in the mood, ready for a dildo to help me on my way.

There have been other times it’s been the other way round when I’ve read something that has aroused me and I’ve reached out for assistance – either from the vibrator or the real thing – to bring me to an orgasm.

The point is if you are inclined to be aroused by reading, then it really doesn’t matter what you are reading as long as it brings forth the desired effect. Personally, I’m aroused by erotic rather than explicit graphic descriptions. This is probably because I love the feeling of closeness and oneness in sexual liaisons more than the actual act of having sex. It’s the feeling of togetherness in penetration more than the penetration itself that does it for me.

When reading, I like a sense of mystery, of creativity – of writing that allows you to bring in your personal experiences or imagine situations that complement what you are reading.  As one of the women on Woman’s hour said, the possible difference between porn and erotica is the artistry – how sex is used in writing. Is it used to power the story on (in her opinion, erotica) or is it merely there for its own sake (porn)?

But where I really get turned on is when I am writing.

And it’s this that links directly to what Erica Jong was saying about finding yourself and being happy with who you are as a person.

For when I’m writing about sex, about female sexuality and sexual emancipation for women – that is when I feel I am being really me. That is what I miss about being me when I’m not writing.

For many years, I lay in a wilderness of sexual antipathy. It wasn’t until I met someone who enabled me to feel sexually liberated that I started to write about it. When that happened, I really do feel as though I found my voice and thus found my self-esteem, my value and my worth.

The writing that I did may not have been the most eloquent. I too was probably highly guilty of the overt and over-use of the adverb. My literary illustrations of thrusting cocks oozing with wonder juice and vaginas cascading with enthusiastic gushes were probably highly corny but that didn’t matter. What mattered was how I felt when I was writing. What also mattered is how my readers might feel when they were reading it, and if they were turned on, then my own arousal was increased.

And that is how it’s been with me. I write because it empowers me. I write because it makes me feel alive – and those two statements are true of all my writing, not just what I write in the world of sexuality. However, because sex is so personal and so vital, the writing that I have done on this blog has felt, possibly selfishly and self-indulgently, to be more about me than anything else.

The reality is that being sexually active makes me more willing and able to write about and talk about sex but in times of celibacy, my voice is still there and I damn well ought to use it.

The irony is about freedom though. Writing about sex frees me. It makes me feel liberated. It makes me feel ME. In order for me to be truly me, I probably need and want sex as it’s because of my experiences of sex that I’ve felt a need to convey a message to others who are either without sex or enduring lackluster, tedious and uninspiring sex. Sex and, more importantly, the feelings associated with having sex with someone that you really adore being with, enable me to be me.

Now returning to Erica Jong, does that make me dependent on another for my freedom and for my happiness? Or is it just a reality that it takes two to tango?

I know I felt at my most liberated when I was writing frequently about sex and for me, the stimulation to write came from being stimulated sexually by another person. Therefore, is there that possibility that I am actually reliant on another soul for my sexual liberty, and if that is the case, how can it be true liberty?

The other reality is this. It’s the economy stoopid!

Those who are economically independent do have the freedom to be sexually liberal and liberated. Without that economic freedom, can you ever really and truthfully be free to be the sexual person that you know you are?

For me, I will try my hardest to get back to writing about the important aspects of sex and female sexuality.

I started this blog many years ago. There’s still an ostrich-like approach to sex and particularly towards female sexuality. There’s still no absolute agreement about female ejaculation. There’s still feminists who think that female sexual liberation means that you can’t possibly enjoy watching pornography or who think that valuing your own body means that it should be hidden with your sexuality suppressed and not flaunted. (I’m being a little disingenuous and facetious here, of course).

But the simple message is that sexuality is about you, and because of the nature of the glorious beast, it’s about someone else too, but you can’t enjoy that someone else fully unless you are content with yourself – and that contentment comes from economic liberty as well as a confidence in your own self-worth.

To any reader of this post, please remember, these are my initial thoughts on a subject that I may well return to. I mean to cause no offence to anyone. I am merely clarifying my own thoughts in my own way, and what I write here today might be different to my thinking in a month or a year’s time.

Enjoy your sexuality today. I mean it. I’ll try and enjoy my own.

Miley and Me

I don’t profess to have too much in common with the multi-millionnairess Miley Cyrus. After all, she’s half my age, got more money than she could possibly want and has a confidence in herself that sends my jaw dropping to the ground.

However, there are three commonalities between Miley and me.

1.       When her sexuality was awakened she wanted to let everyone know how good she felt – as did I.

Sexuality is important. When it’s missing from your life, the light goes out, no matter how hard you compensate with other means of peacefulness, tranquillity and hopefulness. If, like me, you’d spent years of being a sexual being but never feeling particularly sexual, then you’d understand both Miley and me. Discovering the overwhelming brilliance of sex and the power of your own sexuality is an awakening beyond anything else in life. You want to stop people on street corners and say “I’m alive! I’m sexual! I’ve seen the light and I never, ever want to feel any different”.

I’m alive, alive, alive.

When you discover your sexuality, all other ills or traumas or obstacles in life appear surmountable. The liberation of discovering your sexual prowess can’t possibly be underplayed. It’s enormous.

And whilst we’re on the subject of Miley, can we please remember that she is “of age”. The pressures that are placed on these child stars mean that they have a propensity to mature sooner than their chronological years, and that might mean their sexuality matures quicker too. So yes, she may only be 20 years old, but she’s been around for over a decade.

2.       When she realised the enormity of the glories of sexuality, she wanted to cross boundaries and challenge her comfort zone – as did I.

Once I realised I was a sexual being, I wanted to explore my sexuality. Rightly or wrongly, I felt that I’d suppressed the real sexual me for too long and I wanted to make up for lost time. I wanted to celebrate my sexuality with my lover, and within reason, I wanted to see how far I was prepared to go sexually.

I suddenly realised that if two people were completely in tune with one another sexually, you could try anything, and you could also tell one another how you felt about sexual experimentation.

I started slowly – a naughty photo message, given and received. Tits and cocks at first, then open pussy oozing juices and cocks erupting with cum. I then discovered a love of porn – shared, explored together until I became more confident to discover websites for myself.

And so the journey continued – a discovery of the self and of togetherness. Bottles, dildos, fists all welcomed into my cunt, stretching my mind as well as my body. Kissing and fucking other women in front of my lover – something I hadn’t thought I’d ever experience. Having sex under trees with trains rocking by. Grabbing genitals under tables when penetrative sex was unattainable. Offices sprayed with sexual juices. Having sex in front of other people. Oh, and water sports! Oh how I loved water sports!

And twerking. Lots of glorious, wonderful, arse-splayed twerking, knowing that something rather delightful was “cumming” up behind you.

Yes, I challenged my comfort zone to discover who I was, and I haven’t finished the journey.

If Miley wants to cross boundaries and explore her sexuality, then who am I to suggest she contains it within the privacy of her own home? I didn’t.

3.       When she appreciated the importance of her sexuality, she wanted to empower other women to enjoy, express and own their sexuality – as did I.

Miley Cyrus has been truly reprimanded for her forthrightness. I would agree with some commentators that she has to be careful. I had the pleasure of exploring my sexuality with a much smaller audience than Miley but I felt so invigorated by my sexual experiences that I felt a real and urgent desire to share this with the wider world – hence this blog.

Women of all ages need to be reminded that they are sexually capable, that we shouldn’t be inhibited by the somewhat misogynous traditions of sex, that we should celebrate our sexuality. Those of us who’ve had this awakening have a duty to empower others.

I am a sexual being. I like sex. I like sex in various ways. I love the feeling I get from being a sexual being. I want others to know just how capable their bodies and minds are in relation to sex. 

I want people to experience that satori moment that can only come from sex. Maybe Miley feels the same way.

I want to be sexual.

So was I offended by Miley’s twerking? Obviously not. If I’m perfectly honest, the thing I found most unappealing about her infamous twerking display was the way she stuck her tongue out! (Oh and the music wasn’t exactly to my taste!)

There’s another commonality between Miley and me, come to think of it, and it’s to do with the public persona. Admittedly, Miley’s sexual awakening happened in front of far more people than my own but the same principles applied.

Miley Cyrus was Hannah Montana: the all-American Disney sweetheart who entertained young girls with her saccharine performances of pop. She was a blonde-haired beauty who attempted to be a “normal” teenager in spite of the fact that she was this superstar, and she led a double life. (As did I).

People couldn’t differentiate between Miley Cyrus and Hannah Montana. They thought the actress was the character, and to some extent still do. Because of this, the sexual awakening of Miley somehow became more shocking. It was unexpected. How could Hannah Montana, I mean Miley Cyrus, be this sexy, fit woman who flaunted her sexuality in front of our faces?

My own situation was slightly different. Due to the circumstances when my sexuality was awakened, I couldn’t tell anyone. It was a secret. However, I know that many people in my life would have been totally shocked that the sweet, gentle, caring, loyal woman that they thought they knew turned out to be a raving nymphomaniac with an insatiable desire for cock!

As it happened, I remember meeting a friend about six months into my sexual awakening. We went out for a meal. She sat down in front of me and looked into my eyes and said with a certain amount of incredulity, “Are you having an affair?”

I looked at her, ready to deny everything but realised that it was pointless trying to deceive a woman who had known me for my entire adult life, and was also a very sexual woman. How could she possibly have known? I hadn’t casually mentioned my lover during our conversation. I didn’t think I looked any different, other than possibly putting on a bit of weight. How could she have known?

According to her, I looked more relaxed and liberated than I had done in years. She said I looked sexy, that my boobs looked bigger or at least more pronounced, and I distinctly remember I wasn’t wearing a low-cut top at the time. She said I seemed happy, contented, assured.

And I was.

The transition from the wholesome to the whore! People can’t cope with that, which is why they use derogatory phrases to accentuate the contempt for someone else’s sexuality. Neither Miley nor I are whores. We’re just people who rather dramatically discovered our sexuality and bloody loved it.

Take Madonna, for instance. When she shot to fame, she wore her sexuality on her bodice right from the word go. When she “flaunted” her sexuality, some people were shaken by her explicitness but they weren’t completely surprised. It was expected, and therefore she could get on with exploring and expressing her sexuality without too much dissent. It wasn’t until she became an “older woman” that people started to be more shocked at her antics, begging her to wrap her beautifully toned body in an outfit more befitting for a 50 year old. Says who!

No, the real issue about Miley Cyrus is that people were troubled by her sexuality because of the misconceptions they’d built in their minds about who she was, and were astonished at the contrast between the twerking temptress and the treacly teenager that they’d welcomed into their homes through the glorious medium of television. They were worried that their offspring, who had loved Hannah and had wanted to dress like her and who’d filled their bedrooms with all manner of purple “Hannah” range of goodies, would suddenly want to change their ribbons for rabbits or their T-shirt for a G-string or their Disney ears for dildos.

(Perhaps aforementioned parents should consider the virtue of allowing their own children to be so absorbed by the commercialisation of young children such as Miley Cyrus. If they hadn’t played the Hannah Montana merchandise game, then their children might not have been so fixated on the Miley and would therefore have been shielded from her sexual awakening.)

So, yes, I understand Miley. I understand her predicament and I understand her desires.

Good luck Miley, but do be careful.

Kissing Kittens

I need to clarify a potential misunderstanding to readers and to friends who I’ve spoken to in recent months about something quite dear to my heart; girls kissing.

Recently, I was in a restaurant, when it was pointed out to me that two women behind me were sharing a moment of intense passion through the glorious art of snogging. They were totally uninhibited and were fully connected through the loving act of kissing. (And for those who think I may have made a typo, I really did mean the “art” of snogging and not the “act”. There is an art to snogging. There’s an art to kissing that makes certain kisses utterly revolting because the perpetrator of the kiss has never embraced that art of kissing.)

Returning to the two women in the restaurant, I turned round to see them coming away from their lipstick embrace but still holding onto one another and looking at each other with a certain amount of eagerness that reminded me of the lustiness of passion. The kiss had conjured up a feeling elsewhere in their bodies that required immediate fulfilment.

Within five minutes, they’d left the restaurant, and I hoped they lived near enough to be able to run up a flight of stairs and dive into a passionate session of love-making.

It’s a joy to see people being passionate, well, within reason of course. For some, society dictates to us what we should or shouldn’t feel comfortable with. Our own ideas and thoughts also ‘dictate’ to us what we should feel comfortable with. Some of us stay in this comfort zone throughout our lives. Others amongst us challenge our thoughts and possibly change our opinions on what we wish to see and what we wish to do ourselves.

And so it is with lesbianism and me.

I’m not a lesbian. I’m not entirely sure that I’m bisexual either. I’ve enjoyed participating in bisexual acts and I really, really love looking at women who are sexually turned on, who are dressed in erotic and evocative clothing. I adore seeing a woman pleasuring herself. In many ways, I find this more of a turn on than seeing a bloke doing it for her. And I love looking at other women kissing one another.

In fact, I’d go as far as saying that if I had a choice between watching a heterosexual couple kissing, a couple of men kissing, and a couple of women kissing, I’d probably choose the latter as the most sexually exciting for my own commitment to voyeurism.

Perhaps I am one of these women who is blessed with a slightly increased level of testosterone than is usual for my gender, whereby I can enter into the alpha male fantasy of watching women enjoy one another sexually. All I know is that I am extremely turned on by women having sex and women kissing in public, and it has nothing whatsoever to do with envy or a desire to participate.

In fact, what I really want to do is watch women having sex whilst I have an erect cock in my hand or even better, in my mouth. In other words, and possibly less crudely, I enjoy watching women having sex as a heterosexual woman.

Now that doesn’t preclude me from indulging in such pleasures if the mood and the environment allows. For instance, one of my strongest orgasms once came from merely holding hands with a friend in a very intimate and sexual way. There was no touching of the genitals. There wasn’t even any kissing but my orgasm arose and sat there in my nethers for an extremely long time. One touch at that point and I would have erupted. One touch, and I did!

Essentially though, for my own sexual pleasure as far as penetrative sex goes, I want a man! I love the fulfilment of cock and I love to hold a man in my hand and in my mouth. I have no great desire to enter into another woman’s pussy. It really doesn’t excite me that much. I love to look at pussies. I love to see photos of excited cunts but I don’t necessarily want to touch it myself. Is that weird?

I do want to touch women’s breasts. I love breasts and I love the fullness of my own. I love kissing and I’m not discriminating about who I kiss. If the mood takes me, I’ll kiss a woman as readily and happily as I would kiss a man, but I don’t necessarily want to lift their skirt, or unzip their trousers and feel my way into their panties, in the way that I want to do this to a man.

Some might say that this is all very confusing, and probably indicative of a woman who has latent lesbian tendencies, but I know who I am, and I know my heterosexuality is far stronger than could warrant a life without the sexual stimulation of cocks. I love cocks. I could suck on a cock any time, any day, within reason. However, I can’t deny and I won’t deny that I am gloriously fascinated and delightfully turned on by seeing two women in the fullness of their sexuality with one another.

As I said, this hasn’t always been the case. There were times when I was somewhat appalled at the prospect of sitting in a room with two women snogging one another. There was a further time when I was okay with it happening but somewhat indifferent. There was another time when I actually wanted to join in. There have been times recently, when I wanted to kiss a woman just for the thrill of being kissed and giving kisses. There have been times when I’ve happily stuck my fingers in another woman’s cunt and I’m not saying that I’ll never do that again.

What I am saying is that like everything else in life, sex is fluid (if you’ll excuse the pun), and as it is with attraction, things change, feelings come and go, what is acceptable and appropriate one day might not be as wanted or desired another.

In the meantime, perhaps I am ready for a little more voyeurism than I’ve been affording myself of late, and in order to fulfil a need in my life, I would certainly start with watching women fuck one another rather than looking at men and women having a good old session.

Celebrating Beyonce Aesthetically

Beyonce Knowles is an extremely beautiful woman. Even if you are not sexually excited or stimulated by her curvaceous and near-perfect body, surely you can see the aesthetic attraction of it. If I had the body of this woman, I would certainly want the world to know how proud I was of its form and would happily wear some of the outfits that she seems likely to be criticised for wearing.

An article in the Guardian newspaper last week explores the issue of Beyonce’s sartorial choices and says that, "You have to wonder what one of Beyoncé's biggest fans, Michelle Obama, would tell her daughters about this outfit."

http://www.guardian.co.uk/music/2013/apr/19/beyonce-risque-world-tour-outfits

Well, here’s my helping hand should the conversation arise between Michelle, Malia and Sasha.

Girls: Mummy! Beyonce is showing her nipples!

Michelle: Well, actually girls, she isn’t showing her nipples at all. There’s no nudity and there’s no raunchy cleavage. What we can see is a demonstration of the female form, which many deem to be extremely attractive.

Girls: But isn’t it rude?

Michelle: Well, unfortunately society has seen fit to make us believe that women’s breasts are rude when in actual fact, they should be celebrated, enjoyed and not perpetually hidden away in secrecy pretending they don’t exist. What Beyonce is doing here is showing that she’s all woman, and that’s something that we should definitely celebrate. This outfit is only “rude” because we aren’t accustomed to women being so forthright about the beauty of their own bodies. I applaud Beyonce for furthering the cause and empowering young women to feel positive about their bodies, especially when they are naturally curvaceous rather than slim beyond healthiness.

And so the conversation might continue with references to sexuality that Michelle, as a sensible woman, would respond to in accordance with the two girls’ maturity - guided by their questions just as all sensible responses to questions on sex should be.

The image of Beyonce here is sexual but it’s only sexual because our society has made it so. Why shouldn’t beautiful women be free to display their beauty, within reason, without the rest of the world thinking they are making an explicit statement about their sexuality? And even if she was making an explicit statement about her sexuality, then what precisely is wrong with that?

We all know that Beyonce has had sex. She has a daughter to “prove” that is the case. We can see, whether she is fully-clad or not, that she has a certain sexual presence and is aware of her sexuality but that doesn’t make her immoral or prone to promiscuity. She is as she is!

If I’m perfectly honest, I like looking at this photograph of Beyonce. I love the fullness of her form. I adore the shapeliness of her breasts and the rather unsubtle insinuation of the size and extent of her nipples. I love her big hips, accentuated by the cut of the piece across the top of her thighs. But none of this makes me want to jump on the nearest man or woman to have full-blown intercourse. It doesn’t make me reach out for the nearest vibrator. I just love the eroticism of it, for its own sake, and whilst in a moment of quiet, I might refer back to such a picture, that is not the point of my enjoyment. It’s just a very beautiful photograph of a very beautiful woman wearing a very beautiful outfit that emphasises her very beautiful body.

I also love the idea that the costume is a sort of 21^st Century piece of art that Klimt himself could have drawn. I like the idea that this is something that he might have used in an updated version of his infamous “The Kiss” drawing, with Jay Z Carter, Beyonce’s partner, clad in a matching robe of glistening gold. In fact, I think I might suggest to the couple that, as a glorious celebration of their togetherness, their personal sexuality and their private intimacy with one another, they should commission someone to do a portrait in the style of Klimt with Beyonce wearing this very outfit.

I’m sick and tired of people criticising beautiful women for being proud of their bodies. It’s so hypocritical too. They put on their puritanical blacks and espouse the trouble for society with an influx of these sorts of images whilst simultaneously delighting in them, possibly enviously looking at every part of the woman’s body, and selling their papers in the process.

When we will realise that female empowerment will never be realised until we are comfortable with the female form? We shouldn’t shy away from our own beauty. We shouldn’t hide our assets for the sake of the comfort of others if we ourselves would like to display them more prominently. We should be able to display our assets more prominently without fear of misinterpretation, without the possibility of someone saying we are only doing this to attract attention from a potentially sexually aroused onlooker.

As a woman, I want to dress in a way that makes me feel comfortable with who I am. In my most sexual days, I guess I wanted people to know that I was happily, sexually active and if that meant I wore a top that was slightly more revealing, then that was up to me – and FOR me! If I choose to wear a top that exposes more of my cleavage when I am without a sexual partner, it doesn’t mean that I’m trying to attract attention in a fit of desperation. I’m merely wearing something that I feel comfortable in. I’ve got big tits. I celebrate the fact. End of.

Beyonce is absolutely right to wear this outfit, and if Michelle Obama wants to talk to her girls about such an outfit, then I hope she might refer to the short piece of advice that I’ve provided.

Let women be women. Let women adore their own bodies irrespective of what it does to other people. Let women choose whether they display more of their wares than some feel is appropriate. Let’s not confuse the joy of eroticism with the joy of sex. (They are different, and I shall explain my opinion on that at another time.) Let’s enjoy aestheticism more readily without being criticised for being a voyeur.

And on a final note, to the author of the attached piece, please don’t continually refer to Beyonce as “Mrs Carter” when you are addressing the issue of her clothing. Whether it was intended or not, it suggests that she “belongs” to someone else and that it’s unfitting of a married woman to bring her sexuality to the forefront of minds other than her husbands.

What is good sex?

Drinking a decent sauvignon blanc in a chic bar in town a few weeks ago, the conversation with an old friend casually limbered towards her relatively new boyfriend and their sex life – as you do!

This younger friend of mine had recently met a tall, muscular, blond beauty (according to her) and had spent the last four months exploring one another’s body with the usual vigour of early attraction.

“The sex is great” she said with a massive, satisfied and slightly smug face.

I rejoiced for her and with her. I like to hear about sex being good. I like to know that people that I care about are fully embracing their sexuality and enjoying the wonderment of this all important facet of being human.

But, in true Zenpuss style, I was also intrigued to find out what constituted good sex for this woman. This was purely  an anthropological enquiry as I am fascinated by peoples’ understanding of this judgement driven statement – sex is good.

“How good?” I asked “What is it that makes this sex good?”

She thought about it for some time, and then said, “Well, he always makes the effort to make me cum before we have penetrative sex, and we have some real enjoyable foreplay. Of course, he doesn’t make me cum vaginally because I don’t really think that’s possible. And whilst he cums quite quickly, it’s really good during the time that he’s inside me.”

Oh dear, I thought.

Without wishing to be intrusive, I had to ask a few follow –up questions.

1.       What makes you think that vaginal orgasms aren’t possible?

2.       Have you ever ejaculated?

3.       Why do you think that having short fucks that last a matter of minutes constitutes good sex?

There were more questions but these were a starting point.

With regard to the first, she explained that whilst she had seen porn sites where it looked as though people were having orgasms during penetration, she had never experienced this and thought that it was a bit of an act, akin to the screaming of Meg Ryan at the café in “When Harry Met Sally”. She said that she loved the feel of her man inside her, and it certainly excited her but didn’t bring her to a climax.

I politely and courteously explained that I had, on many occasions, reached orgasm through vaginal stimulation and that it wasn’t a figment of my imagination or the story-telling falseness of a porn video director.

“Well what does it feel like?” she said. “How do you know?”

How you know it’s an orgasm, I wondered. Well it just is!

A vaginal orgasm, I explained, doesn’t feel the same as a clitoral one but there’s something incredibly special about it, even if it doesn’t bring the deepest physical sensation that the clitty cum does. In many ways, the vaginal orgasm is deeper and more soul-lifting than the clitoral one.

It’s a difficult thing to explain to someone who has never experienced it. It’s a slow build, a lasting sensation that reverberates around your body, building and progressing and receding and renewing throughout the penetration. And yet there is still the point of climax where you can feel the delicate and intrinsic movement of cock on vagina wall with such intensity.

What sort of analogy could I use?

It’s rather like a child’s spinning top. You keep pressing down and pressing down to get the object to spin, and as you see the colours swirl into one another you begin to get excited at the prospect of the toy taking off on its own. Once the peak point has occurred, you release your hand from the spinning top and allow the toy to spin round with the force that you’ve given it. It twists and twirls, excites and energises itself through its perpetual movement, and then it gracefully slows down until it’s ready to be triggered into action again by a carefully adept human being.

Is that what a vaginal orgasm is like? To some extent, yes. The build-up is part of the delight and an integral part of the ultimate climax itself, but the beauty of it lasts throughout. It’s the growth of friction that passes by every tiny cell within, bringing it to life in just the same way as a cock reaches climax. Male ejaculation occurs through friction to the point of ejaculation. Why is it so impossible to consider that exactly the same scientific force can’t do the same for women?

“And you’ve experienced this vaginal orgasm?” my friend asked.

“Countless times” I responded. “I’m not suggesting that I cum in this way every time I have sex but very often. You need to engage your mind in the process without deliberately doing so”.

Well now we are onto a completely different learning curve. How can you explain to someone that they have to think without thinking if they have no understanding of such a contradictory concept? And this is why I write. Sex isn’t just a physical thing, and Zenpuss knows this explicitly. The Zen of sex is engaging the mind and the soul together with the body without making a conscious effort to do so. You need to lost your mind at the same time as engaging it. You need to think about the physical feeling of penetration without lingering on that thought to the detriment of the physical act of sex.

So we wandered onto the next subject of ejaculation.

“So what happens when you ejaculate?” she asked.

“Do you really want to know?” I said.

“I’m intrigued!” was her response.

“I need towels, lots of them”.

She looked at me, stifling a giggle or two. Incredulity sprawls across her face as she asks if it’s like the YouPorn clips of cascades of water emitting from a cunt.

The porn sites, full of squirters, are not digitally enhanced or computer generated. The women don’t have a balloon of water shoved up their fanny. This happens.

I explained that through both clitoral and vaginal stimulation, and preferably the two simultaneously, I (or others) can work my body into such a frenzy that it needs to release. The swelling of the organs has a range of responses but one of the responses is a physical build-up of fuck juices. Just as a man needs to release these at the point of climax then so too does a woman.

I gush, I told her. I gush, according to some, an extraordinary amount of liquid. I can do it to myself too. I can lie on a floor, open my legs, finger fuck myself to the point that I am lubricated enough to take a little bit more of my hand, and with the right frame of mind, and the right course of action, I can make myself cum, and in doing so I can spray a hell of a lot of juice out of my body.

This, for me, is an integral part of good sex. I’m not saying that this has to happen every time but I tend to be somewhat juicy and it has become an important part of my sexuality – to be able to release this incredible amount of juiciness that my body appears to manufacture during sex.

“But how do you know it’s not urine?” she asked – the question that so many people insist on asking.

I explained to her that it’s quite obviously not urine. Firstly, I tend to empty my bladder before sex anyway. I got into a habit of doing this as I did initially think that my juices may be urine and I wanted to be doubly sure that I was completely free of that sort of fluid prior to sex. I pointed out that I can pee and within minutes, with the right stimulation, can emit a cascade of liquid. Secondly, without being to blunt about the issue, it doesn’t smell like urine. It has a unique, almost neutral, smell all of its own. Thirdly, I’ve experimented and tested the emissions that prove that it’s not urine, but that’s another story.

And so we came to the final question – the longevity of sex. Good sex offers variety. A quickie can certainly be good sex, especially if it’s accompanied by mutual orgasms of whatever type but quickie after quickie with no possibility of 30, 40 or 50 minutes of love-making before climax is not what I would call good sex. No wonder she hasn’t experienced a vaginal orgasm. In my experience, that takes time. That old spinning top will peter out if you don’t’ give it enough force to speed off on its own.

The reason for talking about all of this is that it’s up to those of us who have experienced sex at its best to explain to the rest of the world what they might be missing. Good sex is good sex, some might say but when you know that good sex for others is only a fraction of what the body, mind and soul is capable of, then you really do have a duty to tell others about the real constitution of good sex.

It’s hard to explain all of this, and sometimes, it’s hard to really portray the all-encompassing brilliance of good sex but I can’t sit by and allow people to essentially experience mediocre sex when they have the potential to have brilliant sex with a person that they care about enormously. Life is too short to accept mediocrity. Life is too short to deny the importance, value and brilliance of sex, and life is certainly too short to deny the truth about female sexuality and all that it entails, which irritatingly and frustratingly still seems to be misunderstood by so many – so many who think they are enlightened in the joys of sex too!