Nuns on the Sex Run

Can you really go from being a nun to a sex therapist? Of course you can. This woman, Dr. Fran Fisher, is living proof that this type of transformation can take place.

http://www.guardian.co.uk/lifeandstyle/2012/oct/15/nun-who-became-sex-therapist

As indeed am I.

Not that I was ever a nun, you understand, though my behaviour was certainly akin to someone who had taken the vow of chastity.

Brought up in a strongly religious family where sex was never, ever discussed, the only chance of developing one’s sexuality was by going with your instinct and learning “on the job”.

I was always interested in the opposite sex. Come to think of it, I was always quite interested in the same sex too but that thought couldn’t possibly be contemplated, and it took me years to finally admit my fascination for the female form as much as the delights of penetrative sex.

But retrospectively, I was hopelessly naïve. I hid my masturbation for years, not even admitting to the person who took my virginity away from me that I was a perpetual wanker, and had been for many years. I even managed to separate the pleasure of masturbation and the climaxes that I could give myself with the first  and subsequent experiences of penetrative sex. Never once did I have an orgasm with this man. Never once did he touch my clitoris and make me cum. Never once did I know of my ability to spread my legs and shower the onlooker with a delightful spray of sexual juices.
And all because I was hopelessly unable to talk about my sexuality, and thus it was suppressed as much as the nun in the article above.

Enabling people to be honest about sexuality would overcome so many problems.

If only we could be honest about sex. If we were honest about sex perhaps we could have more love-making in the world.

A friend often talks of how women come into their own sexually when they turn forty, or thereabouts. The fear of unwanted pregnancy is passing. The notion of having sex for procreation is often over. The sex can now be enjoyed.

Only it can’t be enjoyed unless you talk about, and I’m beginning to think that there must be a distinct correlation between talking and doing here. Perhaps, if we could encourage women to talk about sex and stop feeling as though they are dirty in doing so, then perhaps women could enjoy their sexuality long before their fortieth birthday. If I’d felt at ease talking about masturbation, about my fascination for boobs, about my hunger for penetrative sex frequently, then I might have enjoyed sex in my twenties and thirties far more than I did.

I never demanded sex, never really appreciated it because I had no idea how capable I was sexually.

It’s time to talk, and we need to talk more openly now.

Wake up world.

This article blames Catholicism and various other suppressive tendencies for this woman’s inability to come to terms with her sexuality until she was older, but it’s not just the Catholics that are suppressed. It’s not even just the religious. We’re so frightened by sex that we shield our own selves from its joy and its wonderment. We’re frightened of screaming out and telling an astonished world that we want sex.

Let’s embrace sex and sexuality and stop another generation from suffering the effects of not having sex. Let's prevent them from having bad sex, and let's try and understand how difficult it is once the light has shone..........

A Blissful Train Journey

He stood on the concourse and waited for the announcement, quietly, not thinking about anything in particular.

2.05: platform 3, and he was off, ready to relax in the garden, looking forward to enjoying this unusual of warm afternoons, sipping wine and having a good browse through the paper that he had just bought.

He was looking forward to seeing her tomorrow. In fact, he couldn’t wait. He was longing to feel her in his arms. He was dying to lead her upstairs and undress her; lay her in his bed and watch her face as she responded to his amorous touches. Cascades of loveliness consumed him.

He smiled at the thought as he walked onto the train, taking his phone from his pocket to text her.

He sat down and started to compose the message.

And then he looked up.

The woman was sitting in front of him. Dark, wavy hair was tumbling down her body, swept to one side, covering her ample boob with a streak of smoothness. He instantly imagined it falling on her naked breast, realising the joy of gently sweeping it aside to view the dark and delicious nipple.

The text. He must send this text.

But his eyes averted once more to the young woman before him.

He allowed his gaze to naturally fall further down the woman’s body. Her dark skin was shining with the slightest of perspiration. Her skin was the most perfect colour; a golden olive that was as natural as the cascading hair.

She was utterly beautiful.

But then he became stuck.

He could not avert his eyes. They seemed glued to her legs. He couldn’t move, could hardly breathe.

She sat with her legs ever so slightly ajar but closed enough to contain her womanhood. Not that this stopped his imagination. What was she wearing underneath the frothy skirt? Was her pussy covered in white or black? Thongs or lacy panties like the ones his lover wore?

Was she shaven or natural? Did her labia protrude with an open invitation to feel her clitoris?

How would those legs feel underneath him? Would she wrap them around and leave her feet on his arse as he entered into her? Would she allow him to spend time just running his hands up and down them in mesmerised delight? He could have spend hours just looking at them, feeling them, kissing them. He longingly looked at her neat ankles, beautifully contained within the subtlest of straps that led down to a glorious heeled shoe that he hoped she would keep on when he fucked her.

The text. The text needed to be sent, only how could he keep his eyes off this woman for long enough to tap out the message. What if she was getting off at the next station? He only had a relatively short amount of time, and yet he felt a burning desire to share his good fortune.

His eyes reluctantly moved away from this majestic montage of beauty but before returning to his phone, he looked up and caught a second of her face looking at him, before he started keying in his note.

“Meeting went well. Just looking at the most gorgeous creature on train. Legs to die for. x”

He clicked the send button which enabled him to return to the subject in front of him as he tucked his phone away once more.

When was the last time he had felt like this? Had he ever actually felt like this before where the desire for one person, a complete stranger, was so intense that he felt he had to do something about it?

But it was ridiculous. What on earth would she say? She was young enough to be his daughter but that did not cross his mind. All he could see was those legs, and all he could imagine was grasping those thighs hard as he penetrated her.

He had to have her. How was this remotely feasible?

He lay his paper down on his knees.

He was semi-erect and wanted to hide the fact, just in case she noticed and was somewhat alarmed to see a fifty year old man with a hard-on that was clearly initiated by thoughts about her luscious body.

He looked down at the paper, unable to read out of infatuation, unable to read because he couldn’t move right now to reach for his glasses.

He looked up once more as the train passed through the two stations before his own.

She was still there.

She saw his gaze.

She raised her eyes above him, as though she was reading the map.

She raised her arm to feel the back of her neck, and then gathered her hair together, tossing it all behind her back, leaving her breasts in full sight, wonderfully contained in a perfectly white bra that he could see through her T-shirt; lacy and tasteful – just as he liked, just as he had imagined.

She stared at him.

She opened her legs with the slightest of movement that only the very observant would have noticed.

He returned her gaze.

The station was approaching.

It was now or never.

What was he going to do?

The phone buzzed. The text was being responded to.

He couldn’t look.

The station was less than a minute away.

Their eyes locked.

They both stared at one another.

28.... 27.... 26.... 25 ............

The valley of the station was being entered into.

17.... 16.... 15.... 14 ...........

He had to move to signal that he was leaving.

And still they stared at one another. No smile. Just total engagement.

9....  8.... 7.... 6 ........

He got up.......

......... And she so did she.

Those fucking gorgeous legs, offset in the most incredibly sexy shoes. Her skirt delicately flopped down above her knees, floating slightly with the air conditioning.

4.... 3.... 2.... 1..........

The door opened.

They walked in synch to the door and stepped out into the heat of the afternoon.

They walked side by side for a few steps towards the stairs.

And then he turned to her.

She stood still and looked up to him.

He moved towards her and gently slid his right hand down her left leg, keeping his eyes fixed on hers, his left hand resting on her shoulder.

She stood there for a second as he reached the end of her skirt and lifted it an inch to feel the lower end of her thigh.

And then they lurched towards one another and kissed with such vibrancy that a passionate urgency was awoken.

They stood there grabbing one another, tossing their heads from side to side as they plunged their tongues into one another, rushing their hands over one another’s backs.

He pulled her further towards him with his hand firmly clasped over her buttocks. She reciprocated bringing his erection closer to her clothed cunt.

He grabbed her hand and rushed towards the steps.

She eagerly obliged and ran up the stairs.

They barely waited for the traffic to part as they raced across the busy road.

They ran along the pavement on the other side; he, practically pulling her along as her long waves of hair danced by the side of her face in rhythmic symbiosis to the thumping of her heart.

Abruptly he stopped, and held her face in his hands.

He looked deeply into her eyes as she stared back at him.

He kept her gaze, holding his palms carefully, firmly on her face, asking her, asking her without a single word being spoken.

Her eyes were beginning to water and she effortlessly motioned for him to kiss her.

They locked once more in a kiss before he stopped it as violently as he had started, grabbed her hand once more and started once more along the pathway to his house.

They reached the gate, almost panting.

He got his keys out and unlocked his door, pulling her in behind him.

At the door, he pushed her towards the wall.

She leant into it, arching her knees slightly as he smoothed his hands over her shoulders, down across her breasts and longingly towards those legs, feeling their warmth, their slight moisture, before tossing up her skirt to feel the upper extent of her thighs.

He rushed his hand around to her buttocks, feeling their emptiness and imagining the thong between her. He grabbed her arse urgently, still kissing her with as much vehemence as on the station.

She pulled away.

He stared at her.

She stared back and started to smile.

“I need a piss” she said with a hint of a eastern European accent.

He took her hand and led her to the downstairs toilet, opening the door for her and stepping aside so that she could walk in.

She walked towards the door, and closed it before she could enter into the small room.

Grabbing his hand she led him into the kitchen beyond.

He walked passed her and stood at the sink, watching.

She stood there in front of him, legs together, with her arms swooping her hair high above her head.

And then she moved her legs into the lengthiest of inverse V’s with her strappy stilettos making their station in the tiles beneath her.

Her arms flopped to her side, and she ruffled up her skirt either side of her body, to reveal a pair of the most perfect white panties.

With her skirt tucked up around her tummy, she stood there, and pissed all over the floor, keeping her eyes firmly on this man of desire in front of her.

He clutched his cock, still hopelessly contained in his trousers as she continued to stream this fluid out of her body.

The moisture of the urine poured out of her, soaking her little covering to reveal the most glorious state of darkness between her legs.

She tossed her head back in relief, and revelled in the glory of this most deviant of acts.

She then let her skirt fall, and she reached to the side fastening, unclipped it and stepped out of it, placing it carefully on the kitchen table.

She looked at him once more as she clipped her fingers into the now sodden panties and removed them, plonking them on the floor beneath her opened legs.

She stepped around her mess and moved towards him, with her pussy wet and naked. As she was walking, she whipped her t-shirt off, and started to unclip her bra.

By the time she got to him, her hands were behind her back, unfastening the penultimate garment, ready to fling it to the floor so that he could see her in her full glory.

She wrapped her arms around his neck as he mesmerizingly placed his arms around her waist, with his hands loosely resting on her buttocks.

And they kissed once more; tenderly this time, like lovers who had just made love.

He released her a little to take in every inch of her body.

She once more moved her head high to feel the length of her hair across her back as he looked thoroughly over her entire body.

He dragged her towards him and kissed her again.

She then reached to his belt, undid it and pulled his trousers to the ground.

He stepped out and rapidly pushed his knickers off, revealing the biggest erection that she had ever seen. His cock protruded intensely, waving about with the weight of his need.

He took his top off and then felt her nakedness next to him.

She stood back and worked her hands towards her own cunt, opening her labia and slightly crouching so that he could see the pinkness emerging from the blackened pubes, offset in a mirage of bewilderment that was the top of those incredible legs.

He had to get into her but he also had to have his time with those legs.

He sank to the floor and kissed her knees, holding her firmly in his grasp as he worked his way around her torso, delighting in the fact that she was already fingering herself as he did so.

He moved around her on his knees, kissing her arse and running his hands from front to back, delighting in the slight response that his touch was creating.

He stood up, taking his hands from her hips in a parallel movement up to those dark, imagined nipples, taking them in his mouth as he gradually climbed into an upright position.

He took his hands from her breast and joined with her fingers inside her pussy.

He felt right in there, loving the feel, exciting at the moisture still present from her piss, feeling it growing some more, ready for a climatic ejaculation.

He curled his fingers over and over inside her, taunting her, tempting her, willing her to release something entirely different.

She leant towards the sink and he could feel her insides bubbling up to the point of....... yes!

Total release all over his pubes.

He removed her hand and his, and pushed his cock deep inside her, as she stood in those shoes and allowed him to fuck her intensely.

He kissed her passionately with every thrust. She responded, moving her hands all over his face.

He turned her round, and entered her from behind, feeling her sweet tits subtly bobbing in time.

She moved back round to face him, with her hands on her hips.

He stood in front of her with his cock in his hands and wanked himself to a rapid cum that he aimed all over her legs. He needed his spunk on those legs, and after he had exhausted his climax, he rubbed his juices into her shins, polishing them off, ensuring his sperm was wrapped all over her wonderful calf muscles.

And then he slumped into a sitting position, still clutching his cock, closed his eyes and flopped.

She reached down to the floor, picked up her bra and her T-shirt, placing them back on her exhausted body.

She walked passed him, gathered her skirt together and placed it back over her body.

She swept down to the floor to retrieve her sodden panties, opened her bag and placed them in there.

She picked up her bag as he clambered up from the floor.

He stood there in his rawest state, overcome by the madness and sanity of what had just happened.

She walked towards him, raised her hand to stroke his face, kissed him on the cheek and said,

“Thank you for letting me use your toilet”.

And with that, she walked towards the door and let herself out into the day.

He stood there, naked.

Had he imagined it all?

He stood there for some minutes before looking over to the puddle on the floor.

His phone buzzed.

Another text.

“Fuckable? x”

“Yes very x” he managed to write back.

“Would I want to her fuck her too? x” was the immediate response.

He dressed himself, walked out into the garden and sat down with the paper.

“You would have loved to have fucked her, if only I had managed to get her name and number! xx”

Bi-Polarism and Life

Bi-Polarism and life.

Bi-polarism, according to a range of definitions, is a mood disorder that causes radical emotional changes and mood swings, from manic highs to depressive lows.
Mania and depression: both words conjure up unfavourable and quite scary states of being and the juxtaposition between the two must be extremely frightening to the sufferer.
How can manic excitement be frightening, one may ask? Well because the person with bi-polarism who is going through an episode of hypermania knows full well that there is a down turn at any minute, and unlike others who do not suffer from the disease, they cannot put the brakes on in the plateau.

When a non-sufferer has a natural high, such as a sensual coming together with a partner for instance, they recognise the fact that they have had this mind-blowing experience but that it would be unsustainable to constantly be on that high.
Climaxes, orgasms, cumming is more wonderful by the very fact that it is a pinnacle, a peak and a moment of perfect wonderment at one’s sexuality.
We all know that we cannot climax perpetually and even if we think it would be rather brilliant to be in a permanent state of arousal, eventually even the most “manic” of us would get a little fed up of the constant erection of our cocks or cunts.

So we relax after our orgasms. If we are sensible, we allow that sensation to ripple over us and envelop us, even preparing us for the normality of the day ahead. We know that at some point immediately after climax, we have to get out of bed, or drop off to sleep in order to be fresh for the morning in front of us. If we are very fortunate, we might actually have one, two or even multiple orgasms after the initial one but it cannot go on without a break, and we all know that it is going to stop for a short while whilst we get on with other important parts of our lives.
It will plateau.

Those with bi-polar tendencies though, probably arrive at the plateau and forget within an instance the mania of the orgasm. They don’t stop on the level playing field and get on with the day, anticipating more loveliness later in the day or the week. They just race into a decline, rushing beyond the plateau into the depths of the valley beyond, and it is not a good place to be.
They cannot see the peaks from where they are. They cannot ever envisage having that sexual wonderment. They feel doomed to ceaseless abstinence and inertia usurps with defiant arrogance.

Bi-polarism, in itself, can have serious sexual repercussions with the obvious extremes of manic and sometimes inappropriate sexual behaviour and the contrasting behaviour of dysfunction and inability to be aroused.
When you consider the debilitating effects of either of those extremes, of any extreme behaviour, then you can imagine how difficult it is to be suffering from bi-polarism, and hopefully the analogy with sex makes that explicit.

I do not have bi-polarism thankfully. It seems rather bloody scary to me, and I would quite like to steer clear of this challenging and daunting illness. However, it is present and I am now beginning to think that there are bi-polar tendencies in my life.
Please note in making such a statement and what is to follow is not meant to belittle this illness. Far from it; I hope that it is some way demonstrates the disability that such an illness can bring.

You see, my life is bi-polar. It swings from one extreme to the other. I hope that my highs are not manic as such for mania suggests a lack of control in the altitudes and at the other extreme depression is an unpleasant thought. However, I have to admit and contend that bi-polarism is a good analogy for my life.

Here is an example of a bi-polar day for me.

I get out of bed, get dressed, sort the children out and get into the car. I drive for some time and arrive at my lover’s house. I get undressed and back into bed. I have earth shattering, mind-blowing, sex that orbits me into a different world. I hold my lover and he looks into my eyes and tells me the most amazing things, about myself, about our world, about his thoughts, about our lives. We lie together for ages; lying interspersed with penetration, or penetration interspersed with lying if you want a more positive and realistic view of what happens.
We each reach those heights of orgasm that may appear manic, yet are more controlled than that; erratic in the instance of extreme, taking us out of ourselves for a moment but not leaving us in a stupefied state unable to reach back down to reality. (Well, actually, as I write this, I think I do enjoy mania in my sex life and maybe I do have moments where the wonderment does take me uncontrollably to a different plane but I know how and when to come back.)
After orgasms galore, we get up, we do things together for the rest of the day. We might take a walk that somehow prolongs the brilliance of what we have been up to in the morning, and then we steadily make our way to the plateau of day-to-day tasks.

Standing on the plateau, I walk to my car, set off on a journey away from my lover and return to the family home where I cook the meal, talk to my children, sit and read the paper and then do nothing.
For in the coming home, I am entering into the darker side of bi-polarism. Inertia sets in. I am disabled, sitting or lying with a book, unable or indifferent about talking to anyone else in the household.
I have forgotten about the fact that I have spent the morning having the most incredible love-making because I am stuck with shackles anchoring me down to an existence that I do not think is mine, yet I know all too well that it is.
It’s depressing.

Of course, there is a possibility that I am exaggerating to make a point but the point for me is quite explicit.
I make no excuses for the life I lead. I made the choice to have this secret life but the more I think about it, the more I realise that this is not just a secret life. It is a bi-polar existence.
If I wanted to give it a positive spin, perhaps I could just say it is yin and yang; polar opposites but that somehow doesn’t portray the extremes of either end of these spectrums.

Obviously there are some positives in the return to base. My children ground me but they also lead me upwards away from the plateau but they are less dependent on me these days and therefore less influential on my moods and desires. Ten years ago, whatever they felt, whatever they needed was my raison d’etre. Maturity breeds independence. Independence breeds a widening plateau though the peaks of parenthood, as well as the troughs, will always be there.

So let’s just take away the parenting. We know that exists. It is (hate the phrase) a no-brainer in my bi-polarist world. It does not come into the equation, although it clearly does come into the equation because it defines my choices (a sub section of bi-polarism then?).
Let’s return to my plateaus and my mountains, my valleys and my extremes.

The mountain analogy doesn’t really work for me though because I don’t want to walk mountains daily and yet if the mountains offer what I experience in climax and in wandering over to my lover’s house, then I’m happy to breathe in the Alpine air.

As I said right at the beginning, I know that I may not be able to sustain the ‘mania’ of the positives, and it may not even be helpful to try. Perhaps to even think that it is possible creates a downfall. Perhaps if my life was reversed the mountains and valleys may reverse too but I doubt it.

The purpose of this writing is not to say that I dislike the highs and lows or that I want to perpetuate the highs to the extent that by frequency they lose their peak. The point I am making is that my life appears to have taken on some aspects of bi-polarism. I do have extreme highs and I do have extreme lows. I can barely move with the tedium and nothingness that I receive in the evening with no conversation, no interaction, no passion. That is debilitating and pointless.
I can barely contain my excitement with all the opposites that I get when I am with my lover.
Would I be human to not feel excitement and delight at such a different extreme?

And whilst bi-polarism is difficult, with the help of some lithium, it is manageable.
So what is my lithium and am I taking enough?
Will there be a time when the medication is not required, when the balancing is more natural, when I can appreciate the highs for the brilliance they are without falling below the plateau?

Time may tell or it may not.
Life is not something that can be tracked and put in a perfect place. Even when it appears perfection is present, one should always be mindful of the yin that accompanies the yang.
But as I sit in the lower end of my bi-polarism, the illness sometimes seems inescapable. The next few days seem unaccountably long and my natural high (not a bi-polar mania) seems an irredeemably long way off.

Today, I have slightly taken this theme tongue in cheek but there is also quite an uneasy undertone that conveys the truth.
My world, the world that I have chosen, the world that I enjoy and the world that I live in, the world of my lover and the world of my family, they have polar tendencies.
My head aches sometimes because of the inertia. It is no coincidence that they malaise disappears as I cross over to the other side, so to speak.
I have a bi-polarism and I know enough about the subject to be mindful of its problems.
And like any good bi-polar person, I’m just not sure if I want to take the lithium at all for if I do, I might knock out the highs as well as the lows and that is something that I am not prepared to do.

So, after all of that writing, maybe the conclusion should be that I am not indeed suffering from bi-polarism at all but a healthy dose of yin and yang, living favourable dichotemies and contradictions and I should merely glorify the diversity of my existence.

As I said, these are merely thoughts.

Firsts: The Orgasms

“The pleasure of living and the pleasure of orgasm are identical. Extreme orgasm anxiety forms the basis of the general fear of life”.

Willhelm Reich

Men cum and that’s it for a while. Women can cum and cum with multiple delights.
A first orgasm is similar. A man can remember with infinite ease his first orgasm because it happens so resolutely, so obviously. A woman, on the other hand, might have a series of experiences that make up her first orgasm. In its multiplicity, please be aware, there is no dilution.

I offer nothing but a cliché.

Like the other children, I queued up in the corridor that led to the cold hall. Equipment was swung into position, groups were falsely made and whistles were blown to allow us to use the instrument that had been ascribed to us.
I waited patiently to get to the ropes, climbing rather too enthusiastically to the top and just staying there. I actually had rope burn between my thighs for the majority of my last year in primary school.
It was the most sensational feeling. I can distinctly remember feeling as though I was going to pee but the sensation was far more exciting than the mere act of pissing. It was a burning sensation that was free from pain and full of warmth that had no comparative; not then, not now.

I clung on for my life in the vain hope that this incredible sensation could last as long as possible. Once it had stopped I edged my way down the rope only to realise that I needed that sensation once more. Half way down the rope, I changed directions and clambered back up, holding the climatic position once more, feeling the girth of the rope between my thighs, waiting for the feeling to overwhelm me once more as though someone was pumping passion between my legs.

What is particularly interesting about all of this is the bizarre instinct that I shouldn’t actually mention this to anybody, that what I was feeling between my legs which was originating from that region but overwhelming and exciting my entire being, was something that I should not discuss with other people.
Where did that idea come from? Why did I automatically assume that I could not get down from the ropes and share this joyous experience with others? Nobody had directed me not to talk of such things. Or had they subconsciously slipped that into my psyche?

As it happened, I did tell someone. I told my best friend. We were inseparable. We shared everything. We had other friends but they were not significant. So I told my friend. I explained to her that she really ought to get up the ropes and feel that funny sensation if she clasped the rope tight between her legs.
The next week, she did it too and there we were, the two of us stuck at the top of a school hall rope, sharing our pleasurable orgasms, not saying anything, not laughing or talking, just sitting there as one would in view of a perfect vista that led your soul to another place.

At the time, I didn’t know anything at all about my nether regions. I knew that I peed from there but that was about it. I’m not sure whether I even knew that babies came out of there and I certainly didn’t know that something had to be out up there in order to make the babies.
What I also didn’t know was that, as a woman, I had this spot called the clitoris and it was the pressure upon this that was creating this warm, slightly burning sensation that was so damn appealing.

A few years ago, I had an argument with a school leader about the clitoris. We should not be telling girls that they have a clitoris, she said. If we told them about it, they would be down their knickers in a flash, feeling around for it and seeing whether they could get it to respond to their touches.
I wanted to tell her that I had discovered the joys of orgasms before I ever knew a clitoris existed, pointing out the knowledge of the biological existence of the thing would make no difference to an eleven year olds desire to explore. A girl could explore and could feel without the basic knowledge.

I rather approve of the fact that I experienced the orgasm before even having the knowledge.

Women’s orgasms are so different from men’s though and one assumes that the first orgasm is different too.

With boys and young men who have an orgasm for the first time, there is a distinct and definite acknowledgement of what has happened because you can physically see the white sticky stuff that is oozing out of your cock. Also, nowadays, through the most marginal improvements in sex education, boys know what is actually happening to their bodies. They are, in some cases, prepared for it. The slightly more enlightened sex educators actually mention masturbation. They certainly explain wet dreams and tell these young men about the production of sperm and the physical need to get rid of some of it in a perfectly natural way, either consciously through wanking or subconsciously through it seeping out in their sleep.

Young women do not have this. They do not have their orgasms explained because half the world seems to be under the impression that there is no such thing as a vaginal orgasm and they are non-too-happy about trying to explain the purpose of the clitoral climax as it appears to have no function in reproduction. Therefore, they cannot possibly explain either to young women. To illustrate this point, here is a quote that I discovered about vaginal orgasms.

“Some hundreds of the women in our study and many thousands of the patients of certain clinicians have been much disturbed by their failure to accomplish this biological impossibility”.

How appalling is that. Unsurprisingly, this quote is not given a name reference.

Of course, in this writing, I have made a fatal mistake in calling the female orgasm a “burning sensation”. It really is not quite like that. Cystitis is a burning sensation and yet there is the making of some similarity.
That sounds terrible! As though orgasms are painful. Believe me, they are not.
But evidently something physical happens to the pussy when stimulated. If you care to look, the pussy actually swells up and becomes engorged in exactly the same way a cock does. It creates a pressure and a tightness. The swelling is the beginning of the orgasm.
Cystitis is a swelling but a painful one. Orgasms are the opposite end of the swelling spectrum, giving immense pleasure and fulfilment.

The reason I am mentioning this is because that bruising sensation that you get when your cunt is beginning to swell is precisely the feeling that I remember when I was a young woman exploring my sexuality. In hindsight, I can see this as the development of my orgasmic life but it is only now, having experienced orgasms on a regular basis that I can return to this time in my life, through this writing and reflect on where my orgasms originated.
So although my first physical orgasm with assistance from a third party (i.e. the rope in the school hall) happened as described, in joyous female terms, there were seconds and thirds and fourths all moreorless at the same time, which I would like to explain now.

I knew that feeling then, of something between your legs making you feel very juicy and excited. I wanted to hold on to that feeling, knowing that it would dissipate within a relatively short time but I soon realised that I could get it back relatively quickly.
In some ways it is a little disappointing that my first orgasm is shared with an inanimate object but it is the truth.

However, there was much sharing at the same age that created other orgasmic sensations.
The first was looking at things that we felt we should not be looking at.

In the village, there was a lay by where the lorries turned into for a rest. Sometimes, they would spend the night there before setting off the following day to complete their delivery. In order to entertain themselves, they bought their magazines full of naked women who were showing their voluptuous tits, and they entertained some local girls too, judging by the discarded condoms found about the place.
The girls, neither the real ones nor the magazine variety, were not going to be shared with their wives or girlfriends so evidence of them had to be got rid of too. Hence, at the back of the lay by there was a mass of girly magazines and used johnnies.

My friend lived over the road from the lay be; a few houses down. When we were eleven, she took us over to the lay-by one day after school. Her older brother had shown her what was there, and she took delight in being the big girl who knew everything.
Tentatively we wandered over the road and walked around, oblivious to what we were about to be shown. Finally, we made our way to the ditch behind the off-road and this girl showed us this sexy secret.

I remember being shocked and a little intimidated by the supposed illegitimacy of the situation but at the same time utterly compelled to have a look. I’m not sure that I had ever seen real tits before. I certainly hadn’t seen pussy and I can distinctly remember seeing a brunette with a big hairy bush opening her legs for the world to see.
I was aroused. I obviously didn’t know at the time but looking back now I can see the immense pleasure that these photographs were giving me, and feeling quite guilty about wanting to see more.
I had that swollen feeling, as though I wanted to piss, yet it was more pleasurable than the feeling of a full bladder. There was a warmth and a sensual fullness that cannot really be described as there really is not anything comparable. Instinctively, I wanted to just press down on there, as though to hold that brilliant pressure there, forever.

I’m not sure whether the other girls felt it. There were about five of us and I do not know if they felt the same. There was giggles and laughter but I am not sure that they felt it the way I did. All I could think of was that feeling that I got with the ropes and how peculiar it was that looking at a picture of a naked woman had had such a similar effect.

This growing acknowledgement of sexuality continued as a friend who lived down my road insisted one day in sharing her moments of puberty with me.
We were talking about growing up and moving on, and for the life of me, I cannot remember how we got to the situation but soon, we were in her bathroom and she was showing me what was happening to her body. She had pubic hair, and quite a considerable amount of it being very dark herself.
I remember as she pulled down her panties and revealed this mass of darkness where I had nothing whatsoever even though I was slightly older than her. She then went on to show me her budding boobs as her nipples darkened and expanded.

All this innocent and perfectly usual behaviour was a complete turn on for me. Again, I was gloriously oblivious at the time but as the years have gone by, I can now attribute these remembered physical and emotional reactions to the personal knowledge of female orgasms I have now.

More orgasms came and went with pillows stuffed between my legs and surreptitious viewing in the PE changing room.

All of these orgasms happened before I got anywhere near someone from the opposite sex, before I had had any sort of penetrative sex but that does not take anything away from their importance and significance. In retrospect, had I looked at these incidents more carefully earlier on in life, I would have accepted and appreciated just how instinctively sexual I was, and would not have spent so many years in a sexual wilderness.

More sexual firsts to come.

The Spirituality of Sleep

I lie in bed semi-clad. I am wearing a small, black camisole that barely covers my most intimate parts; the edge of the silky material is wafting around my inner thigh, exciting me, enticing me to think very sexual thoughts.
I lay my hand on the material that covers my pubic hair. I don’t stroke it; I just place my hand there. There’s warmth within in doing this.
I straddle my legs slightly, giving room for a breath of air to seep between my legs. It is getting a little moist down there as the tension rises beneath my hand and I can feel anticipation growing. Mere anticipation, though there is nothing ‘mere’ about either the anticipation or the expectation of what I am about to receive.

A total state of relaxation overwhelms me. I am lying on my back. My hand is motionless. My mind is calm. Come to think of it, I don’t actually need to anticipate. It’s going to happen but I like to anticipate nonetheless.

He walks to the side of the bed, glancing towards me and smiling. There’s no smirk. There’s no urgent hunger in his dark eyes. Just a smile. There’s nothing knowing about it. There’s nothing suggestive. It’s just contentment.

He stands by the bed and slips out of his pants.
My clitoris responds. How strange that after all of this time, I still have an erection of my own at the sight of his cock, whether it is aroused or not. Just as he stands there for a split second, I instinctively need to move my legs a little further apart as I feast my eyes on that cock that pleasures me so intensely.
I’m not in great need. I wouldn’t even say I am hungrily wanting his cock inside me at that point. I am simply enjoying him standing there, allowing me to just look.

He moves the duvet back and clambers into bed. He imitates my position and lies on his back, not yet touching me, not even feeling my arm next to his. There is space between us.

The television is off and the music has been dismissed. I still lie still, though my hand has moved to my side. I lie with my head on the pillow, conscious that his hand has moved over his pubes and he can now feel the mound of his cock and balls in his grasp.
He’s not wanking. He’s just placing his hand there and feeling the warmth within. Unbeknowingly, he imitates my precise actions from a few minutes beforehand.
There’s comfort in that too.

Nothing needs to be said. There’s a time for words and they will come. Later.

With our heads on the pillows and our arms by our side, we turn to one another and smile.
There’s no need to move. It’s a precious and stable moment. It just needs to be. We need to be.

Hands eventually reach out for one another. Neither of us are the first to move. It is done in tandem.
Once hands are clasped together, bodies follow and an embrace of warmth emerges.
I wrap my leg over his. There’s nothing overtly sexual in this, though he must be able to feel the moistness of my pussy on his knee.
I know he can feel it when we kiss, and he gently pushes his patella into my groin so that I can ride the hardness. He moves his knee around so that its undulating sides rub my crack, and he must surely now feel the specific warmth of my juices.

I maneuvre my hips around so that I can enjoy the full extent of his knee being swallowed in my pubic hairs.
Still there is smiling. Still there is a gentleness washing over us.

He slides his hand under my camisole and feels the fullness of my breasts. He squeezes them tight. First one, and then the other, and then together as he kisses me; a tender, calm kiss that opens up so that we can explore one another’s mouths with our tongues. It is all so gentle. And yet, it is more needy now. I am rocking strongly on his knee and it is only a matter of time before I need something else.

His cock is rising. It’s knocking against me, reminding me of its growth and readiness. I lie on my side, still kissing him and reach out for his balls. I trace my finger down his erection, past his balls and towards his anus. I rub hard at the wealth of erection that I can find there. He is arched and ready.
As I walk my fingers back to his helmet, I pull gradually at his foreskin to reveal a sticky delight of excitement at the tip of his cock. It needs to be licked but I don’t want to move from this position.
I am enjoying his eyes and his mouth too much, no matter how much I want to taste that stickiness in my mouth.

But he is so stiff and I am now so needy.
Foreplay is going to be whole play. It is going to be intermingled. I lay him flat and I guide and glide his cock towards a very large opening between my legs. I crouch above him feeling the power of his cock rubbing inside me. I ride him hard. I lean back and arch myself so that I can feel that stiffness within me. I feel his movement and I imagine the places, the skin, the erectness that he is touching inside me with his.

My mind takes over, and I am totally turned on by the completeness of this moment. With his cock still firmly embedded in my cunt, I lie on top of him, rubbing my clitoris against his pubes, moving my hips to feel the stimulation at every conceivable angle. I press hard and feel the orgasm coming. It’s a clitoral stimulation, a clitoral cum and it takes longer to arrive than a vaginal gush. I know it is coming and the anticipation of waiting for it to build is fucking brilliant. I want to hold onto the orgasm for as long as possible, and he adores me doing that. He knows I am in a state of utter bliss, and he selflessly holds himself in a position where I can receive the full glory of an ongoing orgasm.
In doing this, my mind has flowed right back to the bodily connection and I am aware once more how big his cock is inside me, how near it is to my cervix and I now need to ride rapidly.

He seems to have reached new depths within me. He’s not the only one fucking me right now. I’m fucking myself too with my mind and I know that he is doing exactly the same. The immediacy of my gush is astonishing. He giggles as it hurtles down his shaft, over his balls, out of my cunt and covers every conceivable and inconceivable part of the sheet. I feel it running down my left hip and he indicates that it has swept past his left hand.
It’s not over yet.

I climb off him and dive under the covers to lick away my juices from his dick. I maneuvre myself so that my pussy is over his right hip and I go down on him, strong and ferociously. I take his cock deep inside my mouth as far as his balls and I repeat this until I can feel more cum dribbling out of me.
He delights in my enthusiasm for fellatio and is further excited when he feels the incredible power of my mind working in tandem with my body as I gag on the size of his cock that makes both my eyes and my cunt water.

I flop onto the bed as he raises himself from it, and leans before me with his hands dancing towards my already drenched pussy, knowing that there is still more to come. I push his fingers inside me and he enthusiastically finger fucks me until another tirade of fuck juices spill out.

He then lays me down and watches himself pushing into my cunt. He sees his cock emerging and then being enveloped by my labia as he continues to fuck me in the most desirable manner.
He lies on top of me, as I lay on him before.

He reaches beneath my arse and places his hands on each cheek, firmly gripping as he pushes himself inside me further. He nuzzles his face into my neck as he stops and starts the final assault to his own orgasm.
I encourage him to cum. I can feel the proximity of his climax as he grabs my right cheek a little harder.
He groans into my hair as he thrusts his spunk into my awaiting cunt. I reciprocate almost immediately by climaxing onto his cock and shoving him out of me.

We lie down on the bed and I reach inside me to feel the softness of his sperm over my inner labia. I adore feeling his spunk inside me immediately after he has cum. There is something almost miraculous about that.
I love it.

We spoon together to singly and connectedly appreciate our bliss. The force and endurance of such passion is almost impossible to describe. It is intransigent and determined, happy to remain there for a moment longer to remember, to feel, to explode once more with the beauty of the sexual oneness.

We fall asleep. Together. Wrapped as one. Oblivious to anything. Mindful of everything and nothing. We think. We are without thought. We feel. We are devoid of any feeling other than the moment.

We fall asleep.

I move. He responds by clasping me nearer to him but he is sleeping.

I turn to face him.
His arms flop by my side, still clasping my hand.

I feel his body. It’s warm. It is full of life as he gently sleeps.

My cunt is still excited and I have to slip out of bed to get rid of a few more juices. There must be a cavity within me that collects the remnants of the physical and the thoughtful. I go to the toilet once more and I emit a clear, colourless spillage into the loo. It’s come from just lying there and watching him sleep.

I return to bed and slide the covers over me, careful not to disturb his slumber and I drift away, unseen and seemingly into a deep sleep.
Hours pass and through that time, there is occasional touching from him and from me.
A leg moves over here. A hand twitches to touch there. An arm glides over the shoulder and embraces the breast. One reciprocates and gently flutters over the pubes.
It is slight at first. There is a break of several minutes between each touch. Then the bodies come closer. The time between touches diminishes and uninvited yet perfectly desired, a finger slides once more into my cunt.
I am barely awake, yet it feels right. He wants me to cum and I oblige all too quickly.
This excites his cock once more and for hours and hours we make love, and we fall asleep, and we touch one another, and we make love some more.

I find myself looking at his back. I’m not worried about disturbing him. That is not a selfish statement. He’ll sleep through my touches if he wants to but I need to just place my hand down his back.
I feel his being and I am satisfied. He smiles. I can’t see it but I know it is there.

I turn away and sleep.

He brushes my neck with his hand. I turn over and accept the awaiting hug.

We fall asleep once more.

The morning arrives with more of the same.
He takes my hand and I guide him to my pussy. We both enter into it. We both get a drenching.
He moves on top of me, and he fucks me again.
I take his cock in my hand and wank away, hoping he will squirt more of his stuff all over me. He obliges and I rub it into my stomach and over my boobs. I kiss his cock immediately afterwards. I love doing that.

We don’t sleep now. We just lie there and think.

………………………………………………………………………………………………………………….

I miss him on the nights when we are not together. I miss this; the spirituality of sleep. I’d miss it and long for it even if the sex wasn’t there.
There is something incredibly perfect about lying in bed with someone that you care for, someone that you want and need to be with.

A hug is only real when it is felt by more than the actual physical presence. A kiss is merely a kiss when it has no meaning of relationship behind it, nice as the hug and the kiss from anyone has the potential to be.
But there is an abundance of spirituality in the sharing that a night bed has to offer.
There is no need for an imaginary umbilical cord or a band of gold to show such togetherness. The spirituality of sleep is in a place of its own. As I said, the words are not needed yet I feel a need to scream out and shout from the heights to reiterate how important it is – for me, for everyone.

Can you be spiritual and unconscious? Is sleep really as unconscious as we think?
I don’t know the answer to those questions. All I do know is that, for me, there is always going to be the spirituality in sharing that quietness of sleep. There is a state of being, a satori that we can all have with wonderful sex and perfect intimacy. When this is accompanied by hours and hours of quiet togetherness, often unconscious in sleep, it seems to sensitise it even more. It harmonises. It places you in another realm.
Yes, there is very definitely a sensuality and spirituality in sleep. Think about it next time you are in bed with your loved one(s). Morning, noon or night.

And then meditate. Meditating on such thoughts is blissful too.

Let's start talking people

Let’s start talking people!

I am suffering once more from a writer’s block of sorts, which is rather a pity as I seem to have quite a lot that I want to say at the moment too. I am also somewhat concerned that Zenpuss has not been purring frequently recently and it seems appropriate, therefore, to do something about it, i.e. write down a collection of thoughts that just spring into my mind from time to time, ably supported by a range of impetus from newspaper articles to website roaming to simply sitting and listening to a damn fine piece of passionate music.

These are merely snippets that I may want to expand on at a later date but I fear that if I do not write anything down soon, all of the thoughts will become a jumbled mess and that will certainly not help with my writing block.

So where to start?

Women thinking about sex
There has long been a notion that men think about sex far more frequently than women. Recent research has suggested that this may not be the case. There is a possibility that women think about sex as frequently as most men. Furthermore, they think about their sexuality and sexual attraction even more than men, according to some research into the subject, which could potentially mean that women actually think about sex more often than men.

But where is the evidence in real life?

Yes, there is a possibility that men think about sex but don’t necessarily vocalise this. I know of very few men who are comfortable enough to actually talk openly about sex and sexuality between themselves in the way that it is suggested that women do. That in itself is another subject for a blog. I would have to say that I find it extremely exciting for a man to talk to his male friend about his likes and dislikes, his desires and what he wants from a damn fine fuck. They don’t tend to do that unless they are extremely liberated and comfortable with one another but why should it not be the norm? Of course, I am talking about heterosexual men here. My homosexual friends seem more than happy to talk about sex. Personally, I think there is quite a lot we can learn from homosexual openness and honesty about sex and sexuality but more of that another time.

Let us get back to women.

I wish to goodness I could find the link to this recent survey/research on the issue but if my memory serves me correctly, the article was stating essentially that women do think about sex just as much and possibly more than men.
Good, I’m glad to hear it. I’m not alone. I’m not some kind of freak!

However, if that is the case, then why are we still stuck with this ridiculous notion that the prevalence of sexual thought is the domain of a man? Yes, you do get situations when women get together and discuss sex. They do talk about dildos and horny cocks. They explain to their girlfriends what they like, when they get horny, if a particular sexual experience was a good one and all of this is very positive. Yet, it is not breaking this myth. It is not translating into a factual understanding that women are sexual beings in the same way that men are.

It is okay for a man to admit to thinking about sex. It is still not as acceptable for a woman to admit to the frequency of her thoughts, despite the fact that women do talk about it with their friends.
I beg women out there to just admit it because until they do, then we can never really get the equality of sexuality that we deserve. I know that some may find such a statement a little far fetched but sex is very important. It should be important in everyone’s lives and for women to pretend that it isn’t because it is not socially acceptable to admit that you are thinking about sex just reiterates the notion that sex is mainly a man’s thing! To ignore our thoughts on sex could actually give the impression that men should be ‘in charge’ of sex and that cannot be a good thing for a range of reasons. That is what I mean about the equality of sexuality.
By admitting and understanding that women have sexual thoughts as frequently as men could actually really shift the emphasis in all things sexual and we could finally start to put some real work into investigating the whole field of female sexuality in a way that has not really been done in a definitive way.

It’s time to do more than think sex. It’s time to tell everyone that we are thinking about sex.

Wilhelm Reich and beyond
I do not want to mention too much about this because I have just found something on the internet that warrants a blog of its own. However, what I do want to say is this.
There is plenty on the internet about female sexuality. You could spend an entire week trawling through pages and pages of the stuff but I am not sure that any of it would really tell you anything different, and it certainly doesn’t come to any conclusions about female orgasms. I mean there is still no evidence one way or another, once and for all about female ejaculation.

Wilhelm Reich was interested in orgasms, and from what I can gather, he wasn’t just interested in male orgasms either. He saw orgasms as an important area of study because he recognised that orgasms were an important part of life.
Think about it. What other area of life has less conclusive evidence than sex, particularly female sex?

Again, just simply accepting this is not good enough. Where are the people that are following through with the important work that Reich started? Where are the women who are demanding to know the truth once and for all? Why do we allow researchers to flit away the opportunities for making life shattering discoveries about female sexuality that would bring such benefits to humankind?

Let’s start talking, people!

Fay Weldon
She got into trouble again recently by telling women that there were more important things to worry about than picking up dirty linen from the floor where partners etc may have left them. The usual cries of outrage from feminists erupted. We are not any slave for a male be it in the bedroom or on the bedroom floor retrieving used underwear! What is more important than being equal, cried the women around the country?

Well, I’ll tell you! What Fay Weldon was actually saying was that there are more important things to worry about. Instead of worrying about socks on the floor, why not think about sex instead? It would be better for you to consider sexual excitement than worry about who is responsible for picking up the socks? Weldon went on to say that women of a certain age should not be worrying about their career and that they should just get on with enjoying procreating if that is what a woman wants.

And it is absolutely about this. What women want!

Feminism for me is not totally about striving for an equality that may not be feasible due to physical differences between men and women. The equality that Zenpuss is talking about is the freedom to choose, the right to express yourself sexually without fear of name calling or misunderstanding. Feminism is about being able to make the choice that is good and right for you, and is hopefully as good for your partner. Sexual feminism is about determining what is most important? Worrying about picking up socks or being more concerned about when you can get a delicious twelve incher inside of you? Isn’t that far more liberating and an exciting thing to get your knickers in a twist about.

So next time you are peeved that your man has dropped his socks on the floor, just think that picking them up might get you an extra good fuck for the privilege of picking up his soiled ones.

Of course, I am being slightly flippant here. I would no sooner pick up washing that didn’t belong to me than any other arsy woman. I’m just trying to reiterate that there are actually more important things to worry about, and for me, being able to be sexually equal is one of them.

Speak up folks!

Feeling free
There are many ways that a woman can feel free, and I am sure that being free about our sexuality is an important part of that. Talking about sex is one way but just being honest about ourselves, with ourselves, with our sexuality is another.

On the weekend, I went for a longish bike ride. I was wearing a vest top and I am afraid vanity got the better of me. I didn’t like the fact that my bra was showing as much as it was, and I thought that perhaps I would look better without it on.
So I whipped it off and just travelled along on my bike au naturel, deciding that drooping tits was preferable to unsightly bra straps on my back.

I am not an exhibitionist. I would actually be quite mortified if people thought that I was de-robing purely in the vain hope that it might titillate a passer by. If I want to be sexual about my tits then I will be. There is a time and a place.
This expedition in liberation was precisely that. It was about me feeling good about myself and to some extent being in touch with my sexuality. When you have tits of a certain size and you choose to go braless on a bike ride, you are more than aware that you are a woman with a handful or two, and that is good.
You see, people really ought to be more aware of their sexuality, not just for other people but for themselves as well.

Demanding sex
Nobody should demand sex. My lover has actually said on occasions that he would be happy to oblige if I just wanted to pop over for sex. I’d like that. I’d love to be able to phone up and say, guess what, I really fancy a shag. But then he knows that is often on my mind and it is often something that I want. No demands are necessary.

I return once more to my issue about women speaking up about their sexuality though.

Again, it is accepted and expected that men want sex. Not only do they think about it, they actually want it. That is understandable and appreciated.

Women, however, well it is slightly different. There is less expectation about female desire and female ‘need’ for sexual stimulation, and really that is a shame. Women should not only think about sex but they should do something about it and if they want sex with someone then they should speak out and say so, if circumstances enable them to do so.

I am not advocating that everyone should rush out and just ask for sex from whoever they fancy. Let’s face it. There’s a possibility that this wouldn’t actually work too well. But being honest and upfront about sexuality and being prepared to be accepted as a sexual being would certainly help.

As for me, well, I don’t think I would want anyone to have sex with me if they didn’t want to. I don’t think I would want anyone to have sex with me if they didn’t get equal amount of enjoyment and stimulation from it.

I’ve said before that the really exciting thing about sex for me is being able to give and receive in equal amounts; physically, spiritually, sexually – with feeling and with passion. Sex does not get any better than this. All encompassing, pure and blissful!

I heard a great line from someone the other day. From memory, this comment came from a woman, and I think it was a comedienne. She said “Why the hell do women expect an orgasm every time they have sex? Surely it would be better to just get on and enjoy it instead of worrying about climax. You cannot possibly expect an orgasm every single time!”

And this is precisely why we should talk about sex.

Wrong, wrong, wrong, wrong, wrong!
It isn’t about demanding or expecting an orgasm. That would be wrong but the simple fact is that if it is right, if someone touches you in the right way, if you feel something more than the physical presence of a beautiful cock inside you, then you are likely to get an orgasm every time.
And women should at least entertain the notion that they are entitled to sexual climax.
Women really should be thinking that it is possible to climax every time. It should be within their expectation even if they shouldn’t actually expect it, if you see what I mean.

You see, if everything is right, you can expect an orgasm every time, not out of some sort of dire necessity, not out of the idea that this is the only thing that is important about love-making but women should realise that it is not unusual or unexpected and it should actually be the norm rather than the unexpected to have orgasms during penetrative sex.

Furthermore, women should know that orgasms come in all shapes and sizes and there is nothing wrong or abnormal or weird about gushing forth an exciting and excitable amount of fluid from their pussies. It is such a sight to see a woman so aroused that she has to flood this gorgeous gush out of her.
I really do think that, for me, this has been one of the most pleasurable and life-changing experiences but unless I had talked about it, unless I had found out and watched, unless I had been honest about my sexuality, I may have continued to suppress and deny this integral part of my sexuality.

It’s so good to talk, it’s so wonderful to think and I am eternally grateful that I can be honest about my sexuality, although it isn’t quite as nymph-like as is sometimes implied through this writing. I do have some control on my sexuality too.
Having said that, as soon as I think about sex, I really begin to want a fuck and I really want to give fucks too.
I like giving a fuck!

Am I knackered?

Sex actually can have its down sides, hard as it seems to believe.

I am completely fucked.

As a complete and innocent child, I remember being reprimanded, either at school or at home, for stating that I was knackered. It wasn’t a pleasant word apparently. They explained that whilst it was common slang for being tired, it was a more usual term for an explicit type of tiredness, i.e. exhaustion after sex.
I actually thought this was rather odd. Could you really be that tired after a bit of rumpy pumpy?

Well, some thirty years later, I can assure you that today, I am knackered! And I love it, even though it is somewhat debilitating.

Being knackered doesn’t just happen with the physical aspects of sex. Yet again, for me, it is about the depths of sensuality that come from an intimate form of sex; a sex that envelops you so that you are completely wrapped in the entire experience and passion of it.
Losing your mind to what is happening to your body is exhausting and it is the type of wipe-out that people really should give into.
Sex is such an integral part of peoples’ lives that they should give it the space and the time that it deserves.
There may be papers to sign, people to see, work to be done – all of which are extremely important but they pale into insignificance when compared with the vitality of sex and what it can do for one’s equilibrium.

I am not suggesting that sex should dominate to the detriment of getting on with the day to day chores but even if it knackers you out, then you should still do it.
Why? Because I think it is your body’s way of releasing and relaxing. Maybe our desire and need for sex is heightened just at the point when the body needs to relax. Clearly, I need considerable amounts of relaxation.
Alternatively, my desire and need for sex could be because I am addicted to the bliss that it gives!

There are, of course, various stages of being knackered by sex.
There’s the immediate post orgasm instant oomph of exhaustion; the one that zaps you whilst you devour the physical, spiritual and emotional sensations.
Then there is the post coital tiredness, after you have simultaneously decided that love making for this particular time has ceased and you can fall into a state of Satori, as your consciousness ebbs and flows, as you lie together, holding one another, embracing that brilliant feeling of oneness.
There’s also that state after you have got up from bed or wherever else you may have been having sex and have brought yourselves back into the realities of the day. Whilst you are essentially functioning, there is that serenity and feeling of being knackered that never quite leaves. It is a contentment, calm, appreciation of the delights that you have just experienced. It is underlying as you continue with conversations or making dinner but it is there nonetheless.
I guess the final stage of being knackered is the reflective time; the time when you have finished the chores and can really sit or lie down and revisit, remember and indulge in the sexual events of the day or night.

I’m at this stage now.

As I said at the beginning of this exceptionally brief blog, I am fucked.

I had yet more mind-blowing orgasms that incapacitated me immediately after they had happened. I once read about a man with such an enormous dick that he was unable to have an orgasm because the blood drain to his cock meant that he lost consciousness. I always thought this to be apocryphal but I’m not so sure. The orgasms that I am currently having could easily wipe me out if I allowed them to, if I wasn’t so desperate to experience them again almost immediately.

I drifted off into a delightfully light snooze after my lover had spunked his stuff all over me, after I had gushed out yet another slosh of fuck juices, letting my body just simmer into the flow of being beautifully knackered.

I was functioning well enough this afternoon to talk coherently and logically about matters that needed discussing. I drove home, I watched the television, I cooked a meal. I functioned but the sexual feeling from earlier today is never far away, and that feeling of satisfaction, calmness and physical, yet pleasant exhaustion is never far away.

And now, I am just in that stage of letting all the sexual delights of the day wash over me as I remember some special moments that I can take with me as I drift away from the day; like being greeted by my lover who was totally naked when I arrived, like feeling his cock respond so instantly to my gentle caress, like lying in bed and having my cunt licked so lasciviously, like being asked to turn onto my knees so that he could really thrust hard into me, like cumming for the seventh time, still managing to emit more juices, like being fingered in places that I hadn’t been fingered before, like having my lover drift into his own serenity whilst still cupping one of my tits with both hands, like cumming for the tenth time as he tweaked my nipples without either of us touching my pussy.

So going back to the theme of the writing, is this being knackered or is it just a state of serenity or is it both? Does it matter what it is as long as it is a positive feeling that leaves you seeking more?

Whatever it is, I know that whilst I may be unable to function completely, I also seem to function far more effectively if I have had the opportunity to enjoy and embrace my sexuality and that of my lover.
It’s back to yin and yang again.
I am knackered yet delightfully calm, allowing my body and my mind to simply relax at the love of this feeling within me.

I am knackered. I am fucked. I want to be knackered again. I will be knackered again but I will e knackered because that is what my body, my mind and my spirit demands.

Where are we with female sexuality?

I have to do some more research into the workings of the female orgasm. I wonder if I could get a research grant. The problem is that I am not very scientifically minded, though I have to admit that if anything could get me interested in science, it is probably this subject.

How and why? There are plenty of how why questions.

Whilst many of the ‘how’ and ‘why’ questions are scientific in nature, there are as many that are more anthropological in focus. Here are just a few that spring to mind as I write.

Why do I cum so vociferously on some occasions and not at all on others?

How come I can finger myself in exactly the same spot as my lover, in more or less the same way, yet I do not ejaculate or cum as quickly and as thoroughly as when he does it?

Why are people so dismissive of a vaginal orgasm when I know it happens?

Why have there been no scientific studies into the phenomenon of the female orgasm that has once and for all dismissed the doubters and acknowledged the power of the pussy?

Why don’t people talk about this yet are relatively prepared to discuss the male orgasm and male masturbation with less anxiety or embarrassment?

These are just a few that are springing to mind at the moment, but there are many others. What actually happens to my body that causes the great gushes that I sometimes experience? Who else has experienced this?

Of course, in my humble and mostly unscientific mind, I am fascinated by the connection between the physical, the spiritual, the intellect and the emotional.

If you consider my second bullet point, I think it is a very good example of how sexuality is essentially about the amalgam of intelligences working simultaneously to create the most sensual state of being.
I lie in bed and I gently stroke my pubes, smoothing them and straightening my hairs in a downward direction before gently rubbing the head of my clitoris until I can feel its bony-like growth that directs my brain to direct my fingers further towards my labia and enter into my pussy to feel the great mounds of body parts that are extending and pushing at my touch. I stretch into my pussy with two or three fingers and feel how excited I am becoming. I rub deep inside and feel a growing pressure of liquid and arousal. I rub hard and I can feel myself beginning to cum.
I cum.

It happens and it is wonderful. Sexual arousal is available to anyone who chooses to masturbate in this way. It is a physical act that reminds the mind of previous occasions of arousal. It is a physical act that can be initiated by a thought or a picture or a piece of writing. So of course, even with masturbation, there are other intelligences coming into play.
However, thoroughly mind-blowing sex, the type that sends you into a sartorial state of wonderment and bliss, the type that almost disables you from any cognitive or physical functioning, the type that overwhelms you so that the only single thing that you can think about is the totality of sexual climax happens when all of those intelligences are working simultaneously to transport you into a world that every person has a right to find themselves in.

And this, for me, cannot happen with masturbation. Well, you can be overwhelmed, subsumed by an orgasm, you can feel washed out and delighted by such an orgasm but it is not the same as when there is a concentration of these intelligences working together in the company of another.
As I said, I am no scientist but surely it would be an extremely interesting experiment to see what precisely happens in these differing circumstances.

I could be wrong, I could be naïve but whilst I accept that it is perfectly possible to have a divine orgasm through masturbation or by having sex with someone that you are not emotionally involved with, I am totally convinced that you cannot reach the heights of completeness and utter fulfilment without that connection, without each of the intelligences urging one another on, working collaboratively, intertwining to get the absolute out of mind, body and soul.

Returning to my second bullet point, I can physically get myself to orgasm. I can do it readily and regularly and it is a delight. Yet it takes time. I have to concentrate on the stimulus to transfer the initial thought or trigger into an actual orgasm. Conversely, when he pushes his fingers into my cunt and touches me in exactly the same place, in exactly the same way as I have learned to touch myself, it has a dramatically different effect. It can’t just be down to the physical difference in the size of our fingers or the fact that he has more experience of doing this, although I do not deny that he is more adept at this than me. What actually happens though is that my mind takes me to a different place. My mind is being fucked simultaneously with his fingers sliding further inside me, so that by the time he reaches the special place that triggers a release of sexual juices, I am already thinking, remembering, feeling, adoring, anticipating, desiring, wanting, needing, hoping. And this in turn, with its engagement of all intelligences makes me spunk like nothing on earth. The gushing of the juices is a physical indication of how incredibly aroused I am. I look up and see the utter joy in his eyes and I look down and see what all of this is doing to his awaiting cock and I am fulfilled.
By the time he holds his cock in hand ready to push it inside me, I am so far gone in my sexual arousal that even thinking about him entering me spirals my mind into more excitement, more eager anticipation, so that as soon as he is inside me, I can cum all over his shaft pretty quickly, and feel more juices throbbing out of me, soaking his hard, aroused balls.

Yes, someone really has to do some research on total, fulfilled sex. Maybe it is only when there is a complete acknowledgement of this pinnacle of sexuality that we can persuade people not to settle for second best. I really think people should be far more aspirational about their sexuality but how can they be aspirational if that have no idea as to what they are aspiring to?

This is what we should be telling young people, and we really need people to be far more honest about this link between mind and body fucks. Though of course, this is assuming a few things. Firstly, that people are actually experiencing this glorious sex, and secondly that they have any understanding of the three dimensions of intelligence. Thirdly, there is an assumption that people have the ability to convey this message in a clear and precise way, and one could argue that how can you really convey the uniqueness and the totality of sartorial sex. It truly is indescribable. You have to feel it, experience it, believe in it.

As I said there are plenty of other questions. What makes me more cummy on some days than others? How can I produce more liquid on one day than another when my state of arousal and excitement appear to me to be constant? I simply do not know the answer to this, though I do think that the mere enjoyment of seeing oneself spunk in such quantities seems to trigger a greater arousal, and consequently more spunk – again, an example of where the mind is working hard to ensure you have the very best sexual experience.

And then there’s the vaginal orgasm. Many people believe that is not physically possible to have a vaginal orgasm and that in actual fact, what people think is a vaginal orgasm is in fact a stimulation of the clitoris. I am not knowledgeable enough to know precisely how the clit and vagina connect to answer that one but I do know that there are significant differences in the feeling that overwhelms your body when you have a clitty cum compared with a vaginal cum. Both are wonderful, yet ever so slightly different in the intensity.

However, that is for another piece of research. The point is, dear world, that there is such a thing as a vaginal cum and I had about seven of them consecutively yesterday – or was it just one, long, ongoing orgasm – another piece of research.

And now onto my final point.

I am totally convinced that male dominance is the cause of the inept amount of detailed study into the phenomenon of female sexuality. If only men could open their eyes and realise that having sex with a sexually fulfilled woman would enhance male sexuality beyond their wildest imaginations. Oligarchs, professors, doctors, scientists, powerful people of the world, think about this one. What single act of goodness could the world engage in to make it a better place? When do people feel most satisfied, most natural, most appeased? The answer for most is sex.
Sex as a pacifist tool? Worth thinking about.

If sex can be the calming influence on the world that I think it has the potential of being, then really there should be a very considered approach to looking at it more intently. If males are pacified and absorbed by sex, then surely exploring female sexuality can only make this abundantly better? It really is not a question of either or.
I think that there are some people who are so concerned that telling the truth about the female orgasm would result in a major growth in sexual tools and the man’s dick would not be as needed.
How wrong can you be? Personally, I would have a cock in me whenever possible. I would throw that purple thing away if I could have continual access to a cock and a finger that sends me into oblivion whenever I wanted.

I am being slightly flippant but I do think this is something that should be considered. I believe that people are a little frightened of female sexuality which is why we do not know enough about ejaculations. A fear of the unknown can create all sorts of urban myths and misunderstanding. It can make a woman who cums feel abnormal and a woman who doesn’t cum unsure of what she should be seeking.

Equality in sexuality can make the experience for all so much more rewarding and enjoyable, and we really need to understand female sexuality to enable this to happen.
And here is a little theory. The male orgasm is functional. Without it, we would not be able to procreate. We need that spurt of cum to make us. That is why there are more studies on men’s cum, more acceptance of male masturbation, more understanding of its function. Women’s cum is deemed not to be functional to the same extent. I am now arguing that in a world where we as human beings evolve and continue to do so, then we should look at the function of the female orgasm in a different, evolving way.

It may not have the physical function of procreation. We know that. This is an intellectual fact. But in our recognition of the differing and equal functions of intelligence, surely the female orgasm has an equal place in the world. It may not procreate but it has the potential to be a major participant in the development of human spirituality. Intellect is required. Biological knowledge is necessary but if sex is going to be fulfilling and divine, the mind and soul as well as the body need to function. I would argue that an acknowledgement and understanding of the female orgasm could be a real breakthrough into the development of spiritual intelligence that would deem it to have as much significance as the procreation potential of male sperm.
Okay, I know this needs some work, but it is a starting point for a discussion.

Last night, I was watching Gavin and Stacey, and bizarrely, it gave me a little hope.
There was a section where the two main characters were out house-hunting and they bumped into a couple of lads, one of whom was the glorious and clever James Corbin – whose character is called Smithy.
They were shouting from street level up to a block of flats, and the mate was saying that Smithy was so desperate for sex that he had managed to knock four out in a single evening. Gavin responded to say that he knew because Smithy had text him to say he’d had his fourth productive wank of the evening. Smithy apologised to Stacey, saying that these were not the type of conversations that were appropriate to the ears of a young woman.
Dear Stacey replied. “Don’t worry Smithy, I’m so bored at the moment that I knocked three out just whilst watching ‘Cash in the Attic’”.

Wonderful, The shock and horror on the faces of the three males on the television screen was mirrored by the shock and horror on the faces of the males who were watching it with me!
Admittedly, one of them might not have thoroughly understood what was going on but the others were just a little nonplussed. Meanwhile, I am rolling about in complete hysteria at the delightfulness of this young girl’s frankness about her sexuality.

And it is this that gives me hope. It was delivered in such a matter of fact manner that maybe the younger people of the world are more acknowledging and appreciative of the female orgasm.
Thank goodness that there are the likes of Ruth Jones and James Corbin, writers of distinction, that are prepared to be upfront in a prime slot television programme. And thank goodness the BBC still have people who are not as prudish as some of their recent behaviour has suggested.
It is through normalisation in programmes such as these, that the world can begin to see, begin to question and begin to desire more information about what precisely young Stacey was talking about.

As ever, all of this talk about sex has made me very moist.
Re-reading certain sections has made me extremely aroused. I just hope it does the same for the reader as well as allow a careful consideration and more thought about that very important subject of female sexuality.