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The Perils of Sexy Talk

by Julia Solomonin DATING ADVICE

by Julia Solomon

I love sexy talk. Only during sex, otherwise it’s rude. It’s not even so much that I like it, but that I prefer it to the sound of silence while bodies slap together and bed coils squeak. It helps me concentrate. It doesn’t get me hot and bothered, it just allows me to get a little bit out of my head (which is the worst place to be when you’re trying to relax and let an orgasm happen). It’s totally understandable why some people are a little hesitant to try kinky talking. It’s so easy to feel embarrassed because you’re putting yourself in a vulnerable position. Sex is already a very intimate activity, but adding conversation to it, you’re raising the stakes. Both parties could already be concerned about whether or not they’re doing the right “moves”, and now you might worry about whether or not you’re saying the right things. I think the key is confidence and commitment. It’s important to say things confidently. It kind of reminds me of being in class in high school (don’t worry, it’s not going there) and you hesitantly answer a question that the teacher has asked you. You’re not sure you’re right, so your pitch gets higher towards the end of the sentence. The teacher always says the same thing, “Are you asking me or are you telling me?” Then you feel dumb, because they’re kind of calling your bluff. You’re afraid to say the wrong answer. Here’s a fun example:

Teacher: Who is Justin Timberlake’s wife?

Student: Jessica Biel?

Teacher: Are you asking me or are you telling me?

Student: Jessica Biel. His wife is Jessica Biel. I have no fear. I am woman, hear me roar.

I’m not really sure what class this conversation would take place in, but I hope you get the gist by now. Just commit, and say it confidently, you have nothing to fear. You’re both in this together, you stepping up will make the other person feel more comfortable, which is important, because now the person has nothing to worry about. You went for it, now they can reciprocate. I’ve had mostly pleasant experiences while using sexy talk in the bedroom, but when you don’t know someone really well, things can get weird. You don’t know each others’ boundaries and you could end up saying something the other person is not comfortable with. Or, something they’re just not used to, which can make for an…interesting experience, to say the least.

There have been some instances in my life where certain things were said in the bedroom that not only put me back into my head entirely, but also, made it very hard for me to contain my laughter. When I first moved to New York City, I was very anxious to get laid. So, when a guy invited me back to his place late at night, I went with it. He wasn’t a complete stranger, but I didn’t know him very well, either. I wanted to have fun. I didn’t particularly like this guy so I wasn’t interested in feigning any sort of romance. I just wanted to have sex, and hopefully have an orgasm while doing so. That did not happen, mainly because of some pretty silly things he said to me. If you use any of these terms during sex, there’s nothing to be ashamed of, it just wasn’t my cup of tea. I’m going to share a couple of them with you. Please note, I was not offended nor did I feel violated by anything he said that night — the end result was mostly confusion, laughter, and a general questioning of what I was doing with my life.

While we were having sex, I encouraged the kinky talk at first, which is probably why he felt comfortable asking “Yeah, are you my little sex slave?” Fortunately, I was not facing him at the time when he said this, because I started smiling and holding back laughter immediately (thank you, doggy style). Wait, did he seriously just say that? This is hilarious. I can’t take this seriously. That was all I could think. Then started the imagery. The term “sex slave” brings to mind women tied up in chains, in Egypt or something, where the only thing they’re allowed to do is have sex with the Pharaoh or feed him grapes. But, I’ll try anything once — I went with it, and felt like an idiot. This was just so out of my ball park, I couldn’t handle it. I was used to stuff along the lines of “oh yeah, does that feel good?” or.. you know what, one example is enough. The point is, it was pretty tame compared to what this man preferred.

The first thing that weirded me out wasn’t necessarily an unusual request. He kept asking me to say his name. But, it was a weird name. By weird, I mean, the least sexy name in the world. I won’t reveal it, so I’m going to use the name Harold. Imagine saying “Oh yeah, give it to me, Harold! Harder, YES! YES, HAROLD!” It sounds awful. Also, we were in a 4-bedroom loft. Were his roommates used to stuff like this? When they hear women screaming for Harold, do they just think, “Oh, Harry! That dirty old dog!” or are they more like “I can’t wait to get a one bedroom apartment.” Why do guys want you to yell their name? Maybe it’s a watching-too-much-porn thing, maybe it makes them feel powerful. My theory? Perhaps a little bit of narcissism, like they want to know they’re the best or they need to be reassured that “Yeah, this girl wants it, and not just in general, specifically from me!”

He told me I was more than welcome to stay the night, and I politely declined. I instead opted to take a cab from Brooklyn to Harlem, which is not cheap. As expensive as it was, it was completely worth it. I got into the cab and laughed all the way back to Harlem until I had to pay the fare. This guy was super nice and sweet outside of the bedroom, so what was the deal? You can never really assume what someone is like in the sack. As the saying goes, “Never judge a sexual partner based on their behavior in public and/or in front of others.” Yes, it was a weird experience, but it would have been a lot weirder had he not been confidently saying those things. I can’t think of anything funnier than a guy hesitantly asking me to be his sex slave. Go big, or go home. He went big, I went home.

Dating Rules for the 21st Century

by Lorraine Rockin DATING ADVICE, LOVE

Does anybody actually date any more? It seems that dating rules may be an outmoded concept, but perhaps they shouldn’t be. Even if the way people meet in the electronic era may be quite different from 50 years ago, people still do meet, hang out and eventually pair up.

In 2012 a national survey published by a CDC affiliate concluded that though “people are marrying for the first time at older ages, and many adults co-habit with a partner”. In 2006–2010, the probability of first marriage by age 25 was still 44% for women ( a decrease of 25% from 1995) and by age 35 the probability of first marriage was 78% , by age 40 there was no significant change.

It would seem obvious that people are still finding love, and most of them still date, hang out or hook-up first.

Since it would seem that more people live together before marriage, and eventually marry (not necessarily the person they lived with, according to the data), does this mean that people are more sophisticated in their dating habits, or just more choosy? The third option is that people are just taking longer to grow up and take on adult responsibilities.

Updating the guidelines for how to meet a partner – and let’s face it, that’s what we are doing, however long it may last – probably has more to do with how we meet that when.

A picture of a romantic couple on a date in Gdansk

In the recent past, probably still in your parents’ generation, most people met through work, friends or family. Someone actually knew the person you met. (Of course there have always been casual hook-ups in bars or at parties, but these encounters were less likely to produce an actual date!). In the electronic age people have a much wider menu of options, in addition to the traditional ones, all of these options still need some navigating, and a road map (or GPS) is always useful.

Many cautionary tales have been written already on being careful how we meet through electronic media, and I won’t re-state them here. In fact, these rules fall into some logical groups:

  • Always find out who you are really speaking to;
  • Meet first in a public place;
  • Be yourself, but be sparing with personal information.

These guidelines actually make logical sense no matter how you meet!

Now that we’ve met, how do we present ourselves? What are the guidelines for behaviour in the modern era? Dating rules for previous generations had people putting on their very best selves, and presenting a persona that probably did not exist at all. I would suggest that this is actually a recipe for failure. As the song lyric goes “be yourself”, not every date turns into a romance, but could be the possibility of a new friendship.

Trying to find out how compatible you are, without sounding like you are interviewing for a mate, can be tricky. Using a tactic from the business world may help here. Active listening, as opposed to just hearing, means paying attention to what the person is saying, and giving gentle prompts, to keep them talking. I am a natural blabbermouth, so I know how hard this can be for some of us. Sure the other party wants to know about you, but dole it out in small doses, they don’t need to know everything on the first date.

It has been said that charismatic personalities have a knack of making the other person feel fascinating, as though they are the only person in the room. They do this largely through making eye contact (not staring, that just creepy!) and paying attention, i.e. Active Listening!

This also means that you learn a lot more about the other person, and they will probably find you fascinating too. Hopefully they will also listen when its your turn, but if they don’t that will give you some valuable insights into their personality as well.

Our parents had rules about how far to “go” on dates. Though this may seem old-fashioned it had it’s merits. Getting to know someone before falling into bed with them has been shown to lead to a better relationship. Introducing sex into the equation too soon may lead to the intimacy taking over. Its not about prudery, but caution. If the sex is mind-blowing, then that’s probably all you will do! ( Many couples have found that when good sex wanes there isn’t anything else.) If the encounter is less than stellar it will probably lead to a quick end to any kind of relationship, and you may lose the opportunity to make a new friend.

Making a new friend may sound like a boring goal for dating, but it has been shown that having friends, of both genders, leads to a happier and more fulfilling life. Keeping the initial dates light and friendly takes the “shopping for a mate” aspect out of the way, and may actually lead to a better experience.

Continuing with that theme, what do you do on a first date? Experts suggest that you meet for coffee, or at best lunch. This places fewer expectations on both parties, and limits the amount of time you spend together. Most people find that you know almost immediately if there is a reason to meet again. Trust your instincts, this is the theory on which Speed-Dating is based. In the business world it is said that you make a decision about a candidate in the first six seconds! That may be extreme, not everyone is a star right out of the gate.

So who pays? Accoring to old-fashioned etiquette, s/he who made the invitation should pay. Of course if you are just meeting for coffee or lunch it probably isn’t a big question. After the first date I would suggest you do what you would do with a friend of the same gender, split the check, or offer to pay – and “you can get it next time”.

As far as continuing the relationship, how about deciding if there is going to be a next time, at the time? I may be naive, but honesty really is the best policy. If you just didn’t hit it off, don’t agree to meet again, and guys, please, drop the “I’ll call you” line if you don’t mean it! A simple , “it was a pleasure to meet you, see you around” should get the message across.

References:

His Past Didn’t Destroy a Chance at Love

by Dan Madoniain LOVE

My name is Dan Madonia and I am in an adult relationship. Which if you don’t know me is an incredible feat. Before my girlfriend, there were things I would do for a sandwich that I wouldn’t do for someone of the fairer sex. I wasn’t exactly sensitive to those around me, a girl once broke up with me and I didn’t even know we were dating (which is the ultimate situation of not knowing what you got until its gone.)

My parents weren’t the best of examples either, my father is a touring professional comedian who my mother only had sex with ONCE and didn’t let me know he was the father until I was twelve years old. I wouldn’t say that I have daddy issues though; the presence of my mother screwed me up way more than the absence of my father. My mother is a retired adult entertainer with more credits than I can list. Which is a hard nut for a lot of people to swallow. Most people have trouble coming to grips with the fact that their parents had even had sex once, I had to come grips with that’s how my toys were paid for. That will make you think twice before asking for stuff for Christmas. I wasn’t completely left without a father figure though, my mom did hook up with her acid dealer when I was two years old and they embarked on what can only be explained as a twenty-year case of Stockholm syndrome. Who the actual hostage was though, is still up for interpretation.

With that tremendous backing cast. you are ultimately going to end up a little screwed up and come up with a few twisted theories on what love and relationships are like. I grew up believing that relationships were like driving in the carpool lane.

1.) You can’t do it alone,

2.) There are heavy fines for getting in and out at the wrong time and

3.) Once you are in it you are sitting there watching everyone else go by, thinking “What the hell? This was supposed to be better.”

Thinking like this is not the best way to end up running down the aisle. But here I am, in an adult relationship with everything that comes complete in the adult relationship do-it-yourself kit like a dog, decorative soap and re-runs of Everybody Loves Raymond. How does that happen?

Get over it.

It is the answer for everything. Get over it. Its not easy and I know this but in order for any relationship to succeed both people are going to have things to get over. For my girlfriend and me it was my past thoughts but for you it might be someone’s sleep apnea machine, someone’s technology obsession, someone’s mean Doberman or someone’s Doberman-like mother. Of course you aren’t going to be able to get over everything instantly but that is what a relationship is about, bringing two perspectives together and making each of yourselves better. There are going to be fights and bumps in the road but if you truly love one another you will be able to see from your partner’s eyes and get through your problems. For example, earlier this week my girlfriend was mad at me because I am immature, but all at the same time I was mad at her because she isn’t a power ranger…In the end we both had to get over it.

What I Learnt About Sex from Game of Thrones

by Jules Thompsonin Sex

A week ago, I intended to write an article about tantric sex. Then I started watching season one of Game of Thrones. Now, and until I’ve caught up on seasons two, three and four, my boyfriend will be lucky if we have any sex at all, let alone sex of the tantric variety, which, let’s face it, takes ages.
Fortunately, my complete immersion in Game of Thrones has not precluded sexual exploration, because the show is bursting with nooky. If you find yourself watching one of the rare scenes with no sexual content, all you have to do is close your eyes, count to 60, and when you open them again, you will almost certainly be confronted with a nice pair of buttocks or breasts. If the plot does not permit any of the main actors to be naked at this particular time, the producers will have festooned the scene with a handful of naked extras (if Game of Thrones teaches us one thing, it is that serious political conversation and semi-clad prostitutes are by no means mutually exclusive).

For someone who likes to talk (a lot), I’m surprisingly coy when it comes to having serious conversations about sex within my relationships. Rather than be explicit about what I want, I tend to try to prod my partners in the right direction. Sometimes this works, sometimes not; often this approach results in me, and possibly them, settling for something that’s not quite right.

But after watching Game of Thrones at my boyfriend’s side, I thought its content could be a good springboard for some more direct chat – we were watching sex, so why not talk about it?

I began with a question about the apparently favored position of men doing it in made-up medieval Westeros: ‘Do you think they did doggy style more back then, or are the producers trying to make a point?’ (We were on episode three, and Daenerys had just succumbed to her first, and not very nice, experience of marital love.) There followed a brief debate on the extent to which the sexual content of Game of Thrones was well-researched. Our conclusion: not very. But, shortly after, my question was answered by the events unfolding on screen. Daenerys, keen to make her bow-legged husband happy, learns a few tricks from her slave, and, soon she is riding Drogo like the lady she is. On top.

And he likes it!

My next question brought the topic back round to us: ‘Do you like doing it doggy style?’

‘Sometimes,’ the boy slapped and squeezed my bum, ‘when I’m feeling like a Dothraki’.

‘But what’s your favourite position,’ I asked, confident that I already knew the answer.

‘On top.’

Game-of-Thrones-sex

I wanted to be sure we were on the same page, ‘You or me?’

‘Me,’ he said.

And this was unexpected. Because everything I had observed during the two plus years of our relationship had told me otherwise. ‘But I thought you liked it best when I was on top…’

‘I do,’ he clarified, ‘at the end. But I like starting with me on top’.

This was interesting. ‘Why?’

‘Because I like doing what I want for a bit.’

This answer shouldn’t have surprised me (not least, because his reason for liking being on top is exactly the same as mine), but it did, because we hardly ever do it missionary style. I wondered why he had never mentioned this to me before, but, of course, I already knew the answer: the fact was, I had never asked.

Now I know that this reluctance to talk about the finer details of sex cannot be restricted to me. I have talked about sex on stage and at work, with friends and complete strangers. I reckon I have pretty relaxed boundaries when it comes to discussing matters of the body, but I still find it hard to say: this is what I want from you, now what do you want from me? Until now, I’ve not thought much about how to change this. When I came across articles about being vocal in bed, I would think with a touch of regret, ‘That’s just not me,’ before moving on to the next one. But what these articles are often lacking are tips on how to initiate these oh-so-personal conversations. Game of Thrones has taught me that, by talking about the sex we see on TV, we can find a more natural way into talking about our own sex lives.

Games_of_Thrones__2

Last night the boy and I had sex. He took the lead, and I got a lot of pleasure from knowing that, this time, we were doing what he wanted – not just for a bit, but the whole way through. The pace of our sex was slightly different; for once, he stayed on top throughout, and, for both of us, it felt great.

Afterwards I asked him if he knew why it had been so good.

He thought for a second, ‘Because we haven’t done it for ages?’

I shook my head, ‘Because of Game of Thrones’.

He wasn’t convinced. But I knew…

Breaking through Body Issues with Burlesque

by Susanna Leein Sex

“Burlesque?  That’s just stripping with a women’s studies degree.”

That was what I said in 2004, during a radio interview in Dayton, Ohio.  I had never seen a burlesque show, knew nothing of the history, and just formed my opinions based on hater’s logic.  I knew that my husband, whom I’d grown to distrust in the 2 years that we’d been married (we were still in a getting-to-know-you period, since we ran to Vegas and hitched up 3 months after meeting – a mistake which I will fully dissect in another article entirely), was into the burlesque/pin-up style of girl, so I felt threatened by it.

See, I was more hardcore, I used my sexuality as a defense, my in-your-face promiscuity was how I proved that I was okay, that I was a confident, sexually liberated woman who didn’t give a fuck what anyone thought.  I figured that if I was sexual, I was sexy, and that there was no value in subtlety and nuance.  I didn’t understand how that was hot, I had no use for the tease.  There was no mystery with me, I thought that being aggressively sexual was the most direct way to get the validation that I needed to convince myself that I was strong and desirable, much easier than dealing with the issues that caused the doubt, shame, and fear that I denied having, as though I could fuck the past trauma out of my head.  But enough about the inner workings of my messy head, which I could go on about for days, back to burlesque!

Cut to October 2006.  I’d just left my husband and I’d never felt less desirable.  Over the course of our 4 year marriage, codependency had unwittingly turned me into his mommy-wife, and my usual methods of swimming in a sea of meaningless sex until I felt better wasn’t working, because I didn’t even have enough self-esteem left to lock down a random drunken one-night stand, previously my specialty.  I was looking through a community class catalogue, saw the listing for a burlesque dance class, and decided to take the class out of vindictive bitterness towards my ex.  Whatever means to an end though, right?

I fell in love immediately.  I wasn’t some peeler prodigy, I was ungraceful and had to fight feeling silly to make my body move the way I was being taught.  But no one made fun of me, no one was a star, or a bitch, or a diva.  There was a camaraderie among us, I felt like one of the group, not the weirdo loner, which was my usual role in any group of women.  There really were women of all shapes, sizes and backgrounds.  It was so refreshing to be in this supportive, fun environment, so I kept coming back, week after week, gaining more confidence with each class.  I practiced at home, and actually felt cute doing it.  Our teacher announced that we would have a show at the end of the session, so we’d all need to choose stage names, and songs for our solos.

WHAT?

Solo?  No.  I was okay with the group number, I could hide among my new friends and go unnoticed, I wouldn’t have my clunkiness and chunkiness on focused display.  But a solo?  Alone onstage, without my security blankets, nothing else to look at but me.  That was terrifying.  My words are my strong suit, comedy was my wheelhouse, not dancing sexily and silently, but everyone else was rising to the challenge, all these women who had the exact same amount of training and inexperience, we’d been in this together so far, so I had to do it.  I figured that if it went really badly, I never had to do it again, and could pretty easily avoid anyone who’d seen the debacle.  If I tanked, I could write jokes about it, and good or bad, I’d get something useful out of it.  So I went for it, choosing “Little Red Riding Hood” by the Meteors as the soundtrack to my anxiety.  I choreographed my novice moves, rehearsing in front of friends, asking my best friend, Justin, (who had extensive dance experience from doing theater in high school, as well as being gay) for extra help.  We smoked joints and practiced box-stepping, straddling chairs, making stage faces, and cobbled together my costume.

Burlesque dancer in golden dress

The night of the show seemed so far in the future, until it was 2 days away.  That’s when time started really flying.  I felt alternately excited and death-row-dreadful.  I’d been a professional performer for over a decade, and had NEVER felt anything close to these nerves.  Admitting my body issues to myself was unavoidable, because all my fears boiled down to them.  If I messed up my moves, I couldn’t rely on my standup to save me, nor could I be content that the audience would be mesmerized by just viewing the natural grace and beauty of my body, because I didn’t feel I had any of that.  I wasn’t what I thought of when I thought about what a stripper looked like.  Strippers were tight and compact, I was fleshy and spread out.  I figured that my physicality was not what attracted any of the men I’d managed to land.   My worst fears were of the audience looking away, or even heckling, when I exposed my unappreciated body.  I imagined some douchebag yelling “Put it on!!”, and the crowd laughing at me, not with me.  I readied myself for this, for what I knew logically to be an unlikely event, but felt emotionally convinced would come to pass.

The night of the show, my hands were shaking too much to put on my own huge, campy false eyelashes.  First was the group number, and it went well, though I was so deep in my own head about my upcoming shimmy to the gallows, that I barely noticed the energy and excitement of the crowd.  I changed costumes too fast, gave myself too much unoccupied time with which to freak out, and then…IT WAS TIME.

I heard my name, and felt my feet move me to the stage.  My body started going through the motions, and I was able to focus on that.  The moment of truth arrived, it was time to drop my skirt (more specifically, to slowly rip apart the velcro, tease with a bit of upper thigh/hip, turn around, slowly lower the skirt to ass-framing level, then drop it).  I don’t think I was even breathing.  Then came the noise.  The loud, loud noise.  The sound of people cheering, clapping, screaming, whistling, all of it hit me in the face at once, and I fed off of it like it was what I’d eaten my whole life.  I didn’t use my manufactured smile once.  Everything came off perfectly, and I finished and went backstage shaking from the adrenaline and emotional release, drowning in all the positive feedback.  I’ve never felt a sense of pride and accomplishment like that before, not even the first time I did standup.  It felt like a victory on multiple fields, and I celebrated it all night long (and I mean ALL NIGHT LONG, as I had found enough self-confidence from the evening to land the attention of a gentleman caller who was super hot, super complimentary, and even bought brunch the next day).

Over the next 9 years, I delved pretty deeply into burlesque, developing my own style of spoken-word stripteases, producing shows, running a troupe, performing in festivals, traveling the country (and beyond, I was honored to be a headlining performer and emcee of the first New Zealand Burlesque Fest) and even teaching, which was my favorite part of it all.  I felt better about myself the more I helped other women feel better about themselves, not just showcasing my own bravery in refuting the societal norms of acceptable beauty, but ushering other women into their own.  Helping along this revolution of self-acceptance truly healed me.  And all without a women’s studies degree.

Why My Mother Tells My Boyfriend She Loves Him

by Ansuya Nathanin Mind

I’m in a relationship, please don’t hate me!

I’m in a loving committed relationship with an awesome man. We have a beautiful home together in sunny Los Angeles and because he came with a dog, I now have one, too. Overall, it’s pretty great. So great, I’m tempted to put a mini white picket fence around the patio of our ground floor apartment. But considering I’m such a klutz, I’ll probably end up impaling myself on it somehow.

As a girlfriend of mine recently pointed out, ‘this is a MAJOR turn in events’ for me having spent the last 7 years single. Yup. That’s right: seven years.  If you gasped in horror, I forgive you. I find that to be the most common reaction to my revelation. (For some of the reasons why, read this)

So when things changed, boy, did they change. I can’t tell you how relieved my mother is. Our Skype calls now end with her telling my significant other she loves him, whether he’s in the room or not.  I’m pretty sure my Dad’s relieved, too. He rarely asks me anymore if I’m ‘eating enough’, which in my family seems to be code for ‘are you happy?’. Which I am. He can see it in my eyes. And my cheeks. I even unintentionally became the Patron Saint for Late Love to my younger female cousin, who wrote to me to ask – and I quote – “How did you manage to trust someone after being single for so long and after meeting so many sh*theads?”

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Chivalry: “Because it’s Free”

by MONROKin DATING ADVICE, LOVE1 Comment on Chivalry: “Because it’s Free”

Women in the modern day feel that chivalry is dead. Some men even feel that it insults women to be chivalrous: “I can carry my own boxes, thank you very much.” Others feel it appears too eager, or too old-fashioned. When it comes to the bill, a common retort from men is “If you want to work like a man, and earn equal pay, then why should I have to pay for your meal? You can pay for yourself.” While I understand that position, come on man, can’t a gal get a salad?

Nowadays, with the line between being courteous and sexist becoming increasingly obscure, I understand the confusion felt by men. The days of approaching women on the street and offering a hand might be well behind us, but when it comes to dating, I’ve found a little bit of chivalry goes a long way. If you don’t have the budget to buy dinner, here are 5 chivalrous acts that go a long way whilst being completely FREE:

Open her car door.

This is a game changer. The payoff in proportion to the amount of effort it takes is astronomical. WE NOTICE. THIS IS MAJOR. Its been said “If you open a woman’s door for her and she doesn’t reach over to unlock your side, she’s not a keeper.” Unfortunately, now that we have automated locks there is no way to tell anymore, so you’ll have to use your own judgment. Opening the door is an extremely positive way to commence a date. It showcases you in a positive light from the get-go. Make this a habit, a reflex, and you won’t be sorry.

Call, don’t text.

Boys text. Men call. If she’s “weirded out” by the fact that you called to arrange seeing her, then SHE’S not worth it. When people are first getting to know one another it is important to communicate, and calling is pivotal. It shows that you are willing to make the time and effort to talk to her, instead of taking the easy route: “Dominick’s. 8pm.” which feels much more impersonal. Is this guy asking me out or trying to buy weed? A quick call says, “Hey, I like you and look forward to getting to know you.”

Walk her to her car.

You guys, there are rapists out there. Creepers, lurkers, perverts, and sure you could be one of them, but we trusted you enough to go out with you so at least make sure we make it to our car. We may front like we are just as tough and strong as a man, but the reality is we will always feel safer with you by our side. This shows that you are a protector, which is instinctually the key trait that attracts women to men.

Choose your words.

When you are at dinner avoid phrases like “Lemme get a uh…” or “Can I get…” In fact, you should always avoid phrases like that. The proper way to order is by saying, “I would like” or “May I have.” Proper vernacular is the mark of a true gentleman. If you speak to others in a respectful manner and ask instead of order, this will put you in a league above the rest. Never forget, a charming man that knows how to say the right things the right way can win over a Queen, even if he’s bald.

Get Dressed.

This is the generation of the hoodie. A hoodie is not an appropriate thing to wear on a date, it is an appropriate thing to wear to a second interview at Petsmart. Show that you care about your appearance, it reflects well on you. It’s simple; all you need is one good blazer – THAT’S IT. Throw it on over a button up, or even a t-shirt. JUST GET A BLAZER. It will put you at the front of the line, and every woman wants to be with a winner.

As for offering your jacket, pulling out her chair, and walking on the side of the street closest to traffic (so you get killed first) those go without question, but these are just some of my favorites.

Was it Sexual Healing?

by Alexandra Norrisin Mind, Sex

Closing in on my first year living overseas, I had taken the opportunity to check out the countryside as part of an exchange. The program allowed young internationals looking to extend our working holiday another year in Australia by doing farm work.

As you might imagine, while scenic and beautiful, it was not a juggernaut of cool fun and excitement. The farmers treated us mostly like trained animals they didn’t like much. To pass time, I began listening to a podcast on how to understand and let go of your ego and live in the present moment. Fully aware of the irony, I would use these talks to set my mind free of the boring and painful work strewn across the breathtaking landscape. In short, I wore thai fisherman’s pants, got into the best shape of my life, stunk of minty muscle cream and each day rinsed away the sweat, mud and degradation for six minutes (due to the water restrictions imposed by a drought) of heavenly shower time.

During a slow patch of work, I found a flyer in a shop near my hostel. It was advertising a weekend retreat with a name like TOGETHERNESS that claimed to celebrate the masculine and feminine in us all. It was three days of seminars, yoga and dancing around bonfires on a lake and it was right near where I was staying. Perfect.

At 23, I was promptly crowned “the youngest woman,” and was accordingly coaxed to dance around bonfire number one during the opening ceremony along with the youngest man, a 21 year old who was the son of the retreat’s creator, and whose hubris was through the roof.

While ordinarily I would have had my red flags firing on all cylinders, indicating that this was an express train to dreadlocked armpit hair and the Law of Attraction; I felt safe enough to roll with some gentle brainwashing. Perhaps what has gotten me into the most trouble in my life so far, has been encountering an absurd situation and leaning into it out of sheer bewilderment of it’s very existence, coupled with an adolescent sort of curiosity.

The intense introspection of a few months of fieldwork combined with being in my early twenties left me feeling very open to the world. I wasn’t one hundred percent sure what was going on, but I felt utterly blissful the more I surrendered to the experience.

One of the workshops the retreat had offered was something called a “Cuddle Party.” Curious and encouraged by the glowing feedback of the woman next to me examining the daily schedule, I hiked up my fisherman’s pants and shuffled off my birkenstocks into the “puddle” made of pillows.

A burly and round man in his late 30s identifying himself as a “Sexual Healer” explained the exercise where we weren’t allowed to touch one another, unless there was an explicit “Yes.” Our directive was to talk to each other and ask permission to touch each other in various areas that might lead to cuddling, but we were told could not lead to anything sexual unless we wanted to “take it elsewhere”. If we felt like responding with even so much as a “maybe,” we were instructed to default to “No.”

Later that evening, the sexual healer approached me and we started talking. It’s a bit of a blur of patchouli and moonlight, but he proceeded to charm me into his tent like a snake in a basket, and I spent the remainder of the retreat enchanted under his spell. Rather than return to harsh life of cold bunk beds and mean farmers, I enveloped myself in the afterglow of the retreat and floated into the nearest city where most of my new friends, and the Aussie Marvin Gaye incarnate lived.

The first few days were spent in a whirlwind of new thoughts and ideas. He showed me videos about his therapy and how he helped women with chronic pain in their vulvas (known as Vulvodynia, or a depressed vagina, as a friend who had struggled with the affliction would describe it), shared books on open relationships and often casually remarked on how he’d like to one day have a harem.

I absorbed as much information as I could on how his practice helped women and couples. It seemed that I was meeting a lot of young ingenues and very friendly sex workers; a phrase, I was told, which extended from writing erotica for a living to working in a brothel or, providing what I learned was called “full release” massage in your high rise condo to exclusive clientele; and everything in between.

Some of the women who floated in and out of the home were sweet and open. I remember one of my new sex working friends inviting me to her home, showing me her “massage” space, eating a lot of prunes and ordering pizza. She got very sick (probably from the prunes, she ate about 50 of them), and I somehow awoke next to her with her freaking out over seeing my eyes without glasses. She wanted to go and get colonics together. Those plans somehow never materialized.

One of the other women, a young mother of two, stared daggers at me. I later pieced together that she was sort of the Matriarch and it seemed I had unwittingly moved in on her turf. I could never figure out what I had done to upset her, but she had a way of introducing me to the concept of passive aggression in a way I had never experienced.

Marvin (as I’ll refer to him for the remainder of this story) continued my education in his work by showing me a movie about a married couple whose relationship was marred by her inability to climax after experiencing a traumatic sexual event in her past. The sexual healer in the movie “treated” the wife by having sex with her and helping her find her orgasm. The healer saved their marriage and this was the apparent impetus for Marvin’s work. Though Marvin claimed to never have sexual intercourse with his clients, he would “massage” them and provide counsel. He also introduced me to a duo who deftly circumvented anti-prostitution laws in America by dividing the labour and having one woman massage the vulva (or, yoni, as Marvin insisted on referring to it) with instruments (rather than hands or body parts), and the other knelt by her head and talked her through the experience. It was fascinating and confusing. He introduced me to his library of books on open relationships and showed me his “Treatment” room, which was essentially a living/dining room with a massage table and throw pillows. Marvin felt strongly that this area and his bedroom remain separate and expressed that he strived to keep the two sides of his life from blending. He talked to me about the importance of clear communication in all relationships, especially open ones. He created a book comparing photos of yonis next to corresponding flowers. I cautiously ate it up with a spoon and waited for more.

Early on, Marvin tied me up with some very sexy satin ropes, and skilfully continued with his seduction. I sought to understand his work while enraptured with the idea of being a muse. After the first few days, however, I noticed we were spending a lot of time cuddling and walking around naked like we were in a nature documentary; but, strangely, having sex together ground to a startling halt without any real explanation. He would insist that he just wasn’t feeling very sexual. Not one to take a hint, I stuck around.

One evening, while Marvin was conducting a women’s talking circle that I did not qualify for, I had an accident. Not one to interrupt the sanctity of the circle, the loud “BOUUFFFF” sound of an exploding natural heating pad in his kitchen went ignored, until one of the women insisted he check on me. He promptly hid me in his room with an ice pack and returned to the circle.

On the advice of a nurse’s hotline, I took myself and my 56 new blisters to the ER. I made some new friends, cracked some jokes, and relaxed until the shock wore off. Eventually, once his talking circle was finished, Marvin came to collect me. Wrapped in bandages and high on morphine, I suggested we lighten the mood and go out for ice cream. Marvin quietly escorted me to a convenience store, where he waited as I picked up my own pint. Either I wasn’t very good at setting location notes and ambiance preferences for post-traumatic cheer-me-up dates, or it was starting to appear that my position on his pedestal was now really coming apart at the screws. It was not long (but not before falling asleep waiting on his front lawn, while he presumably hooked up with the Matriarch across town) before I packed up my fisherman’s pants and headed south.

My memory paints this story as one of an older man manipulating an impressionable (and possibly clueless) young woman during a vulnerable time in her life, then casting her aside. Someone so eager to help what seemed to be every other woman and encourage open communication and free sexuality, drew me in, adored me and then, when he wasn’t proselytising, swiftly ignored me. It felt like a classic bait and switch. The ole “C’mere, Go Aways” as my best friend used to call it. The more I reached out to understand everything and figure out what I was missing, the more deeply he would withdraw, and his attention and his affection would wane. It took more time than I’m proud of to figure out I had played my part and then hung around a little too long after the curtain call.

Today, I am in a healthy and calm long term relationship. I am kinder to myself, I have learned about this weird concept called “boundaries.” I threw away my fisherman’s pants. I got a tattoo on my arm to cover the physical scars and I saw a counsellor to try and run interference on the emotional ones. It took me years to wrap my head fully around my experience, my true errors in judgement, rather than perceived flaws in my character, as well as my actual flaws in character and how to deal with them. I’m no longer bitter, confused or resentful (most of the time), but I am weary of protecting my emotional soft spots, and immediately suspicious of older men offering cuddles and lectures on female empowerment.

And I will never listen to a Marvin Gaye album with a straight face again.

I Want to Masturbate in a Circle of Women

by Jess Beaulieuin LOVE1 Comment on I Want to Masturbate in a Circle of Women

I adore the ritual of masturbating. I live for every single sultry part of it. I get ecstatic when I feel the first tingle of arousal in my underpants, which typically appears while I’m watching a smooching scene in a movie and/or thinking about a man I’m crushing on hard and/or literally out of nowhere for no reason while I am at work in the middle of an important meeting. Do conversations about fiscal periods turn me on? Only my libido knows.

One of my most beloved thoughts to get lost in is the thought of beautiful vibrators, and in particular my beautiful vibrators. Yes, I have plural and I am proud of it. I love stimulants that aid my hormones in achieving their goal. I revel in finding sexy videos on the internet that excites my clit without offending my brain (trickier than it sounds) and/or digging deep in my imagination for the face/sweat/penis/butt/knees/hip bones of a dude I’m into and/or staring into a mirror and satisfying my hot self to my hot self.

And then of course I am a fan of the actual act. Searching for the right buttons. Figuring out what I want that day, that hour, that minute. Building the orgasm within me. Climaxing and feeling my whole body uncontrollably contract and twitch and release. It’s a transcendent experience that I attempt to repeat as often as I can, specifically in the mornings, and in the afternoons, and in the evenings… okay, I do it a lot and have since I was 13-years-old.

Something I haven’t ever done in the masturbation department though is get my own bod off while surrounded by important ladies doing the same to their bods. I hear dudes talking about circle jerks constantly but it’s rare for women to share tales of collective genital bliss. And why is that, I ask you? I mean, females often gather in groups to chat about life and drink wine and make plans to dominate the world. I wonder then how my ladies nights have never morphed into an epic, gorgeous, highly empowering jilling off session. Is there something I’m doing wrong? Do I need to provide MORE chips and dip? Is chocolate the answer? Should I start offering oysters and dildos with dinner? What is the SOLUTION TO THIS PROBLEM?

women-fire-circle3

I suppose it’s not really a problem but I honestly believe that if a group of ten women, all orgasmic simultaneously in a circle as if we were a coven of pleasure seekers it could better society. We could eliminate the wage gap with one unified moan. Our voices would ripple through the globe like a tidal wave of squirting. The 4th wave of feminism would rise and if it’s that time of the month the wave would be crimson! The energy we would release would be magnetic and contagious and legislation changing. Abortion access would suddenly exist for all! Maternity leave wouldn’t affect career growth! Slut shaming would be a thing of the past! Hillary Clinton would instantly be elected president and all men would make her a sandwich!

…. okay, I might be exaggerating a tad bit here. But, you cannot deny that the image of a dozen vibrators doing god’s (Gloria Steinem’s) work is rather powerful and hella inspiring and majorly instagram-worthy. I have become much more sex positive over the last two years and with that has come a growth in confidence, a decrease in body shame, and an understanding of how to expertly “walk my poodle” (yes, I refer to my vagina as my poodle). So why not take this sex positive attitude a step further? I say, let’s get real positive and bask in the glow that is women’s recently orgasmic faces. I’m interested in experimentation and my favorite hobby is being in and/or around crowds of labia lips. So why not combine the two?!

Plus, it would be so relaxing and non-threatening and FUN! We could do yoga afterwards and get brunch and check out a dog park. I would have to 100% make a day of it. if I’m going to gather my best friends together so we can all masturbate as a unit you better believe we’re going vintage shopping post-climax and eating gelato. We’ll be in top notch moods and totally at ease and ready to get real about our emotions in regards to women being censored on Facebook (which is one of my number one topics to get real about).

Also, we can give each other tips! If a lady is having a hard time locating that spot, another lady can saunter over and give her a helping finger. This could dip into a mutual masturbation zone and if it did I would be beyond thrilled. It’s killing two birds with one ejaculation! Or if one woman’s vibrator isn’t doing the trick, she could switch with another woman who wants to try something new. Like a game of musical chairs! And you know how sometimes it’s difficult to see what’s going on down there? When you’re attempting to pleasure yourself and it begins to feel like parallel parking? Sometimes you just need someone to say “an inch to the right, one centimeter up, and turn it at a 180 degree angle” in order to pinpoint that clit and that’s OKAY!

And another thing, I went to a nudist retreat once and what I loved most about it was seeing how unique each woman’s body is, specifically their crotch areas! It was a breathtaking sight that I would definitely like to repeat. Although I am straight, I have an obsession with the female anatomy and, like the process of masturbation every single part of it fascinates me, especially the sexy parts. If I could orgasm while several other vulvas are in my periphery, I could die happy. I want nothing more than to be satisfied as I hear other women being satisfied, metaphorically and non-metaphorically. That would be my ultimate wet dream.

Ladies In Bed, You Know What You’re Doing!

by zfortadminin Sex

[Lesbians] have a few things to teach the rest of the world in the pleasure department and our ears are burning with anticipation, waiting to hear

According to the recent Kinsey Institute Journal of Sex Medicine Scientific Survey, Lesbians are having a lot more orgasmic fun than heterosexual and bisexual women too! The study determined that 75% of Lesbians orgasm with a familiar partner compared to 62% Straight Women, and 58% Bisexual Women.

This is not new for you. In 2006 an Australian study featured in the Journal of Sex Research also determined similar results. 76% of Lesbians compared to 69% of women who slept with men reached orgasm during sex.

Orgasmic Diva’s, you know how to experience more ecstasy together than other groups of women. This has got to be bottled! How about a spray on version that would positively affect a woman’s pheromones and enhance orgasmic responses to her particular brand of pheromones as a result?

Lesbian Couple

Of course, one style orgasm does not fit all. Even to define orgasm can lessen the power and potency of the experience between two lovers. However it is fun to make an attempt at articulating this sensual mystery… orgasm is a kaleidoscope of physiological sensations, psychological feelings, sociological responses, as well as expansive and enlightening moments that can only be termed philosophical.

So let’s break down the WHY of your orgasmic mastery…

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Getting My Needs Met Under the Covers

by Jules Thompsonin Sex

I write this article knowing it is likely to be my most divisive to date. For it contains the following shocking truth: my boyfriend and I sleep with two single duvets. And we are not yet in our 70s (at which point, apparently, this kind of behavior becomes acceptable). No, we are just two 30-somethings who really like our sleep. So when we realized that we hated – truly hated – sleeping in the same bed, we put our heads together and thought our way out of the box and into our current sleeping arrangement. This process marked a transformative and empowering moment in our relationship. For it was one of the first times that we bothered to fly in the face of convention and find a solution that really worked for us.

Picture this: once upon a time, my partner and I shared a duvet. Throughout the night, we would wake up at least once an hour, sometimes too hot, often too cold. Resentment grew, minor disagreements morphed into physical spats, knees found their way into backs, humans found their way onto floors. It was an intolerable situation that could not go on. And yet, many couples continue like this their whole lives.

You might think I’m exaggerating the significance of our single duvets, but they really do seem to offend some people. A few friends have reacted to the news of them as though we have just revealed we like to take small mammals to bed with us; others see them as deeply unromantic; a sign that we are inherently divided, and probably never touch each other, let alone have sex.

In fact, this change marked an improvement in our sex life. Because, let us be clear on this, tiredness is not sexy. Sleep deprivation has been used throughout history as a method of torture; there is a reason for this.

And not all our friends disapprove of our decision to sleep with separate duvets. For those who have suffered similarly miserable nights at the hands of their loved ones, our sleep solution is akin to the secret of alchemy. When these same friends learn that the Swedes do it (and make it look really rather stylish) they are often officially sold.

These days, however, we generally sleep the whole night through completely oblivious to the other’s presence. It is marvelous. In the morning we wake up after eight hours’ uninterrupted sleep and get to discover each other all over again. One of us will usually slip under the other’s duvet for a toasty morning cuddle. If anything, we now enjoy more physically intimacy, because we like each other the whole night through.

I’m not saying single duvets are for everyone, but this issue reminds us of the importance of making choices in our relationships that are right for us. Marriage is for some people, but not for everyone; children, date nights, swinging likewise. If we want to be happy in love, we need to question our decisions, so that we can be sure they are motivated by what we truly want, and not simply by the fact that ‘everyone else is doing it’. Others will always judge our choices, but this matters not one jot if we are able to wear them with pride.

My Sex Education

by Lorraine Rockin Sex

My sister and I were brought up up almost entirely by my Mom, until we were pre-teens. My Mom was a lovely affectionate woman, but she was so perfect that neither of us felt that we could talk to her about things that bothered us.

Sex did not exist in our household. We sometimes wondered how we came to be!

My Dad was a career Naval Officer, he was a vet who had enlisted at 16, and was rarely home, even in peacetime. He left the Navy after 25 years service, and my parents promptly discovered that they couldn’t live together. My sister and I were sent off to a private (all-girl) Boarding school, and my Dad shipped out to a contract overseas.

I had been a real Daddy’s girl, and was devastated by what I felt was his abandonment. I had grown up without brothers, but I identified strongly with my Dad and had been a tomboy, so most of my friends were boys. My Dad had told me that there wasn’t anything a boy could do that I couldn’t, except pee standing up, and I even tried to do that!

Our Boarding School was quite religious and was very rigid, sex-ed class was very clinical, just about Biology, nothing about sexuality. We were not allowed out alone, and our only visitors were our parents. The only boys we saw were at church, or at choir practice, so when I started to think about boys, I felt as though it was a “bad’ thing to do. Any good feelings I had from boys, when I could get near any of the choir boys, were repressed.

My sister, who was 2 years older, did not have boy-friends. I thought it was weird to like boys, only the sluts at school were into boys. As I grew up in this atmosphere, boys became a totally unknown quantity. I forgot how easy it had been before around my Dad, and became shy and somewhat afraid of them.

After six years in this stifling atmosphere I graduated at 17, and went back to live with my mother and sister. I went to College, and also worked part-time for my Mom. She was the manager and book-keeper of a private club, and I went to work as the DJ. Because I was underage I couldn’t drink, or interact with anyone so I just spun the records and I started to re-discover my ease with the opposite sex.

At the club, as a really naive 17 year old, I was at first unaware of the waiters flirting with me, until one called me a “Baby” and dared me to go to a movie with him. He was about 24, and quite cute (he was Spanish, with beautiful brown eyes and a shy smile, and just the right kind of charm). I picked up the challenge, and met him on a day off. He was waiting for me with a long-stemmed red rose, I was smitten.

The date went great until he asked me back to his place, which was a one-room apartment. The only place to sit was on the bed, and after a couple of glasses of “Orange juice” (spiked with vodka)I was dizzy, and curious, and we were making out. Without going into detail, let’s just say that the inevitable happened, and I ended up a pregnant teenager.

Lack of knowledge, lack of street-smarts, call it whatever you like. I call it lack of preparedness for the real world, caused me great emotional and physical harm. I was almost schizoid about it, planning to go to Canada, and throw myself on my Dad’s mercy. I couldn’t tell Mom, I thought she would disown me! Outwardly nothing changed, I continued to go to College as though nothing was going on.

One Friday afternoon in class, I started to miscarry. My friend Gina told me that I was going very pale then flushing, and looked like I was going to pass out. At 12 weeks, I went into a type of labor and miscarried, alone, in a toilet.

I travelled home on the underground, wearing a ton of pads, and, after making excuses to my family, had a long hot bath and went to bed. I didn’t go to a doctor, I didn’t even know that I should. I was so ashamed of myself that I told no-one. The next day, being a strong healthy 17 year old I went out with Gina, and vowed to forget all about it.

I grew up too fast after that. I became one of the “bad” girls, got on the pill, and for a few years became the kind of girl my old self abhorred.

When my sister became pregnant., I was 21, and moved out. I could not stand to be around as my Mom became the perfect understanding grandmother-to-be, and took care of my sister.

When I eventually did tell her, my mother was horrified that I had not told her at the time, and that I had never had proper medical care. She told me she would have taken care of me, after she had dragged the Spanish waiter off to the cops! She had often wondered why he kept asking her about me.

I was lucky, I had no lasting physical damage and though I had the kind of problems that most girls with absent fathers have, attracted to older men, and continuing to have relationship problems through my 20’s. I did marry in my 30’s and had two wonderful children, who know all about me, and have always been able to ask me ANYTHING!

One thing I discovered was that it is rarely “bad” girls who land up with unintentional pregnancies, they are far too savvy for that. It is the innocent and naive who become victims of sexual predators. Knowledge is armor, without it young girls are essentially defenseless.

If you plan on becoming a parent please remember that it is your duty to equip your children for life, knowledge about sex and sexuality is as essential for survival, as a good education, good food, and a warm safe home.

Lingerie Rules for Sexual Success

by Jules Thompsonin SEX TIPS

In theory, I love sexy underwear. I own the requisite number of suspender belts (two), a multitude of thongs, have previously bought crotchless pants (although God knows where they are now), and, occasionally, I even wear these items.  And we all know how sexy underwear is supposed to work: you wear it, he is blown away with lust and gratitude, and you both have the best sex ever.

Except, of course, in real life, things are rarely so simple.

My lingerie heyday was undoubtedly during my student years. Back then, my 20-year-old boyfriend was delightfully responsive to any effort on my part in the underwear department. The merest whiff of stockings and suspenders and he was a shoo-in. My current 30-something man, however, is much less predictable.

Think of it like this: in the world of lighting, your 20-something male is a bog-standard lamp – he has a switch, you flick it, you turn him on. But by the time a man hits his 30s, he has matured into a more complex system altogether, a kind of finely-tuned motion sensor light. On a good day, this means you get to kick back and enjoy his advanced technology. On a bad day, it leaves you standing in the middle of the room, waving your arms around wildly, and wondering how the hell you turn the damn thing on.
Sexy Young Woman Wearing White Bride Underwear

The problem is, when we put on sexy underwear at the start of a night, we are making a firm commitment to both us and them wanting to have sex at the end of it. It’s a down payment on mutual lust; in my experience, couples often buckle under this kind of pressure. And even if our man does want to have sex, he might be totally unfussed by our undies. As my housemate – a relatively sensitive guy – put it: ‘By the time you’re down to that layer, your main concern is getting beyond it; it’s just an extra shiny barrier.’ Such a lack of enthusiasm on their part can easily lead to disappointment on ours.

These pitfalls are only exacerbated by the financial cost of decent lingerie. My boyfriend would probably enjoy an Agent Provocateur basque more if it didn’t represent a 50% reduction in our monthly savings. These days, nothing gives him a hard on quite like the thought of making it onto the property ladder. Conversely, nothing is likely to kill his passion quite like the thought of our future home disappearing in a cloud of lace and tassles. If I splash out on lingerie, then, we’re both going to want to see a pretty high return.

So you can see why my relationship with sexy underwear is not as simple as it once was. But this doesn’t mean I’m ready to quit the game altogether. No, instead I have developed three simple rules to help me (and people like me) enjoy a healthy relationship with my undies.

Rule #1 – No Surprises

One girlfriend of mine has sexy lingerie nailed. Firstly, she does not give a damn about the cost. Secondly, she is in awe of all female beauty, including her own (she sends me links to high-end corsets asking which I think would make her look the most adorable). Thirdly, (and this is key), she involves her boyfriend in deciding when the lingerie should be worn. Last Christmas, she bought ‘him’ a stunning corset. After its first outing, he wanted to know what would happen next, i.e. would she wear it all the time or only occasionally? Was it a one-off thing?

She explained to him, ‘This corset is your Christmas present. And now it can be Christmas anytime you want to it to be. All you have to do is say “Can we have Christmas today, please?” And I’ll make it happen.’

You see, the girl’s a genius.  Because it is the ‘tada’ aspect of sexy lingerie that so often backfires. I ran this theory by my boyfriend, and he agreed: ‘If we don’t know it’s coming, you can’t blame us if we don’t rise to the challenge. At least give us a hint!’

Rule # 2 – Know your Man

In the case of my man, this means sexy lingerie is best aired by day. When we were ‘courting’, our nights out usually culminated in wild, drunken sex. Now, they are more likely to end in wild, drunken promises to do it first thing in the morning.  My bloke peaks in the day; I must use this to my advantage.

Sexy lingerie woman

Rule #3 – Know your Budget

Sexy underwear can be fun and experimental, but invest too much and the stakes are raised. With this in mind, I recently did some browsing on ebay (‘refine’ – ‘condition’ – ‘new with tags’), and managed to get some rather nice Victoria Secret undies at a 75% discount. They arrived today and, I’m pleased to say, they make my bottom look lovely. My only concern is that the lacing running down my bum crack rather draws the attention to the wrong hole (a hole that is, by long-standing agreement, out of play).  Still, at that price it’s hard to complain. And, as the saying goes, never say never…

Tomorrow morning, my boyfriend and I have a rare shared lie in. I intend to get up, spruce up, put on my sexy budget knickers and one of his shirts (I have it on good authority that this is a winning combination). Then, I’ll come back to bed and wake him up with a hot brew and my own delicious self. He has been duly warned that this is coming. So, this time, he’d better wake up and smell the coffee.

Top 5 Tips for Giving A Great BJ

by Susanna Leein Sex

Everyone has special skills, things we take considerable pride in doing exceptionally well.  Maybe you make the perfect margarita, or can parallel park perfectly on the first try every time.  Not me, those particular examples are personal weaknesses of mine.  I used to add too much tequila, and scrape my hubcaps against the curb nine times out of ten.  I’ve gotten better though, by taking the advice of friends who excel at these things, and practicing until I achieve a functioning level of confidence and comfort with both tasks.  I’m proud of my progress, and so appreciative of the help given to me along the way, that I figured it’s time to pay it forward by sharing a little of my own knowledge.  My area of expertise?  Oral sex.  Fellatio, to be specific.  If head quality was currency, I would be rich as hell, the Steve Jobs of blowjobs.  I really suck (much to the delight of my partners), and I want you to, too.  But from the feedback I’ve gotten, it seems as though a lot of you are shy and scared of doing it wrong, or badly.  So here’s a few basic tips I’ve compiled to help you swallow your hangups and go down like a champ.

1. Don’t Worry, Be Happy

First and foremost, understand that unless you bite (without it being specifically requested), you’re doing fine.  Push aside any nervous or self-conscious worries.  Now, I don’t personally know most of your partners, but I absolutely guarantee that if they were given the option of getting a imperfect blowjob or getting no blowjob at all, the choice made will always be to get some sort of blowjob, and really, any sort of blowjob.  You don’t need pro tactics to rock this party, because the mere act of placing your mouth on your partner’s genitals is, by nature, loving and incredibly intimate.  Head is a hug that you give with your mouth.  We all know the difference in getting sincerely embraced by someone who loves us, and the ol’ forced grab-squeeze-release of someone who’d rather not be bothered.  Try to focus on the pleasure you’re giving, not whatever hangups might be lurking (however, if your partner’s hygiene is the hangup, perhaps suggest a little bit of bathtime-for-two fun).  If the act itself turns you so far off that the affection motivating it isn’t conveyed, it won’t be fun for anyone involved.

Sexy woman with young lover closeup indoor portrait desire

 

2. Eye Contact

The right amount is essential.  A few short glances is hot, but an extended, unblinking gaze is creepy (sex is not a staring contest, unless that’s a specific fetish you’re exploring).  The right kind is also important.  This is the only time in my entire life that I will ever endorse the wisdom of Tyra Banks when I tell you to SMIZE.  Smile with your eyes as you look up.  Make eye contact, smile with your mouth (as best you can with something in it, doesn’t have to be your big birthday party/just got a raise at work/spiteful selfie smile), then get back to the task at hand.  By doing this, you’re sending a sweet message of “Hey Captain, I’m handling things below deck, so take a load off, stand on the bow and just enjoy the view!”.

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