Carnal Embrace

We know all about a straight man’s ultimate fantasy. We don’t even need to stop and think. It’s double the pleasure: four boobs, four hands, two punanis, two asses, two sets of mouths, and almost too much libido for him to handle. Two dames at the same time, both eager to attend to him.

I demand equal opportunity. Doesn’t it make more sense for me, a woman, to have two guys? After all, I’ve got a hole, a hand, and a boob for each man. I thought guys were supposed to be better at math. Guess not.

The threesome is no longer the straight man’s fantasy. I’m reclaiming it. Threesomes for all: queer, straight, man, woman. We all want double the attention.

But most people don’t ever get beyond the fantasy stage. And if they ever do see their threesome become a reality, they go about it all wrong. It makes me sad, really. Why must you ruin your sexual sandwich? In the end, you, the big hunka cheese, are going to stand alone.

Before you come in your pants thinking about that imminent ménage à trois, heed some well-meaning advice. I’m gonna impart some wisdom your momma never had. (Or maybe she did, saucy minx!) (more…)

Ah, the elusive orgasm. It’s so frustrating when you just can’t get it right. You’re down there for what seems like days, thrusting and pumping and fiddling and pulling. It’s as if you’re waiting for Godot, but I’m pretty sure an orgasm is more welcome than he will ever be.

I’ve been in that boat before. Well, it was a car. There we were, getting each other off. It was my turn to ride the climax coaster. The coaster broke down. I started to feel bad. Poor guy, he’s been at it for . . . what? 30 minutes? The climax wasn’t going to come — I wasn’t going to come — so I faked the coming. I always make it my business to come.

When you’re by yourself though (or even with a partner), faking doesn’t solve your need for sexual release. You need to real deal, that great O that accompanies “___ my god,” “___ shit,” “___ Fred, sorry, Jack,” and the “___ shit” again.

A little while ago, someone left a blog comment, someone in pursuit of her orgasm. She writes:

i have tried many things: males, masturbating, googling “female orgasm”,
etc. to no avail. i just get bored. am i just anatomically challenged? what should i
try? any vibrators that are “sure things”?

(more…)

Earlier this week I covered (or rather uncovered) the intricacies of the bosom. In a similar vein, I’d like to expand the discussion to erogenous zones (EZ is easier).

In the presumptious film The Meaning of Life, the Monty Python troupe best — and most cheekily — introduces a few EZ’s in a scene at a school. We happen upon the beginning of a most awkward sex education lecture, in which Mr. Humphrey quizzes his pupils:

Humphrey: So, just listen. Now, did I or did I not… do… vaginal… juices?
Pupils: Mmm. Mmm. Yes, sir. Yes, sir.
Humphrey: Name two ways of getting them flowing, Watson.
Watson: R - rubbing the clitoris, sir?
Humphrey: What’s wrong with a kiss, boy? Hmm? Why not start her off with a nice kiss? You don’t have to go leaping straight for the clitoris like a bull at a gate. Give her a kiss, boy.
Wymer: Suck the nipple, sir?
Humphrey: Good. Good. Well done, Wymer.
Pupil: Uh, stroking the thighs, sir.
Humphrey: Yes. Yes, I suppose so. Hmm?
Pupil: Oh, sir. Biting the neck.
Humphrey: Yes. Good. Nibbling the earlobe, uhh, kneading the buttocks, and so on and so forth. So, we have all these possibilities before we stampede towards the clitoris, Watson.
Watson: Yes, sir. Sorry, sir.

(more…)

I have a little ditty all ’bout titties. I’m not afraid to admit that I LOVE BOOBS. Not just my own. I like to stare at other boobs, to envy them, to think about them. There is something in their round, perky, bouncy nature that is just so damn fascinating.

And this fascination holds true for many people, regardless of sexual orientation or gender. One of my gay guy friends loves to feel his fag hag’s fun bags. I’m not sure if it is a sexual or sensual pleasure for him, but I’m sure glad he appreciates roaming her mountains. Or hills, rather. She ain’t that big.

Whether you’re a member of the itty bitty titty committee, a ‘normous knockers nymph, or a wight without, you need to at least respect the womanly chest. Maybe even love it. After all, we’ve all suckled on some mammaries when we were babies. (And if you didn’t, you missed out and should make up for lost time.)

Boobs are important. Truly madly deeply they are. Some women can even orgasm from a nice fluff of their dirty pillows. (more…)

How much is too much? How many sexual partners? Ten? Thirty? Just one?

I’ve met people — OK, guys (many girls are reluctant to talk honestly and specifically about their sexual partners) — with various amounts of sexual partners. There was one man in particular who said he didn’t keep track, but when he had to come up with a number, he estimated a hundred or so.

ONE HUNDRED?! I must admit that even I was grossed out.

Then there are those other guys. They are smart, articulate, sexy, and confident. What’s their number? Zero. Nil. Zilch.

Don’t ask. I don’t get it either.

When it comes down to the number of sexual partners, many people worry about that dreaded point, the point of no return - that number at which they have officially become too promiscuous, dirty, unlovable. The metaphorical used, battered, past-its-prime village bicycle with its handlebars bent, the lumpy seat eroded, and one wheel sans tire. That will be you.

Like so.