Tag Archives: foreplay

Sex & Food: Together Again?

I’m a foodie. Yes, I am.

And I got to tell ya, he prospect of regular sex has begun to loom, and this excites me considerably. Sets me all a-flutter, truth be told. But, you know, for all those strenuous hours of fun that potentially loom, one requires fuel. Enter food.

So I’m not sure what excites me more at this point — the prospect of regular sex, or the possibility of having someone to cook for again.

I’m a sensualist in every way. For example, my apartment is great and comfortable and is geared to stimulate every sense and look good whilst doing it. Loves me some music and candles. My food tastes run from down-home to exotic. I have a sophisticated palate, technical skill, and can invent food on a whim that’d blow your mind. I came damn close to going to culinary school back in the day but realized I didn’t want to work THAT hard for a living.

I’m also a Slow Food fan. I believe life moves quickly, and that food is important to us. I think we lose soul when we stop valuing food. I think we lose passion when we stop eating things that excite us.

I love the notion of Slow in all aspects of life — from sex to food to living. I’m present here and now in all areas of my life. I want my food to be of my time, I want to eat fresher, eat more clean food that I know I’ve prepared from scratch. I want local produce, quality meats and fish. I want artisan treats. That’s Slow.

But… when I’m single for too long, then a nice meal becomes the exception. I take shortcuts. I embrace things like Hamburger Helper and Sidekicks or sandwiches/panini or soups I eat for six days. I mean, it’s flavourful-functional, at best.

When I’m involved, however, I’m both a sensualist and a show-off. Perhaps a Moroccan chicken pie with organic greens? Maybe risotto and lamb? And while the lover of mine gets to enjoy the dividends… my life is richer for it, too.

Even better yet is when said lover is similarly a skilled foodie, because then we can tool around in the kitchen and spend the night nibbling fantastic things along with each other, and savouring good drinks. My god, does that titillate me.

There is absolutely nothing in the world I enjoy better than staying home with a lover and locking the door for a weekend, cooking fantastic food at lazy intervals between real-frequent and varied sex, napping when necessary, and catching up on movies during meals and lulls. The original rinse-and-repeat experience. And repeat, and repeat.

With the right company? Fuck, there’s no better time to be had. At home, anyhow. It’s the poor person’s vacation.

People who don’t think sex and food are intricately linked… y’all are doin’ it wrong.

It’s not a matter of taste. You’re just wrong. Flat-out. Inarguable.

(Sex + food) is like (peanut butter + chocolate). It seems like it’s always been a winning combination, and always will be.

Whether it’s Cleopatra feeding Anthony grapes from a silver platter in ancient Egypt, Adam enticing Eve with an apple, or you slipping your lover chocolate-dipped strawberries in the here and now with a champagne kicker, food hits a different kind of erogenous zone, but it hits, baby.

Besides, it’s fuel. Fill me up and watch me go-go. Sigh. Oh, the possibilities.

__________

*PS: Yes, I’ve lost about 50 pounds. I don’t feel like I’ve been dieting. I work out a lot. I could lose more weight faster by eating less and pretending cheese and alcohol don’t exist. But why would I do that? Fucking hell. Diets are for people who like to take pain. Just silly. Instead, make healthier choices and be aware of calories burned v taken in. Simple. I’m better at math than I thought. :)

If it takes me another year to lose the other 50 pounds (this 50 took 8 months) but I’m eating cheese, pizza, sausages, and drinking booze regularly, then fucking A. All the power to me. I’d much rather health-fully indulge (my choices are better and when I do go off the hook, it’s in moderation) and feel like I’m alive than feel like I’m cutting myself off from life with deprivation. I don’t do deprivation well. So, eat? I will. Might even have seconds. But I’ll deal with it the next day. See? Work ethic! :)

A Frank Posting about Giving Head

I refused to give my “partner” head last weekend. This came as a shock. Having been somewhat drunk on good red wine, I had a good excuse. Truth is, it was an excuse.

Somehow, in all my writing, I’ve apparently made it sound like sitting around with a penis in my mouth is about the best thing I could imagine doing. Like my thoughts are along the lines, always, of “Oh, GOLLY! A cock in my mouth! I’ll take two!”

While some people are that type, and I wish ’em all the power, I’m not. I’m unaware of how this perception that I am has come to be, so let’s clear that up for a second.

I am penis-positive. It’s not the penis, it’s me. More on that after.

Here’s the deal. There seems to be more or less three schools of thought out there on giving head. One is that it’s the best thing ever and having a penis in the mouth is like life coming up all sunshine and roses albeit on the salty side of it all. The second is that it’s a necessary evil, and something one partner does for the other, because that’s just how things are done. The third is that it’s an icky-icky thing to do, and not gonna happen on some people’s watch. (Silly people.)

I don’t fit in any of those categories.

I’m not crazy about a penis in my mouth. Honestly, I’m not. I’m not adverse to it, either. (Well, sometimes.) It’s just not one of those things for me.

However…

My “aversion” is physiological. I mean, I’ve always been one of those people who’s not crazy about taking pills and has to fight the gag reflex at the dentist, so sometimes a blowjob just isn’t that fun… other than what I get out of it — providing that little something for a partner that you just can’t get out of any other sex act. And it’s worth it, for that. Absolutely, without a doubt. Even if it means fighting the gag reflex.

That said…

I really, really enjoy giving one of those detail-focused, drawn-out blowjobs to a guy I’m genuinely into. But it’s not about the blowjob as much it’s about what I’m doing to HIM. It’s about the pleasuring and teasing and taunting, taking to the edge and backing off, and doing it again and again until I’m through with him. That’s quite fun. Yes, it is. It’s power and generosity and control and gift-giving and dominance and wickedness and affection and play, all bundled up into one awesome thing.

I know that blowjobs are something I’m really, really good at. Like, really. There’s a reason my three-year-old Good Girl’s Guide to Giving Great Head [part 1 is here, part 2 is here] is a hugely plagiarized blowjob-giving sex-tip writing on the web, you know.

I believe, if you’re going to do something, you better goddamned do it well. Being a Brownie, Girl Guide, going to Catholic school, and being a librarian and bookseller* has served me well. I’m a keener to perform my services to the best of my abilities, I have a powerful work ethic, overwhelming guilt when I fail, but I’m well-read enough to get it done right the first time.

Having said that? I’m not keen to bring out my number one trick, something I consider the most intimate thing I can do to a man, for any old shag. I’m liable to casually sleep with a man before I’ll give him head, if that makes any sense to you at all.

Nothing like keeping some surprises around about just how far you’ll go to please someone. Always be improving, right? Never stagnate.

Or at least that’s my motto, as old-fashioned as this lay-first, head-later mentality of mine sort of seems.

But I think it’s important to distinguish that, for some of us, it’s not about the penis, it’s about the act and the gift of the action. Maybe that’s not ideal in some mens’ minds, I don’t know, but it’s certainly worked all right in my endeavours.

Any thoughts you’d like to share, dear reader? Femmes, you relate at all, or…?

I Done Sprung, Baby

I’m a sexually peaking 32-year-old woman who’s just been hit with her first full dose of spring fever. I need sex, and I want it now.

Tonight I hung out with my first sex blogger for some cool conversation, some Guinness, a stroll, and a bus ride. A nice night. I noticed then as we wandered to the waterfront that it was warmer than I’d have expected. Seasonal. Nice. A little damp, a little chilly, but there it was. Warmer than it oughta be, fresher than dawn on a mountain. A spring night. The first real one.

We hit the bus, he got off at his stop for the hotel, and I carried on my merry way. Two folks quickly sat down opposite me, in a portion of the bus where the aisle expanse is at its narrowest. They were inches from my knees and the sexual energy was just incredible. Wow. You could tell they were on the verge, and they’ve been lodged on that precipice for some time. They’ve clearly known each other for a little, and they’ve connected on a different level. Now, it’s averted gazes, bashful smiles, and too much self-touching.

(You know what I mean, you smooth out your jeans, adjust a pocket, straighten your sleeve – but it’s really just nervous tension, and you know it. These two were popping.)

She was this geeky-chic alt-edge white girlie with these naughty librarian specs, a beret, tapered velvet pants that snaked down her mile-high legs. She used to be a redhead, partially dyed black. In her lap, a wood-mounted freshly sculpted clay statuette (yet to be baked) of a nubile goddess. Her smile was that of a sexy affected intellectual.

Hell, I wanted her.

He was this sexy alternative Middle Eastern guy with chiseled features, smoky eyes, this birthmark on his forehead that looked like a smudge of ash, and this oh-so-perfect little soulpatch (mm) under his tender full lips. His jeans were loose in all the right places, but snug in the better ones. He had a nervous twitch in his left leg and kept bouncing his knee an inch or two up in a fidgety manner that said he really didn’t want to be looking at the floor as she spoke about whatever it was that was moving her then, but would rather be on the floor on top of her.

Hell, I wanted him.

Yet there was this great connection on the level of friends. These shy recognitions exchanged in glances, furtive moments of silence and awkward chuckles. So fucking sexy, so hot.

They each went home alone, to my surprise. He disembarked at my stop, and I hung back to watch those sweet half-moon cheeks swaggering up the drag. “Hate to see you leave, love to watch you go.”

And then I realized it. I’m just full of lust, morning, noon, and night these days. I find when I’m able to shut it off for a few hours for work or platonic socializing or whatever, whammo. Girl’s back to raging. God damned peaking.

The sexual peak is the age at which your frequency of sexual arousal reaches an all-time high. It has nothing to do with skill or frequency of being laid. It’s hormones ripening. Men, 16-18, women, 32-35. I’m 32. Wham. I’m on, 24-7. Bulges in jeans on the street are targeted in my sights from a two-block distance. I watch them approach. The shifting side-to-side. I watch asses, always. Shoulders, nice broad and strong ones. I feel dysfunctional. I’m a voyeur every waking moment. Raging. Sigh.

But it was also at that moment that it hit me: It’s spring.

I began to pass nearly sprung apple blossoms, exposed fluffy cherry blossoms. I smelled honeysuckle. I walked my 10 blocks home with my suede jacket dangling open and only my embroidered cotton shirt protecting me. Blissful. Stars glimmering overhead. That freshness that tells you winter’s on the outs. I breathed deeply. Stopped to stare at the stars, smell the air. Shuffled my feet in a lazy amble on home, savouring the walk as long as I could. I even paused to hang in the school playground. Leaning back on the swing, checking the stars.

God, I love the laziness of spring. The easy pace, the affable air. Mm. A very, very happy Steff.

And now, I want sex even more. Actually, no, you know what I want tonight? Intimacy.

The casual heat of just knowing someone well enough to toy endlessly with their bits and pieces as you lie stretched out, soaking in a classic movie or an intelligent foreign flick, sipping wine, candles flickering, naked, skin-on-skin, a blanket draped loosely over you both, a breast hanging out, toes protruding, legs interlocked, occasionally emitting single lines of commentary to each other, getting only a nibble or a bite in response. Just an easy night in.

That’s what I want. That says spring to me. Spring is seasonal foreplay. It’s suggestive of the heat to come. A delicate tease meant to stoke you and ready you for all to come. It’s so fitting, doing prolonged tease and toy sessions, just getting intimate with all they have to offer. Yep. Spring.

Then there’s outdoor sex, the sport of the season… fucking on the grass near the beach, but that’s another story for another time. Yes, do remind me to tackle the subject of public sex sometime. Ahh, how do I love it. Let me count the ways. Oh, my. Yes, that is also what this season says to me. “Get out and play.” Just dew it, baby.

So, my wish to you all: A fine and fair spring, with plenty of fun fucking and frolicking of all kinds. God knows I’ve got one on order. Let’s hope the season delivers.

The Fine Art of Massage

For me, one of the most passionate things I can do for a man is a massage, and if he does it right, likewise.

I take massages very, very seriously. A great massage takes you to a different place. Paying for a massage is one thing, but receiving one from a lover fills me with raw desire while setting me on a wave of bliss.

Contours

I’ve been known to deliberately give male friends shitty massages. In fact, I generally try to avoid touching them at all. Keeps shit simple. I’d be in a world of trouble if they knew the truth about me. Seems a little late for that now, though.

I love giving hour-long full-body massages. I love to trade them like favours. It’s a delightfully erotic evening in.

For a woman, I have strong hands. They’re broader across the palm, and my fingers are pretty solid. I can apply a lot of pressure, and the nice thing is, my hands and fingers are perfectly shaped for massage. They’re not sharp and bony, and digging into tissue isn’t invasive.

But you can always adjust your technique if you don’t have the “right” hands. The trick is, when you’re massaging with fingers, to make sure the portion coming in contact is that part under the crease, over your top joint nearest your finger tip. This allows you to use the rounded-yet-flat surface to keep your lover most relaxed.

I need to ask you all a question. Is it just me, or is there a point where fingernails get too long? I don’t let mine grow past my fingertip. Long enough to trace over skin, but short enough not to gouge. Lord knows a man better manicure before he starts giving me an external, nevermind internal. Those little jutting bits on nails can cause an awful lot of pain.

While I'm here, shall I rim you?

I digress. The heel of the palm is the best part of your hand when it comes to massage. Lord, is it ever. And the outer ridge of your thumb, as it extends down towards your wrist. This works the best when you’re squeezing ligaments and muscles on the shoulder tops and neck area, as well as the arms, legs, and the always-yummy ass.

It’s a shame my skills are going to waste, really. I have so much to contribute to mankind. What a sin.

Anyhow, for you, my friends, in anticipation of next weekend’s hijinks, some recipes for massage oils as included in InterCourses: An Aphrodisiacs Cookbook, one of my most prized cookbooks. From Terrace Books, published in 1997. (You think my photography array on here’s yummy? Check out that book. Makes you want seconds.)

But if you haven’t the time to cook up a love potion, I highly recommend “Love Butter” by Auracacia. (The link takes you to a site selling it cheaper than I’ve seen it before.)

It’s solid cocoa butter scented with the essence of ylang-ylang oil, whose properties are that of an aphrodisiac. It’s worked like a charm for me. Definitely a recipient of the Steff Seal of Success. When you put it on skin, it melts, literally like butter in your hand. Not unlike the massage recipient when he/she experiences it. Just enough slippage, just enough friction, the perfect combination for a sensual massage.

The recipes.

ge05

“yummy yummy juicy warm”
to 1 ounce jojoba oil, add:
21 drops sandlewood oil
6 drops of ylang-ylang
5 drops steam-distilled lime

“the heady oil of good feelings”
to 1 ounce jojoba oil, add:
13 drops Frankensence
6 drops patchouli
5 drops steam-distilled lime

“relieve anxiety, restore balance”
to 1 ounce jojoba oil, add:
6 drops geranium
6 drops clary sage
6 drops ylang-ylang

“sultry-sweet aphrodisiac potion”
to 1 ounce jojoba oil, add:
3 drops jasmine
34 drops sandlewood

(as written in the book:)
mixing your own massage is a simple process to follow: simply mix 6 to 8 parts of essential oil for every 1/8th cup (25 ml or 1 fl. oz) of base oil. essential oils are available at health food and natural food stores. vegetable oils work nicely as the base — try almond, avocado, olive, sunflower, hazelnut, or jojoba. mix with your signature concoction of essential oils. store in an airtight container in a cool, dark place.*

*steff’s tip? store it in the fridge. buy yourself one of those little electric plug-in cup warmers for hot beverages at work, and put it bedside. when you’re wanting to heat things up with your lover of choice, fill a small bowl with the oil before the massage, and place it on the warmer. hot oil, hot massage, hot night.

the above recipes from InterCourses by way of the Aromatherapy Catalogue.