I stirred up a little controversy with this posting the other day when I said most women didn’t like porn sex. C’mon, a girl can have some fun, n’est ce pas?
I love aggressive sex. I love a mix. I come with my own multi-speed. I can’t do the same thing all the time, and when I get given the green light, you bet your ass I can bring added elements into the game. I go from frolicking to ferocious and back again in mere minutes. Never, ever be predictable. That’s my motto.
I wanted to stir a little controversy with that posting, though. Yes, it was in absolutes, and yes, it was tongue-in-cheek. Let me explain things in a little more level-headed manner, then.
Here’s the gist of it: Don’t fucking assume you know what your lover wants. Don’t assume that because you saw it on TV, it’s definitely gonna be working out for them. Talk and find out what page you’re on. Figure out what you’re wanting to do to each other, and know where you’re going to go, to a degree. (I mean, you never want to script these things. It’s about going with the moment. It’s like planning your vacations – sure, having an itinerary is nice, but isn’t a little spontaneity a good way to go, too?)
Be open with your lover, be accepting of hearing what they want, let them know you’re not going to judge them for their desires, make sure they realize that fantasies and wishes are nothing to be ashamed of, that we all have little weird things we’d like to experience, and it’s okay. That’s what you’re there for, for god’s sake. (And it’s always okay to say no. Just don’t judge.)
There are a lot of women out there, particularly, who are terrified of asking for what they really want. They’re scared they’ll be judged. They’re scared they’ll be perceived as being a dirty whore. They need to know they’re in a situation where they can ask for what they want.
That’s why what happens in Vegas, stays in Vegas.
When you’re in your bedroom, or wherever you choose to play, you can be any character you want to be. It should never, ever colour or tint who you are as a person outside of the bounds of play – unless you choose to allow that.
It’s absolutely possible to know how to wield a riding crop and pick the lock of pair of handcuffs, and still be a good, caring person. It’s possible to groan “Fuck me with your throbbing hard cock, you beast” and teach kindergarten. Duality’s possible in the human condition, but the right to privacy in a bedroom’s something everyone deserves.
(Pity the US government’s missed that memo.)
A safe environment needs to exist, and whether a woman wants to be fucked like Jenna Jameson is something she has every right to decide, but not something she should be judged for. Men need to allow their partners the duality of being as bad as they wanna be, without assuming any moral judgments on that behaviour.
And women absolutely need to allow men to speak to their fantasies, too, without judging them. So he would love a three-way, how does it hurt you to know that? The fantasy existed before you, and it will exist after you’re gone. If you’re not interested, you say so, but never, ever judge a lover for saying what they wish they could have.
Hell, I’ve known men who’ve fantasized about three-ways but never actually want to have one, for instance, but sharing that fantasy validated them because it allowed them to put an image to words with someone they wanted to share it with.
Never underestimate the bond of having open communication. Being able to talk about these things can be one of the most erotic experiences you share. Allow the conversations to map the terrain you plan to explore as time passes.
Keep Vegas in Vegas, baby, but keep on rolling them dice.
Tag Archives: sexuality
Sexy: Quantifiable? Bogart to the Rescue
Every day, somebody somewhere sputters, “They ain’t makin’ ‘em like they usedta.”
And this is true. So, there I was, watching The Maltese Falcon, thinking about what it is about Bogey that gets me hot and bothered every single goddamned time. See, a guy recently emailed me to lightly chastise me for erroneously attributing the “When you’re slapped, you’ll take it and like it,” line of Bogey’s to him making Peter Lorre his bitch. (It has been at the bottom of this blog’s sidebar since day one, the bottom of my original blog’s sidebar, too.) I told him I thought I was right, and just moved on (and, yes, I am right). Today, I dug out the disc and began watching it, savouring the flick along with my toasted and buttered peasant bread, and dank, dank New Zealand cheddar, and dark coffee.
And just like the butter, I slowly melted as I watched Bogey; lying there on the floor, longing for a man who has that same mix of brashness and humour and sensitivity and lust and brood to step out of the shadows to a saxophone soundtrack playing behind the scenes in my life.
Goddamned right they ain’t making them like they used to. They’ve never made ‘em like Bogey. It’s a fucking crime his career wasn’t longer.
What makes him sexy? Scratch that. What is sexy? What is it that turns us on and keeps us revving? How do we define an idea, an intangible? For some women, it’s a guy wearing only a jock under seersucker pants. For others, it’s cracked and aged black leather paired with jeans and a wife-beater and topped with stubble (sigh). For still more, it’s that metrosexual gleam that comes from the coif and the couture.
But Bogey, he had none of that. A face like a weathered horse, the man was no Errol Flynn. His voice had that gravelly vocal twang and he always had that inimitable sparkle in his eye when he grinned or leered. He oozed sexuality in a time of repression, and because he didn’t have the lustful good looks of the A-List stars, he got away with it. He was an average guy that could eyeball a woman in a way that conveyed exactly the kind of confident and daring lover you knew he’d be. You just knew he’d pin you against the wall and devour you. You knew he’d be as comfortable submitting to you as dominating you. It just showed.
There’s something about the way a man can unapologetically own a woman through his looks (or vice versa), yet offer no intimidation by ever even suggesting it’s about ownership. There’s something about expressing lust through your eyes – real, true, now-here, for-as-long-as-we-can lust. And Bogey broke the ground and set the pace for an entire legion of men who’d grow up wanting to have what he exemplified. Bogey set a new standard for sexy, something we’re still trying to figure out in this day and age of plastic surgery and air-brushing, and something we keep missing the mark of.
It’s not about the dimples, the white teeth, the hard body, the fine coif. It’s about you knowing what you want and knowing how to show it. It’s about learning how to communicate with your eyes, with your lips, with your words, with your body language. How to think something like, “I’d love to throw you down and keep you there until we’re both utterly spent and gasping in musky pools of our own sweat” and let it be read only through your eyes and the purse of your lips.
And Bogey, he had that. Throw into it the ability to adopt dozens of different smiles, the coy mannerisms of his foot shuffle, his playful body language and suggestive head tilts, the way he searched a room or his scene’s companion for changes in mood and worked with it, and that incredible focus he had in his gaze, and the guy could be 5’1 and a buck-10, and he’d still have the sex appeal of an animal. Some guys just have it, and Bogey, he did.
I’ve known a couple guys who had it, and to this day I see their faces in my mind some nights when I’m alone, or even with a man. They’re always unforgettable, those guys, but it’s that gleam in the eye you remember. Yep. There’s something about a gleam… and it’s one of the reasons leaving the lights on during sex is so fucking hot. Too many of us can’t muster that gleam outside the act itself, so leaving the lights enables you to see your lover drinking you in like that… well, mm, there’s not many images that you just want to freeze-frame forever, but that’s sure as hell one of them.
Me, I’m very conscious of how and what I emote with my eyes. There are guys who set my eyes a blazin’ and I make a point of letting that show. Those nights, I don’t even have to mention that sex is on the mind, it’s just that damned obvious. It’s not needy or desperate, it’s confident and suggestive. You don’t even have to say the words. It’s like seeing a movie with a great director pulling the strings, some things are left unsaid but are unmistakably clear in intent. It’s fucking hot, whoever’s doing it, and it’s part of what defines sexy. Knowing what you want, and being ballsy enough to show it. Or just damned well taking it (when consent is obvious).
When it comes to men, it’s a pity there aren’t more Bogeys. Or Js. Or Clints. Or Newmans. Or Depps. Sure, the latter are pretty boys, but it’s more than that. They discovered sexy, what it really means, what it really is. That it’s a quality, not a look, not an image, not a brand name. It’s just a thing inside you that you learn to put on display, and it’s uniquely you, whatever it is. You find your way to that place, that confident spot, and it compensates immeasurably. It just shows.
Unleashing Your Vixen: Moves From the Bottom
Woman on Bottom bravely asked a few of those questions most women don’t ask because they’re too embarrassed. How does a woman, under her lover, get involved and change the pace of things when he’s thrusting away? And also, does a Vixen’s role change when it’s lovemaking as opposed to fucking, and vice versa?
Let’s tackle part two first. The difference between “lovemaking” and “fucking” is a mood, an edge. Fucking’s when animalism comes out to play. It’s when the emotions hit a fever pitch. Lovemaking’s true intimacy and tends to be more about exploring your lover (if you’re doing it right, that is) and expressing how you feel. Now, this is very much in theory. I don’t know about your lovelife, but those distinctions apply well to mine.
So, then, here’s the thing. You do the same stuff. It’s not that complicated. It’s just about the edge and how hard you go for it — so to speak.
For fucking, you bite a little more, a little harder. You dig your heels deeper, your fingernails scratch harder. You thrust or squeeze or whatever you do, faster, harder, and more greedily. It’s a mood thing. The actions are essentially all the same.
It’s kind of the difference between pedalling a bike along a nice, flat seashore, and taking in all the scenery, working consistently and over a long period, versus getting that bike up a monster hill with the sweating, teeth-gritting, and panting that comes with it. You go with the mood.
I really don’t think you need to worry too much about changing things up. Learn to just go with the moment. And if you apply the wrong amount of intensity, who cares? So you’ve gotten a little overeager in lovemaking and it switches gears a little to some down’n’dirty fucking. Is that really so wrong? Stop overthinking it. Go with it. Feel the moment and see where it takes you.
Odds are, accidentally switching to fucking from lovemaking will leave you both spent and laughing and thrilled. Hardly an unfortunate accident.
All right. Back to the beginning.
He’s over you, in you, on you. Thrusting. His eyes are closed, he’s concentrating, keeping his rhythm, and he’s used to you doing this – very, very little – so he’s not really too worried about you. Occasionally he plants a kiss on your neck, a token reminder that in other galaxies, in alter-existences, this tango would be danced by two. He continues thrusting, biting on his bottom lip now, clenching his eyes shut, maybe imagining what it would be like if you suddenly couldn’t get enough of him, and you start to think, “Geez. It’d be nice if I felt a little more involved. What should I do first?”
The easiest thing to do is always to start nibbling on his neck, biting, sucking, and nibbling on his neck. Keep it light and simple – hickeys are fun for folks who can get away with it, but are a real pain in the ass when we can’t, and I’m speaking from experience, when a hickey caused a world of grief for me at work. After all, that’s why we wear shirts: Put the fucking hickey on the shoulder, on the chest, on the ass, anywhere you want, but think twice about the neck.
Don’t spend too long on the neck, if shifting the mood’s what you want to do. Begin sinking your teeth into his shoulder, biting a bit.
While you’re dining on Grade-A shoulder, you can reach around him. Press your palms flat on his shoulderblades and drive your hands firmly, with an awful lot of friction, all down his back, over his ass. Squeeze his cheeks, dig your nails in if you want to, and maybe even use a finger to tease him in the crack of his anus. If you’ve been seldom involved, then THAT will should show him that something turned your lightbulb on. “I’ve been reading,” you can tell him.
During all this, you really, really become absolutely in the moment.
Focus on how things feel – know what’s happening to your body. Focus on his rigid girth sliding in and out of you, how warm and good that cock feels, how it feels when it’s moving from shallow into deeper passes and back again. Focus on the slapping sounds, really try to follow what’s happening with your lover’s body.
Feel the moment, like I said, and let it take you where you should go. Be the moment, Grasshopper.
Let the moment lead you, don’t worry about “But Steff said shoulder-back-palms…” NO, I suggested it. Mostly, just let the moment and what you really wanna do deep down in that dirty place you usually ignore.
As you grow to study your lover’s moves more and more, you’ll be able to start anticipating things,& you’ll know what it takes to really heighten the moment, via thrusting, biting, whatever, but that knowledge comes from studying – how does he move, what feels best for you?
If you shift yourself slightly, does his penis hit somewhere else inside you, a better place? Know these feelings.
It’s different for every single one of us, so you need to be the documentarian who’s keeping notes on how to vamp up her own sex life. Capische?
So, as you’re nibbling/biting/sucking/putting those god-given lips to good use — and those hands, they should always be working the moment one way or another, even if you’re rubbing your own clit as he thrusts (they like that, too) — you find his rhythm and you respond.
I don’t care if he’s 280 pounds – you should be strong enough to start doing some thrusting in sync with his. Every time his pelvis lifts, yours sinks back into the mattress. When he lowers to thrust into you, you raise your pelvis up into his. You thrust as hard as you can, on beat, every time.
It’s easier to thrust on the bottom if you have your knees bent and your feet planted — or with legs wrapped around him — but as you exercise those lumbar muscles and lower ab muscles, you’ll start getting stronger and better at thrusting in nearly any position you find yourself in. If you learn how to move from the hips themselves instead of using your whole groin area to thrust, you’ll find the movements to be sharper, more intense, and with more payback at his end (and thus at yours).
And it’s important to get your muscles stronger so you can thrust in any position, because there’s not a lot of men who don’t love the feeling of having a woman’s legs wrapped right around their waist during sex.
What’s really great about wrapping your legs around a guy, when things are heating up and you’re really into the moment, you can use your legs to pull him as tight and hard and deep into you as possible. Your legs will be wrapped around the small of his back at this point. After he’s thrust down into you, squeeze and hold him there, tight. For men, I’m told most of their sensation’s both at the head of the penis or the base of the shaft, so when you’re pulling him in hard, he’ll be really, really enjoying the moment. Keep your legs there but release some pressure, and let him resume thrusting, but if you want to be playful, you can cutely instruct him, “Mine. Stay!” Or something along those lines. Get dirtier if you want to, since I find that fun. Be careful, though, because this could feel TOO good for him and you might prematurely end your fun.
The thing about talking during sex, though, and I’ve been guilty of stupidity on this front like almost everywoman in the world, is that it’s important to try and steer away from routine things. Keep the sentiments short and to the point, and keep the focus on action, not conversation so much.
Say things, but don’t expound, unless it’s about something happening then and there that can be improved or changed.
The more you say, the more you run the risk of saying the wrong thing and wrecking the mood. Let’s face it, during sex, our brains aren’t getting nearly the blood nor oxygen it desires, so let’s not overwork the thing, shall we? Keep the blood where it belongs. Flowing in your loins.
Back to using your legs. It’s funny that so many women think there’s nothing they can do being under a guy. It’s just a silly thought.
Using your legs defines how everything feels. Using your legs to change your body angles even slightly affects the way his cock feels (to both him and you) as he slides in and out. Some positions allow you to feel him even deeper, harder.
The thing is, you need to get into those positions, you need to explore them.
Wrapping legs around the hips, a great start.
So’s intertwining your legs lengthwise with his and locking them into place via scooping your foot under his shins or something can allow you to use your muscles then to clench everything in your abdominal and vaginal and anal region. This can really make it a nice, tight, arousing fit for your man of choice. It tightens all the muscles so he’s getting more of a vice grip on his shaft, something most men’ll tell you is a good thing – but, AGAIN, too much of a good thing can result in him blowing his load early, especially if having you involved is a shock to his system.
Therefore, don’t let the moment become a marathon, hey?
One of my all-time favourite moves, and I’m not sure quite what I like about it so much, but it’s probably along the lines that it has an awful lot of deep sensation and is closest to some of the classic moves like doggy style, is the one in this photo. All you need to do is either push him back a little or ask him to kneel for a second, then pull your legs up in front of his chest and put your ankles over his shoulder. This position feels so goddamned good but you need to be a little flexible to pull it off. (I’m not some size 6 with yoga classes under her belt, but yeah, I can bend. You might surprise yourself, too. Try it. If it hurts, you can always stop. Bet it feels purty good, though.)
Personally, I find it excellent for low-back problems, but that’s not going to apply universally. If you can handle it, do it, because men have a lot to love about this position, too. Guys are visual and they absolutely love watching their penis slide in and out of a woman, and this position not only gives them the vantage point from which to see that, but unlike doggy and a few other positions, it allows them to see your face as they take you to the edge – and your breasts as they bounce side to side and up and down with every thrust the men make. Seeing the face, though, there’s something undeniably amazing about knowing it’s you who’s caused that look of agonized ecstasy to spill across a person’s face, and I suppose it’s one of the factors I enjoy about this position. I love watching him watching me.
Finally, the easiest, and still one of my faves, and allows for some of the sensation of the above position without you having to ask him to move, is while he’s thrusting, simply use your hands to pull your knees up to your chest (by his shoulders) in a classic knee-to-chest leg-stretch. A lot of feeling, allows for a really deep thrust, and he’s guaranteed to love it. You can alter the sensation here, too, by moving back and forth between allowing your back round out (sort of like the cat pose in yoga) and then arch away from him. It’ll drastically affect how it feels, but definitely be careful if it’s your first time trying those, since it could be a bit challenging on a virgin back. But, yeah, back and forth — arching, rounding — subs in for thrusting, giving him the same amount of contribution from you, but in a sensationally different manner. Give it a go.
As your legs tire a bit, you can take breaks by letting your legs wrap around him again. I advise going back and forth between these positions during a single session, if you’re looking to change things up a bit. A moment or two in this position, a moment or two in that.
But, hey, there’s a lot to be said for seeing one thing through, too. Every time is different. And should be.
Just GO with it. Stop thinking! Start feeling! Ignore society’s advice to act on logic, not emotion. Feel the moment and let it take you where you should go. That’s all it takes.
And don’t worry — “feeling the moment” will take you to newer, bolder, more different places as time passes, because the lover you are within will change and grow as you lighten up and think less. Being the best lover we can be doesn’t happen over night, it takes years, decades, because it’s not just about skill — it’s about being truly open and comfortable with yourself, and that’s the journey we’re all after for the whole of our lives.
And here’s where it really starts to take hold.
There’s more on this topic to come.
(The photo is from SexyFX.com, an awesome site.)
Unleashing Your Vixen: Some Serious Thoughts
Do you ever have those moments when clarity comes up behind you with a baseball bat and beats the hell out of you?
You get up, groggy, woozy, disoriented, but shit, you know better now, man.
I’ve been avoiding getting into this Vixen thing. The problem with procrastination is that you avoid things so much that you fail to even become aware of why the avoidance is there in the first place.
But then clarity comes along with that fucking bat and, sooner or later, you clue the hell in. Like I did about 30 minutes ago. For some reason, today I feel like I’m Frodo walking across that marshland with all the corpses under the surface of the pondwater. I feel like I’m about to go under, like there’s some kinda tether wrapped around my heart and strung to the reeds below the surface, tugging me down and trying to seduce me into the dark.
It sounds really intense, but it’s not as bad as it sounds. Sure, it feels like that, but it’s a really surreal feeling, like there’s a bubble around me, like there’s all these dead little faces floating around me of people who think they’re alive, but really just aren’t. That I’m sitting around in utter silence on a freezing day in February might be adding to those Dali-esque proportions, so maybe I’ll just browse my iTunes here and stoke up a change of pace. When in doubt, go with the Butthole Surfers, that’s my policy.
This week, the week that follows Valentine’s Day, is the least favourite of my year. In a span of six days falls the anniversary of when the docs found a grapefruit-sized tumour in my mother’s belly and her birthday. Yes, that’s been on my mind. She has been on my mind an awful lot, particularly in relation to this topic. I, more than anything else in her life, am my mother’s legacy, and that’s not arrogance, that’s the admiration of a daughter who had a mother deserving of it. I am my mother’s daughter – in most ways.
If you met me in real life, you’d see a lot of similarities to the person on these pages. I’m boisterous, brazen, demure, open, scathing — whatever you want to call me, I’m an awful lot of those things. But my mother blazed that trail, baby. She was a model in her youth, she was hot when she died, didn’t look over 50. She had red hair, green eyes, and she was a risk-taker and a daredevil. She sold real estate, raced yachts, and wasn’t afraid of a fucking thing (most of the time).
She was never open about sex. I doubt she ever became a vixen. I bet she never trusted a man enough. I don’t think she ever got past the shame of what sex symbolized in her demented little worldview on the subject. My father and I were recently talking, musing about whether she had been sexually assaulted at age 12. My father grew up in her neighbourhood, they were friends all their lives, and he remembered when she changed, as if she just broke. He said something was never the same after she was 12, that day they came home to find her scantily clad, rocking barefoot under the farm’s kitchen table, shaking and sobbing.
This Vixen thing… it’s a personal mission for me, really. I’ve been the legacy of dysfunctional views on sex. I’ve seen what a loveless marriage does not only to the participants but the children involved. I’ve seen what happens to men (including my father) who get neglected and taken for granted, what happens to women forgotten by their lovers, and it all breaks my heart. It’s a really sad thing to behold, the loss of someone’s sexual side.
When I was young, I fell for that fascist Ayn Rand, and one quote stands out after all these years, that “avoiding death does not equal living life.” We’ve somehow fallen into this trap of “surviving” life. Yeah, you go right ahead. Survive. I’m gonna live, thanks.
And that’s the problem, most of us are content to merely survive our jobs, survive our relationships, whatever it takes to make it to the other side with the least resistance.
Being a vixen, or in the case of the men out there, an attentive, daring, open lover who’s receptive to his lover’s needs, takes guts. It doesn’t happen from just thinking it’d be nice to go there. It’s about actively pushing your fears and apprehensions. It’s about saying you’re not scared about being judged. But mostly, it’s about trusting this lover of yours you claim you trust. It’s about putting your money where your mouth is, baby.
It’s too late for my mother, and I caught the bus last decade, man, so I’m good, but there are a lot of folks out there who must learn how much more fun life is when they learn that being vulnerable doesn’t necessarily mean becoming hurt*, it means sucking the marrow out of life and taking the chances you’ve been resisting.
Mostly, though, it’s about really having great new experiences. So, you know, like they says, you better get busy livin’ or get busy dyin’, but make your fucking choices and stop just letting life happen to you. Being a dead fish is simply the personification of all those other little fears you have inside. Confront them.
Me, being a vixen underlies EVERYTHING I do in my life. I take chances, I go with the moment, and I may not have the fancy car and the retirement package some of my conservative friends have, but I’ve got experiences. Very cool experiences. So far, dying tomorrow, I’d have few, if any regrets, and knowing that is the greatest thing I can say about who I am.
*And even if you get hurt occasionally by becoming vulnerable, I’ve discovered firsthand that the richness of everyday experiences far outweighs those occasional bumps and bruises along the way. Like mountain biking or something, sometimes you fall, sure, but at least you’re out there having the experience most of the time… and hurts always heal. I take my lumps and go again.