Fucked.

December 12, 2007

On Sunday, I was hungover. Hungover means one thing: The hangover horn.

I got up late, probably around noon. I turned on the computer. Straight for the porn. A nice way to start my day.

I start browsing. I start stroking myself. Very often I’m not in it for the quick orgasm. I appreciate the build-up.

An hour passes. Not much longer. I’ll finish the job soon.

Another hour passes. I realise I haven’t eaten or showered. So I go and cook breakfast; naked of course, and pre-orgasm. I eat in front of the computer, resuming my hard-on. I still haven’t showered.

In the back of my mind, I’m thinking about all the reading I wanted to get done today. But nudity and fucking is captivating.

Another hour passes. By this point, I’m at the stage where I can barely touch myself without almost climaxing. This just adds to the fun. The pre-cum dribbles down the side of my dick in sometimes alarming volumes.

Another hour passes, and I’m still going.

Another hour.

I decide to cook dinner. Again, naked. Again, pre-orgasm. I eat, and watch some TV to allow myself to calm down. So to speak.

I go back to the computer, and resume from where I was previously. It never takes long to get back into it.

Another hour passes. And another.

And at this point, I climax unintentionally. I would probably have kept going for another couple of hours, and just spent the entire day at it if I could have. I found myself longing to have my tongue buried between an intelligent woman’s legs when I accidentally let go. The accidents are never so much fun, scrambling to avoid the inevitable mess as I was.

Fucked self.

Since it was accidental, I quickly have another one.

Fucked self again.

The Sunday alone with my thoughts in front of my computer seems prompted my RSI to flare up.

Fucked wrist.

Fuck.

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Casual.

October 9, 2007

I’ve never been one for casual sex. I’ve never had a “fuck buddy” (friend with benefits) as such.

And yet, some time ago, when I split up with my last long-term girlfriend, I naturally missed the sex. I missed the excitement. I missed that tingly feeling you get in certain places. I missed the astounding experience of vaginal penetration, feeling myself slide slowly into place. I haven’t experienced that in some time. I didn’t miss the relationship; that had been dead in the water for quite some time, for reasons I shan’t divulge.

For a while, I was a member of an “adult” dating site. Not for the dating part, just the adult part. Of course, these sites are predominantly male, so the following rule seems to be as true as it is in other arenas of life: Woman wants no-strings-attached sex? She can have it. Man wants no-strings-attached sex? He has to be very, very lucky. Or at least know the right people.

I don’t know those people. I can’t ever treat a “friend” as somebody I use for sex. And I dislike the grittiness, ugliness, messiness, and awkwardness of one-night stands.

So I met a girl on said dating site. When we communicated via text message. The night we arranged to meet up, I could not get rid of my hard-on. I was sitting on the train so totally erect that I realised my preferred wallet placement in my jeans is actually quite a good disguise. (Left-front pocket, in case you’re wondering. I tend to hang a little to the left, so when I take a hard-on it naturally grows down that trouser leg.)

But when we got to her flat, it was gone. The thoughts of sex were gone. Despite a suitably impressive set of breasts and reasonable looks otherwise, I couldn’t do it.

It seems I have bother with the idea of fucking a relative stranger. I have bother with the idea of fucking a friend. That really only leaves fucking a lover. Or copious volumes of consumed alcohol for a good set of beer goggles and the loss of inhibition.

I’m perfectly comfortable with my body image. I’m perfectly comfortable with the size of my penis, and my ability in bed. I suppose I just don’t fuck around.

Blowjob.

June 13, 2007

I’m in the office. The sun is shining outside, it’s distinctly summer. I’m packing up to go home.

Suddenly I notice somebody else in the office. Blonde girl, perfect height, perfect build, perfect hair, perfect breasts. “Hi.”

I realise that I’m horny as hell, and my erection is standing proudly out of my jeans in front of this girl.

She gently nudges me back onto my desk, asking “Do you want me to suck it?”

Then I woke up, my good friend morning wood having acted as my alarm this morning.

Norwegian.

June 8, 2007

I step onto the train, and subconsciously scanned the occupants. I spy one intensely attractive women sitting, coincidentally, across from the seat I had earmarked the moment I stepped aboard. She looked Norwegian. Something about the face, the hat, and the flowing knee-length skirt.

When sitting, the blue-green skirt sat just above her knees. My day had been long. I’d been asked to do a few more weeks work on a project I really don’t value at all. I wasn’t in the mood to chat.

I wish I had been. This girl spotted me as I sat down across from her, and she was continually glancing back at me. She moved to get a little more comfortable on the train seat, in the process shifting her legs slightly to point in my direction, and also nudging them ever so slightly apart.

The single motion sets my mind racing, and starts blood rushing to my groin. Before long, I have an erection I could hammer nails with. Today I’m wearing my baggies; nobody but me knows that I’m hard.

I can’t help but look at this girl’s legs. My mind’s running through all sorts of mental imagery, most of it involving her leaning back just a little more, and me easing down between those legs. Tongue or cock while I’m there? Inevitably both for as long as possible, but it doesn’t matter. These are the sweetest pictures I’ve dreamt up in a while.

She shifts her legs back closer together. Party’s over. It’s her stop. She gets off the train. Nary a glance back, naturally.

I imagine kissing her, holding her, fucking her. Then walk home throbbing in my trousers.

Condoms.

April 24, 2007

Students ignorant about condoms. Right. Get this:

… more than one in 10 of the 2,200 who took part in the survey did not know how to put a condom on correctly.

Perhaps I’m missing something here, but would somebody care to explain the incorrect way of putting a condom on? It’s fairly simple. You make sure you’re pointing the condom the correct way, and you roll the damn thing over your erect penis. Where’s the confusion?

The biggest misuse of condoms is surely people slipping them on directly prior to penetration, thus allowing plenty of scope for HIV transmission via precum, amongst other diseases (note, that it’s probably not possible to get pregnant from precum). Another misuse is when people “forget” to put them on at all.

But I’m confused how 10% of the voluntary participants in this study (who you’d assume were experienced or rapidly gaining experience in the sack) didn’t know how to put a condom on correctly.

Could somebody please enlighten me?

Condom tester.

March 29, 2007

Want to be a condom tester? Durex would like to talk to you.