Archive for Sexually repressed

Bad ideas – 1 : Her ultimatum

Posted in Fixing a broken marriage, Sex therapy with tags , , on September 28, 2018 by Accidental Masturbator

I’m full of great ideas.
I’m full of ideas.
I’m full of shit ideas.
That’s more like it.

As much as I want to let go of caring, as much as I want to just be ok that the sexlife-medics are packing up the defibrillator and calling it, neither a morning nor a night passes without me musing on the deceased, and wondering if there might be some hope of necromancy.

My latest idea

A couple of moths ago, I had a Continue reading


Posted in Fetishwear, Fixing a broken marriage, Sex with my wife, The Red Torsolette, Underwear with tags , , , , , , , , on March 5, 2018 by Accidental Masturbator

At our last therapy session my Wife mentioned how Her sexual needs are very limited, and whilst I’d like sex once or twice a day, She only needs it once a week, or less. She’s probably right about me, but I was astounded to hear She’d want sex even remotely as often. Obviously Our disparity badly needs addressing, and exploring what strikes me as gross exaggeration would be fascinating.

As I thought about this later I found my self musing on how I have observed  Continue reading

Pointless exercise

Posted in Fixing a broken marriage, Sex therapy with tags , , , , on December 7, 2017 by Accidental Masturbator

She’s spoken to the counsellors.
Couples are usually seen together. (As I had already understood.)
There is the opportunity for the individuals to speak to a counsellor separately, but for ethical reasons that would be a different counsellor to the one the couple would see together. So as to maintain a balanced discussion.

Well fuck it then.
There’s no Continue reading

You’re good and you know it

Posted in Random stuff about sex with tags , , , , , on January 22, 2017 by Accidental Masturbator

You’re good at sex, aren’t you, Dear Reader? You have heard, first hand, the phrase  fuck, yeah, fuck, oh god yeah, fuck, yeaaaaah, no, fuck no, no, n-n-n-no, fuck, fuck, no, stop, sto-sto-stop, no don’t stop, don’t you dare fucking stop, fuck, yes, yes, no, yes, yesyesyesyesssssss, nooooo, oooooh eowwwww, urgh! or at least something that aproximates to it. And that phrase has told you you are good at sex.

There’s reasonably good chance that on more than one occasion, as you eased your hand between someone’s thighs, they begged you to Do XXX to me! or something like that. Why would they say that if you weren’t, at the very least, a proficient practicioner of XXX? Yes, you are good at sex.

(Just on the off chance you’ve never hear either of these phrases, you should probably know you’re not necussarily crqp at sex. It could be that your partner is sexually repressed … like my Wife has proved herself to be for most of our marriage … and are just silent whilst you bounce mindlessly up and down on them. Of course, even my Wife has had some orgasms loud and profane enough to drive the woman next door to contemplate buying a Lelo, and has, albeit rarely, begged “Fuck me hard and deep!” … and then attempted to depress the neighbors with Her volume when I did. So maybe you are just bad at sex. Get some practice. Read a book. Hire an escort to teach you. Ask your mum what constitutes a really good fuck. Anything. Just get better. For your own sake.) Anyway, I digress.

So what makes you good at sex?

I read a book recently [by a male author], where a [female] character says “People who like sex are usually pretty good at it” [Ed: Are the respective genders significant? I’m not sure? Possibly.] And I think there is probably some truth in that.

You know where the buttons are, and you know both when and how to press them. You’re able to read the flashing legends above the buttons that indicate when to press them harder or faster. As for twisting knobs, well, you can come up with a smutty euphemism for that, Dear Smut Goblin. 😉

Even when your thighs are as limp as they are soaked with your own orgasmic discharge, and your brain is as flooded with endorphins as your partners crotch is with the aforementioned discharge, even then, Dear Accomplished Fucker, you have the presence of mind not to give any credence to the phrase I’m fine. You know, no matter how benevolent your fuckee, that what I’m fine really means is ok, you’ve got yours, I can tell that because I can feel your discharge is cooling as it trickles down my arse crack, and that really is absolutely FINE, but I should’t need to prompt you to get your head down there to lick me clean and get YOUR face covered in MY orgasmic discharge. [Ed: We’ve all been there. On both sides of the fence!] You know that when your partner utters those 2 self destructive words, that you need to do a little extra work. And because you understand that, 5 or 10 minutes later you’re wiping your partners orgasmic discharge from your grinning face.

There will be times when you’re tired, and just need to get some rest. But you’re good, so when you feel you partners fingers worming their unwelcome way into your underwear, you know to put out, even if you’re not in the mood. For the sake of your partner, fake it, be enthusiastic, sacrifice. When you’re knelt between your partners thighs, your mouth filled with their bits, your jaw aching and your tongue screaming with cramp, you know to look up into their eyes and smile like you mean it.

You get off on them getting off. Your mouth may be stuffed so full with their genitals you wonder whether a health-and-safety assessment form could be justified by the choking hazard, or you know the impending trip to hospital with a badly sprained wrist will inevitably involve a wry look from the nurse because she can smell the sex on you. But the pleasure you had as your partners orgasmic profanities tore you ear drums apart was unquestionably greater than theirs, and well worth the fact that you’ll only know this now if they write it down for you.

Maybe you don’t particularly like getting fucked up the arse. Maybe you are one of those poor soles for whom buggery is genuinely uncomfortable. But you’ll happily bury your face in the pillow and squeal like a delighted pig because you know your partner is in their element. 

Or maybe it’s just the little things that say you’re good. The way they snuggle into your neck as your minds and sweat simultaneously chill. Or the way they rest a hand on your arse for no good reason when your prudish sister-in-law might just catch a glimpse. Or how you never need to restock the bedside drawer with condoms, because they take care of that. All these things tell you that they want to fuck you. For you to fuck them. And for them to want that, there is one inalienable truth – you are good at sex. 

A cunt by any other name would taste as sweet

Posted in Sexual politics with tags , , , on December 23, 2011 by Accidental Masturbator

Language is a funny thing. Full of layers, alternate meanings and sub text. Saying one thing and meaning another. “I love you” can so easily be said, and simultaneously translated as “Get your clothes off. I need a fuck.” Few men, I suspect, would be bold enough to utter such a thought (at least not if they genuinely hoped to have a chance of such satisfaction), and it would be nice to think those three magic words were never so misused.

Continue reading

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