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Vague Thoughts on Real – Life Potential Threesomes (without penetration)

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(February 2020)

 

Any couple who’s been together long enough, or who’s kinky enough to broach the subject in their relationship, will have discussed the possibility of a threesome. Whether it’s the full on idea or a notion of who would be suitable within their group of friends. Or joked about celebrities who are allowed a ‘free pass’ to guilt free fucking.

Some couples take things further and actively seek an extra partner online or at a private function. The rise of sites catering to this kink seems to support that in a time of greater sexual liberation things are moving away from fantasy to reality for a growing number of people.

But what is a threesome? I can’t see any strict requirements apart from ‘sexual activity involving three persons’. This is where things get blurry. And fun.

I’ve spoken about the possibility of a threesome with my partner several times. We even have a joke ‘code’ phrase we employ when a person we meet matches up to both our sexy standards. (No, I’m not revealing it here-it’s one of our fun little coupley things).

Because my preferred ‘type’ fits a lot of different categories it means a lot of people make the cut for me. This is another way of saying I don’t really have a type.

I’m not into the idea that one particular hair colour, body type, height, breast size is more appealing than the others. It’s the person who’s connected to it which makes whatever the outside appearance is sexy. It’s the attitude, the confidence (or lack thereof, shyness is cute!) and overall sexual availability of someone which makes them attractive to me.

Every long term relationship I’ve had has been different and I’ve been lucky enough to fondle boobs from A cup size to H (with a few missing ones, don’t think I’ve played with an F cup before…) I’m not stating this to brag, more to reinforce the notion I don’t have a particular type.

If we were honestly on the lookout for a potential ‘play-partner’ then I would even be open to the idea of another man joining us if she wanted. Or better yet, a gorgeous transexual woman. The best of both worlds, to quote Hannah Montana (Miley Cyrus’s original alter-ego for younger readers).

So I’m pretty open to a lot of ideas, but what to do when it comes down to the actual ‘nitty-gritty’ of the activity happening within a threesome? Would you all share at the same time? Would one person take turns being ravished by the other two? Would two people do things together whilst one watched? It’s something I think about (probably way too much) when the reality of a threesome passes through my mind.

As an erotic writer I get to explore all of the different configurations three humans can make together (bonus ones when I’m writing a story involving a futanari with both sets of genitals!) but when my mind strays into the realms of reality I’m confronted with more than a few problems.

I’m a natural people-pleaser, so I wouldn’t want anyone left out. I’m also aware of my partner being slightly more jealous than I am so I wouldn’t want to play too long with the other party and leave her feeling insecure. If our threesome was with another guy I wouldn’t mind sucking or fucking him but I wouldn’t necessarily want to kiss or stroke him, so I’m aware I’d be using him like some kind of ‘bonus’ penis without considering the person attached. Which I really don’t think would work out well for anyone.

When I consider the actual, physical logistics of a threesome, the idea of being watched, or watching my partner with another, always seems the most logical choice. The notion of being a ‘voyeur’ or the ‘subject’ really appeals to me, and the idea makes it into more than a few of my stories.

Being with my partner whilst someone pleasures themselves, getting off to the show we’re putting on for them. Perhaps also taking a few pics or video clips for us to watch later is a really exciting scenario for me. Imagining someone not actively participating in what we’re doing with each other but still watching every move has to be one of my top fantasies.

On the reverse side of that, being the watcher as my partner either takes a huge length inside of her (or several!) over and over again till she can’t take anymore is hugely enticing. Or perhaps she has her first woman-on-woman experience and allows me to observe as she explores her sexuality freely right in front of my eyes.

The strange thing is, neither of these two scenarios involves me interacting with the third party involved. Then I begin to consider could it realistically be classed as an actual ‘threesome’ if no penetration occurred between me and the other person? Would I still have bragging rights to say I’d been involved in a threesome or would it be more accurate to say “someone got off whilst watching you fuck my wife” or, in the latter example, “you just watched your wife fuck someone else”?

The semantics and etiquette involved really do intrigue me. But then I often think “it’s probably never going to happen so why worry?” And then I go back to exploring all the various ideas I can think of through my erotic story telling. Just thought I’d share some of my thoughts with y’all. What do you think? Can merely watching or being watched be considered a threesome?

Earth comes in between the sun and the moon like a threesome play, dark but sexy! – Mridusmita Sonowal

 

The Problem I Have With Functional Wanking

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(August 2019)

Ah, the functional wank. I wanted to write a quick blog post on the subject inspired by this post by Girl On The Net and to get a few things off my chest in this anonymous, internet based way. It’s cheaper than therapy and I don’t have to admit anything to anyone in person, too. So that’s a bonus.

I have a complicated relationship with wanking at the best of times but the functional wank is one of my least favourite forms of masturbation. I understand it has a primary, basic undeniable function which far surpasses logic, reason or thought but part of me is never truly satisfied after bringing myself to completion after a functional wank.

The functional wank can have a great many purposes. I’ve used it to help me sleep, negate tension before facing what I know might be a particular stressful situation or when I know there might be a prolonged period where sex (or other activities) may not be available due to health, relatives staying over, bereavement or anxiety within the relationship. So I’m not here to judge the functional wank at all.

Or maybe I should rephrase that. When I functionally wank I judge myself.

I have an amazing sex life with my partner but her ideal amount of sexual encounters within a day/week/month is less than mine. This leads to what I can only describe as a ‘build up’ of sexual tension within me. This is where the functional wank comes in to release the pressure, ‘clear the pipes’, ease stress and generally save the day.

Or at least it should.

The problem I have with functional wanking is that it feels just that, functional. I’m not doing it because something externally or internally has boosted my libido or I’m feeling particularly sexy. I’m not doing it because I’m in tune with my body’s wants and needs. I’m doing it because I’m an animal primarily motivated by drives beyond my rational control. This is what jars with me the most.

After a functional wank, when I’m lying covered in my own fluids and the sounds of porn are still echoing from my phone, I clean myself up and pull my underpants and jeans up and feel terrible about myself.

Terrible I haven’t got more self-control. Terrible I couldn’t wait for my partner and save my orgasms to share with her. Terrible I’m only doing it because she’s briefly out and the opportunity has presented itself. But, most of all, I feel terrible I haven’t used my time more productively.

My self-worth has always been tied into my productivity. It may well always be so. It’s what makes me work harder. Write another book. Practice whatever I’m currently doing harder. Complete another task better.

When my desire to wank overtakes everything with such force I find more time for it than anything else I always find myself asking ‘why can’t I direct this much energy into something more…useful. Why am I such a slave to my baser drives?’

I’m someone who prides themselves on having discipline. Discipline, I believe, can change your outlook, your current situation and eventually your reality. Because of this I try to practice meditation and mindfulness every day. Being aware of my current emotional/physical/spiritual state is difficult but it makes me feel more connected to myself and those around me.

When I am authentically aroused, mostly after writing a particularly hot scene in a book (yes our own writing makes us horny, it does for most writers-it’s just how egotistical we all are) or after something particularly sexy has happened in my life and I’m genuinely horny I have the best wanks. Often without any video porn. More often than not reading erotica or audio porn or nothing at all. My orgasms are better and there’s no guilt afterwards. There’s a feeling of ‘I did that because I wanted to. Not some base desire, not the chance that my partner just happens to be out and porn is available at the click of a button. I chose to do that.’

The functional wank robs me of that feeling of completeness and makes me feel lesser. Weaker. Guilty. Not enough. But it is something I continue to do.

Maybe one day my self-worth won’t be so attached to my use of time and the functional wank will seem like a fun way to pass the time. But, for now, it feels like something which takes away far more than it gives in terms of everything including pleasure, the most basic use for masturbation.

I don’t have a satisfying conclusion to this blog post, although I’ve tried hard to think of one. I’ve tried many different ways to discipline myself to need functional wanking and orgasms less but they always ultimately fail. Maybe that’s how this post ends. With an unsatisfying conclusion like that of a functional wank.

 

“Procrastination is like masturbation – you’re only screwing yourself!” – Unknown

 

The Joy Of Queefs!

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(March 2019)

As I’ve mentioned in a previous blog post, my partner and I have been using condoms as our primary method of birth control for the last year of our relationship. I listed the pros and cons in the blog post but there was one thing I hadn’t considered I was missing till I watched a scene in a porn movie recently – queefing!

One of my earliest memories of enjoying/being fascinated by the sound of a queef was also when watching porn-the super 80s skin flick The Chameleon (NSFW link to the entire movie on PornHub.) Aside from the big boobs and even bigger hair (including de rigueur mullets for the men) it’s not a bad movie as far as porn goes. I enjoyed it with my partner at the time and we had a quiet night in copying the positions we could (as in the ones which only two participants were involved) and laughing at the terrible plot and acting. My favourite line I still remember to this day was “That’s my wife sucking cock over there”. It occurs at 36 minutes 20 seconds in if you want to experience it in all it’s glory.

On one of many repeat solo viewings (this was before internet porn, people!) there was a strange sound audible at exactly 1 hour 20 minutes in when the leading lady was changing positions from straddling a chair cowgirl to reverse. As she lifted herself off the mulleted man’s member (possibly the best sex alliteration I’ve ever managed to use), and barely perceptible over the overtly loud sax playing which must accompany any sex scene (it’s how you knew something was good was going to happen in 80s and 90s porn) was a delicious, wet, queef.

Upon rewinding the scene a few times, later to be so many times the tape became ‘stretched’ (a problem of VHS cassettes which only older readers will understand) I found the noise turned me on in that good, inexplicable way which you don’t question, just enjoy.

The partner in question at the time didn’t actually queef too often during sex or after so it wasn’t something I fully explored till several years and partners later with someone who could ‘queef on command’. Even later I confessed my love of vaginal expulsions to my current partner who seems to make fanny farts when we have vigorous, condom-free sex. The fact rear entry or the unfortunately named ‘doggy style’ position features top on both our go-to positions may also be a factor, but every time it happens I love it, so much so I felt compelled to write eight hundred words on the subject.

The sound and feeling when your lady manages to produce a particularly wet, vibrating queef around you as you re-enter her is both unexpected and welcome in my book. Similar to a good cum explosion, half the fun comes from not knowing what type of sound might be made, how long it will continue for or how you both might react at that exact moment.

Sometimes it’s met with a growl of animal lust from myself as the vibrating, rattling feeling spreading up and down the length of my cock encourages me to fuck her harder, hopefully prompting additional little escapes of air from her wet cunt. Another time it might cause a moan from my partner, responding to the extra deep thrust which made the sound happen (or possibly the vibration sometimes, too). Finally there are the times which cause us both to laugh out loud and celebrate the absurdity of sex without either of us missing a beat in our pursuit of earthly pleasures.

My favourite for hilarity and sheer dirty sex appeal has to be the queef which accompanies a deluge of cum leaving her well fucked cunt. The sight of my white liquid pouring out of her having it’s own soundtrack it’s a treasured memory every time it happens and it generally results in her having to grab extra tissues and make some type of comment about how much there is or we both just end laughing and giggling in the fun, intimate space that’s reserved just for us after a good fuck.

Many women seem mortified their body could do such a thing to them and sometimes go so far as avoiding certain positions, however enjoyable they find them, just to prevent any such air escapage happening.

Looking at responses from other men on the other hand, twitter polls, reddit posts and other miscellaneous online articles show I’m not in the minority. Most men either don’t mind the odd bit of air leaving their partner’s private parts or actively enjoy it. I found very few examples of men who were put off by it, scared or hated it as much as women do.

So ladies, embrace the fun noises your body can make! At the very least it’s a funny story and at the most your partner might be really getting off on the vibrations and sounds he’s responsible for you making!

Queef – When the small unicorn that lives in your vagina sneezes

Finding Self Love Within Others

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(February 2019)

If you can’t love yourself, how are you gonna love anybody else? Words we’ve all heard. Words which make perfect, logical sense. If you aren’t the best possible version of yourself, why would you want to put that onto anyone else? All your problems, insecurities and baggage? I understand the sentiment but I just can’t carry it out with any conviction.

If you’ve grown up in any kind of broken home, or with a particularly narcissistic family, toxic parents or just a generally abusive situation there’s a chance a core, internal part of you will always hate yourself a little bit. It’s programmed so deep, so hard-wired that even if you’re successful in your field, doing well in life and, yes, even if you’ve found the perfect partner it’s still there. That part may be so insistent that all the affirmations, staring at your reflection in a mirror and chanting “I’m worthy of love, I’m worthy of love”, meditation and therapy might never make it go away.

And that’s okay. With enough time, patience and practice you may be able to accept the little demon who lives inside of you and says dark, horrible things once in a while. But you might never be able to fully ‘love’ yourself. This is where an amazing partner can step in to fill the gap. Even just a little.

The Greek philosopher Plato posed the theory humans were cut in half by the Gods who felt threatened by their potential when they were one, whole person. By cutting the original androgynous people in half their power was halted and kept in check. In this way we are all walking wounded, seeking our other half or ‘soulmate’. As Aristophanes puts it:

“Love is born into every human being; it calls back the halves of our original nature together; it tries to make one out of two and heal the wound of human nature. Each of us, then, is a ‘matching half’ of a human whole…and each of us is always seeking the half that matches him (or her).”

I don’t subscribe to the idea of a soulmate, having been lucky enough to have fallen deeply in love more than once and with each partner for different reasons, but I’m starting to think self-love is definitely not a task which has to be undertaken alone.

Recently this was highlighted to me during Valentines Day. I’m not normally one to go for organised celebrations or need an excuse to show my love for another human but this one was a little bit special for me. This one I found some part of my self worth. In an unexpected and trivial way, this Valentine’s was possibly a turning point in some small way to me becoming a complete person who might just have a capacity for self-love.

My partner hid several small cards in various locations for me to find throughout the day. Nothing too expensive, nothing too flashy, but it was such a beautiful sentiment it surprised me even after all the time we’ve been together. Whilst discovering the third or fourth card, an idea flashed through my brain. “Why would she go to the trouble of doing all of this if you’re such a bad person? It’s not like you’re rich (she makes more money than me) overtly successful or excessively talented in any way. What would she have to gain?” This was followed by the thought: “Maybe you’re not as shitty a person as you believe…”

And there it was. A sense of self-love which came from an external source. No affirmations. No internal searching. Just a few simple gestures which hit me with their honesty, love, generosity and authentic sentiment.

I may never believe I’m a good person, a decent human being or worthy of love. But when I look at what my partner’s done for me, what she’s still doing for me and surprising me after nearly a decade together I may come close to thinking “I must be worth something for someone to put all this effort in to making me smile with no obvious repayment in return. Maybe I’m not such a terrible human after all.”

When this thought can finally penetrate deep enough, I might just love myself a little bit more. If only I can see myself through someone else’s eyes I might just find some self-love. And then I might be able to love them just a little bit more, too.

Self-love and acceptance can be difficult so it makes sense to have someone to lighten the load a little. It might not even be a romantic partner. Maybe it’s a family member or close friend. Or perhaps it’s just your pet who’s always glad to see you. Maybe they know something about you that you can’t see.

Don’t wait until you love yourself or feel ‘complete’ before putting yourself out there and making yourself ready to love. Be open to the idea you don’t have to be perfect or love yourself to find love with another. And maybe they’ll help you a little bit along the way while you help them, too. Because even the one who’s perfect in your eyes will struggle with their own sense of self-love sometimes.

It is not what you are that holds you back, it is what you think you are… Denis Waitley

All I Want For Xmas Is Anal!

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(December 2018)

‘Tis the season of giving! Or receiving! Or whatever you like! Sadly, not so much in the Rose household. At least where anal is concerned.

Don’t worry, this isn’t going to end up some complaining, moaning blog post about how my life’s terrible because one small sexual aspect of it is missing but goddam I miss anal. Both giving and receiving.

Let’s start with the first aspect, giving. I was a late starter to anal. I never explored it at all with my first partner. Possibly out of fear, lack of confidence or something else from a myriad of other reasons but it just never happened.

I knew it was something I was curious about, having experimented on myself pretty soon after discovering masturbation, but I never brought it up with my first love. My second serious relationship, that was a different matter.

I learned a lot about myself during that relationship, mostly sexual, as we were both pushing each others boundaries and exploring uncharted waters (for both of us) the majority of the time, her previous relationships having been quite ‘vanilla’ too, for lack of a better term.

The first time I explored anal I remember the lovely lady in question was bent over the edge of the couch with her ass high in the air as I licked and fingered her pussy. I was hypnotised by the way her cute, little brown hole would flex and clench in time with her moans and couldn’t help but moisten a finger with saliva and slide it inside. That was my introduction and conversion to anal.

The way she writhed and moaned about as a single digit moved in and out of her slowly was captivating. I couldn’t believe at the time I was giving that much pleasure to someone without touching their pussy. I’d never explored much breast play or had a partner with any significant erogenous zones other than the obvious one so it really became a ‘watershed’ moment for me. I could give a partner pleasure without touching their genitals!

We went on to exploring things further and, after many attempts at it, she finally took my entire cock into her ass. It felt different to a pussy, not necessarily better, but the thrill mainly came from exploring something new. Something she hadn’t done with anyone else. The fact she was willing to trust her body with me in that way made me feel special. Desired. Wanted.

After we broke up, I went on to take two more ‘anal cherries’ (there has to be a better term than that but I honestly can’t think of one) and every time it felt a little special and different. Anal requires significantly more preparation than regular sex. Cleaning beforehand, copious amounts of lubrication, communication before and throughout. It definitely requires far more trust as the risk of damage, pain or injury is much higher. The image I’d been fed from porn of ‘just stick it in there and she’ll scream a bit’ I found to be more and more inaccurate the more I engaged in anal sex.

So, after describing how much I love anal sex, it wouldn’t be wrong of you to assume it was something I regularly engage in with my current partner. Well, unfortunately it isn’t. We have engaged in it in the past. Explored everything from anal toys, beads, butt plugs (sometimes with a cute little diamond or tail adorning it) and she can take my entire length inside her with an ability bordering on ‘professional’ when compared to the difficulties of my previous experiences with others.

A while ago, maybe about four or five years, she suddenly went off anal. No penetration, no playing with, nothing. There didn’t seem to be any trigger for the change in behaviour (although I still believe it was down to an acquaintance having a rather ‘messy’ experience and describing it in graphic detail to us). After trying various methods to ‘bring sexy back’ to her back passage, I’ve accepted it’s no longer part of our play together and it is now something which resides only in the sphere of crude jokes (mainly on my part, it has to be said).

This may sound like I’m disappointed but it’s honestly not a massive problem for me, especially as she’s more than happy to give me anal pleasure. She’s taken my ‘anal cherry’ in terms of strap on play, ejaculating strap on play and opening up my submissive side which never saw the light of day with any one else.

Anal play, in terms of receiving, is something I crave every now and then. The need to be fucked, bent over, laid on my back spreadeagled. That feeling of being stretched, of my body slowly compensating for something foreign invading it is one which gives me an enormous sense of relief. It lets me surrender my body to my partner and trust her to take care of my needs by reading the subtle cues of my body moving and responding to her thrusting.

Unfortunately, for the last year or so, I’ve had a recurring anal fissure which has put a stop to any sort of sexy backdoor fun for me. Last time we tried, and I thought I was fully healed, there was so much blood on my partner’s fake phallus it resembled period sex. Not that there’s anything wrong with period sex, it’s just that as a guy it’s generally an indicator something’s wrong.

So, no anal giving, no anal receiving.

Twas the night before Christmas, and all through the house…there’s no anal.

That’s it.

No clever rhyme replacement, sorry!

Have a sexy Xmas everyone!

The Positive Male Role Models Stan Lee Created For Me

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Image from Pixabay

(November 2018)

A few thoughts and feelings in the wake of the passing of the great man himself. He lived a good, long life. He created universes. He redefined a genre. He saw things and did things most of never will. But for me he represented so much more.

Growing up without a father sucks sometimes. Without a strong male presence around ideas of toxic masculinity tend to creep in. When none of your friends have fathers either it tends to get worse.

You make an ideal up. A type of superman. Someone who’s ‘alpha male’. Someone who never gets it wrong, backs down or feels any emotion whatsoever. Someone who handles every situation thrown at them, easily. No tears, no tantrums.

At a very young age I had to have bloods taken (I was always a bit ill as a child) as a reward for ‘being brave’ my mother bought me a comic. I chose Wolverine because he looked cool. I was hooked.

I ended up buying every new issue when it came out. I expanded into getting X-men annuals, comics, Spiderman, watching the cartoons in the nineties and enjoying the move to the big screen nearly twenty years ago with the first X-men. I even drew the comic book characters over and over and tried to design my own. At one point I wanted to be Stan Lee, inventing characters to share with the world.

Why was I so involved? In all honesty the characters jumped from the page. They spoke to me. In darker moments they were my imaginary friends. The heroes Marvel created were real. They had problems.

Hulk and Wolverine both had anger issues. Wolverine also had a troubled past. Spiderman couldn’t seem to get his life together and make it work to balance his personal and (what he saw as) wider social responsibilities. Captain America was suddenly thrust into a different time period than the one he grew up in. Rogue couldn’t touch anyone and therefore felt unloved (which teenager can’t relate to that?) Professor X could read minds but had to limit his ability lest it drive him insane and was confined to a wheelchair.

Even the bad guys had compelling back stories. Magneto believed humans to be evil having survived the holocaust. Loki suffers an inferiority complex to his brother (you would too if your brother looked like Chris Hemsworth-sorry Liam and Luke!) and many more such as Kingpin or Bullseye suffered traumatic childhoods.

I’ve heard it said that Stan intended for his characters to represent different aspects of the human experience. Adolescence, rage, alienation from others, loneliness. It was all there to read for us and it made some of us feel a bit better.

Some were born different, such as X-Men’s mutants, and others were suddenly thrust into the limelight through an altercation with a radioactive spider or a Gamma explosion. The stories written had social relevance. X-men once ran with a story paralleling the AIDS epidemic I grew up with where mutants were affected by a mysterious disease much like people at the time believed AIDS was a condition only affecting homosexuals.

Arresting stories with a sci-fi/fantasy twist. That’s what comics were. ‘Fairy tales for adults’ Stan once called them. But they were most important to me when I wasn’t an adult. It was when I was learning to be an adult. Why?

Marvel’s heroes didn’t always get it right. They failed sometimes. They faltered. Wolverine in particular struggled against his internal animal nature but the man in him always won. He did what he believed to be right in the end. It’s a powerful message for a teenager growing up with no real positive male influences.

It’s okay to fail. It’s okay to not get it right. And it’s okay to cry. I remember reading several storylines where a strong, sometimes super-powered male character would cry. Spiderman broke down and clung to Mary-Jane in one powerfully drawn image which remains with me to this day.

Stan Lee created some of the most relatable, flawed but heroic depictions of men I have ever read-including great literary works and dramatic movies. I’m not ashamed to admit I cried when I heard the news of his passing. Or when watching the movie Logan. The reason for the former because I never met him or got to thank him for what he did for me. The latter because it’s the only movie sadder than The Green Mile. I cry watching that to. Every. Damn. Time.

The man himself was heroic, too. Humble, articulate, funny and he genuinely connected with his fans. Money never seemed to be part of his original business model and during interviews he always appeared shocked at the level of interest and popularity his creations had gained since their inception.

Stan’s lasting message from his stories which resonates as strongly now as it ever did was: ‘With great power comes great responsibility.’ If only our current world leaders had read more comics when they were young. I think the stories would have stayed with them and we’d be living in a better world right now.

Excelsior, Stan. You made all the best male role models in my life with your imagination. I’ll carry their stories with me and try to help others by example. And I’ll let them know it’s okay to fail, ask for help or struggle sometimes. And that everyone can be a hero.

‘nuff said.


Retired Sex Toys

Toys

(September 2018)

So when clearing out your drawers, boxes, shelves or wherever you keep your old toys you will come across some you’ve not used in a while. Or you’ve only used once. Or they’ve broke and are in a very sorry state.

What to do with old sex toys? You can’t recycle them. You can’t give them to anyone as a present- “Hey this has been inside of me and gave me hours of fun! Your turn!” As far as I know there’s no drop off point (think ‘toys for adults’ charity boxes) and they’re a bit difficult to shred or burn.

So we just throw them out in the trash. Preferably hidden in some old towels, boxes or disguised underneath something lest the neighbours see our old novelties being tipped into the garbage truck.

All these thoughts were brought up recently when we had a ‘clear out’. We’ve still got a box, a small shelf space and a bedside drawer full of toys so we’re not suffering any sex toy shortages but there were some that just didn’t make the cut. Ten to be exact. I wanted to share with you all the reasons behind why certain ones didn’t make the grade and became destined to be scrapped. Please forgive the lack of focus in this picture. I’m blaming my phone and not the fact that my eyes were filled with tears and hands were shaking at having to say goodbye to number 4. Without further ado, let’s start at the start.

1. A very pretty glass dildo with coloured lumps on it.
My other half bought this as a surprise and ‘demonstrated’ it’s uses for a private show many moons ago. It’s super pretty, looking equal parts exotic art you’d buy on holiday, child’s project from school and some kind of prop from an amateur improv group. The bumps proved to be more ‘ouch’ than ‘yum’ so it’s not been used hardly since it’s debut. It’s not that it’s a bad toy, it’s just that we have better so never use it.

2. Excalibur!
At least, that’s what we called it. Slightly more use than number 1, and infinitely more fun to play sword fights with, Excalibur! (always with an exclamation mark) has been used in both single and double sessions (with the hilt disappearing somewhere inside of me). Again, super pretty with little flecks of glitter within it’s hard, clear plastic (not glass) shape it could have possibly lived on as ‘upcycled’ art with number 1.

3a (and 3b) Vibrating control units for now absent toys.
These were both the battery housing with on/off/selection button for toys we no longer own or prefer without the vibrating function. I think one was from one of those terrible butterfly type things that sit on your clit (or at least are supposed to) and the other is from a life like 6” dildo we still own but both prefer to use as a pretend ‘realistic’ cock substitute. The wire sticking out (and the fact it vibrated) kinda spoilt the illusion so the wire was cut, and the battery housing no longer needed.

4. Smooth, curved G-spot stimulating glass wand.
Sigh. Number 4, I think I’ll miss you the most. This is the toy to get if you want to learn how to squirt, ladies. It was used in a beautiful self-shot video my other half made for me in which she made herself squirt. It’s something she’d not managed to do before (or much since) and, in her words, it was ‘a lot of work’ to get herself there. I appreciated the effort as she’s more of a ‘functional quickie’ kinda person when it comes to self-love and it made one seriously hot video.
Sadly, number 4 was purchased when I was with a previous partner (where it also had some extraordinary use as ‘best prop in cinematography’) and, although she enjoyed using it, my current said she had mixed feelings that it had been inside someone else. I respect her wishes which is why number 4 has journeyed to the scrap heap of sex toys but it was one of my favourite sex toys to use with a partner. Temperature play, completely clear so you can see everything when inserting it, the weight and feel of it in your hand and the fact it just looks simple, elegant and sophisticated means number 4 will be missed.

5. This was a ‘prostate massaging’ butt plug I treat myself to.
Very disappointing. Doesn’t hit anywhere near the prostate no matter how you insert/spin/manoeuvre it. Also won’t stay in whilst doing other things (household chores, work, typing, fucking etc) like the other butt plugs we own which I enjoy using for a super long teasing session and to let my other half know I’m feeling submissive. Get in the sea number 5!

6. Triple headed rabbit dildo affectionately named ‘Brendan’.
The strange design of this rabbit has an Egyptian theme to it, hence the name Brendan. As in Brendan Fraser of ‘The Mummy’ fame. This toy probably had the most use out of all of the toys currently being discarded, aside from the anal part after my other half went off any back door action years ago, but has since been replaced by a more traditional rabbit which charges from USB and is now my partner’s ‘go-to’ toy of choice every time. No small claim from someone who’s not a particularly keen masturbator. This new toy meant Brendan is to be encased in a small pyramid of rubbish waiting to be discovered by an ambitious seagull at a landfill site who’s not afraid of Egyptian curses. Or scared of the fact that every little ridge, crevice, crook and cranny collected difficult to clean fluids every time it was used. Every. Time.

7. Red, smooth, curved dildo which came with the old strap on harness we used to use.
This one isn’t necessarily a bad toy, we just have better now. It’s tapered shape is great for anal play and it hits all the right spots but it’s smooth exterior doesn’t provide as much stimulation as a ribbed or realistic dildo covered with veins. One note of warning-because of it’s smooth surface it can be a bit too easy to take too much inside of you too early. Resulting in more of a ‘woah, steady!’ than ‘yay, fun!’

8. Anal Bead wand.
Again, this was a gift from my better half (isn’t she good to me?) I love anal beads. We don’t use them nearly as often as I’d like (and my partner doesn’t like any type of beads at all) but when they’re pulled out at exactly the right time during orgasm…mind blowing. These beads aren’t as good as the basic type due to the fact there’s less of a ‘bulge’ in between knots. This means the exquisite feeling of being stretched open and closed as they enter/exit you is somewhat diminished. Hence the binning.

9. Teasing feather.
Look at it, it’s had better days. Being stuck next to other plastic, silicone and other material toys has kinda destroyed this one. It’s not like we used it much anyway and I think it just made my partner sad thinking some poor bird was wandering around missing one of their feathers and asking the question “They’re using it for what?” Fly free number 9.

10. Red Plastic PVC waterproof sheet.
That’s right! The background for the condemned sex toys is a sex toy itself! (kinda) It was purchased for ‘watersports adventures’ such as kayaking, fishing, canoeing. Only we don’t do any of that so the regular ‘kinky’ type of watersports action was all this sheet has seen. And it was only used once when we realised everything kind of pools onto the sheet and you’re left with some messy cleaning up to do which will really take you down from your sex high. After that incident all kinky pee play was relegated to the bathroom and the sheet became a backing for our cardboard ‘sex box’.

What toys has everyone else had to throw away? Any specific reasons or decisions to be made or more of a ‘this one’s broken and there’s a better one out now’ situation?

Toy story changes as you get older…toys called Buzz and Woody mean something totally different to an adult…

Being ‘The Reacher’ In A Relationship

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(September 2018)

There’s a chance, if you’re reading this, that you read other blogs about sex, relationships and everything else involving what two people can do together. If you’re like me part of your reason may stem from a desire to better yourself for your partner. Or to try and answer why you are like you are; why certain things appeal to you and not the rest of the mass populace. Or you might just be a bit pervy and enjoy reading about other people’s kinks.

In any scenario (and all of the above and more apply to me) you might be more introverted than your other half. You may take more time agonising over decisions. You may shirk social situations more and you may have more of your interactions with others online.

You might also worry about how to bring something to your other half’s attention which you’ve read online and don’t know how to broach with them. In all of these situations you may definitely feel like the ‘reacher’ in the relationship.

It’s a natural tendency for the person in this position to try a little harder, work a little more and generally question things more than our the one who ‘settled’ for us.
Understand that I hate these terms ‘reacher’ and ‘settler’ almost as much as I hate giving people a number based on their attractiveness. She’s a ‘seven’, he’s only a ‘four’ and so on. But, I do think they can be valid. Accepting them can be harder. Especially when you’re the one doing the reaching.

In my own relationship I know I’m the reacher. It’s almost a concrete fact.

How do I know? There’s two very telling ways. One is internal and the other external.
The internal way is I know is it’s something I just feel. Whether this is just down to my own insecurities or feeling of inadequacy it’s difficult to say but it’s undeniably there.
She seems to pick skills up quicker, learn information quicker, be happier within herself and more unquestioning of whether innately she is a ‘good’ or ‘bad’ person. Having been the product of psychotic parents my own belief is that there might be something inherently wrong with me which others can’t see. It’s impossible to gauge whether these factors are real or only exist in my head so there’s only one other way to investigate things-the way others treat us both. The way strangers react to us. Heck, even the way animals react to us.

She’s generally greeted with smiles, warmth and people seem to want to be around her. She does work hard to make people feel welcome in her presence and will compliment strangers whenever possible and do her best to make sure everyone who’s met her that day had a positive interaction.

Me? It’s the opposite. Even if I do try to make people happy, my own smile is often met with either nonchalance or, in extreme cases, aggression. I’m just ‘one of those people’ folk seem to be naturally wary of. It doesn’t bother me at all, being more inclined to stay in rather than socialising anyway, but it does get into your head when you’re both out in public together and interacting with others, their lens of existence becoming a new way to measure your own next to.

You can see it when we meet new people. They can’t figure out why we’re together and I can almost hear the cogs in their head spinning round as they try to decipher what my secret is so they can replicate the magic for themselves. Is he rich? Great in bed? Chocolate flavoured jizz?

Most of the time I’m happy to be the ‘reacher’. To know I’ve far exceeded my own expectations in with regards to who I get to (hopefully) spend the rest of my life with. It only seems to worry me when faced with the question ‘am I the best person for them?’ Would they be happier or more suited to someone else? Someone they were reaching for instead of settling?

My low-level anxiety sometimes gets the better of me in this situation and spirals out of control. Imagining my life without them. Wondering when this will happen rather than if it will happen. Coupled with a few failed relationships in my past, it’s only natural to think ‘what if?’

When these feelings do kick in, instead of wallowing like I may have done in the past, I work harder.

Harder to show I love her. To show I deserve her.

I don’t mean by buying her expensive gifts or hiring a forty piece orchestra to play her favourite song as she uses the toilet. I show her by showing up. Spending more time with her. Listening to her more intently. Supporting what she’s currently doing without question. Working on myself by going to the gym more or trying a new fragrance to keep her from becoming bored of me. Cherishing every minute on this goddamn planet I get to be around her. This is when I like being the reacher. It makes me a better person than I’d ever be without them.

Normally this is enough to calm the many ‘voices of inferiority’ who reside in my head. I circle back to my breathing (one of my favourite yoga terms and practices) and my heart settles down from it’s irregular pitter-patter and the warning butterflies in my stomach melt.

That is until night comes.

Night time is when I sometimes lie awake next to my better half wondering why the hell they’re with me. If you’re in a similar situation you may find it happens to you to. What did I do? How did I get so lucky? The nagging doubt can sometimes claw away at you as the voices in your head won’t let you sleep.

When this happens, I have a simple ritual I use which works most nights. I remind myself that she does love me. That it’s her decision and that I’ll try my best to make sure she doesn’t regret it.

“You’re amazing. I love you.” I’ll whisper to her long after she’s fallen asleep. Not so much for her to hear the words, more to confirm to myself what I know.

Then she’ll answer me with a couple of muffled sounds which I can clearly make out as the words they’re meant to be. And she’ll wiggle her bum and hips playfully as I snuggle up behind her, feeling her body heat as I draw near. And, for a brief instant, I honestly think I could die in this moment and that would be okay. That everything would be okay. And it will be. I sync my breathing to hers and fall blissfully asleep. Only to repeat the cycle tomorrow night.

She may have settled for me. And for that I will always make her feel like she doesn’t regret it.

Feeling Submissive

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(August 2018)

Somedays I wake up feeling submissive. Not in a ‘tell me what to do all day and I’ll do it’ kinda way. More in a ‘I hope she let’s her inner Domme loose today and treats me like her little bitch when we start fooling around’ kinda way.

It’s a difficult feeling and sensation as it means her needs have to align with mine. That she doesn’t want me to spank her arse as I bend her over after asking her to kneel in front of me and suck me to full hardness. It means she’s willing to make me wait. It means she’s willing to not be put off when I beg her for more or to stop. It means she has to read subtle cues I’m giving off that means I want her in charge.

When I feel like this I want her to be my Goddess. To worship her in anyway she wants. For her to sit on my face with force so that I briefly can’t breathe. For her to lead me upstairs by my twitching erection. For her to take all that power I feel from having such a large, impossibly hard appendage jutting out from my body and remove all of that power by making me a slave to whatever her whims are. A simple firm squeeze with just a little extra force to remind me I’m in the palm of her hand. Literally.

And if I do bend her over to fuck her it’s on her terms. She dictates the speed, whether I should thrust into her or whether she’s in the driver’s seat and forcing herself back upon my length. And I have to beg her to let me cum. When she demands I fill her with my seed as she approaches an orgasm I push into her with everything | have, both because I need to and I desperately want to please my Goddess.

Afterwards I want her to tell me that I’m dirty bitch for wanting to fuck her but also I’m a good boy (or girl-she decides which gender she wants to address me as) and that I’ve done a good job. I’ve briefly satisfied her needs and she’ll let me out of my submissive headspace.

Of course, our needs aligning in such a way doesn’t happen often. But when it does I feel like the luckiest man alive that I have promised myself to such a sexual Goddess whom I can surrender myself to completely or who can surrender herself to me. Without judgment. Without question. And always from a place of love and exploration.

Role play must always start from a place of trust, a power exchange from the submissive to the dominant.

My Unexpected Experience Of Arousal Nonconcordance

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(July 2018)

“Take your trousers down behind the curtain and then pop up on the bed and we’ll have a look.” Words we’ve probably all heard. I imagine if you’re female you’ve heard them even more. My trip to the doc was to get a small, persistent anal fissure checked out. It’s not too bad but like a bad penny it keeps turning up. So I relented to my partners request and went and took a trip to the doc.

She was a lovely, slightly timid, mousy woman. Not unattractive but not my type. I hopped up on the table and pulled everything down slightly, just enough to reveal my bum, and she began checking around. So far so good, nothing wrong down there and nothing weird.

She then asked if she could check internally and I consented, hoping it would help get to the ‘bottom’ of things (pun maybe intended?) and wasn’t too nervous as my ass has accepted things much larger than a finger in its hedonistic past. What happened next was a little strange.

She slid a lubed up finger inside of me and somehow managed to hit the exact right ‘spot’ for me. My balls immediately pulled upwards toward my body and signals of pleasure rushed to my brain from the area. There was an internal fight between “this is uncomfortable and I can’t wait for it to be over” and “holy shit that feels good!”. I would like to say it was overall pleasurable but the experience was more confusing than anything. Somehow I felt violated. Not by the doctor, but by my own body. It was making me feel things I shouldn’t. Things I didn’t want to at that moment. I managed to continue talking to her throughout the examination and she didn’t find anything untoward. I left with a prescription and bewildering feelings.

I was lucky enough to have seen this amazing TED talk on ‘arousal non-concordance’ a few months ago so I knew what had just happened but it still didn’t make it any less disconcerting. Knowing something and experiencing it are always two separate issues.

I love the fact that I can talk about anything with my partner and I told her. She listened, she sympathised but didn’t push anything. It’s why I love her. I remained a bit freaked out the rest of the day but didn’t want to do anything sexual as the “that was weird” side of me was definitely stronger than the “that was fun” side.

The next morning, when fooling around, I asked her to recreate the situation-me lying on my side as a finger probed my ass. I explained why I wanted to do it, she immediately agreed and she set about doing just that as I wanked myself silly until I’d left an unsightly patch of cum on the bed in front of me.

I told her I wanted to do it as I didn’t want my ass to become some kind of confusing area, attached to strange feelings rather than pleasurable ones. God knows enough guys think that’s its ‘gay’ to enjoy any kind of ass-play. I don’t need to go throwing extra strange half-medical fetishes in the mix that my mind has to deal with.

I feel so lucky that I have an amazing an understanding partner who helped me ‘get back on the horse’ so quickly and avoid months/years/decades of therapy that some people must have to go through who have had much worse experiences than me.

That’s all I wanted to say with this post-the human body is strange and can make you feel things even when you don’t want to. I urge anyone who’s experienced anything similar to watch the TED talk or visit Emily Nagoski’s amazing site and, where possible get professional help. And talk! If you can tell your partner/best friend/confidant/whoever what happened they might be able to relate. And you might feel a little less strange, a little more empowered or able to take steps to get back to where you were.

Genital response means it’s a sex-related stimulus. It doesn’t always mean it was wanted or liked.

Take Advantage Of Me Whilst I Sleep

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(July 2018)

I was half asleep. That’s when my submissive side normally shows itself. Somewhere in between dreams and waking. Her hand was wrapped around my slowly stiffening cock, wanking me off from behind as I felt her breasts push into my back.

She was horny. She wanted to wake me up in a special way. I was busy sleeping so wasn’t aroused at all but that was changing rapidly as every stroke of my cock caused it to grow and my brain to be swamped with feel good chemicals.

Her hand moved lower to check if my ‘pussy’ was awake tonight. It was. She ran her hands along it, touching both it and the base of my shaft as her expert touch continued to rouse me from slumber. I remained laying on my side, writhing under her touch but refusing to turn around to reciprocate her affections. I was enjoying her administrations to my sensitive areas but a part of my brain that was still asleep was not. It felt violated. And part of me was more turned on about the idea of my partner ‘taking advantage of me’ than any other thought.

She continued stimulating me, rubbing my pussy and asking if I liked it when I grumbled back to her in a low, quiet voice “Take advantage of me.” Her touch changed immediately and I could sense her smiling somewhere behind me.

Her grip on me tightened, aggressive and sharp. I pretended to roll over to resist her advances and she reached over, pulling on my thighs and twisting my body so that I was lying on my back, prone next to her.

Her strokes on my cock sped up, becoming much more urgent as she wrapped her entire fist around my shaft.

“Please don’t…” I mumbled back, half in the character I was feeling and half in genuine fear that the whole experience would be over much too soon if she continued at her current pace.

I was on the tipping point of orgasm. The beautiful moment before the crescendo. Every nerve ending in my body was alight with pleasure but the wave hadn’t yet crashed, swamping my senses until my body responds in erratic, uncontrollable and spasmodic twitches and cum spews powerfully from the tip of my engorged length.

“Stop…stop…” I groaned, not meaning the words at all but committing to my role as my submissive side fully emerged and wanted to object to the erotic and forceful treatment it was being subjected to. I was also trying to stay on that amazing pinnacle and I wanted her to at least slow down and hold my body there.

She ignored my protests, staying in her dominant character effortlessly and sped up, causing a throaty growl from somewhere deep inside of me at the same time as a feminine whimper and I felt my cum erupt from the tip of my cock and land on my stomach in hot and satisfying little splats, scattered in random patches as my partner jerked my length in different directions.

When I opened my eyes she was smiling at me and mopping my fluids from her fingers.

“Thank you.” I whispered and she flashed a brilliant smile, comforting me as I remained in my submissive bubble.

In between dreams and waking, that’s when I’m hers. Completely.

My Nipples Feel Nothing!

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(July 2018)

The title says it all. Despite having a ‘female’ side, my nipples feel nothing. Not pleasure, not pain, nothing. They may as well be just another part of skin.

Don’t get me wrong, it has it’s advantages. For one, my partner has super sensitive nipples to the point where they’re painful for her to play with and even the slightest bump causes intense pain. Ouch. I wouldn’t want that. Any ladies with painfully sensitive nipples, you have my sympathy.

Secondly, when at school, should another boy attempt the dreaded ‘nipple cripple’ (a technique popular when I was attending school which involved grabbing someones nipple tightly and twisting it forcibly through 180 degrees or more) I could just blankly stare at them until the absurdity of their grasp on my nipple became more apparent than any pain I was in, making them look foolish and myself like a badass resistant to pain.

But now? As someone trying to explore their female side more having pointless ‘man-nipples’ (a phrase I’ve seen in many a terrible erotica tale) takes away a part of my physique that is overtly sexualised in females in our culture. This got me thinking though.

I’ve never had a partner who was massively into breast/nipple play (or maybe I’m just really bad at it?) but I do know of a few close friends whose nipples are more of a pain source than a pleasure source. So is the sexualisation of breasts entirely from the male gaze?

Growing up in the time of Baywatch and when TVs started broadcasting soft-core porn (boobs only) I’ve grown up with a sexual view of breasts. As have most of us. But is this a bad thing? Should breasts be celebrated or moved to a state where their functional purpose (nourishing babies) is their only purpose rather than any kind of sexualisation?

I don’t have any answers. All I know is mine don’t feel anything and I can’t really play with my partners so, for the foreseeable future, breasts are a fun thing to be looked at but they don’t have much of a physical role (as in ‘hands-on’) in my world. Anyone out there different? Would love to hear from anyone who really likes breast play, and if so, what do you like to do/have done?

The reason men have nipples is because all embryos start off as female in the womb.

Celebrating Summer!

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(July 2018)

Summer’s here! And let’s all celebrate (aside from those of us with hayfever!). Let’s celebrate the days being longer. The air being fresher. People (generally) being in a better mood. Let’s celebrate holidays. Barbecue gatherings with friends. Trips to the beach and ice cold drinks when you’re just too hot.

But let’s also celebrate bravery. Summer is a time when we all show more than we’re used to. And not just physically.

See that girl awkwardly pulling her crop top down to cover her exposed midriff? Wanting to show off a figure that she might have worked hard to attain but not wanting to be labeled a ‘slut’?

Another girl, a little bigger than what society calls ‘normal’ has taken a deep breath and donned a pair of shorts she thought were ‘too short’ for someone like her. She’s showing off more skin than she normally does and it’s taken everything those around her have to convince her to leave the house.

Another girl, not quite what advertisers would have you believe is a ‘summer body’, took twenty minutes looking herself up and down in a mirror before she resigned herself to the fact it’s too hot to wear any more clothing and stepped outside like it was the first time she’d ever left the house.

A final girl, sporting fresh self marks she’s given herself for not looking ‘beach ready’ walks past traffic, all too aware everyone can see her scars.

Let’s celebrate all their brave efforts. And by celebrate I don’t mean leer. I don’t mean elbowing a mate subtly whilst ascribing all sorts of titles and labels.

By celebrate I mean compliment where possible. Make someone’s day. Reward their bravery. Compliment sincerely. Celebrate all body types. All the nervous girls, self-conscious women, all the anxious ladies in our life who’ve fought their inner demons just to step outside and expose more skin than they normally would, ready to be scrutinised by the society’s standards.

And if you can’t compliment or see their beauty or if they’re just not your type that’s fine. Just don’t say anything. Just shut the fuck up and know that nothing you can say to them hasn’t been said to them a thousand times already by the demons the media put in their head. As always, two rules are in effect during this sunny summer period.

  1. If you can’t be nice, be quiet.
  2. Don’t be a dick.

All bodies are summer bodies

My Superhero Origin Story

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(July 2018)

My first foray into ‘erotic writing’ was a made-up scenario sent into the mens magazine Club International way back in 2003-2004 (can’t remember exactly when) written from a female perspective for their readers letters section ‘Talkin’ Blue’. It was about a girls fictional lesbian experience with a friend whilst on holiday where, after being disappointed by the locals becoming too drunk to fuck, their conversation turned more and more ‘blue’ (see what I did there?) until they ended up in a sapphic frenzy of tongues, fingers and even a hairbrush.

At the time I was unemployed and the £50 paid for getting the story printed came in handy. It also made me realise several things about being a writer.

  1. It was fun writing your fantasies down for others to share.
  2. You get no credit. As the story was written from a female perspective I had to use a pseudonym.
  3. Your work will be edited without prior consent if you’re being paid. There was a whole sentence made up in the middle I didn’t write.
  4. You will get rejected. I also wrote a male perspective story about anal sex for their ‘Peaches’ letter section which wasn’t printed.

Even though I had enjoyed the experience, nothing more ever came of it. I continued to enjoy reading erotica but I never wrote anymore. Until my next girlfriend.

We had a shared a passion for pornography (written and visual) so when she bought me a pack of 30 (or maybe it was 50?) postcards for a birthday I said I would write and post her an erotic story in as many parts, one per day. Maybe it was an over-the-top romantic gesture or maybe once the words were out of my mouth she kinda ‘dared’ me to. And we were a very competitive couple.

What then happened was an elaborate story telling experience in which I had to divide things up into many, many smaller parts so that each one made sense whilst adding to the wider narrative. There were complaints from her when the action appeared to be heading in one direction rather than another so, once again, outside editing was a factor.

I think she enjoyed the stories (and perhaps overall story?) but we never really spoke about it and the relationship came to a close not long after she had all postcards in her possession. I enjoyed the writing and sharing erotic fantasies part of everything but, once again, I did nothing about it for ten years. Until now.

Whilst learning to touch type (to write a different book on a completely different subject under a different author’s name) my now partner joked I should write some erotica. I’d bought her some erotic stories years ago (as she doesn’t enjoy traditional ‘video porn’) and she’d returned the favour with one of those personalised erotica tales. The story was definitely hot but I knew I could do better. Mainly by instead of sandwiching random personal details into the story by leaving the character descriptions vague and not using any names. And so the Recording Fantasies series was born.

The first three parts weren’t written exactly in sequence, more as in whichever part I felt like writing about and whether I was in a headspace to write an erotic scene or a narrative or non-erotic part of the book.

After putting parts of it up on Amazon, and certain chapters on Literotica, I decided to make a blog to promote things. I also started writing the Gendermorph series. And that’s where we are now. The complete history of Phoenix Rose. What’s your story? Why do you write/blog? Or read them if you don’t? Comment below!

Why the frantic goose picture? Don’t we all feel like that sometimes?

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