Monthly Archives: January 2013

If you can stand the heat, stay in the kitchen

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The kitchen is steamy and the windows are opaque with condensation. Two pans bubble on the hob – one with a winter stew, the other with vegetable soup. Even though it’s cold and damp outside the room is warm with activity and my excited heart-thumping anticipation.

I shuffle around the table straightening cutlery as I play for time, waiting for the knock at the door. I know he’ll be late as usual. Looking discreetly out of the window won’t make him arrive any sooner, but I still do it – ready to duck if he sees me, looking desperate.

Eventually, the knock, thankfully when I am back in the kitchen. He mumbles that something smells good, but not whether it’s me or the food, and steps into the steamy room, peering into the pans.

He moves closer and, before I have time to think, kisses me long and hard, his tongue softly dipping into my mouth and his hands moving down my back, over my buttocks, lingering slightly over my groin, before moving up to my breasts. He now has one hand over each, moving them round in circular motions, before he lifts my top up and simultaneously yanks my bra below each one – The Man never feels the need to undo bras.

He is about to stoop to direct his mouth over a nipple when he stops, moves away quickly and begins opening cupboards. “What are you doing?” I ask, somewhat bewildered and disappointed.

“Just wait there – don’t move.” He says, still looking in every cupboard, as I feel a little awkward, boobs out, top hitched up, glancing over at my pans. “That will do!” He exclaims, pulling out a jar of chocolate spread.

Unscrewing the lid, he dips his finger in and smears a little on my left breast, then more boldly plunges in four fingers and slaps on a large splodge. It feels cold and gloopy, and my nipples tingle and firm up at the change in temperature. He eases me back so that I am sitting on the table and leans in to lick, nibble and devour the gooey mess as I wrap my legs around him and stroke his head, enjoying the excited tingles I am starting to feel inside my jeans.

As he slows down I lower my hands to his trousers, tugging at his belt and zip, urgently retrieving his solid penis. The chocolate spread is nearby and there is only one thing for it – on it goes, creating my very own tasty lollipop. I slide off the table and on to my knees. He steadies himself against the table as I gently devour his chocolate coating and he moans with pleasure. I lick it from top to bottom and bottom to top until it is all clean again and we are both bubbling in the same way as the two pans.

He pulls me to my feet, kisses me hungrily and pushes everything off the table – knives, forks, spoons, mats – luckily I hadn’t got round to getting the glasses out. Everything crashes to the floor and he hitches me up on to the table, laying me back and whipping off my jeans and knickers in one fluid move. Within seconds his mouth and tongue are in contact with my clitoris and his fingers are on the edge of my vagina. His tongue works its magic, gently lapping and sending writhing waves through my body, turning me into a shaking mess.

The table feels cold against my back but also stronger and safer than I imagined. I can’t wait any longer I have to have him inside me, so I pull him up and closer and he stands to enter me as I lie spread-eagled. He fucks me hard and rhythmically and I moan with exhilaration. By now both pans are boiling over, liquid spilling over tops. I am beyond caring but my body is echoing them, as The Man sends me past boiling point. If I was a kettle, something in me would be whistling by now.

He pulls me off the table, so I am standing in front of him, and turns me round so he can enter me from behind. I clasp one of his thighs as he pumps me until he reaches a climax, then reach back to hold him close to share his closing moments and feel the warmth of his body against mine.

Soup and stew totally ruined, me totally ruined – but what a beautiful way to go! I take a few moments get my bearings – as he always leaves me light-headed and dazed – before opening a bag of nuts and pouring two glasses of wine.

Surrender your weapon

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“Baby, it’s cold outside,” sings Tom Jones in his throaty, soulful tones to a rather breathless Cerys Matthews as they flirt and tease through the classic song.

And it certainly is a touch chilly, but I am not here to discuss the weather – that would only disappoint you.

But Tom Jones does lead me to my point – or maybe his point – as rumour has it that he has been generously ‘blessed’ in the trouser department. Internet gossip pages cover an encounter he had with American TV presenter and ‘Mistress of the Dark’ Elvira, very early in her career when she was a dancer. She alleged he was so ‘big’ that she had to go to hospital for stitches.

Other rumoured big dongers include Errol Flynn (11 inches!), Jimi Hendrix, Harrison Ford and Daniel Craig. But of course only certain people would know the truth and does this roll of honour really mean that such men are skilled shaggers?

DSM’s view is that to be a talented artist you don’t need a full set of pencils and oil paints – if you have the ability, it doesn’t really matter what tools you possess.

But there is a bare minimum. I recall in my 20s, in my first proper job, having a flirtation with a married guy from work. We met for secret drinks and sneaky kisses over a period of months. The anticipation of going further had reached unimaginable levels. When he finally did visit my flat I was practically ripping his trousers off in eagerness. Then…’oh, is that it?’ I almost said out loud.

It must have been about four or five centimetres, fully erect. We tried a couple of times, but it just wasn’t going to happen. Luckily, I could blame it on having a few ciders. But we never tried again.

On the other hand, having a lot to play with does not always mean success. I have been in a long-term relationship with someone with a good length. Unfortunately, he was quite a selfish performer and was always in a hurry just to ram it in and do very little first, which would often leave me sore and rather empty.

Mr Athlete, though, brings back fond memories of how a man should use a large loaded rifle. As a runner with a six-pack, he remains to date the most toned man I have ever been involved with, leaving me feeling rather dumpy and inadequate next to him. He also had the largest cock I have ever encountered – a good 8 inches and somewhat intimidating on first sight. But he knew exactly how to prepare his prey so that they would happily and comfortably succumb to the rifle. His fitness and flexibility also meant he was prepared to try many different angles of attack. Just a pity that he had the personality of a brick.

Mr Athlete’s rifle had a largish girth to match. But I have also learned not to underestimate the long and thin variety – something supplied by my Millennium Man (see earlier post dated 30 December 2012). This shape can often reach and touch areas not so accessible to the big and broad.

The above are exceptions. Most of my ‘conquests’ have been of average size and shape and I have enjoyed lip-smackingly delicious sex with a good few of them. Totally average, abysmal and forgettable sex with others too. Some have even whacked me in the face, sprayed stuff into my mouth, over my boobs or on to my derriere.

In an empty room

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The Man has been working day and night fixing, cleaning, redecorating and restoring an old house.

It is dusty, bare and there is no furniture. He is dishevelled and tired, wearing paint-splattered clothes and probably has splinters and flakes of paint up his nails. But still, he retains the inner glow and magnetism that leaves me a defenceless, gibbering wreck.

I have persuaded him to let me come and see his work but as soon as he comes to the door, I know I will be putty in his hands and let him do to me whatever he wants.

There is nothing in the house, not even a box to sit on, yet The Man has spent days here, labouring in every room.

After a quick tour and a cup of coffee he leads me back upstairs to what was once a large double bedroom, but is now a floor-boarded space with a gapingly wide window.

I know what is about to happen, but feign innocence and confusion, asking him what he is doing. He knows he doesn’t need to respond and gently presses me against the wall, kissing me keenly. He fondles my breasts and finds his way inside my jeans while I tug and fiddle with his belt and fly.

The wall is cold against my back, but my front is smouldering hot, getting hotter as I finally have hold of his excited penis. As I stroke and rub, he does the same to my hungry, salivating vagina.

He finds his way inside me and, with one of my legs out of my jeans and wrapped around him, he screws me against the wall at the same time as using his fingers to make me spasm and tingle.

I hold on to him as I am close to falling over and he is turning me to a wobbling jelly.

He then suggests we move to the window – which happens to overlook several houses, but it is the middle of the week and no one is visible outside. I still worry that this is a big window and we would be very easy to spot, but he tells me the trick is to look like we are not fucking…

He enters me from behind as I prop my chin on my hand, lean on the window sill and pretend to admire the view. But my serene pose is a little jerky as I am rocked back and forth and there is a man standing very close behind me moving in the same way. Unless we are attempting to master some very odd dance or both sitting on a very large, headless rocking horse, I am sure no one could think we were doing anything else. But hey-ho – I don’t live around here, so if anyone did see me, I can avoid any embarrassing exchanges in the corner shop.

As we resume normal trouser-wearing respectability, I feel flushed and fluttery. I later discover mottled paint marks all over the back of my cardigan.

Trying it on for size

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If there is a sure-fire way to shatter the dregs of one’s self-esteem, it has to be trying on a pile of clothes in various shop changing rooms.

And in the January sales, many of us have probably taken this reliable route, as DSM did today. Think you are getting a little too self-assured and big for your boots? Try going into a tiny cubicle with three-way mirrors and harsh lighting to magnify any imperfections you didn’t know you had or hadn’t thought were that bad. That’ll bring you crashing down to earth.

I also remember the 1980s when a number of fashion outlets had open plan changing rooms so everyone else could share the horror and I would inevitably find myself trying on a pair of stone-wash skin-tight jeans next to a tall, willowy goddess. As I wriggled and sweated to even pull them over my thighs and at least cover my off-white knickers the goddess would stand, resplendent in a long black dress which looked like it was tailor-made for her. At least now, clothing retailers have seen sense and given us poor normal folk some privacy to recoil and groan at our reflections.

And what is the antidote to this? What is something everyone can do which isn’t discriminated against by one’s body size? And I am not talking about ten-pin bowling or a game of Scrabble.

As far as I am aware (and I admit I am no biology expert) a woman’s vagina size is not proportionate to her dress size. Good sex doesn’t make you feel like you are forced into a cramped space surrounded by aggressive lighting and mirrors (unless that specifically turns you on). Good sex doesn’t make you worry about your belly or bum size. Good sex doesn’t cause you to leave the building shame-faced and wishing you hadn’t tried it on at all. Good sex doesn’t leave you concluding you are fat old bint with too many wobbly bits. Etcetera, etcetera.

But this is where it gets a bit sexist – for a change in favour of us ladies (if I can still label myself a ‘lady’). This is something I plan to cover in more detail in a future post, but briefly here, it is still arguable that size does matter when it comes to penises.

Poor men, eh? But the suggestions that its size can be predicted by shoe size or even the size of his hands or nose don’t always follow. I have seen examples that both prove and dispel these theories. I will save this for a penis-themed post, however, and for now enjoy the fact that The Man has size 11 feet and a wonderful, solid, tall and robust penis to match.