Shaken but not stirred – Museu de l’Erotica, Barcelona

“I’m not sure about going in here,” said new man, “I already feel horny, so this is going to make me even worse.” He was always horny. I had persuaded him to come with me to Barcelona’s Museu de l’Erotica – it was on the list of things to do that I had drawn up before our weekend away.

We had already been slightly intimidated by the woman dressed up as Marilyn Monroe shouting “yoo-hoo” from the museum’s balcony down to the people below on one of the city’s busiest streets, La Rambla. Were we going to be met by a whole bevvy of woman dressed up as 1950s film stars? Perhaps Doris Day and Jane Russell were going to pour us drinks and offer canapes.

Luckily that didn’t happen. We entered a narrow door and climbed a staircase to the kiosk where we were charged 9 Euros each.

The museum was small – five or six rooms in total which ranged from the historically fascinating to the easy on the eye, the downright odd and the somewhat tacky.

I actually most enjoyed the pictures hanging on the wall. My particular favourites were the turn of the 20th century and 1920s images of people with their clothes pulled up performing sexual acts or just getting their bits out. Their facial expressions were rather passive and many of the ladies seemed to gaze into the middle distance while the men busied their hands, mouths or dangly bits in their nether regions.

“There’s too many big bushes for my liking.” Observed new man.  But, I tried to reason, people did have ‘big bushes’ in those days; it was the norm and no one would have regarded them as unattractive.

As well as photos there were drawings, paintings and pen and ink cartoons of people in various sexual acts, some man on man, some man on woman and others with multiple participants. These dated back over the 18th and 19th centuries. But also there were Chinese and Japanese paintings dating back to 13th century of couples in the act, with many of the ladies still with their feet bound up.  Picasso had a couple of erotic pieces up and there were some delicately painted images from the Karma Sutra.

In another room was a bit of a history lesson in the use of the phallus, with a giant wooden penis in a display case and lots of smaller penises (or is it penii?) we might assume were dug up by a team of archaeologists somewhere. We also learn that when Pompeii was unearthed from volcanic rubble there was erotic art all over the place – those Roman types must have been at it all the time. And, it seems so were the ancient Greeks if the figures painted on old vases and urns are to be believed. Apparently ancient Greece was also one of the first societies to accept, and at times, even encourage homosexuality.

Fetishism and sadomasochism was the theme of another room, but there wasn’t much to go on – the main point of interest was the ‘Chair of Pleasure’ by Yves Fedou , a metal chair with restraints plus metal penis – certainly unlike anything I have ever seen on a trip to my local dentist’s. There were a few whips, photos of people in bondage gear, along with another work of art, a sculpture of a painted, slightly scary woman.

There was also a curious turn of the century porn film flickering in another alcove, which seemed to feature a priest having his way with a middle-aged parishioner in flickering black and white, accompanied by traditional silent movie music. This was next to the details of members of the Spanish royal family’s interest in eroticism.

An area dedicated to Marilyn Monroe – hence the garb of the ‘yoo-hoo’ lady at the beginning didn’t quite fit in with the tone of the place. It’s not like Monroe was a porn star. Whoever curates the museum must be a fan and decided to celebrate her in the middle of all the penises and fannies.

Also incongruous with the art and history lesson, was a room dedicated to amazing sexual feats and world record holders, such as the longest ejaculation, the most sexual partners someone has had in a day, the largest orgy, biggest boobs etc. etc.

Of course, after this the exit was through the gift shop, after passing a display case of early vibrators, some of which looked like kitchen appliances.

The shop had nothing unexpected – some novelty wind-up penises, willy warmers, willy lollies and a few sex toys. I lingered too long on a small plastic cock ring/vibrator and the girl behind the desk leapt up, hoping to make a sale.

“You like this?” She asked in a Spanish accent. I shrugged, but she continued. “These are very good, you can test how it feels by touching it on your nose.”

And before I could politely make up an excuse about having to catch a bus, she whipped it out of the packet, switched it on and stroked the tip of my nose with it. New man by this time was curious at what the Hell was going on and came over.

“Here, you try too.” Continued the girl, so he also had the humiliation of a vibrating cock ring stroking his nose.

“Mm, yes,” he nodded, “Thank you.” He looked at me, bewildered. The girl backed off, perhaps hoping we would discuss it and agree to make a purchase. We quietly retreated to the exit. I told him they were good devices, but there may be an awkward moment if we were the subject of a random bag check at the airport, seeing as our cases weren’t going in the hold.

“I’ve come out of there not feeling horny at all.” He said, after we escaped. So we instead decided to have a look around the market.

Bus job

We were on the bus, sitting at the back. It was late, no one was there, save for an old man near the front, holding a carrier bag on his knee.

But he and I had lost all sense of the outside world, the drink warming and melting our insides, warming and melting most of our inhibitions. We had chatted all evening about our hopes, dreams, places we wanted to see (missing out the places on our bodies). We had laughed, brushed hands, reaching for our glasses, exchanged that special secret, knowing, burning smile and the unspoken, but shared thought.

And now we were on the 30 minute journey home. He knew I would get off first, he knew we only had a few precious moments together. And he knew I had my mum babysitting at home and children asleep upstairs. So, he knew there was no way he could come home with me.

The bus engine hummed and growled its base tone. It was dark outside, so we could only see smeary hand prints on the glass and a reflection of the bus interior and our faces.

He reached out to stroke my cheek, run his fingers through my hair, all the time, his face moving closer to mine. I leaned towards him, making the journey to my lips a little shorter. His perfect soft mouth at first lightly caressed mine, then became more urgent, more aggressive; his tongue finding its way in and my tongue reaching for his.

As our kiss became more intense, our bodies pressed together, his arms at first holding me close were now pressing me to his torso. Without any thought, I turned to straddle his lap – all this twisting sideways was starting to feel an awkward kissing angle. And I wanted him against me, to feel whether he was aroused, crotch to crotch.

He breathed heavily, sighing into my mouth, as his hands slowly trailed down my back, curving out around the shape of my hips, eventually resting his fingers under my denim encased buttocks.  As we got lost in our kiss, our groins unconsciously thrust together and our breathing became heavy.

He released one of his hands to stroke and explore what he could of my breasts through my clothes, checking their shape, their firmness. His hand descended to my crotch, fingers curving under me, leaving me tingly, light-headed, even though he was outside my clothes.

I mirrored this on him, feeling a solid, substantial erection and he sighed heavily, moving to guide my hand to his zip and fly.

“We can, if we’re quiet – go on,” he whispered. So, I deftly unzipped and reached for the firm and ready penis within. First slowly, my hand moved back and forth, exploring every inch and ridge, then faster, as he moaned quietly under his breath. Then, looking over my shoulder to check there was still just the old man at the front of the bus, I slid off his lap and knelt on the floor, bending over my willing prey.

I ran my tongue from base to tip, then from tip to base, carefully licked the head then lowered my mouth on to it, gently sucking, moving up and down and occasionally letting the very edge of my teeth touch it. He gripped the sides of the seat and struggled to keep his moans to a low volume. He writhed and stroked my head, as I set to work whipping him into a ship on high waves.

But I kept on with my mission, up and down, licking around the end and stroking it with my fingers. Then he spasmed, exhaled a “yes” and burst with his climax, grabbing my shoulders and pulling me up into a sated kiss.
Then, we swiftly returned to our senses. I peered through the window, trying to get my bearings. The road looked familiar and I could just about make out the pub near my house.

“Must get off, don’t want to miss my stop,” I called as I leapt up and teetered town the moving bus.
He looked shell-shocked and disorientated, just about spluttering an “ok, bye, then.”

As I prepared to jump off the bus, the driver smirked and said: “You do know we have CCTV on this bus, don’t you?”

Alas, the phallus (again)

“Stop waving your dick around – we’ve all seen it now so you can put it away!” I had got particularly annoyed by an arrogant and patronising email sent by a male contact and a female work colleague was suggesting how I could respond – in an ideal world.

It did get me thinking that we would never say to a woman “stop waving your vagina around” if she had caused a similar reaction. In fact, we rarely use female body parts metaphorically – apart from the occasional ‘twat’ or ‘fanny’.

Yet, male bits crop up all the time. We frequently express anger or annoyance with: dick, dickhead, knob, knob head, bell end…etc. If we see a man driving like he owns the road in a flashy sports car, we may refer to his vehicle as a ‘penis enlargement’ or at the opposite end of the spectrum we may say of someone with an over-inflated ego that he ‘probably has a small penis’.

Freud also introduced the world of psychology to ‘penis envy’ and talked about phallic symbols in our dreams. In fact, phalluses are all over the place of you look at classic and modern architecture – The Gherkin in London,  the Torre Agbar in Barcelona, the Empire State Building, the Ypsilanti Water Tower in Michigan (nicknamed ‘brick dick’) and The International Finance Centre in Hong Kong to name a few.

Phalluses seem to have a place in ancient culture with the Cerne Abbas Giant in Dorset – a large man with a sizeable erect penis cut into a hillside – no one knows how long he’s been there, whether he dates back to the Iron Age or 17th Century. Ancient Greeks and Romans used penises everywhere in festivals celebrating fertility. Priapus was the Greek and Roman fertility God. He is portrayed in statues as extremely (maybe too) well-endowed.

This may be why I have vivid memories of novelty penis ‘gifts’ on sale in souvenir shops in Corfu, when I was taken there as a child. There was anything from penis key rings to rubber apples and oranges out of which popped a rubber penis when they were squeezed. My parents were horrified as my brother and I giggled and squished numerous pieces of ‘fruit’, before they dragged us out of the shop.

Of course the whole novelty penis gift thing has really taken off everywhere over the years and penis lollipops, chocolate penises and clockwork penises are a mainstay of many lingerie/sex store chains.

But what about lady bits? Boobs pop up in buildings (take the Millennium Dome), cakes and confectionary, but there are no vaginas. Maybe this is because the phallus is a better shape to play with (in all senses of the word). And it is hard to construct a vagina-shaped recess, unless you attach meaning to tunnels and caves.

I am not complaining about this apparent under- representation of female genitalia, as I for one am quite happy to look at dicks, penises, willies and knobs. But it does seem that when my work mate suggested the irritating email author stopped “waving his dick around”, we had already lost the war. Dicks have been waved around for thousands of years. And they will continue to be waved around until the end of time.

The sculpted man

He was so perfect that it was almost as though he had been sculpted from the imagination of someone wanting to create the ultimate male Aryan specimen. Six feet tall, blonde, tanned, with broad shoulders and well-defined, but not over-bulging biceps. When his pale blue eyes fixed on me, I felt myself purr with anticipation.

The only down side was that whoever sculpted him did not have much clay or bronze left for his brains. Poor Garth (we will call him) was not the sharpest tool in the box, but he knew how to hunt and gather – hunt down female prey and gather what treats they had down below. His words were few but not wasted. And it turns out that I was 20 and in an unhappy relationship at the time i.e. looking my best but feeling a little low.

Wearing a white t-shirt, just tight enough to show off his pecs, he flashed me a dazzling smile, came over to me and whispered in my ear: “Your boyfriend doesn’t deserve you. If you were mine, I would treat you like a princess.”

What he said was of little consequence to me – I was quivering at the mere sensation of his warm breath in my ear.

He walked back to his mates and I watched the pert rear end encased in denim as it retreated. He looked over his shoulder with a cheeky grin.

“Who’s that?!” Asked my friend, Molly, who hadn’t failed to appreciate the stunning view. “Just Garth,” I replied. Just Garth? Just the most beautiful man in the room. That was our only exchange that night, but it ensured I thought about him regularly for the next fortnight.

Then I had a Friday night out with friends in a local pub I knew Garth often visited. After an hour or so, sure enough, he walked in. I played it cool and didn’t get up to acknowledge him until I needed to walk past him to use the loo. Then, I flicked him a quick sultry glance. On my way back, he beckoned me over.

As I stood before him, I felt small and feminine next to his solid muscular frame. But he looked a little agitated and concerned.

“I can’t stop thinking about you, but I know it’s wrong,” he said. “But why?” I had at this point totally forgotten I had a boyfriend. Garth, his presence, his form, his smell, completely filled all my senses.

“I want you so much, I’m crazy about you, but I know you are with D.” He looked genuinely anguished and put his head in his hands in a slightly dramatic way. I squeezed his arm and felt him shudder. It was the first time I had touched him. We were silent for a moment, then he composed himself and said: “Do you want to go back to my place and listen to some music?”

Without giving it much thought I found myself with him on the train back to his house. We were sitting opposite each other, not having made physical contact since the arm-squeeze.

Neither of us spoke more than a couple of words between getting on the train and going to his bedroom where he went through Bjork and Kate Bush records – his two main musical obsessions. He had said I looked a bit like Kate Bush, but this was largely down to my long dark hair (I didn’t flatter myself in thinking it was any more than that).

He then sat on the floor in front of me while I was on the bed. He still seemed a little tense. I just wanted to touch him again. The conversation was not exactly flowing, but his soft blonde hair, his broad shoulders, muscular torso were all crying out to be caressed. I shuffled to the edge of the bed, moved my legs so that they were either side of him and started stroking his shoulders and back with my fingertips. He leaned back closer and my strokes became firmer.

After five or ten minutes, just as my hands were beginning to ache a little, he turned around, held my hands and climbed on to the bed next to me and kissed me softly. I felt his perfect smooth lips and his firm body against me. My heart was beating so loudly that I thought it would jump out of my chest.

The kisses turned frantic and he had by now climbed on top of me. He was solid and throbbing and I was almost exploding with the excitement of him being this close to me after weeks of wanting. He must have felt the same, as within seconds he was tugging off my jeans and pants and sucking and licking my inner thighs all the way up to my quivering labia and clitoris. I had barely had chance to grab his penis.

As I writhed on the bed, I was in total bliss and just wanted to taste him and feel him inside me. We had barely spoken; everything had just happened through a mutual want and synchronised body language. When I finally summoned up the strength to pull off his jeans, I was grateful that the sculptor had saved a generous amount of clay for his dick. It was thick, long and beautiful. “Oh yes!” I almost cried. I was living in a moment that I wasn’t in a rush to put behind me.

I licked, sucked, stroked, rubbed and licked, sucked, stroked and rubbed again. And again. And again. I kissed his taut stomach and all the way up to his solid chest, his perfect mouth, his eyelids, his forehead and tousled hair. I wanted to drink in every inch of him.

When he entered me, I let out and involuntary gasp. This was the most stunning specimen of manhood I had ever lain with. For a while I forgot I was me and imagined I was someone spectacular and worthy of this experience. My skin was a creamy white next to his tanned body.

We rolled over and I went on top before he took me from behind. Still he was firm, showing no signs of exploding. We did it sideways and reverse cowgirl, standing up against the wall, back on the bed, then all over again. In fact we had sex solidly for over four hours, just with a few cuddles and kisses in between. We would probably have gone on for even longer if daylight had not interrupted us. And my worries about getting home.

I walked out into the cold, stale morning air – dishevelled, happy, bewildered and shell-shocked at what had just happened.

When I see you next

When I see you next…don’t make me wait; let’s not eat, drink and talk for three hours. Save that for afterwards.

When I see you next… I want you ready for me, but fully clothed. I will walk through the door, kiss you slowly, taste you, drink you in. Our embrace will last long enough for your knees to go weak, your head to feel dizzy. Then I will slowly peel off your layers, tugging off your tee-shirt, prizing open your jeans so I can nibble your delicious core.

When I see you next… I will kiss and taste your entire body, from your feet, all the way up your legs, sucking and licking your muscly firm thighs. You will be passive, only able to writhe with pleasure as I crawl, cat-like up your body. I will pause at your balls, encircling each with my tongue, sucking and nibbling every single millimetre of them as you moan and undulate.

When I see you next… I will slide my tongue from the base to the tip of your towering hard penis. I will tease the end by poking the very tip of my tongue into the urethra and glide it around your glans, maybe several times. After I think I have licked every bit of it I will hold it firm and lower my mouth over it as far as I can go, sucking, licking, devouring. As you are powerless under me, I will pull off my pants, leaving on my black stockings.

When I see you next… I will lower my wet, excited pussy over your penis, slowly taking you in and begin to fuck you slowly, as I throw off my dress and unleash my breasts from underwired restraints. I may even let you have some freedom to touch them, squeeze them, take them in your mouth.

When I see you next… I will at some point dismount and make you take the upper deck and thrust yourself hard inside me, as you finger my clit and kiss me hungrily. You may at this point have a little more control to place me where you will, but I will slap your bottom if I want more and deeper.

When I see you next… I want your climax to be intense, explosive, spectacular. Let it spray all over my breasts, let it squirt into my mouth, let it smear all over our bodies. I will smell, taste, touch and inhale you.

When I see you next… we will end up sweaty, sticky, exhausted, in a lovers’ embrace with our hearts thumping loudly.

When I see you next…When will I see you next?

Blame it on the body

I sometimes think my body is a separate being, detached from whatever else is left of me – sitting in the corner of the room or perched on a bookshelf, laughing at me or sticking up two fingers.

With the number of times it lets me down or humiliates me, I can only conclude that it has a separate cause or purpose. I strive for success and my body constantly sabotages my efforts.

Take my bum, for example. I have frequently bent over to pick something up or just to reach across for, say, a pen at the other end of the table. And what does ‘Old Cushion Cheeks’ do? She sends things flying – knocks books off shelves, topples over glasses, even bumps into innocent bystanders. My top end then has to apologise.

‘Cushion cheeks’ has also frequently let me down in the boudoir by piping up at crucial moments with her parping trumpet. It could be mid-bonk, just as we are switching positions, or in post-coital cuddle. Suddenly she will see it fit to parp, leaving me red-faced and with nowhere to hide. Men, I may be letting down my fellow females in admitting this, but when we blame it on a front-bottom/’Fanny fart’ we are probably telling the truth about 50% of the time; the rest of the time it’s a full throttle bottom guff.

If it’s not my rear messing things up, then it’s likely to be my throat or nasal passages – ever had a work-related or serious telephone conversation where you are desperate to cough or sneeze? You try to conclude it as quickly as possible as your voice either starts to resemble a rasping wasp or you lose the ability to speak altogether as the sneeze ascends to its finale.

This has an odd effect on intercourse, as you suddenly have to stop moving or the cough, which seems to be connected to vaginal muscles, fires his penis out like a cannon. I have yet to think of some way in which this could have a useful purpose.

If, like me, you have never had a perfect washboard stomach, you will also be familiar with the belly-slap. This is most likely when you are on top of him, leaning forwards, when your wayward wobble slaps and flaps against him in the throes of passion. The effect is intensified if he also has a bit of a tum – but this seems fairer in my mind as no one person can be blamed for the smacking sound and neither of you has to feel self-conscious about it. With a slim guy, I am much more ashamed.

Creaky joints can also get in the way of perfect passion. I hope not to inherit my family arthritis for some years yet, but can already produce some very impressive cracks and creaks in my knees, shoulders and fingers. The sound of a gravel drive being stepped on is, however, less welcome when one kneels down to attend to a waiting penis, stretches ones arms back while lying on a bed or has to unstiffen ones fingers at some point in proceedings.

So, men, next time one of us passes gas, coughs, sneezes or creaks at a key moment as you make sweet love to us, just remember it’s our body trying to sabotage things. Just carry on and pretend it didn’t happen.

Trying it on for size

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.