Precum

A minute and seven seconds of your time.

I try to be equal-opportunity, so here is some male-visual. A slow ooze, that was done late at night. And I held back as much as possible. And it felt so very boiling-under good.

In fact, looking at it again made me start to jerk off again. How hot - awesome, weird and horny - and a little fucked up (in a good way) - to be jerking your own cock off - to video of yourself jerking off.

I understand the attraction.

Images Galore

Porn sites have all the same kind of shots. We depend upon them. We love them.

There's photos of girls sucking cock.



Women with cocks up their assholes.



Or just, people fucking the way we wish we could fuck in real life. Athletic, tireless, beautiful and agile.



Probably, it's women behaving badly - er, that is, overly sexual that's what there isn't enough of in real life. As if they'd go after each other. So we also like to see that.



Sometimes the fucking is just an abstraction - body parts in other body parts.



And every so often it's enough to just show us a pretty girl, and let our imagination do the rest.



Ultimately, I love to be reminded how much fun it is to make love. To fuck someone you really dig.

Soothing the Savage Breast

I had a little wine, and I put on some music. And the deep heart of my soul began to dance a little.

What is it about music that gets through your emotional defenses, when it is working the way it should, what is it about music that moves you in a purely deep and soulful way?

You can engage with music on a present, aware and critical level, but it works all the way down to your groin when you're not listening. You rock and you sway and you close your eyes.

You groove and you feel sexy. The music overtakes you. The image of topless women dancing with abandon during Woodstock is understandable the way no cultural arbiters could prevent us from accepting.

We got it. The music makes us want to fuck. We often put music on when we're in the bedroom. I had the radio on in the car when I was out on a date and we parked in the (almost) empty parking lot by the bay, looking at the lights across the water on the bridge, the occasional boat.

The cars' headlights that would swish by and disappear out of our peripheral vision a moment later. The tinny lo-fi rock'n'roll would be the soundtrack to our explorations of each other's bodies in the dark, unsure, alone and steaming up the windows.

Cold fog on the outside, Motown on the inside.

Music is a kind of release mechanism. A kind of inhibition-suppressor. It unwinds the tense coil in the deep of your gut and loosens your limbs. You want to move. To dance. To get loose. Loosen your clothes.

And taste that cock in those pants, undone and down and ready to party as well.

Milf

As I get older, the type of women I'm attracted to is changing. Sure. You are attracted to what you know, and what you have had responses to previously.

In high school, it was cheerleaders. It was those short skirts and white panties. A fantasy which will last you all your life, but is a bit shallow and cartoony ultimately, even as it demands your attention. Eventually you have real sexual experiences, in person, and the people you have them with do things that surprise you, excite you, bum you out, and most of all, condition you.

I had an intense history with a couple women who happened to have red hair, and that remains a dark and stirring element in my innner fantasy life. My wife and I have been together over a decade, and most of the people I talk to on a regular basis have been around a while as well. They are married, smart, even had kids.

They've been sexual for most of their lives, statistically speaking, and know what to do. No furtive fumblings or awkwardness in the back seats of cars at the drive-in.

These older women have breasts that are sagging. Their hips are heavier. There is character on their faces. They have sucked cock. They don't shave their pussies like all the porn stars.

They don't have a tattoo somewhere they put on in the last year of high school, because everyone else wasn't doing it.

I'm finding the cartoon fantasies of my adolescence doesn't fire my imagination the way reality does. Because reality is urgent and accessible. And the need to connect with someone sexually ultimately is satisfied only by the ability to do so.

If I was confronted by a naked and willing teenage cheerleader, I'm not sure I would know what to do with her. (If you know what I mean.)

But, I would absolutely know what to do with a 40-something bored housewife in the afternoon, having just done the laundry and ready to take an hour break before picking up the kids.

Strip Club

Is the first rule of the strip club... to not talk about the strip club? You go there and see people you don't know stripping, and presenting and exhibiting their genitals and shapely bodies.

The tension and satisfaction is that you are in the same room with these people, who are reduced to sexual beings, there merely to be looked at as physical objects.

You watch them and they get close to you. Very close. They gyrate their pussy right into your face. Often an inch away. There are rules about touching.

Don't.

But you can look. And you can smell. I can smell the pussy.

The border is physical space, right there in person. An inch. Or if it graduates to lapdancing, the border between you and her (or is it him?) is the fabric of your clothes. A quarter of an inch or less.

Touching without skin.

The personal voyeuristic thrill is repeated on the internet, in a safer environment in which no one will see you leave the club. But the physical intimacy isn't there. The digital void between you and her is as wide as the Grand Canyon and as endless as the void of space to the moon.

The inability to be satisfied by connecting, and transcendence to the next level only flames the initial and primary desire. To keep on looking.

You're not cheating if you don't touch. Right?