BloggingDangerously

G-Spot: Pornos and Pretzels

This post was written by my new friend Sheila at Opto-Mom.  I was laughing out loud as I read it. 

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I think that the porn industry is totally ruining sex for us regular women. Have you seen the crazy shit these women do? And then they pretend to LIKE it!

Here’s a little tip to the men in the real world. These women are ACTRESSES; therefore they are ACTING! [Note: I’m using the words "actresses" and "acting" very loosely here, as I doubt that many of the female porn stars have trained at Julliard.]

When a woman is folded up in a way that contorts her body into a very uncomfortable position, she is probably not actually having an orgasm {gasp!}. The sistah is just trying to get paid, so she groans and writhes like being a human pretzel is the greatest turn-on since chocolate flavored massage oil.

If she is standing on her head while a guy performs a pile driver move on her, I think those moan and shrieks are due to the fact that her spine is being crushed, and not due to pleasure.

Now don’t get me wrong…I enjoy interesting positions, but I would still like the sex to be pleasurable. If it hurts like hell, I’m probably not enjoying it, so get that cucumber out of my ear and help me get my leg out of the oven.

For real, though. Some positions may look cool to the man, but I thought the whole point of sex was for mutual pleasure, not so you could say, "Hey, I didn’t know your knee could bend that way."

Maybe you’re looking for the g-spot, but seriously, dude. Get a flashlight or something, because this just isn’t working out for me.

If I have to dislocate a hip to achieve a certain position, the odds are that ecstasy will not be forthcoming any time soon.

For example, is it really necessary to turn the ceiling fan on while my left leg is stuck to it with strawberry jelly? I’m trying to hold on to the curtain rod here!

If I were getting paid the big bucks, I could probably convince you that I was enjoying this contortion.

Seriously, why do the women have to be the ones playing Sexual Twister while the guy just stands there thrusting?

In the interest of sexual equality, I propose that all of you women watch porn with your partner this weekend. When he starts getting a little frisky, whisper to him that you want to try that position from the second scene.

When he agrees (because you know he will), IMMEDIATELY say, "I get to be the one standing up!" Hey, if you call it, then it’s legally binding, right?

Then turn him into a pretzel, have your way with him, and make him walk funny for a week.

G-Spot: Frisky Vacuuming

This post comes to you from one of my favorite Twitter Friends and Blog Commenters, Techydad.

As my children get older I can definitely sympathize with the desire to find a way to carve out some personal space within a home that sometimes feels VERY communal.

And sometimes it's nice to hear from the guys...

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Saturday morning, I woke up and was feeling frisky.  So I rolled over to B and began letting her know in my own special, subtle way.  (Read: Not subtle at all.  I might as well announce it with a giant, glowing neon sign.)  Anyway, as luck might have it, my oldest son decided that was a good time to wake up also.  Not only wake up, but wake up with a pink eye scare.  And not only wake up with a pink eye scare, but wake up with a pink eye scare shouting loud enough to wake up his younger brother.  So frisky wasn’t an option.

After taking care of the boys and getting them set up to play, I climbed back in bed.  But our boys apparently don’t know the meaning of a closed door and kept barging in or yelling for us.  Eventually, I gave up and went to get them (and me) breakfast while my wife slept some more.  After my wife got up due to an ill-timed phone call, I climbed back in bed again, but the interruptions didn’t end.

I finally faced the fact that nothing was going to happen thismorning, but I had… let’s just say pent-up energy.  So I decided to do what any guy would do… clean the house.  (That *is* what other guys would do, right?)  I went into the bathroom and cleaned the toilet, sink, behind the toilet and other areas that were in need of cleaning.

When I was done, I still had some energy left.  I also noticed that the boys were arguing again.  So I took out the vacuum cleaner.  Here I must digress to explain something.  My oldest son dreads the sound of the vacuum cleaner.  He runs to his room at the mere mention of it being activated.  My youngest then follows and they’ll actually be good during the duration.  This time was no different.

As I went after dust bunnies under our bed (which I had just vacuumed up a couple weeks ago… man can those things multiply like… well, like bunnies), I began thinking.  Despite the roar of the vacuum, it was actually quite peaceful.  Nobody barging in.  Nobody yelling.  Would it be wrong for my wife and I to pull the vacuum cleaner into our room, turn it on and have some “us time” undisturbed by intrusions of the kiddie kind?  Also, by admitting that frisky frustration leads to tons of tidying, have I doomed myself to a future of frustrated frisky feelings?

 

G-Spot: Undercover Down Under

I completely love this story - and not just because it reminds me of my youth.  My favorite part is where she insists that he leaves - and he's missing half his clothing.  AWESOME...  Somewhere in Australia there is a commando Irish guy walking around half shod - but I bet he has condoms.

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Everyone raves about how great their single life was, and all the crazy sex they had. 

I'm a little disappointed at the moment, however, I'm finding that my crazy sex is not happening, and when it starts to happen, it takes a turn for the unwanted variety of CRAZY.

Take, for example, my most recent foray.

I'd been at the pub I used to work at with some new work mates and I'd been working pretty solidly at getting slaughtered (low carb beer takes a bit longer to get results - but so good for you!)

I met up with these 2 Irish backpackers.  Brought the lot of them back to my place.  More drinking, crazy shots and a lot of giggles later, I successfully propositioned them both for a threesome.  (And oh my god, didn't that freak out my workmates!  I am, after all, their boss.)

Took Irish #1 into the bedroom for a bit of a warm up, things are proceeding pretty damn well, we're about to get to the good stuff and I decided that with all the alcohol I should probably help guide the plane into the hanger.

I think my analogy might fall apart a bit here but I soon discovered that there were no security measures in place, which I rapidly baulked at. 

Upon his refusal to consider the safety of all involved, I was forced to violently eject him and friend from my bedroom and my house.  His refusal to leave made me more and more irate, and eventually my housemate came out and threatened to call the cops. 

The next morning I woke up and found his underwear, socks and a shoe.

G-SPOT: Evolution of a Lover

This guest post is from a dedicated reader who shall remain anonymous.

It's not as dirty as some of us you may like but I think it tells a great story about how relationships evolve over time to be less like a sparkler and more like a punk.  Not as flashy, but longer lasting and it keeps the bugs away. ;)

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Confessions of a Dangerous Reader: Have I Lost the Danger?

My husband and I, before he was my husband, had a lot of, um, dangerous sex. Before you jump to conclusions here, let me clarify. We didn't have physically dangerous sex; we used nearly every form of protection and method available to keep from getting pregnant or contracting any type of disease the other might have been carrying (which was highly unlikely in the first place since we'd each only regretfully been with one other person besides each other). We practiced safe sex, but we did it oh so dangerously.

I had the wild abandon of a relatively inexperienced, barely not a virgin, female in her young 20s.  I had sworn never to have sex again until I was married after my first experience with my previous boyfriend left me crying and insisting that what we were doing was wrong. The act of sex had been virtually non-existent and/or non-pleasurable in my life up until the night new Boyfriend and I “accidentally” had intercourse.

It started with an innocent kiss which became heavier and more heated. We moved to my dorm room, onto my bed. Groping and gyrating gave way to the slow and gentle removal of our clothes. Surely we could just make out without clothing, right? And then it happened. The accidental slip. Our bodies froze in fear and anticipation, looking at one another with wide eyes that asked, “Where should we go from here?” My mind and body screamed in unison, “KEEP GOING!!!” because this time? This time was entirely different from the first time. This time felt so heavenly and so right. I whispered, “It's okay,” to him, and the rest is history.

As college seniors we were vivacious and insatiable. We couldn't get enough of one another, often rolling over for seconds and then thirds, and occasionally fourths just minutes after finishing. A slight suggestive gaze from across the table in the campus cafeteria led to hours in bed in the middle of the afternoon between classes. In March, Boyfriend went skiing with myself, my dad, and my brother. We stayed in a small condo in Colorado, sharing the pull out bed while my brother slept on a cot next to us. My dad took the bedroom. One night our hunger for one another drove us to stealthily satisfy our desires while my brother snored in a deep slumber just feet away from us. We were at the height of our dangerous love affair with each other.

Soon after, we graduated from college and embarked on what would be two years of a long distance relationship, somehow managing to meet each other's needs once a month over short weekends. Danger began to fade. The rigor of medical school and the strain of a first year of teaching set into our bodies and souls, but Danger was hanging on ever so slightly, a shadow in the corner of his bedroom waiting by his box of bones to study. It would show its face every now and then, prodding us to tear off clothing and ravage each other without inhibition in the dark after a romantic evening out, but alas, Danger was fast becoming dim.

Then came marriage, and moving, and the third year of medical school and teaching, and three pets starving for attention. And whilst Life was occurring, Danger left the building. Gone are the days of alluring glances and unquenchable thirsts. They have been replaced with weary kisses and scheduled sex. Where has the wild abandon gone? Where has my libido gone?

I didn't even realize any of it was leaving until it was all gone, yet I am encouraged. I am encouraged because, as my husband assures me, with age comes more refined tastes. Just as boxed Franzia wine or Keystone Light whets the palate of college students, so does an unpracticed touch gratify the sexual desires of the young and inexperienced. I am older, I am wiser, and I am harder to please. We must begin slowly now, taunting one another with gentle kisses and teasing fingers down below; tracing the edges of our most private parts with the lightest of touch and wetness of tongue. We experiment and use our creativity. Sex doesn't need to be scheduled, it just needs to be tempting. More tempting than the appeal of my pillow, a down comforter, and closed eyes after a long day. My sexual hunger has evolved from a starving child to a well-fed adult. Realizing this, my palate has been whetted once again with the sexual equivalent of a fine Italian wine and Danger has returned.

G-Spot: The Shower Sex Edition

Let me start by saying that since I've started the job-search-that-will-not-end my husband and I have been imagining spending a LOT of money that we don't have on a variety of things that we don't need.  The other day he told me that his PRIORITY was a new shower stall in our bathroom.  This was probably 400th on my priority list.  Until now.  This story makes me seriously reconsider the benefits of having a shower stall large enough for the two of us.

This story is from one of my FAVORITE readers - who has requested anonymity.  How could I argue with that?

My sex life as of late has been self-reliant at best.

I'm married. It shouldn't be that way.

My husband has chronic back pain and I get, well, worn out after a long day at home with the kiddos. Excuses, excuses. We're working on it.

But when we do manage to sync up, it's awesome. Amazing. Worthy of running down the driveway naked and bragging to the neighborhood awesome. (I somehow manage to resist that urge each and every time though) Sex with us has always been mind-blowing.

The other night, we were synced up. I gave hubs The EYE before I put the kids to bed. He scrambled off to shower while I put the kids to bed. I rushed them through their routine and went to the living room. To google some tips on giving head. Not that I need help in that department - I love doing that. I love the way it feels, the way it makes him moan, the way it puts me in complete control - I love the way I can tease him with it. That's trust people - total complete trust - when a man lets you take him in your mouth.

As I sat there, googling, I realized there was nothing these websites were going to tell me that I didn't already know how to do and do well. And that's when it hit me. I need to go to the bathroom, hop in the shower, and surprise him.

So I did.

(And yes, I locked the bathroom door before proceeding - last thing we needed was a mini sneaking in on us - I'd rather use the money in the therapy jar for something else!)

Except when I got there, he was rinsing soap out of his hair. And let's face it - no one likes the taste of soap. So I waited.

Then I sat down, grabbed him and gave him a blow job he'll not soon forget.

Hot water pounded down on us both, drenching my hair and creating erotic sensations all over our bodies.

The best part? We didn't have to go anywhere to clean up.

I just had to stand up and let him spray me with the showerhead.