"Be ye therefore perfect, even as your Father in Heaven is perfect" is one of those scriptures of my youth that completely fucked me up. I still have this incredible desire to be perfect – even in my sinning. The perfect fuck, the perfect lick – perfection is the consummation, the goal of all endeavors.
The perfection virus even stems over into my writing. Every word I pour out should have significance, right down to the last "the" and "a". Unfortunately for me, my language, like my life, is messy, unpredictable, unwieldy and far from perfect. I don’t even have the time right now to pour over what I write to give it the smallest semblance of having been edited, so I suppose part of my absence has been in a quest for perfection that leads, as it usually does, into total paralytic inaction.
So what does this have to do with erotica? A lot. Wanting to avoid the pedestrian fuck, I can go completely celibate for weeks, days – even months (It has been years, since I went for years.). Only recently did I relax my perfection bid just enough to surrender to the joys of imperfection and spontaneity. Now men certainly have the advantage in the spontaneous receiving end of oral sex. The temple spire of manhood springs out from the clothing inhibitions and is instantly accessible to the awaiting saliva and warmth. Women, on the other hand, have been short changed in the spontaneous oral sex realm. So to hell with the perfect cunnilingus. Give her a quick-alingus.
First, make sure your lady friend has gotten all dolled up for the evening. The process of allowing her to get ready for the night out will insure that this remains in the realm of the imperfect. You can’t give perfect head if you are a) in a hurry and b) worried about looking like the morning after at the party you are headed to. Now, the pants and panties need to be yanked down, but only so far as necessary to allow the tongue to wrap around the fabric and hit the clit. Ignore any protestations and forge on. There will be no insertion, because there isn’t room. No fingers, just the tongue – and that faint aroma of her on your lips all evening.
The flush on her face will replace make-up blush. Imperfectly perfect.
So it has been a long hiatus. I actually have so much that I want to write about, discuss and delve into and do not know where to begin, so I plunge back into the warm, moist world of blogs with the hard task of responding to a tag to name ten things about myself. Given my blog theme, which at times I have found limiting, but then I think – "What the hell – I like sex and writing and where else can I combine the two.
Also, thank you all for your kind words of encouragement to lure me back inside the pink, digital walls of cyberspace.
Ten Things About Me:
10. I have a scar on the ridge of the head of my penis. Given the Mormon affinity to Judaism I was duly circumsized as one of God’s chosen people, leaving the head of my cock unprotected by a sheath of skin. This predestined stripping of my male member congealed with my own pyrotechnic leanings, my youthful inexperience and the familial use of matches as an air freshner in the the bathroom to a rather horrific experience. Seated on the porcelain throne, I felt the need to ignite some sulfur. Having done so, I blew out the flame and watched the smoke curl up from the glowing tip of the match. Underestimating the size of my cock, I dropped the match stick between my legs were it lit, not lit but still searing hot on the ridge. I immediately grasped the match stick to find out with horror that the skin of the penis head is not like normal flesh – it melts. My cock ridge had adhered itself to the match head and my dick became a perverse and painful marionette, as my cock bobbed up and down as I moved the match stick with my hand, before I peeled it off in searing pain. The scar has faded some 30 years later, but it is still there and a reminder to keep my little god’s head away from the hellfire and brimstone.
9. I had my first experience having someone tell me they were turned on by my blog writing. Actually, I think the words were "You are so fucking hot. I’m going to go home and masturbate to you." Or something to that effect. ( I took this to mean my writing, not any particular physical attributes of myself) Now granted, it was a collective "you" since it referred to myself and another blogger and the utterance was most undoubtedly alcohol induced, but it was relatively spontaneous and did show a passing knowledge of some of the things I had written, so I’m counting it. The experience was humbling and exhilarating. I liked how the digital words had turned into the flesh of the world.
8. I attended a class on how to be an "Extraordinary Lover." Is there such a thing as educational prostitution? If you answered that yes, you know that San Francisco is a lovely town, replete with sex educator/whores. They take prostitution to a new level -- economically, politically and socially. Advertise a hands (but not cock) on educational class to instruct the obviously deficient males of the species on how to properly handle a woman and you have a class of teachers and tricks. The tricks all fork over $250 (apparently the price has risen since my class to $495) or so for an instructional class and you get to gather them all in a room and spend the morning session with the women making each man divulge why he wants to become "an extraordinary lover", with the obvious implication that at this point, you are not. Twelve men at $250.00 is $3000.00 for a six hour session, not a bad day’s work and there is no touching in the morning session and no actual intercourse.
In the afternoon session, you bring in two additional female recruits, so that the men can try out different types of women – of course the leader of the class, Celeste is the more classic beauty and you use her in all of your ads – but now that you’ve roped the men in with the talk of how they need to be more sensitive and attune to the woman’s needs, you find that the hands on training is going to consist of three women types: 1) the objectively attractive, more traditional sex object - Celeste; 2) The natural, granola girl, replete with arm pit hair, a vaginal forest and the distinct scent of the hippie; and 3) The vastly over weight woman. Looking back, I’m still amused at how the teacher manipulated a group of men into allowing the teacher to make a political and social comment on the objectification of women. Even though we were allowed to touch each woman (rubber gloves for the intimate parts, lest you think safe sex was not a primary concern), the instruction was taught in a classroom equivalent of musical pussy and when the music stopped I ended up with the large woman for my turn to dip my fingers. (Woman on her back, well lubed index and middle finger stroking the top of the vagina in a cum hither motion while the thumb rests on the clit in case you have someone to experiment on and want to save the social lesson and $250.00.) Of course, there is always the squirting seminar . . .
7. I’ve been on a couple of nude cruises and to a couple of clothing optional resorts where I was able to witness the piercing phenomenon which I have dubbed "Wind Chimes." Now, nudist resorts are educational in regards to the enlargement of the male scrotum with age, since the over sixty crowd of guys appeared to be packing small to large purses between their legs as they traversed the staircase, but as disheartening as that may have been, the one lasting image from all the flesh I saw came from a nudist yoga class. Nude yoga is obviously superior to nude jogging and somewhere between an up dog, down dog and extended side angle pose in the sun salutation, my eyes were greeted by twelve inches of dangling jewelry, clinking gently together in the ocean breeze. The disturbing part came from the fact that it was all hanging from the labial lips of the woman in front of me.
5. In the realm of young, foolish and adolescent, I used the vacuum hose on my cock. Three words: Quick, Intense, Painful. I couldn’t find the off button fast enough, but cleanup was no problem.
4 and 3. Neck Fetish and Exhibitionism. If vampires died, I’d say I was a vampire in a previous life, because I love the nape of the neck, especially on women who can orgasm from having their neck nibbled on. At one point in my life, I liked to practice kissing the neck of strippers back when South Salt Lake had totally nude strip clubs and backwards rules that allowed the patron to touch all but the breasts and private areas of the stripper and didn’t allow the stripper to touch the patron. (What odd laws the predominant culture spawned.) I enjoyed the sense of power that came when I felt the stripper’s flesh goose pimple and I could feel her whole body shudder just by me nibbling on her neck -- you can’t fake goose flesh. In my life, I’ve had the good fortune to meet four women who I was able to make come from my Dracula impersonation.
I’ve also always enjoyed the thought of being watched. I’ve even blogged about the exhibitionistic aspects of blogging. My exhibitionistic trait becomes overwhelming when I have a woman who capable of a neck nape/rape orgasm. Smith’s. Hollywood Video. Combine my neck fetish, exhibitionism, nape quivering lover and alcohol (6 tequila shots, 1 Yager and Red Bull, 3 shots of some drink known as a Pink Pussy and some indeterminate swigging on a bottle of Cuervo) and I performed neck-alingus on the quivering woman in my grasp in front of numerous other inebriates, until she had a rather crashing orgasm. From the alcohol smog of my mind I flashed a thumbs up to the crowd, as we retired to the bedroom, where alas there was no audience, but I was able to lick more than the neck.
2. I have an essay on masturbation I really ought to publish in pamphlet form, "For (Brigham) Young Men Only." I’m going to give you an excerpt here about the masturbatory experiences from the mission field:
I stopped masturbating to go on my mission. It is hard to jack off on a mission when you have a do-do companion following you everywhere you go, so I actually lasted for several months, living vicariously through those few wet dreams I could coax out of my system. I succumbed in a small town in a foreign country that had pornography vending machines a couple of blocks from the house. On top of that, we each had our own rooms and didn't have our companion in there bugging us or watching to see if we jacked off. No one ever said anything, but I think we were all glad for the privacy. One night, those little guys inside me that had built large, strong muscles from years in the basement bathroom overcame me and I donned my BYU sweats and pulled the hood over my head and darted out into the dark rainy streets with a few coins for a vending machine. I imagine I looked like a large, blue smurf haunting the shadows. I bought the magazine, only to find out to my chagrin that the pictures all had blue dots over the fun part of the genitals. It didn't stop me from getting my rocks off numerous times, but I was saved by one dot that seemed translucent and reminded me of Cheryl Tiegs in Time with the pubic hair peeking through. I always had the unfortunate propensity to confess my masturbatory sins, which I dutifully did to my mission president at the next zone conference, which confined me to my fate as companion to the unwanted. I guess the mission president figured if I had a pain in the ass companion that I would forget the longing in my cock. I guess that is what this discourse has become, a long, drawn out request for forgiveness from the reader for letting that little factory enslave me. Boy, Boyd, I don't know. I'm not a young man anymore, granted I am younger than you, but still not that young. I suppose I have you to thank that I can still pump away at my little factory and it has only gotten better, albeit less productive, with age.
I found this little gem of a movie and thought it fit in nicely with Japanese masturbation stories. One cool thing about missions is you can still remember enough Japanese to really make this video have some meaning.
1. Finally, I actually have had this written for a week and couldn’t come up with the last item when I had someone come up to me and say, "You have the voice of a funeral director." I relayed this pronouncement on my aural aura to a friend, who said without thinking too hard, "you don’t sound like a funeral director, your voice is soothing." So I can use my voice to calm, but what good is that in an erotic setting? I always craved one of those deep bass voices that tickle a woman’s clit as the vocal chords vibrate, instead I get "soothing funeral director." I guess I’m doomed to use my tongue to make more than just sound waves on the clit, but there are worse fates.
The blog is devoted to exploring sexual issues arising out of American and Mormon culture. While the prurient may occasionally surface and while the tone may be sarcastic or sacreligious, the discussion is serious. I want to get deep.
