Yay, London! I’ve never been to London. I arrived here approximately 11:30 last evening, or 22:30 if you’re over here, (goddammit, really? I went into acting because I can’t do math and now I have to. I cry shenanigans!) and it is now 4:18 in the following afternoon or… wait a second, I need my fingers… 16:18. And I’m sitting in my room typing. The sum total of the city I’ve seen was a lovely little Indian restaurant last evening that gave me something scrumptious accompanied by a paste of nuclear fire. Had I known how delicious it was going to be, I probably would have blown the dude who left the establishment open for me to order. But I digress.
Right NOW I am in my room. Why? Well, it’s like this. I woke up about six hours ago, still pretty damn tired, fucked around a bit, put on a shirt, and a screaming, searing, ripping pain shot through my shoulder. It’s been on the edge of something bad for a week or so, it got a little crabby after lifting things I’d signed all weekend, and for some reason that shirt was the final straw. I had two options: take the pain killers I brought for my guts, which I have rationed carefully and if I do so, then I’m going to be shit out of luck in a few days, or go back to bed.
So here I am, freshly awake AGAIN, trying to do something as non-strenuous for my body until the pain killers kick in and I can move without screaming, “JESUS CHRIST, FUCK ME ANALLY!” which, I’m guessing, will not get me introduced to the parts of London I really want to see.
Usually after a “Supernatural” convention, I write long love letters to the fans because I’m so incredibly moved. This weekend I fucking cried on stage at them, (Yes, saying thank you. I was tired and my smart ass demeanor cracked, okay?) and I do thank them and love them and will wax poetic later. But a lot of people said they were discovering this blog for the first time, (Hi! Welcome!), so I read some old stuff to see what they would find. I forget a lot of what I write. I noticed after clicking the “naughty bits” category that I was missing some really important information so I am gonna hurt a few egos, I fear. I’m gonna dash a few spirits. I’m gonna invite alternate views, because I think this is vital information and needs to come, so to speak, from as many parties as possible….
HOW CAN A DUDE KNOW IF HE’S GOOD IN BED? (As always, not to be exclusionary but only because I’m writing from my viewpoint, this is for straight dudes. I really wish I had something to offer my gay friends, but I just don’t. Cuz I’m a chick and they’re already awesome.)
A normal man cannot FATHOM the amount of bragging a girl hears about his prowess. They say we are more evolved than the rest of the animal kingdom, but men are pretty much birds without the power of flight. So… penguins. No, bad example. Penguins don’t complain about wearing a tux. But those sunrise tweet tweet tweets and peacock fans and collections of shiny objects are only a millimeter away from the guy who grins and, without a trace of irony, says, “Well that’s because she had my cock last night.”
I was once asked by a guy I’d slept with how he could know if he was good or not. Unfortunately, this was before I knew how to have an orgasm myself, (not his job to find if I don’t have the map), so I had no idea what to say. This is to make up for that. Tim, I think of you fondly, I used you terribly, I’m sorry and I wish I wasn’t the person I was when we fucked. This is for you. I hope I’m not about to break your heart again. Because, this means exposing some traditional ways men have judged themselves that, quite frankly, are full of hooey.
First of all, I’ve noticed a lot of guys simply rely on the fact that putting a penis in a girl counts as sex. If something happens to her, it was good sex. No. Putting your penis in a vagina, is not SEX. It is “intercourse”. And nobody in the world wants to brag that they had “intercourse” no matter how good. Nobody. Sex means something else must have happened. If you didn’t multi-task, you weren’t good. My husband, (AUTHOR’S NOTE: I NEVER EVER EVER WRITE ABOUT MY HUSBAND BECAUSE I RESPECT HIM. IF ANY OF THIS EMBARRASSES HIM, THEN HE SHOULDN’T BE SO GODDAMN GOOD IN BED.), I swear must be able to dislocate his spine from the places he manages to cover simultaneously. You have to have done something besides insert, pull it out, repeat. Even if it’s just getting your tongue in her mouth or allowing your butt to acquire fresh nail marks. To be a good fuck, you need to cover some ground. And bad news: finger-banging does not qualify as doing something else. Just because you put your finger up there doesn’t mean you can plant a flag. Multi-tasking means expand your focus, not the implement.
I’d also like to say, your endowment has nothing, NOTHING to do with your ability. Any guy who brags that he has a big dick really should be met with nothing more than, “So?” no matter what your locker room competitions would have you believe. I literally don’t give a fuck how big your dick is if you’ve got mischief in your eyes. Saying it’s eleven inches only REALLY tells me either you’re a liar or you’re insecure. Size might matter to some women, but it is not the only thing that matters and if you’ve been relying on it, you better up your game, dude. I mean, if you give a shit. If not, that’s fine, your dick’s a foot long and that must make you pleased as punch. I’m underwhelmed, though.
Next, do not confuse how badly a girl WANTS to have sex with you with how good you were at it. I’ve been so lustful my eyes haven’t been able to focus and fifteen minutes later found myself faking a second orgasm with the hopes that he will just stop already. Yes, she may have literally torn the clothing off of your body, but that does not mean you were good at anything that happened from that point forward. If she refuses to let you put them back on again, or takes then from the floor and tears them more fully so you CAN’T put them back on, you may assume her ardor was justified and take it as a reflection of your performance.
OH! This is one I’m baffled by. Your sustainability is not in any way shape or form an indication of your prowess. You can bang a hammer on a pice of wood for six hours straight, but if you never hit the nail, you just look challenged. Please please please stop talking about “going all night”. A real, live study I actually read and didn’t conduct myself by asking my drunk male friends stated the average time spent during sex after initial penetration was seven minutes. Seven…. minutes. And ya know what? I…. well no, I’m honest in this blog, but I don’t think it’s necessary to tell you how many orgasms I have had in seven minutes because it would be bragging on my husband. But seven minutes is sufficient in a pinch with somebody who has been in that rodeo before and starts you a couple runs ahead before teeing off. (I mix metaphors when I’m randy. Leave me alone. It’s been a few days and I’m realizing this may have not been a good topic for a girl alone in a hotel room.)
And speaking of, if you have a penis and put it in women, at some point you have been lied to about an orgasm. The more willing you are to accept this, the better chance you have of being a rock star now. This is just me, mind you, but I think I speak for a lot of women that if you THINK you are an amazing fuck and a gift to any body lying beneath you, you probably have a thing to learn. Women are different. You are not a good fuck if you have preset choreography. Or, well, you’re not as good as you COULD be. How about that? If you are curious and wondrous, if you are respectful and enthusiastic, if you are willing to take risks and direction… you’re probably better than you think you are. But if you have the audacity to tell me you have a foolproof way of finding my g-spot when you’ve never even touched my neck, call me judgmental, but I bet you’re a lousy lay and I’d rather have an orgasm alone.
Orgasms. Ah, orgasms. Listen, mother fucker… you don’t GIVE a woman an orgasm. We HAVE them. If I have used different phrasing in the past, allow this paragraph to clarify. Orgasms are not points. They are experiences. Yes, it is generally true that a guy who “experiences” a woman having many orgasms when he is involved is probably better in bed than a guy who says, “You can finish up alone, right? Ima get a sammie.” But if a woman has an orgasm, even if she has ten and they accompany a torrent of body fluids, THIS IS NOT A GUARANTEE THAT YOU ARE GOOD IN BED! For my money, ten orgasms are not as good a testimony to your abilities as one bout of breathless, hysterical, post-coital giggling followed by an, “Oh my God. Wow.”
My pills have kicked in and I don’t want to waste them, so I’m gonna encapsulate some simple things. If a woman is fucking like a porn star, she’s probably not having fun. If I have enough presence of mind to worry about how I look, then you don’t have my full attention. True, this is as much my fault as yours, but please don’t think that makes you Rocco Siffred. If your partner eloquently says, “Oh, honey, I see stars, you’re so close and yes, I’m coming right now at this exact moment, it’s glorious, you’ve never been this good!” sorry. You’re probably not. However, if your partner is speaking Bajoran, that’s a good indication you’re doing fine.
If all of her makeup is still on, her hair looks great, and she’s not sweating, you were not a good fuck.
As with marathon sessions, acrobatic prowess does not guarantee your efficacy. If you’re picking positions to show off your strength, vast knowledge, (“Bet she hasn’t done THIS before!” Yes. And there’s a REASON!), or to tick something off of your bucket list, you’re not a good lay. On the other hand, if you find a good spot and then throw one of our legs over your shoulder so you can get at it even better… good on ya, mate! That’s the way to do it.
In fact, that’s the short version. If you’re thinking of yourself, anything from stroking your ego to earning points you can use later on, you’re not living up to your potential. But if you honestly want to know if you’re a good lay because you’re too distracted to think of being a good lay while you’ve got your face buried between her legs, I’m guessing you don’t have to worry. If you really get lost in the weeds, ask for direction and we will be happy and impressed. If a gal says otherwise, that’s her own damn fault.
I’m gonna go explore. And then I’m gonna go out and explore London. Ta!