The One - No one said it would be easy (23 page)

Apropos: How to please her in bed

Apropos. Since we’re kind of on the subject. If you want to know how to satisfy a woman, please, please don’t think you’re going to learn this by watching lots of porn flicks. It gives me the creeps when I see these girlies on youporn, sitting with their legs spread, shoving their too-long stuck-on white-trash-nail-studio-talons into their non-moist pussies while pretending to be oh-so-horny. It is astonishing that some ninety percent of all close-ups showing female genitals depict miserable arid deserts instead of moist glistening juicy wetlands. Meaning: the girlies are simply not aroused. In other words, they are not turned on. And when you’re not turned on, there’s no juice. And when there’s no juice, sex is not fun. Not any kind of sex, in whatever shape or form. In fact, it hurts. I just don’t get it – why do these girls allow themselves to be screwed with all manner of things anyway? I’m sitting there shaking my head, shuddering. How do they bear the pain? And why do the guys in those videos always think they are the greatest, even though it’s blatantly obvious that they don’t turn their sweetie on in the slightest? And why on earth do the girlies play along and deliver a Dolly-Buster-type groaning concerto instead of saying, “Honey, pack it in, this doesn’t work for me, better come up with something else”.

These days, every bog-standard drugstore sells an impressive selection of lubricants, which would make matters a whole lot easier. And incidentally, applying this cool goopy stuff between one’s legs actually feels quite hot, which may well induce one’s natural sprinklers to resume their work. And I giggle when subjected to youtube footage of guys maltreating their women with drum-like smacking, wild tongue acrobatics and ferocious shoving-in of fingers. Where on earth do they get these ideas? And what’s worse, the girlies seem to think that’s how it’s done, and maybe they even showed the guys how to do it, because nobody ever showed them how to do it properly.

Doing it “properly” is something else all together! There’s only one indicator, dear guys, that you’re doing it properly: she’s moist. And I mean, REALLY moist. Don’t pay any attention to all that moaning and groaning; we girlies are the undisputed masters (mistresses even) of deception. And if she’s not moist, she’s not aroused. Basta. It really is that simple. And if you still continue to scrub about on her, she won’t find it pleasurable and she certainly won’t go moist. You can of course help out with your own bodily juices and moisten her with everything your body can provide. This and the resulting sliding movement may increase her chances of awakening an arousal. Or, as I said before, those lubricants can be nothing short of miraculous. They should be renamed “arousicants” because they do just that. Let’s not have any false male pride about the use of this stuff, along the lines of “I’m the only one to make her moist and no one else!” What a load of nonsense! And besides, it’ll be a lot hotter for you, too, when she goes off like a rocket or even like greased lightning. And remember, whatever it is you do between her legs: do it slowly, pleasurably, sensually and gently. All this crap you see in porn flicks, this crass ramming and rubbing, is an instant turn-off for a woman, even if a man might find it hot. A woman is like a gourmet menu: you wouldn’t gulp that down like some disgusting greasy burger from the fast-food joint on the corner – no, you’d eat it slowly, savoring every tasty morsel. When I see the dedication with which men wash and polish their cars, I think, hey guys, use some of this dedication with your girlies. Take some care, be patient and you’ll see – the girls will be begging you to do it with them.

And you, dear females, you’ll know that all is well when you are moist. And you know that you are moist when you kiss him and are instantly suffused with shivers of arousal. Above all, it’s important that you practice on yourself and know how to give yourself an orgasm. How do you expect a guy to know what to do if you don’t even know yourself? You’re not a lucky dip! I was horrified when a girl friend told me that she’d never had an orgasm. I should maybe tell you that she’s in her mid-twenties and has a mouth on her that would make a fishwife blush. When I asked if she didn’t do her own orgasms, she got really confused and replied with a most bewildered: “NO!” I thought I’d help her out and gave her a lovely little vibrator shaped like a caterpillar as a birthday present. You can get vibrators nowadays that are beyond cute! As a precaution, I had told her it might be best not to open my present in front of all the other party guests. Which was just as well, because I never knew what she said when she opened it. I guess she must have been completely shocked. Weeks later I finally dared to ask her what she thought of my present – until then, I’d been full of recriminatory thoughts and feelings of guilt for having managed to really put my foot in it par excellence. She admitted she didn’t know what to do with it and had hidden it in the wardrobe, still in its box. She said she’d be too embarrassed to let her boyfriend see it. And I’d even written her instructions of use, including a bit about how she could include her sweetie in the proceedings, the thing is quite a little miracle worker for guys, too. I guess she hasn’t tried it out to this day.

I believe that many girlies feel like this. You don’t always have to have an orgasm, but as for the I-don’t-care-about-orgasms number: sorry, I don’t buy it. You’re missing out on the most intense and awesome feeling in the whole world. Back to the gourmet menu: it’s like you’re only allowed to look, not to eat. Is that satisfying for you? No. Well then. And if you can’t come with your guy, just do it yourself!

Number Twenty-two continue
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Number Twenty-two was pretty good at it. In fact, he was perfect. Our oral workout completed, we both sank back exhaustedly. There was nothing uncomfortable about him being here, in fact I thought it was great how well we suited each other sexually. Out with the singles-frust and in with the bed-lust! After a brief recuperation interlude, Number Twenty-two went back into action-mode. This gentleman really had staying power, staying-up power even. And again, he had a surprising surprise in store. I was lying on by belly and he positioned himself above me, from the back. Yep OK, it’s doggy-style time, I thought. I pointed my butt at him and was very much aroused again. His fingers distributed the proof of my arousal everywhere between my legs, even between my butt-cheeks, which felt unbelievably exciting, how softly he slid along there. Then he bent down and whispered a question into my ear that quite threw me: “I’d like to take you from behind, REALLY from behind. May I?”

Well geez Louise and all her bees! The A-question! I had of course, as a sexually interested and active female person, thoroughly considered this question before, but to date I’d always adamantly refused to try it for myself. I just couldn’t imagine how this could be good. I was aware of the intensely hot sensation that arises when someone touches the outside of this extremely sensitive erogenous zone, but as ever, inhibition and shame prevented me from just giving it a try. Plus, so far nobody had actually ever asked me to. I was just too inhibited. And besides, I was with Charlotte from ”Sex and the City” who was vehemently against this type of sex play because she didn’t want to end up being someone’s “fucked-in-the-ass” trophy. However, in spite of all this I decided in an instant to respond with a “yes” to Number Twenty-two’s question. After all, he was my emergency-sex man, I should make best use of the situation! I wasn’t ashamed of anything with him, and if he liked it so much, there didn’t seem to be any point in feeling inhibited. I just asked him to be extremely careful, since I was still a butt-virgin.

Number Twenty-two on the other hand seemed to be an expert at this, and I remembered how he’d constantly talked about how hot this was during our skiing holiday, as part of his never-ending stream of sex stories. He donned another rubber and then he very carefully made his way in. The feeling was strange and very intense. I was tempted to hold my breath, but concentrated on breathing steadily. Then all of a sudden a juddering shot through me and literally took my breath away. I had goosebumps all over and was aroused in a way I’d never experienced before. The feeling was awesome, almost like pain, but not pain. He barely moved, or rather, I groaned at him, don’t you dare move. It was more than enough to just feel him in there, an in-out movement would have been unbearable. Luckily he complied with my request. He just remained lying on me, docking at back, and we hardly moved at all. After a few moments I came so hard that it shook me and I had to bite the pillow, otherwise I’d have screamed the house down. After that, I couldn’t bear it any longer, the stimulus threshold had been exceeded and now it started to feel very uncomfortable indeed. I was really sorry for him, because I’d have loved for him to have the same kind of out-of-this-world orgasm as I’d just experienced, but I just couldn’t bear it. I took the rubber off, fitted a new one and gave him his second orgasm cowgirl style. Even more exhausted, we sank back into the even more rumpled heap of cushions. Unbelievable, I thought – you’ve actually done it! You’ve actually allowed yourself to be fucked from behind. My absolute no-go! An absolute revelation! I’d never in my life have thought it would feel so unimaginably intense and excellent. Emergency sex rules OK!

Some time later Number Twenty-two went home. That was fine by me, I needed some time by myself to sort out this astonishingly good New Year’s sex surprise! We met a few more times, and every time we had awesomely grandiose and uninhibited emergency sex. Once I even spent the entire night with him and in the morning we had breakfast and even a serious discussion about relationship issues. I caught myself wondering whether maybe it would be possible to have something more with him – I guess that was the desperate single sticking her head above ground again – but the mere idea was totally absurd. We were about as compatible as a rabbit and a cheese grater.

Number Twenty-three: From turned on to turned off

Number Twenty-three was one of those in-between things that showed a lot of promise to start with, but all of a sudden he so got on my nerves that I pretended there’d never been anything between us, and I ended the whole thing without a word or an explanation.

I met Number Twenty-three one lunchtime in the pub that served as a stand-in canteen for me and my colleagues. Number Twenty-three worked close-by and we ran into each other every so often whilst heaping mash, broccoli and schnitzel on our plates. I immediately thought he was quite hot, right from when I first saw him. He was almost indecently handsome and had this very-bad-boy-ishness about him, coupled with a mixture of gentleman and sheer wickedness. And he also had the word “sex” engraved on his forehead. He had a very tasty body, I could tell that straight away, and a full head of dark hair he wore either tousled or gelled back dandy-style. Both looked very cool indeed. He was always exceedingly well dressed, in just the style I like best. Either cool jeans with a slightly bleached-out T-shirt and cool leather boots – hello James Dean. Or sometimes he was elegantly dressed in a tweed suit, Brit-chic style. Very sexy. Well, all in all, the guy was a feast for the eyes. Apropos eyes. He had terribly beautiful ice-blue eyes, which mercilessly exploited my weakness for blue eyes, because every time we met during our lunch break, there was a thunderstorm of eye-contact that made the very air crackle around us. We kept this going for quite some time – running into each other at lunchtime, letting our eyes do the talking. Still, neither of us dared make a move, after all we were surrounded by colleagues. Which made it damn near impossible to come out with something like “Hello beautiful man, wanna come out for coffee with me?” And so we kept in silent contact by running into each other every so often during lunch.

I had no idea what he was called, what he did, anything. Until one day a new female colleague came to lunch with me, Number Twenty-three was hungry too and it turned out the two of them knew each other. They said hello and started to chat, whilst I stole glances across my soup spoon straight into his blue Husky eyes that looked at me more than the girl he was talking to. We nodded at each other without anyone noticing, which meant “hey you!” Now I was really hooked. Now I wanted to know, needed to know who this ominous and beautiful stranger was, but didn’t dare ask my colleague. Who wants to volunteer for why-do-you-want-to-know type questions? So I trickily checked my new colleague’s online network profile and what do you know – I found Husky man among her contacts. Strike! Super invention, these digital lists of friends. So there he was, black on white, his name, his job, nicely embellished with a pretty photo. Me heart leapt. Gotcha, I thought, grinning.  
Impatient as I am, I couldn’t wait any longer. I wrote him a nice little message straight away, something along the lines of “hello beautiful man who sweetens my lunch hours, who are you?” – the whole works. Without worrying about the possibility of getting in hot water and being sent packing by return. No rules of dating, no beating around the bush, no, just a nice and open declaration of interest. And why not? The reply came immediately: “I’ll tell you who I am over coffee this afternoon. Looking forward to it.” My heart throbbed and sank down into my pants – if you shoot to kill, they’ll shoot right back at you! At long last, I was about to actually get to know this dream guy I’d adored from afar for so many months. For really real! I sneaked out of the office for my unexpected and extremely important coffee date. I recklessly played hooky for the afternoon. I didn’t care. There are times in life when you have to know your priorities. Number Twenty-three was waiting for me at the agreed location, holding two caffe latte to go. He stared at me quite blatantly while I was walking up to him, took his sweet and leisurely time examining me from top to bottom (I was wearing hot-pants and boots, there’s no man alive who can resist this look…), and was barely able to hide his delight with what he saw walking towards him. I could practically smell his dirty thoughts. Which suited me well, because I had quite similar dirty thoughts myself. I’d have liked to kiss him and drag him into the bushes right away. Naturally, we didn’t, though. We greeted each other quite politely on the outside and full of excitement on the inside, then small-talked about this and that. It turned out that he was over forty, but he didn’t seem like someone in his forties at all. I liked him. I thought he was a bit crazy, but maybe all the super sexy guys have to be a little crazy and wacky. Luckily there was no great disenchantment – he was still very attractive to me, even after seeing and getting to know him close up.    

We walked for a bit and held on to our conversation, until he suddenly said: “And when are we going to sleep together?” He said this like it was the most normal question in the world. Granted, I wasn’t exactly Little Miss Innocent and of course I wanted to sleep with him too, and yes, the rules of dating don’t need to be adhered to every step of the way. But for a moment this question just threw me. I turned hot and cold and a flash of arousal shot in-between my legs. He didn’t exactly hang about, that one! He was even worse than me! Don’t lose your composure now – stay cool. Hide your confusion. Did I really want this, and did I want it like this? Mr. Mysterious, so quickly de-mystified? No time to let anything build up? Instead, just full speed ahead? All this I dealt with in a split second and replied with a “tonight?” and a wide grin and a heap of butterflies in my stomach. He grinned back, pleased. We took our leave and I sneaked back into my office, blushing furiously. I sent him a text message with further date-related information and was quite unable to concentrate on my work anymore. Mr. Unknown and I had a date! An F-date. This evening, at my home, I would welcome a guy with whom I’d barely exchanged more than half a dozen sentences, and would open my home and my legs to him. Maybe I was a tiny bit nuts. I wiped all thoughts of potential serial killers and the like right out of my head.

The evening started with speedy and hectic all-in date preparations – I hadn’t expected things with Mr. Husky-eyes and me to move that fast! What to wear, what lingerie? Shaving of legs & co., pretty-up hair and face, and all to look natural and fresh, casually beautiful and not at all like two hours of bathroom terror. I was ready and waiting at the agreed hour – minute, to be precise – and in joyful expectation of Number Twenty-three’s arrival. He didn’t arrive. After endless waiting at long last a text message with a big “sorry” and “missed the tram, I’m going to be late.” Joyful expectation seeped out of me like the air out of a cooling cheese soufflé. Oh brilliant. Men in their forties who rely on trams are extremely un-sexy. That’s what teenagers do, take the tram to visit their girlfriends. Men of more mature years ought to be able to hail a taxi if they don’t have their own car. But no, he didn’t seem to want to part with 15 euros for a taxi, he’d rather stand about in the cold and make me wait for another forty-five minutes. Stingy and mean guys are crap. I tried my level best to keep hold of at least a little bit of my previous joyful and expectant mood. This took a lot of effort. Finally, what seemed like three hours later, the doorbell rang. He came running up the stairs, made a big fuss about apologizing, handed me a bottle of sparkling wine, took a hold of me and kissed me.

His kiss didn’t taste nice at all: instant disillusionment. Oh crap! This did not bode well. His kisses were hard and un-gentle and the taste was revolting. Revolting, because Number Twenty-three was a smoker. I’ve been known to smoke the odd cigarette every once in a while, but really not often. His taste was dry and acrid and foul and stinky. Yuck! I didn’t say or do anything. Yes, of course I should have sent him packing on the spot, but – are there any women out there who have mastered this art? Most of us will continue to put up with horrible kisses again and again, even though we’ve had more than enough experience and really should know better. Crazy or what?! And this kiss was the very opposite of promising. The only thing that made me want more was the fact that he was a new man, and this situation has its own built-in sexual arousal. This certainly wouldn’t turn into a long-term steaming affair. That much I was sure of already. So, let’s get through the evening, see what’s what, and then good-bye.

Number Twenty-three was all over me immediately. He pushed me against the wall, grabbed me from behind and made his way across my body. He had a hard grip on him, which in itself was quite hot. Yes, I liked his direct approach, but what’s the point if all the time you have to try and avoid any possible kissing because the guy tastes like shit! However, I persevered anyway. In five seconds flat we were out of our clothes and before we could even get started in bed, Number Twenty-three suddenly dashed into the kitchen, opened the bubbly and came back with the open bottle. OK, why not have a glass or two. Number Twenty-three took a swig, but instead of swallowing it, he bent over me and tried to feed me the mouth-warm plonk, platypus-style. Oh for God’s sake, I thought, how bloody silly can you get! No 9
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-Weeks type games, if you don’t mind. I’m not into that kind of stuff.

And most certainly not during the first time. I have enough to do just coping with all the new-naked-man-in-my-bed impressions, I don’t need to add any pseudo-sexy games. I had no choice but to swallow his drink, otherwise it would have gushed all over my bed. I could have saved myself the trouble, because before I even had a chance to discourage further such activities, he’d taken another hefty swig and was dribbling the stinky sticky stuff all over my body. He really enjoyed it and leisurely traced the trails left by the bubbly on my body. He distributed the stuff all over my breasts and between my legs, which seemed to turn him on quite a lot, because he groaned and had a gigantic hard-on. I groaned too, but more from desperation. This was an absolute no-no. Especially since the bubbly now had the smell of his acrid kisses. I had stinky gunk all over my body and wasn’t the foggiest bit turned on anymore. Super! In an attempt to get out of this somehow, I took charge. I pushed him down on the bed and wrestled the bubbly away from him. Then I went at him as befits a first time. Without frills and bubbly.

He had a great body for a forty-something. Firm, well-built, perfectly proportioned. His cock too was impressive and of a pleasant size and shape. When I began to direct my attention there, he groaned and muttered: “Oh yeah that’s great, keep doing it. Oh yeah. Oh that’s so hot, I wanna fuck you in all your holes.” Haaang on – what was that? He didn’t really say THAT? I shuddered inside and told myself that I must have misheard. But no, I hadn’t. Funny that these things always sound so gross in real life. Well OK, even in porn flicks they don’t exactly sound sensual and sexy, but then, neither are the porn flicks, so it kind of fits together. But in a real bed with real people? Sorry, but no way! Everyone goes on about “dirty talk” but, let’s be honest here: dirty talk, or whatever miserable attempt passes for dirty talk, is really just gross and laughable. And so I pretended that I’d misheard. Especially since there was no way Number Twenty-three was going to get anywhere near all my holes.

Since I didn’t really feel like it anymore, I quickly fitted him with Mr. Condom and deposited myself on top of him. I wanted him to come as quickly as possible so that the whole thing would be over. Sadly, that wasn’t what the stud had in mind. He turned out to be one of those I’ll-fuck-you-up-and-down-the-entire-Kama-Sutra freaks. For hours! Holy shit – I really knew how to pick them! He shifted and turned and draped me this way and that in all possible directions and variations. After what felt like hours I gave up trying to join in and just let him get on with it, I was saddle-sore and had long lost all sense of arousal. To top it all, he started to groan: “Come on baby, I want you to come! Go on baby, come! Come!” Oh for crying out loud! I had no intention of coming like this, nor was I able to. My only option was to turn this around. I said, with a pretend groan: “I can only come when you do,” hoping that would give me the result I was looking for. And it worked – luckily, he didn’t need to be told twice and at long last, after a few more in-and-outs, he had his climax and I had my peace. I did him the favor of coming by grabbing hold of his hand and moving it between my legs as though I was doing it to myself. It was the kind of orgasm that you need to release tension, where there’s no sexual arousal and everything is quite an effort. What a pity! How can a guy have such charisma, such an air of sexiness about him, and then, when it comes down to it, be so completely un-sexy? I was really very sorry. I’d have loved to be able to have all that sexy sexual excitement in bed with me and have a super-sex encounter with this very swish young man. But as I said, the merciless number one killer of sexual desire is bad kissing. Always. Not to mention stinky bad kissing. And not at all to mention everything else!

Luckily, Number Twenty-three didn’t want to stay the night. He said he could only ever sleep alone and only in his own bed. Oh goodie: raging neurosis of epic proportions. Just as well the sex was lousy and there was no danger of me losing my heart to him. That would have been another disaster waiting to happen. And yet, despite all this I wasn’t prepared to give up on Number Twenty-three just yet. I was still too fascinated by the sexual energy that had sizzled between us all along. Surely this couldn’t have been it! And so I gave him a few more tries, we had some more dates and we had sex. The sex actually did get better, and I started to think that maybe I did kind of like him. However, nothing could make up for the fact that his kisses were disgusting. We both knew that we were only having a little whatever-it-was, neither of us was after a relationship. So it was all quite relaxed. Whenever we felt like it, we saw each other, and each time I told myself that this was definitely the last time, ever. Fat chance! Due to a lack of alternatives I kept making do with Number Twenty-three: the a-bird-in-the-hand principle strikes again.