Monthly Archives: October 2010
Some mornings I roll out of my empty bed, open my laptop and stare gloomily at my inbox. Sometimes I go days without getting a single comment on this blog. I look dejectedly at the stats sliding downwards like an Alpine piste, except where you’d expect to find sweet vin chaud and drunken skiers having the times of their collective lives at the bottom, instead I stare into digital obscurity.
I can’t take that. That’s unacceptable for someone with a temperament like mine. They say that charming people are charming because they crave acceptance and praise. While I’d never be so arrogant as to describe myself as charming, I think the second part of that sentence is definitely applicable to me.
So it was with confusion that I opened my emails early this morning and saw a barrage of emails from WordPress, telling me that a bunch of my posts had been linked to from another blog. So I followed the links and I found something surprising. Something that I was certainly not expecting to wake up to on a chilly Friday morning.
What I read was essentially a eulogy. To me. My bizarre, obscene, meandering scrawling had somehow come to the attention of sexy Canadian with a beautiful turn of phrase. You can read it here, and I suggest you do if you’re a regular reader of mine because the author, to whom I’ll come to next, had clearly put some time into writing it.
The author is one @LadylikePervert. Her blog is exceptionally good, one of the finest sex blogs I’ve ever read. And she wants me to contribute, by offering a male perspective on certain topics. I haven’t finished chewing my way through all the content on her blog yet, in fact I’ve barely scratched the surface. But her prose is great and I love her no-bullshit writing style. I’d be happy to contribute.
I work for Ann Summers. And Lady-Like Pervert promotes toys for a Canadian sex toy company. So as much as I would love to position myself as the… err… the… umm… the Harry Reems to her Linda Lovelace (make of that what you will), I’m contractually forbidden from promoting, supporting or contributing to the content of a site which supports another company in the same industry, even if that company is beyond any direct conflict of interest. So, in short, I’m not allowed. But I’m going to do it anyway. Because fuck it. It’s only a blog.
Welcome to the second instalment of my world-famous Weird Shit You Never Knew About Sex series. Today, we’re talking about cum and from here on in, I will be referring to sperm and semen under the collective name ‘spooge’, because it’s a really funny word and I like saying it. Spooge.
It’s Good For You
You probably already know that spooge is good for your skin. But did you know that it’s even better for your oral hygiene? Hells yeah! You can keep your fucking Listerine, I’m bottling my spooge from now on.
It’s good because it contains high levels of zinc and calcium, which are both scientifically proven to reduce tooth decay. Hurrah. Just be careful with the amount of Ribena you drink afterwards trying to wash the spooge taste out of your mouth, otherwise you’ll undo all your good work.
At orgasm, only about 10% of the spooge that emerges is actually sperm. It’s mainly enzymes, Vitamin C, calcium, protein, sodium, zinc, citric acid and fructose sugar. Sounds like the perfect cocktail to me. Spooge leaves the dick at around 24 miles per hour. That’s faster than you can run, so there’s no getting away from it if you try to dodge. Yossarian’s Tip: if you’re going to try to dodge it, move to the side, not backwards. Practice your dodging with a water-pistol in front of a mirror.
If your spooge is red or brown, you probably burst a blood vessel in your prostate when you spooged. It’s nothing to worry about and it’ll probably go back to normal after a couple of days. Congratulations, it must have been a huge spooge. Heehee, “huge spooge”.
If it’s yellow or green, you need to get your ass to the clinic. You’ve got an infection. Also, if your spooge smells really really bad, then it’s off to the clinic again.
It’s possible for women to be allergic to spooge. It’s known as ‘human seminal plasma hypersensitivity’. I prefer the term “spoogeaphobic”. Or “allerjizz” (like ‘allergic’, geddit? Geddit?). Neither of those are very funny. Sorry about that.
Here’s an interesting fact: women look exactly 84% sexier when they have spooge on their face. Ok, I made that up. But I think it’s probably true.
Ok, that’ll do for now. That was this week’s Weird Shit You Never Knew About Sex.
Welcome to my latest Top 10 list. This week, it’s the Top 10 Bad Sex Habits that men have. By “ that men have”, I of course mean “that I have”. In fact, I may as well have called this list ’10 Reasons Never To Have Sex With Me’, or ’10 Reasons why I’m a Complete Fucking Idiot in Bed’. But for the sake of appearances, I’m going to pretend that all men suffer from these same bad habits. If you do, please make me feel better by commenting that you agree. If you’re amazing in bed and don’t do any of the following ten things, kindly fuck off and die horribly.
10. Discreet Burping.
Let’s start as we mean to continue; I usually have sex after food, which means there is often some expanding gas inside me when have sex. It’s difficult to seem sexy if you belch in your partner’s face during the physical act of love. So I usually do it into a pillow. I think I get away with it. Most of the time.
9. Forgetting Partner’s Name.
This used to happen to me a lot when I was single. In fact, I met a girl at a wedding once and we had sex several times, during which I never could remember her name. So I got in the habit of only using ‘baby’ during sex. That way, you can’t go wrong. (For the record, that girl’s name was Stephanie, but I couldn’t stop wanting to call her Sophie. Sophie’s a nicer name anyway; she should have likedWhat the hell was her problem?)
8.Nearly Saying Somebody Else’s Name.
This is surprisingly common, and it’s related to – but not the same as – the previous entry. I haven’t said somebody else’s name for a long time, but the threat is always there. I have, in recent months, referred to my girlfriend variously as ‘mate’, ‘mum’, and a few other things. Calling your partner ‘mum’ during sex might be a bit of a passion killer. Unless you’re actually having sex with your mum.
7. Fantasising about Sex You’ve Had with Someone Else.
I know I’m not alone here. Sometimes I can’t stop my mind wandering into previous encounters. Other sexual misadventures pop into my head at inopportune moments. That doesn’t mean the scenario in my head was any better, it’s just something that happens. So there.
6. Thinking of Terribly Inappropriate things to Stave Off the Orgasm
This is bad. Sometimes I want sex to last as long as possible. But to do this, I need to take my mind to some pretty disgraceful places. I’ve heard some guys think about football, or TV, or housework. Not me. I’m thinking about plane crashes. Or terrorist attacks. And sometimes it doesn’t even work. Do you know how worrying it is to have an orgasm while you’re thinking about Third World massacres?
5. Needing to Fart.
Sometimes the need to fart can be so profound during sex, it can actually prevent orgasm and I have pulled my arse muscles under the strain of resistance. I don’t tend to fart in front of my girlfriend anyway, so the urge is doubly powerful for me. Sometimes i get it when she’s giving me head. This would be terrible, I think it would put her off for life and I’d have to go back to trying to suck myself off instead. I haven’t been able to do that since I was about 14.
4. Stopping to Masturbate.
See “Being Unbelievably Selfish” for further discussion.
3. Going for a Wee First.
No one wants to go down on their partner after they’ve had a piss. So for the sake of pleasurable oral sex, I try to either hold on until afterwards, piss ages before we have sex, or scrub my bell-end with shower gel immediately after having a wee. I’m nice like that.
I am, without a shadow of a doubt, the sweatiest human you will ever meet – unless perhaps you live next door to Lee Evans. I’m famous for it; by the end of a martial arts class I’m usually about three stone lighter and so slippery that I can squeeze out of any hold. That’s good, but it’s not so good during sex. If I’m on top, my partner is guaranteed a healthy shower by the end of it.
1. Being Unbelievably Selfish.
Sometimes I expect my girlfriend to go down on me with no thought of returning the favour. Often I lay back and let her do all the hard work. Sometimes (though not really with my current girlfriend), I would approach orgasm with my partner, and then stop and just finish myself off instead. Not trying to justify it, I’m just saying.
So there’s my top 10. Do you have any bad habits? I could probably have continued writing until it was a top 1000 list, and i might have included “having a curious urge to spit in my partner’s mouth”, but i didn’t want to make it too weird, you know?
Today I’m walking like John Wayne after having his prostate examined with a ladle. A fucking big ladle. So would you be, if you rode your falling-apart bike 90 miles across Surrey and Central London in the dark and done four hours of Krav Maga, all in the space of about 30 hours. The question that naturally follows is this: what the hell is Krav Maga? (Unless your mind works like mine, in which case the question that naturally follows would be this: I wonder what a fucking big ladle would feel like up my bum?)
Krav Maga is quite a big part of my life, and I’ve never really talked about it before. So that’s what I’m going to do today. If you stick Krav Maga in Google, you’ll eventually discover that it’s the fighting style of the Israeli Defence Force, begun in Bratislava in the 30s by a dude who bears more than a passing resemblance Luigi’s plumber mate, Mario.
I’m not going to talk about that historical stuff very much. Instead I’m going to tell you what it’s really like. So we better get started; I’m writing this on my lunch break and I’ve already used up 24 minutes trying to chew my way through some shitty Tandoori Chicken Salad. Quick note: always by suspicious of salads that come in see-through plastic boxes and have plastic forks that are floppier than my penis after three bottles of wine. The salads tend to be soggy, yet somehow too dry to digest at the same time. Like tar. Or a Rivita, cunningly covered in lard.
Anyway, Krav Maga is a FUCKING MENTAL martial art* that dresses itself up as a self-defence system, but essentially trains you to be the bad guy in a fight. Instead of styles like aikido and ju jitsu, which train you to use your opponent’s strength to tie them up in knots, krav maga often encourages you to strike first in aggressive situations.
It’s pretty simple. In other martial arts like the two i just mentioned, you have to wait for your opponent to throw a punch, dodge it, catch it, control it, then climb up their body, insert their arms into their ears up to the elbows, then tuck your knees under their armpits and do a spinning backflip, slamming them into the ground on their head, forcing it into their body, like a cartoon. Then you stand up, strike a hero-pose and wait for all the adoring women who saw you do it come running in flocks, already stripping their clothes off in moist anticipation of the sex they’re about to have with you.
Basically, you’re no good at these styles unless you’re amazing at them. Otherwise, you’re just cannon-fodder on your local highstreet.
Krav Maga is very, very different. You can walk out of your first lesson and kick a little bit of ass. My first lesson ever included detailed instructions on how to break a bouncer’s fingers. You try as hard as possible never to let anyone get close enough to throw a punch at you. If you think things are about to get a bit rough, Krav Maga teaches you to break your opponent in half using everything around you until they’re a bloody, dazed heap on the floor and the area around you looks like a tornado just tore through a trailer park. Then you go after his mates.
It even teaches you stand in such a way that you look defensive and non-threatening in case there’s a CCTV camera over your shoulder, so you can plead your case in court. It ticks all the boxes for me.
I’ve been doing it around two years now. Before that, I tried Muay Thai kickboxing (which is great if the person you’re fighting is patient enough to wait for you to get in a striking stance before he thumps you in the eye), jiu jitsu (which is only useful if the other person you’re fighting also knows ju jitsu but isn’t quite as good as you), MMA (which is nothing more than a combination of the last two things), and a couple of other things. If you want to look after yourself in the real world, nothing, NOTHING, is better than krav. (Excuse the capitals there. Just wanted to express my sincerity.)
Let’s look at a couple of the more fun principles and tactics in krav maga.
You’re at a cashpoint. You feel something in your back and a sinister voice tells you to give them your money. You worked for that money, you’re hungry, and you want to keep it.
You drain your fluids into your trousers and give him the £20 you just withdrew. Then you stand trembling about it for half an hour before going to the pub and telling your mates how you nearly just battered about 15 guys, but they got the better of you in the end.
You glance over your shoulder to make sure it’s not one of your mates whose face you’re about ruin. You dip your shoulder and turn away, wrap their arm up and hold it tight against your chest so their stabs won’t be too lethal, then spend about twenty minutes delivering alternating headbutts to the face and knees to the groin, until their groin and their face have both been reduced to a fine puree. Then, if you want, wrench the knife from their twitching hand and keep it as a souvenir. Then leave.
You’re in a kebab shop at 3am. You’re stood at the counter next to your girlfriend. A small group of wobbly drunks wander in for their fix of doner meat and chips (which will inevitably get dropped in the gutter the moment they step outside), and one of them pinches your girlfriend’s ass.
You grin nervously, and mutter “yeah she loves it. Do it again. Why don’t you all take turns?” without making eye-contact. Your girlfriend leaves you and you spend your nights with a pot noodle in one hand, your dick in the other, and then crying yourself to sleep.
You step forward towards the pincher with your hands up slightly, so you look defensive. You ask him not to do it again, and tell him you don’t want trouble. Then before he has the chance to apologise, you fake a right-straight and when he raises his hands to block the punch you kick his balls up his throat. When he bends forward, take him by the back of the neck and use him as a shield from his friends, picking them off one by one (with various bollock-kicks) and giving him the occasional knee in the face and elbow in the kidneys to remind him that he’s a very naughty man. Then, once there’s a nice tidy pile of bleeding thugs, get your girlfriend to pinch his ass, collect your food, and trot home. That’s justice.
You’re at a peace rally in London. You’re sitting comfortably with your placard that reads “no war for oil” or “the pope is a bummer” or whatever. The police are bored, so they think it’s about time to liven things up by busting a few dreadlocked heads. A policeman, clad in riot gear with his truncheon above his head, is bearing down on you.
You get hit on the head, fall over and die. The video appears on youtube, the policeman gets suspended, but no one really gives a shit.
You block the policeman’s flailing arm at his wrist with your forearm while simultaneously trying as hard as you can to destroy his windpipe with your other hand. Control the baton-wielding arm and deliver 6000 knees to his groin until his chances of having children lie in a sticky pink puddle at your feet. Then the choice is two-fold. Either take his baton and continue smashing your way through London until every policeman lays unconscious. Or, and this is the one I would recommend, run the fuck away as fast as you can and don’t stop until you’re in Mexico. They hate police there, you should be fine.
That’s about it for now. I’ll try to write more Krav stuff in future, but i thought i’d just give you some background. Please note: the International Krav Maga Federation strongly suggests that you don’t actually do anything that i’ve said in this blog post.
*Loads of krav instructors will argue that it’s not a martial art, but it is, as long as you take the literal understanding of martial art: ‘martial’, from the same etymological root as things like ‘court martial’ and ‘martial law’, from the Latin ‘Mars’, of or relating to war. Since krav maga was apparently engendered on the battlefield, Krav Maga is absolutely a martial art.
My girlfriend and I take one holiday a year. Last year it was Egypt, the year before it was the Dominican Republic and the year before that it was California. So this year, we thought we would try the opposite end of the weather spectrum. We ditched the sun in favour of snow, and we hit the slopes of the French Alps.
Neither of us could ski so we packed in hours and hours of practice and lessons on dry slopes before we left for France, resulting in multiple bruises, bumps and friction burns… not of the good variety! We got the coach there and back; it was an 18 hour trip but SO much cheaper than flying that it would have been stupid for us to fly. Plus, we both hate flying, and we wanted to have a few drinks on the journey too. Actually, we wanted to arrive at the hotel already drunk. Don’t judge us, we were on holiday.
Now a couple of bits of background. We’re a childless couple in our late twenties with a healthy, loving sex life. We frequently go toy shopping together and we’re quite adventurous (and getting more adventurous as time goes on, it seems!). We have a lot of sex on holiday, far more than we do at home, and it’s always great. I knew that we were in for a week of sun, snow and sex, and we weren’t disappointed. We just didn’t know exactly how far we would end up going.
The morning after arrival we were fed croissants and coffee, fitted for our boots and skis, handed rapidly made sandwiches and then ferried to the ski lift that would take us up the mountain to the ski resort proper. We were nervous, and the ski lift was old and noisy. It bobbed eerily up and down and the cable holding us about 20ft off the ground twisted suspiciously under its load. The journey was around 40 minutes, and in that time we made nervous small-talk with the Bristolian couple who were also sat in the lift. It was their first time too and the conversation would fall ominously silent when the ski lift drifted over a particularly scary ravine. But at least it was it was warm in there. In fact, the windows steamed up so much that for long periods we couldn’t see out, and I’m sure we were all at least a little relieved.
Once on the pistes, we got into the swing of it quickly. Charlotte’s thin, athletic frame seemed to suit the slope and I was content to follow slowly behind, stopping at regular intervals simply to pose and look cool in my ridiculously expensive designer ski gear. I was in all black with flashes of white on my arms and legs, and Charlotte’s pink and white jacket and trousers looked sexy and stylish, her long blonde hair flowing down her back from her white beanie hat.
We skied all day, falling often but enjoying ourselves. We had underestimated just how tiring it was, and as the sun began to dip we decided to call it a day and relax in a bar with a vin chaud. The bar we settled in was incredible. It was quiet, even though it was right next to the piste, and the heated terrace gave an extraordinary panorama of the mountain range that towered around us. We got close to each other, laughed about our accidents, and relaxed.
The mulled wine was strong, and at 2500m altitude and with the lack of air, alcohol affects you more strongly. We only had a couple of glasses before we were tipsy and flirty and as the sun disappeared behind the mountain we were keen to get back to the hotel. We were kissing passionately on the terrace as the temperature fell around us and it was obvious what we both wanted. And we both wanted badly.
We clicked our skis back on and slid drunkenly down the slope towards the ski lift station. It was deserted apart from the ruddy-faced Frenchman manning the controls (and I have no doubt that he was drunker than me and Charlotte combined. A quick glance into his kiosk revealed countless empty red wine bottles), and we boarded one of the ancient lifts alone. Just us this time, with no one in the lift ahead of us and no one in the lift behind. The scenery on the way back down was stunning. With a little alcohol in us we weren’t feeling so nervous about the journey and started to enjoy it. We kissed, hard and deep, tongues exploring mouths, hands exploring bodies. We were losing control.
We had only been in the lift for a couple of minutes; we were about half an hour away from the bottom station and when I mentioned this to Charlotte between kisses, she grinned broadly and started to unzip her jacket. I grinned too and I stroked her thigh while I kissed her. She opened her jacket and slid it off her slim shoulders. It was warm enough in the lift to be without a jacket, so Charlotte quickly and easily removed mine too. Our bodies were a little damp from the sweat and the condensation we’d built up on the slopes, and the windows of the lift steamed up immediately. We were sat next to each other in the little lift, with not a great deal of room to move around, but somehow Charlotte managed to slide off her seat and was kneeling between my knees. She kissed me lovingly on the mouth, running her soft tongue around my lips as she struggled to undo the buttons and zips on my salopettes. Soon she had freed up enough space to slide her hand inside and she stroked me through my thermals as we continued to kiss, stopping occasionally to look at each other and grin sexily.
I lifted my backside off the seat slightly and Charlotte slid my trousers down past my knees until they met the top of my ski boots and would go no further. We were both hot and panting, we wanted each other and we would have each other. Charlotte was still kneeling between my legs and stroking me through my underwear while we kissed, and it was making me very, very horny. She suddenly tugged at my underwear and revealed my erection, it bounced up and lay hard against my torso, pointing menacingly upwards, twitching very slightly as she ran her fingernails over it. Without a pause, she lowered her mouth to it and her lips, softened by her cherry lip balm, slid gracefully up and down my length. Her soft blond hair stroked and tickled my thighs, and I brushed it from one side of her face so I could watch her work on me.
She was slow at first, and she made eye contact while she sucked me. But as we became more aroused she become more and more wild, gripping my erection and squeezing with one hand, supporting her weight with the other and using her mouth to masturbate me. She got faster and faster, more and more urgent, and she began moaning as more and more of my erection disappeared into her mouth. She stopped eventually when she felt that I was becoming close to orgasm, and she moved up to my body to kiss me. I unzipped her ski pants and slid them down her thighs, and moved my hand into the thong she had chosen to wear that day. My fingers brushed down through the thin, soft strip of hair that she retained and down to her clitoris. She was already wet and ready to take me, but I left my fingers there for several minutes, flicking her moistened clit and feeling her leg twitch a little every time I made contact properly, kissing her all the while. Her entire body shock with lust and she could only moan slightly.
She grabbed my wrist to stop me, and she looked deeply into my eyes. Without a word uttered, Charlotte lifter her body up, turned around awkwardly in the restrictive space of the ski lift and lowered herself down onto my lap. I gripped the base of my erection firmly and guided it to the warm, wet opening of her pussy as she hovered inches above me. Once it found it, she lowered herself down into me slowly until my full length was inside her. We both sighed, it felt incredible and she quickly lifted her sexy body up and drew it slowly back down onto me again. She got into a rhythm quickly and despite the lack of room in that ski lift, she was able to get one foot onto the window ledge for an added level of sensitivity. With my salopettes around my knees I was only able to sit bolt upright but I didn’t care. Charlotte was straddling my lap with her back to me, looking over her shoulder into my eyes as she slipped effortlessly up and down my erection. We moaned together, and she worked faster and faster until we were both sweating and panting with pleasure.
I could feel the pressure build and my thighs start to twitch as my orgasm began. “I’m gonna cum, baby”, I panted into her ear. “Me too baby, don’t stop”, she panted back. I pushed deep into her as the orgasm took hold, and I felt her pussy start to grip and squeeze me as she began her own climax. We orgasmed together noisily and for what seemed like ages. It just didn’t stop and our deep breaths began to synchronise with each other as we began to calm down. We were gasping for breath and smiling, and Charlotte turned to kiss me as she carefully lifted herself off me.
We dressed ourselves and sat basking in the afterglow for the rest of the lift journey, exhausted and satisfied. Who knew skiing could be so much fun?
The term ‘sex positive’ is proliferating. I’ve noticed it beginning to crop up in mainstream media, on morning TV and in women’s magazines. It’s a pretty versatile term and can mean different things to different people; at its weakest it simply describes a positive attitude towards sex, and that’s great. But it also describes a new kind of activist, an activist campaigning for the liberalisation of sexual attitudes. And that’s not so great. Let me explain.
When it comes to sex and sexuality, as it often does on this blog, you’d be hard pushed to find a more liberal guy than me. There aren’t many fetishes and niches I haven’t explored in one way or another and I try hard not to judge when I hear about other’s sexual preferences. I mean, I sell dildos for a living, for fuck’s sake. Granted, that doesn’t immediately qualify me to talk about sexual politics with any authority, but what it does give me is the opportunity to interact with a vast array of different people about sex and masturbation. I was the main receiver for customer communications at GetMePleasure, and the main filter through which any customer communication were sent. Through this I’ve developed a pretty respectable understanding of what makes ordinary people tick when it comes to sex.
So why am I not entirely on board with the sex positivity movement? Surely it’s my responsibility as an adult industry-type, isn’t it? That’s a question with which I’ve been battling for a while now. Since I joined the adult industry a few years ago, I always felt that I should be a sex positive activist, like I should use my position to champion the cause of sex positivity at every opportunity. But the concept never sat very comfortably with me, and that made me feel a little guilty and a little ashamed of myself, not least because I could never understand why I was baulking from that responsibility. In fact, I felt like a hypocrite for selling sex toys while I was intimidated by the sex positive movement. It’s taken a long time for me to reconcile the conflicting emotions I have for the movement, but I think I’ve pinned it down now. Hence this blog, I guess.
Sex Is Functional
The reason it feels good to stimulate our sexual organs is because it encourages us to procreate. That’s all. That’s the only reason for the payoff of endorphins and dopamine and adrenaline that we’re given when we engage in sexual activity. It’s easy to trick our bodies into giving us those agreeable sensations with hands and tongues and mouths and things that vibrate and things that resemble the reproductive organs of the opposite sex, but we should never lose sight of the fact that sex is primarily functional. Like eating. Sure, we can pick foods that taste better than others to help facilitate the eating process, but we shouldn’t take for granted the fact that if we don’t eat we don’t survive as a race. By extension, we can use tools and techniques that make sex more pleasurable, but it’s purpose is still utilitarian in nature. The sex-positive movement emphasises the importance of sex for pleasure over sex for function, and it seems to disregard its importance as a biological process in favour of a more humanistic approach. That might seem like a bleak assessment of one of the greatest feelings in existence, but I think it’s a necessary one. What I’m saying is this: let’s not get carried away with ourselves when it comes to sex. Sex isn’t necessary for our social continuity as it is in, say bonobo monkeys.
Pushing the Boundaries
One of the goals of sex-positivity seems to be to push the boundaries of sex as far as they go within the limits set by modern morality (as opposed to traditional religious morality). The problem is, boundaries don’t have to be pushed for the sake of pushing them. A lot of people, including myself and most of the people I speak to on a daily basis, don’t feel the need or the desire to push the limits of sexual experience. I’ll give you an example from my life. I’ve had some very kinky sex, some very exploratory sex and I’ve experimented with gender roles. Now though, I have a wonderful girlfriend and the sex we have is relatively vanilla.
Is it worse? No. it’s brilliant. It’s intimate and meaningful and every bit as pleasurable. I always get the impression that sex-positive activists are trying to make us experiment all the time. If you’ve seen the film JFK, you’ll know that there’s a section in which Kevin Costner’s character visits a gay guy in prison, played by Kevin Bacon, and as he’s leaving Bacon’s character shouts after him “you don’t know shit cos you’ve never been fucked in the ass!” I get the impression that those in the sex-positive movement feel the same way about those outside it; they seem to think, at the risk of stepping on some toes here, that you’re not complete without some sexual experimentation.
That’s simply not true and I resent that attitude. You can be happy and healthy and still have a relatively vanilla relationship; I feel that the sex positivity movement is trying to put pressure on ordinary people to go places they don’t necessarily want to go.
The most important gripe I have with sex-positivity is its proselytising. The more active sex-positive campaigners try hard to convert non-campaigners, and they seem to do this by forcing their own sexual preferences on the public. I hate proselytisation of any kind; it assumes that the person preaching knows the absolute truth and the people to whom they’re preaching are ignorant and need to be shown “the light”. This is dangerous, particularly when it comes to sex. Everybody has sex in their own way; it’s as idiosyncratic as the way you talk and the way you think. And most people are nervous about it. To start telling them that they’re doing it wrong or that they’re not experimental enough can be damaging.
Luckily, most people will never come close enough to the sex positivity movement to really give a shit about it. But I am, and I just wanted to share my concerns early. So I can say “I told you so” when it fucks up in everybody’s face.