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If anyone asked me my favourite sexual position, I don’t think I’d be able to narrow the list to fewer than five or so. It’s like the ‘desert island disc’ question when I struggle to squeeze my selection of CDs to 10 (which I did start typing but I reached 15 and had to get back to the reason for this post).
Some of the less obvious criteria for sexual positions include practicality in impractical spaces (like cars) and a partner’s anatomy being suited to some positions more than others. More obvious criteria include the ability to orgasm, ready access to reaching other parts of a lover’s body and visual interest – sometimes closing the eyes and feeling without distraction is what’s needed but at other times watching the scene unfold provides a new layer of sensory joy to the experience.
My least favourite common position is the favourite of a lot of men: doggy style. Each time I flip readily on to my knees and brace myself for a good time, but after the first thrust I remember that I have to concentrate avidly with anyone who has a medium-sized or larger penis. From my fading memory, I think Jekyll was the only man of a size small enough for me to relax and not worry about having my cervix smashed into my liver. Everyone since has required a high state of alertness and the Country Boy is no exception.
He was sitting upright and I was riding him quickly and then slowly; the speed depended if he wanted to delay coming and then if he wanted to submit to his urges. In growing frustration, he grabbed my ponytail and pulled me close for a kiss before asking if I’d like him from behind. I said yes and launched into position on my knees and stretched out on my elbows, waiting for the re-introduction of his cock.
“YOWWW!”
I leap-frogged and landed face-down on the covers. He recoiled and was sent flying backwards. We laughed.
I couldn’t help making an understatement and said, “I think that one was a bit too deep.”
He couldn’t stop laughing. Occasionally he throws in an overly-deep thrust as an act of mischief, but this time he’d gone too far out of abstinence and forgetting that he needs to be careful. We shifted back into our respective positions and started again, with me coiled like a spring in case he started strongly the second time.
He was more restrained but I still lowered my shoulders to temper the angle and intensity of the sensation. I was enjoying myself but my constant vigilance didn’t allow me the mental space to relax and move with him – equally, I’m sure I felt more than enjoyable to him but he also couldn’t relax and deliver the pounding that his body was by now telling him was required.
My reward for enthusiastic and stoic behaviour was being rolled on my back with my legs pointing upwards. I know I can come easily in this position and soon after he entered me I was apparently filling the air with swear words. He enjoyed the uninterrupted view from above until I was almost pleading for a rest and he was fit to burst – from other fading memories I don’t think he’s ever come from that position as much as he seems to enjoy it. He split my legs like they were a banana’s skin and drove hard in the missionary position; his orgasm brought his own noises of release and he disappeared into a reverie for a long while.
I settled under his weight and remembered many of the reasons why we go through so much for brief blasts of physical interaction.
“You’ve got such clear urine, it looks like you could drink it like water.”
I’ve tackled years of social programming in response to receiving compliments, from a bashful, “No, you don’t need to say that, you’re better/smarter/whatever plays down the compliment,” to a smile and a thank you that someone has made the effort to relay a kind thought.
In this situation I didn’t know how to respond except with, “Um, yeah, I drink a lot of water.”
The complimentary analysis of my piss kept coming.
“It doesn’t even smell.”
“You’re right, come to think of it” I said abstractly, as I withheld the urge to calculate how much water I drink daily – urinating at will and with an accurate aim was using most of my powers of concentration.
The Country Boy was sitting naked against the wall of the small shower with his legs bent, preparing for the second spurt of the extra litre of water I’d guzzled earlier. He is tall and I had to stand on the tip-toes of one foot with my knee pressing against the shower screen, an arm providing help higher above and my other leg was bent and resting on his shoulder. My free hand was between my legs trying to direct the erratic stream. I whispered, “Get out, you bastard,” under my breath to my bladder when the flow stopped. My legs were cramping and I hoped I didn’t topple before I was finished.
He seemed to enjoy the element of surprise and exclaimed each time a new jet of warmth sprayed him. I managed a few longer bursts and landed streams down his chest and onto his cock. His erection sprang from nowhere and poked upright in defiance of gravity – evidence that he was more into his first golden shower than either of us could have imagined. His enthusiasm didn’t have the desired reaction of me being able to release more easily but I was able to deliver some generous showers on the hand that was now wrapped around his cock and tugging furiously.
I have written here in the past that golden showers don’t do much for me sexually but seeing his almost unbelievable excitement ramped up my energy levels. When I was finished and saw the look of determined hunger in his eyes, I guessed he’d be up for almost anything.
“Want me to squirt on you as well?”
“Fuck yes. Yes, please.”
We scrambled about in the tight space to give his uplifted arm some room to work my g-spot. I had to place more weight on my legs to crouch lower and my muscles protested sharply. The first orgasm hit me while the first lot of fluid hit him and I became caught in the conflicting thoughts that I was in a fair amount of discomfort yet I felt unreasonably good. His arm must have been straining as well but he wasn’t going to stop until we’d made complete messes of each other.
“Got any more in you?”
“No idea, let’s see!”
I had plenty more in me.
We stood on shaking legs and stretched as I turned the water on to clean ourselves. His cock was still pointing towards me and, as I cleaned him, he started making the murmurs familiar with his sex drive escalating from high to urgent.
In the spirit of finishing what I started, I turned the nozzle away and knelt before him, taking his cock in my mouth as I cupped his balls. He shifted in time with me and took over holding the base of his shaft while I gripped his buttocks as I sucked. Things got a little porny* when he started rubbing the head of his cock over my lips but I played along and flicked my tongue, occasionally sliding him back in my mouth and clamping down with my teeth**.
There was no way he was going to last long. He thrusted faster into my mouth and I did that other porny thing of keeping my mouth open with my tongue out. I refrained from looking up and doing the over-acted wide-eyed look at him as I do have some have boundaries — inconsistent as they may be — and he came in globs in and around my mouth.
It was a day later I realised that I hadn’t asked if he wanted to shower me with gold. I’ll have to run it past him but I believe answer will already be yes.
* I have never got around to jotting my views on modern-day porn, come to think of it. Maybe one day.
** I have never seen proper biting of a cock in porn. This is one reason I don’t like it.
Lately it feels like everyone except my partner and lover have had access to my private parts but the contexts could not have been less sexual.
My sports physician is a tall, dark and handsome sort with an athlete’s body and the drool-worthy addition of speaking with one of my favourite accents; it would be easy to envy this doctor-with-the-lot if he weren’t so humble and likeable to boot. I have to strip to the bare essentials to do the mobility and flexibility drills and I am embarrassed about the stored fat on my body while semi-naked and contorting in front of him. It’s an odd contradiction that I’ve never felt less sexual when holding hands with one of the most attractive men I’ve seen and I even make sure I’m wearing plain underwear on appointment days as some kind of suit of armour against I don’t know what, my own lack of logic, probably.
When I’m not being stretched and manipulated, I have been undergoing laser hair removal and can confidently claim that hearing, “If you can’t remove all the hair from your inner labia in the morning, I’ll have to dry shave you,” kills every last shred of association between genitals with sexuality. During my first consultation I was awkward and didn’t know how to broach the subject of the available levels of bikini line lasering. My self-proclaimed ‘flap zapper’ listed the options from a tidy along the sides to the whole lot from navel to anus like she was reading from a pizza menu.
I relaxed and whispered, “So, you do near the bum, too?”
She said, “Yes, it’s a popular area because it’s hard to shave or wax yourself.”
It was a moment when I realised I’ve never been close enough to a woman’s untended butt crack to have an idea of what’s normal. I thought of my own soap, guess and shave blindly routine and ended up saying to the therapist, “If you’re willing to do it, I’m willing to have it done.”
They were famous last words. After spreading, gelling and marking my arse area with a white pencil, she had the machine set to a moderate level for the first treatment and I felt like I deserved a lollipop after being told I had good pain tolerance. Go me, yet another skill I can’t put on the resume. The reality check was last week when she ramped up the setting — the probe felt something like the pointy end of a mobile phone charger that’s been sitting in a hot oven for an hour before being poked with great force at my bum.
When talking afterwards about the process, The Drummer and the Country Boy stated their views that they hoped I wasn’t having all my pubic hair removed permanently. I told them (separately) I was keeping the front triangle because I preferred to have some options and the main reason for treatment was to reduce ingrown hairs along the bikini line. They seemed glad. Again, these were conversations without an inkling of sexual context and were more about me complaining my hair wasn’t dark enough to achieve a 100 per cent success rate. It appears I’m a dirty blonde almost everywhere.
I truly hope the next time I’m semi-naked with someone the context is sexual and I’m not paying more than a hundred dollars for 20 minutes – both the sports doctor and the flap zapper charge more than prostitutes.
