Hot Caramel

Have a big dick, just don't be one.

2012-01-19T22:57:00.000+10:30

Oh, internet dating websites. Thank you for giving me so much material...

Wally: Love the profile pic, very cute. So what is your preference on size?

Caramella: Larger than average, basically. But do you always initiate conversations with women with penis size?

Wally: No, I usually don't unless I'm talking to people here. This site is premised on the idea that its members have a preference on size, so I thought it was a fair question in this context. Why, are you offended?

Caramella: No, not offended, but as an opening line it doesn't hold much merit for originality or subtlety.

A more gentlemanly approach would be something like "You mentioned X in your profile. Here is a question that proves I actually read your profile, and didn't just cropdust the whole female population with the same inane message."

So, your profile indicates you're in [field]. What area of [field] are you working in, and do you enjoy it?

I've never understood why some guys will use their dicks as an opening line on the internet. Most of the men that approach me are otherwise pleasant people, but as soon as they sign up for a big dick dating site, all courtesy flies out the window.

I know that this happens on virtually every dating website, but I do find it to be inexcusable behaviour regardless. A man wouldn't approach a woman in a bar and announce, "hey baby, I'd love to watch you bouncing on my giant wang", so why should he feel it's appropriate to do so online?

I'll be interested to see whether this young hothead will respond...

Last goodbye

2012-01-15T19:02:00.001+10:30

Pierce called me to say he was leaving town. The first guy to make me squirt on cue, we had known each other for over a year now, and the dissolution of his most recent relationship was the final straw.

We probably could have been friends, even without the sex. He's not really my type (whatever that may be), but we have fun, and the sex is energetic. It's wonderful to know that he fully understands the concept of a "no strings" sexual relationship, and doesn't press me for time or commitment.

The airconditioner beeped as I cranked it up. I could smell his soap, almost as familiar now as a regular boyfriend's, despite the months that often pass between our meetings. He pushed me back on the bed, covering my body with his as we kissed, his hand sliding down my side to my pussy, already wet for him.

He went down on me, pushing two fingers deep as he licked me hard, tugging on my clit. I jumped as his tongue piercing pressed into my tender flesh, but he anchored me to the bed with a hand pressed to my lower belly. The other hand snaked up and pinched hard on my nipples, twisting them brutally as I dug my nails into his shoulder.

He pushed harder, the two fingers in my pussy straining to meet the hand on my belly, my G-spot the victim stuck between. I arched up, trying to escape his ferocious assault, but he was relentless. His hand slammed into my pussy, bruising my bones, but he never gave up. He stuffed a third finger into me, pushing another wail out of me as his arm pistoned.

Finally he laughed, a crow of triumph, as I gushed, the sheets darkening under me.

Rambles: Fidelity

2011-11-24T23:06:00.000+10:30

I fuck like a man.

That is, I pick up someone attractive to me, or someone who promises something interesting, and take them home for sex. There's not always phone numbers exchanged, nor Facebooks or even "we should do this again sometime"s.

I feel little guilt about what I do with men, unless it affects my wider life. I fucked Joshua and loved it, and in a different world we'd have continued to meet to hang out and have great sex for hours at a time. But once the euphoria of conquest and a job well done wore off, I realised that it had the potential to haunt me for time to come.

He has a girlfriend; someone who I will work with every day in the near future. There will be social outings and Sunday barbecues, a litany of unspoken words and memories of hands and tongues and cocks. His guilt will stop him from making another move, and his girlfriend will hold him in monotamy* forever. If he's clever, he won't tell her. It reflects badly on him too, of course - it takes two to tango, gotta crack eggs to make an omelette, no point crying over spilt milk... The clichés abound.

If he possesses just a little foresight, he won't say a word to his girlfriend - their relationship is still in embryonic stages, for all that she's moving in with him. As Ari Gold says, "Deny 'til you die" - it's safer overall. I'll even put my altruistic hat on, and say that it's not just about me, it's about a fledgling romance finding its wings, for all that the two of us did our best to kick the stool out from below. Do you prefer your metaphors shaken or mixed?

I can split the effects of extramarital sex from emotional fidelity quite easily - in fact, I could do it even before I'd heard of open relationships. Emotional cheating has never occurred for me - not that it may not happen in the future, but I can separate the two (very different) issues quite easily. However, I can understand why some people can't do the same, making them feel guilty for physically cheating on their partners, even while their heads are unaffected. I just hope that the guilt of others won't throw a chainsaw in the works.

Stay tuned for the next incoherent ramble from yours truly!

*Monotamy: Monogamy+Monotony

Not wise, but fun.

2011-11-21T22:30:00.001+10:30

This weekend, I got what I wanted. I had spent the evening with the boys, drinking and talking rubbish for hours. I had decided early in the night that I would make a play for Joshua again. We were making smalltalk in the noisy bar, when I realised the others were involved in their own conversation.

"So..." I said, leaning forward. "We have unfinished business."

The look on his face was worthy of a photograph. He stammered and stalled, so I let my smile hint of further pleasures and didn't push it further.

Later in the night, I felt a hand gliding up my bare calf under the table. I glanced across at Joshua, and he gave me a slow smile, his head tipped back in that slightly smug way I had come to recognise. I smiled back and sent Oscar another text, updating him on the situation.

His bedroom was tidy and somewhat spartan - green sheets, an elaborate chandeliered lamp and two fat candles on the bedside table. He came back in, still a little damp from his shower, and joined me on the bed. As we kissed, he removed my underwear as I straddled him, skin cool in the hum of the air conditioner.

His style was sweet and slow - to be honest, we were both a little too drunk for high-energy fucking, but we fit well together and soon found our rhythm. I was content to just go with the roll, the kind of languorous, laidback sex that I don't often have.

We worked together for what seemed like a long time, switching positions, stopping occasionally for long kisses and water in equal measure until he finally arched up into me with a gasp and an oath.

* * * *

I slept lightly in the strange bed, conscious of the unfamiliar body next to me as the morning brightened outside. I rolled over and curved myself into his long back, relishing the novelty of a new man for the small amount of time left to me. I stroked one hand slowly down his belly to his cock, its softness fitting into my hand like an old toy.

He roused slowly, pushing up into my hand as he turned to find me. He stroked my breasts, his movements still slow with sleep, as I rolled over and trapped his growing cock at the top of my thighs.

He slid into me as we spooned, his length stroking me deep as I squeezed down on his cock. He moaned and pushed me away, rolling onto his back. Taking my cue, I sat up and straddled him, pushing him deep as I rode him to his sleepy climax.

Brer Rabbit, ish

2011-11-05T23:56:00.000+10:30

"Okay baby, I have to go to work now."

I was lying on the couch, my short denim skirt rucked up around my hips as Oscar sat at my feet to put his shoes on.

"Okay... but whatever you do, don't lick my pussy."

"Really?"

"Yep... It's vitally important. You definitely shouldn't lick my pussy before you go."

He paused, his belt threaded through only two loops as he watched me stroking my clit slowly.

"Ahh," he replied, pushing my knees out. "Then I really shouldn't lick your pussy then, should I?"

I tried to reply, but I was too distracted by the hot wet tongue on my clit.

He worked his way up and down slowly as I held my knickers to one side, before worming a finger into my pussy. He stroked my g-spot gently - not enough to make me squirt, just enough to work me up and awaken my little bump.

Oscar's face was glistening as he pulled me up off the sofa and lead me into the bedroom. The clock was ticking now - we had reached the point where two minutes too long would make him late for work. There was no time for fucking about.

I straddled his hips and guided his familiar thickness into me, sinking down hard as we quickly found our rhythm. I was already slick with Oscar's saliva and my own juices, and soon we were both wet with passion.

"Fuck me, baby," he gasped. "Make me come."

I pushed down on his chest with a quick glance at the clock, and doubled my efforts. My hips rolled furiously and I got louder, not caring about the noise, even as our neighbours sat around the pool under the window.

With a final arch of his hips, Oscar came. We had barely a moment to recover before he staggered to his feet to take yet another shower, before heading off to work.

I love reverse psychology.

Monogamy, with a shitty car analogy

2011-10-25T23:52:00.002+10:30

"If you truly believe it works well for you both then if you are saying that with 100% honesty then it must be working for you guys."

"I just think in the end it might cause a problem."

These are some excerpts from a message I received from a dating site member. He's from the UK, and clearly has no greater motive for our relationship beyond a few saucy emails and pictures, but he clearly wasn't impressed with my open relationship, and refused to see any other side to the argument beyond what he had observed or experienced. I tried to explain our relationship format to him, but again and again, he'd dismiss it as a phase that we were sure to get out of.

But the discussion made me ponder the outside view of our relationship. How does the greater world see polyamory and open realtionships? Why do they attack us? Why do they feel so threatened?

One common response that I get, especially from men, is "I could never do that, I'd get too jealous!" To me, this is rooted in the monogamist tradition of ownership. For centuries, women were traded and bartered to seal deals, win favour, and cement male bonds. I'm not going to get tangled in the patriarchical, mysandric bullshit, but in truth, it's an argument that I've heard from men many more times than from women.

It makes me wonder how many of these staunch monogamists have been hurt in the past by infidelity. Say you purchase something big and expensive - a car, perhaps. Everything's great for the first year or two. Six months later, the clutch blows. A month after that, you're told that all the hoses needs replacing. The paint starts peeling and fading. The airconditioning makes that weird whine every time you drive over 70km/h. What do you do? Do you trade the car and cut your losses, or do you persevere and keep throwing money at it, in the hope that things will improve? Or do you look at your options, realise you made a poor purchasing decision, and start researching other makes and models?

Transfer the same argument to relationships. You meet someone, you have fun, it evolves into a relationship. After a while, one person has their eye caught by a delicious piece of candy - at the bar, in the workplace, a friend of a friend. They take the plunge - the affair becomes sexual. Gears start grinding. Chances are, it won't last long - it can be hard to hide infidelity, after all. The transmission falls out when the other partner finds a text, an email, a scent, an STI. What happens next? Heartbreak, generally, but either dissolution or forgiveness.

I knew I had this scenario within me. This is how Oscar and I started, after all. But could I really devote myself to one man for the forseeable future? I couldn't answer that question honestly, or at least answer it in the way that society that wanted me to, so we negotiated an open relationship. So far, it's working. It allows us to act on those natural impulses to taste something fresh occasionally. But it also opens us to a form of communication that in many ways is healthier than the average monogamous relationship.

On hiatus, again

2011-10-14T19:05:00.000+10:30

Source

Sorry for the delay, folks - I'm laid up with an angry kidney at the moment, and until the antibiotics and painkillers do their job I'm a bit useless.

I'm working on some posts on monogamy and polyamory - hopefully I'll be able to get them up soon!

Til then,
Caramella

Bowing out gracefully

2011-10-05T19:40:00.000+10:30

Well, it's official now, Joshua is out of bounds. A few weeks ago, it became apparent that the "someone" he's "started something with" is my colleague from the other office, and it's now serious enough for her to spend hundreds of dollars on plane tickets, to see him for just a long weekend.

I'm no longer going to pursue him, or obsess over the one that got away (yeah, right). I feel now that he's tainted goods - having formed something of a committed relationship with my colleage, I don't really want to go there any more. It's awkward already with my colleague, and their relationship is the elephant in the room.

Time for Caramella to step back and graciously concede defeat. Colleague - this one's yours. But Joshua - frankly I probably wouldn't say no to some rebound sex, y'know, if it really doesn't work out.

One is the loneliest number

2011-09-28T21:01:00.000+09:30

That's what the internet is for

2011-09-20T23:24:00.000+09:30

Tony12345: :P
Caramella: hey
Tony12345: whats up sexy
Caramella: not much, pretty sleepy
Tony12345: ok
Tony12345: so u dont wanna have fun ? :P
Caramella.com: no cams
Tony12345: ok
*Crickets*

Nice to know that my only purpose is to provide this guy with wank material. He does it every single time we chat.

Ctrl+C, Ctrl+V

2011-09-19T22:06:00.000+09:30

Subject: hello

Message: you are one beautiful lady, why don,t u bring that beauty to australia

1: You're 61.
2: You sent me a form letter.
3: I'm already in Australia.
4: YOU'RE 61.

How much success does he really have with this approach?

The hare beat the tortoise

2011-09-13T18:00:00.000+09:30

Damn... Looks like I was too slow. Joshua replied to my text message today, explaining that he had started something with a new girl, but his track record was terrible, so he'd keep me in mind if he found himself single again.

Looks like I'll just have to sit on my hands a bit longer. Pity he's so cute...

Filthy, convenient habits

2011-09-06T20:53:00.000+09:30

He stood out the moment I saw him - tall and lean, with dark hair in big unruly curls, but it was the pencil moustache that really differentiated him from the group. As the party progressed, I kept an eye on him til a mutual friend introduced us, and I discovered his name was Joseph. We continued stealing glances at each other, and joining into the same conversations until I found him sitting next to me.

"May I have a cigarette?"

Now, I don't like the fact that I still smoke, but admittedly it's still a useful pick-up tool at times. He rolled one for himself and joined me in the dimly lit laneway next to the restaurant. We talked through our mutual friend connection, discussed our jobs and life in the tropics.

Another trip or two out to the laneway, and my lack of dinner and the height of my heels were playing against me. I was lusting after Joseph strongly, so when I saw him deep in conversation with another woman on the other side of the group, I knew it was time to act. I rolled myself a cigarette and signalled to him.

We stood in the laneway smoking, less than a foot of space between us as I teetered carefully in my stilettos. It was time.

"Joseph, do you have a girlfriend? Because I'd really like to kiss you..."

He confirmed his singledom, smiled and leaned in closer. The kiss was tender and made me melt a little inside. We pulled apart smiling a little sheepishly, finished our cigarettes and returned to the party, as casual as you please.

We managed a few more breaks away from the group, exchanged phone numbers and more kisses. He reclined against the construction barrier at the end of the laneway as I leaned into him, his hand tugging my waist closer into him as we kissed. I ran a hand slowly down his front, grazing his groin and causing him to suck in a breath around my lips. I loved the feel of his slim, strong body, and I longed to take him back to my house and screw his brains out, but that option was unavailable.

The party broke up soon after, and I had to go home - too much alcohol on an empty stomach, coupled with extremely high heels and I was a disaster waiting to happen.

* * *

The next day I woke up remarkably early and clear-headed. Checking my phone, I noticed that Joshua had sent me a few messages while we were still at the party, sitting only metres apart.

I really like your shoes, he said. A few minutes later, he clarified: But I like you more than your shoes.

Perhaps Joshua has a few interesting kinks?

The little moments

2011-08-16T22:24:00.000+09:30

Our schedules are still very different, so we grasp our minutes together with both hands. The hour between the end of my working day and the start of Oscar's we spend in conversation and hugs. We try to cram a day's worth of physical contact and emotional closeness into the small amounts of time allotted to us.

We rely on the small gestures to remind each other of our love. I wash the dishes, Oscar hangs out the laundry. He picks me up from work, I buy him trousers online. We email, text and IM regularly, sometimes with nothing more than "I like you!", but there's always little reminders of our importance to each other.

This morning I was in a rush. I kissed the slumbering Oscar goodbye, stuffed all my important possessions in my handbag and ran out the door. I didn't look at my phone til I got to work, and my wallpaper had changed. Instead of the dramatic Japanese blockprint that sat in the background the night before, there was a close-up of a scrap of paper, and in a scrawl of red pen was the statement, "Oscar loves Caramella".

I just... Yeah... Whut?

2011-07-31T21:16:00.000+09:30

I wasn't interested in watching Megamind, but I let him buzz around, give me wine, sit down, stand up, disappear, come back and sit down again.
Even though we both knew why I was in his hotel room, he seem oddly distant. I was interested to see how he was going to make a play - he hadn't made a move for me all night.

Finally he gave me a 'tour' to the bedroom. "Would you like a massage? I played piano for seven years," he announced. As he worked his way from my shoulders down my back, he added, "Those anatomy classes helped too." A reminder of his cadaver stories was really not what I needed at that point.

He pulled my underwear down over my feet and canted one leg out to the side. Still standing next to the bed, he worked his way up my thigh, grazing my pussy with each stroke. Finally he slipped a finger in, working it around as he tipped his head down over me, laving me with his tongue.

He broke away and rummaged around in his suitcase. I could hear the familiar crackle of condom packets, but when he joined me back on the bed I could hear, and then feel, a low vibrating buzz. He massaged my clit and lips with the tiny disposable cockring, but I proved too recalcitrant, and the batteries died before it achieved any notable success.

He grabbed my hip and flipped me over. My knees pushed to my chest, he licked and teased me, stopping to finally get undressed and join me on the bed. He aligned himself and pushed in, but he was only semi-erect and it didn't work well. He went down on me again as I instructed him on the use of fingers and tongue, one hand pistoning on his cock as he worked.

Unrolling another condom, he moved back up and tried again, but the three bourbons and 15-hour days had left their mark. He tried again to encourage me to stay the night, but I wasn't interested. It felt too much like he was tired of his lonely travels and simply wanted a breakfast partner.

We came together for a third attempt, and he managed to stay hard enough to work this time. Willing to give him the benefit of the doubt, I hadn't given much thought to the fact that his cock was neither large nor thick - perhaps he was a grower? But he was fully erect now, and it was becoming obvious that his sense of scale was skewed. It was around the same time that it dawned on me that he hadn't once asked me to suck his cock - he hadn't placed it near my face, pushed my head down or even outright asked me to do so... Very odd. It must be the only interaction I've ever had in over a decade of sexual interactions that didn't involve oral sex.

Sharing is caring.

2011-07-16T00:00:00.000+09:30

Internet anonymity is obviously important to me as a blogger and member of various websites. However, I'm still amazed at some of the intimacies that others share with me, a stranger known only through a few photos and conversation.

I've been given insights into aspects of sexuality that I'd never previously given much thought to. Autofellatio? Totally possible. Straight guys who like to bottom occasionally, but only for guys even bigger than them. Military men who detail their anal experimentation with large dildos. And fetishes! A few feet fans obviously (not my strongest feature, admittedly), but I'd never heard of sex play with balloons.

My favourite stories come from a college student who has wholeheartedly embraced his bisexual side, detailing his MMFs and hookups, the freedom of a big city becoming his playground. A new American friend tells me in joyous detail of his conquests, his humour and cheeky attitude peppering our conversations. He asks me ridiculous questions about Australia, but somehow gets away with it before I send him links to Google and Wikipedia.

I've lost touch with a few others. I straightened one guy out about his skeezy behaviour on LPSG during a voice call, and he lost interest in me. My Australian gentleman (he of the dodgy photos) hasn't been in touch for two weeks. My sweet Californian guy has been under the radar for nearly two months, and all I can do is send kisses and booty shots.

I love chatting with random people, but there are only a few who prove to be genuine, compassionate people with good hearts, and I hold onto them as much as I can.

A massive dick. So to speak.

2011-07-06T23:24:00.001+09:30

After getting burned recently, I'm a little more circumspect in my online interactions with the well hung. Taking a more upfront approach when the invariable photo exchange occurs, I'm now asking my potential paramours to validate for me - either on cam, or by flopping it out over a card with my name on it - hard to fudge in 5 minutes with Photoshop. This approach worked wonderfully well with a young American man who continues to delight and amuse me in our regular chats. It proved to be the beginning of the end for another young American.

He had an incomprehensible username that held meaning only for him. 23, a douchey photo and only the most prosaic of profile descriptions, I was disinclined to put much value on our exchange.

Subject: lookin good
I'd love to chat with you
Randy xx

I was always warned to never speak with strangers... Introduce yourself and we can take care of that problem.

OK
I would be happy to introduce myself.
How do we begin?
Randy xx

In time we started chatting on the IM service. After the usual small talk, he dropped a bombshell.

What. The. Fuck.

He then tried to say that I looked busty, so I should call myself 'curvy'. I pointed out that I'm an A-cup, and he could fornicate with himself, post-haste. He retracted his statement, and we continued.

We switched to a proper instant messenger service.

wow is that u in pic

yes

very nice

thanks

u r definitely slim

No shit, Sherlock. This guy made my hackles rise almost from the start. He went on to say that when he shows women his penis on cam, they "really get hot and horney i dont know why" - because apparently women do not get turned on by visual stimuli. I explained in tedious detail.

Since we were on the topic, he offered to show me his wang. His cam connected, and there it was. For once, it was as claimed - 11 inches of hard cock strained from under his singlet. He slowly peeled it up off the shaft, and it sprang out towards the camera. It was long and smooth, the head a little small for the shaft girth. Suddenly it froze and failed. My crappy connection wouldn't allow two video feeds simultaneously.

Then the questions started.

Are you wet right now?

Are you turned on?

Does my cock excite you?

Do you have a tight pussy?

Is your pussy tight?

It looks like it's tight.

By now I was truly irritated. After several abortive attempts to connect video feeds, we eventually gave up and resumed our text based conversation. He was frustrated with my lack of cooperation (why on earth didn't I want to get naked for him?), and had decided that I was "temperamental".

I was expecting to get u horney i guess im not good at it

other women might; I often don't

what did i do wrong

nothing

I have a low libido

ohhhh I have a very high one

i dont think you need a big cock with a high libido

what do you mean?

im not ur type

why do you say that?

well u say u hav low libido

im opposite

i like lotsa sex

seeing some random dude on the other side of the world drop his pants isn't exactly a recipe for high libido

I have no reason to be turned on, so I'm not

no no u said u hav a low one

yes, but it's fluid. Right now I have a low libido

The conversation had fallen apart by then. I shrugged and went back to Facebook-stalking my exes.

Selective amnesia

2011-06-26T21:29:00.001+09:30

I was a little bemused and intrigued when I saw his name appear in my new message list. It reminded me immediately of our last meeting - after insisting on meeting me for a coffee, he became increasingly reluctant to commit to a time and date for further playtime. After two frustrating evenings of cancellations and poor communication from other men, I decided to just invite him over for a test run.

After what seemed an eternity, he was sitting on my sofa as I straddled his lap. It was still stinking hot, even after midnight, and the fan whirred its sticky air onto us. His T-shirt and jeans came off in rapid succession, revealing the brightest yellow pair of boxer briefs I have ever seen, and no significant bulge. He had the muscular physique of an athlete, his legs well formed by hours of soccer every week. Despite the heat, it was clear that his skin tone had more to do with his Mediterranean heritage than any time spent in the sun.

He pushed me up to my feet and bent me over the couch. Kneeling behind me, he buried his face between my legs and ate me... just not very well. After a few minutes of this, I got impatient and switched places with him. Peeling off the fluorescent yellow monstrosities, I came face to face with six shaved inches of not very much, but I soldiered on and coaxed him to full hardness.

He sat back down on the couch as I straddled him. For the third time that night, he moaned, "It's so hot", and I knew it had nothing to do with me. Reaching below me, I guided him in and tried to establish a rhythm, but he kept slipping out. After he had slipped out for the umpteenth time, I stood up.

Bending over, I went down on him again and tried to encourage a little more life into him. I managed to get a bit more response from him as the sweat rolled down his torso, so feeling encouraged, I stood up in front of him and grabbed the back of the sofa.

I could feel him behind me as he steadied himself with a hand on my hip, the other furiously trying to beat a response into his cock while keeping the condom in place. Finally he pushed up against me... Only to fold in half and flop away again.

"It's too hot," he whined again, before peeling off the condom and reaching for his underwear. I stood up straight, nonplussed. Great.

I did one final scan of the coffee table for stray wallets and phones before shutting the door behind him.

* * *

Fast forward six months, and his name appears once more in my inbox. I couldn't believe it. After not hearing from him since that fateful night, I'd added his name to the Kryptonite list and promptly forgotten about him.

"hey my name is tony and ur pics are hot. hit me up at [MSN] and [Yahoo] to chat more."

Unbelievable! He didn't remember me at all. This was some A-grade douchebaggery. My photo (singular) hadn't changed; the copy of my profile had undergone only minor modification, and he still didn't remember cheating on his girlfriend but being unable to get it up or finish. I wrote back.

"Really? You don't remember me? You don't remember meeting at [restaurant] for coffee on a rainy afternoon? You don't remember coming to my house late on a Saturday night and being unable to get it up?"

I didn't get a response.

Existential wank

2011-06-23T21:29:00.000+09:30

Well, that's how this post started. And then I CTRL-Aed + CTRL-Xed and sent the lot to the bin.

What the fuck do I have to whine about? I have an awesome flat, Oscar & I are doing better than ever, and I'm slowly meeting more people. I'll bitch-slap myself if I start moaning about my hardships.

Doesn't mean I'm getting any sex, though!

Sex, lies and stolen photos

2011-05-29T18:43:00.000+09:30

He's ideal, really. Tall, goodlooking, hung like a horse and romantic. It's just a pity that the holes in his story open up like a ladder in a pair of cheap stockings.

It had been over a year since we last chatted, when we met through 7orBetter. Suddenly he reappeared, full of beans and ready to pick up where we left off. The conversation continued well and I learned more about him. We exchanged photos.Some unusual things occurred during that chat session, things that a normal person simply wouldn't make up, so they had to be true.

We talked again at an average of once per week. More of his history came out, and further detail of the incident from our first conversation. The truth was, I liked him, he lived in my country, and more to the point he had a huge penis.

The first snags started occurring as we chatted. This week he told me that his only sexual contact with men had been a jerk-off buddy in his teen years; last year he mentioned how much he loves getting fucked. Even his age changed - a year ago he was 24, now he's 32. Now he doesn't remember how we met, and my searches for his profile (with only a vague memory of his username) have proven fruitless. He thinks we met through LPSG, but there are clear references to 7orB in our very first chat messages.

While I was discussing these doubts with another chat friend, he pointed out that the photos had been stolen from Quercusone, one of the most well-known big dick men on the internet.

I'm in a bind. He conveniently doesn't have a webcam, so I'm unable to verify his size with anything other than photographs. I want him to be genuine. I'd like to meet him and have lots of mindblowing sex. But I can't forgive the lies. I can't go on knowing that his photos were stolen. But I also want to extract a confession from him - I want him to try to justify lying to me before I spend $450 to meet him.

More to come, hopefully.

And then there were three

2011-05-16T21:00:00.000+09:30

A man who is “nearly 21” is still 20, and 20 is really, really young. Ben stood at my front door, tall and shy, as I ran through the house gathering my jacket and hitting lights. We made slightly awkward chit-chat in the car, but I felt an instant ease with Cameron, our host for the evening.

We spent the first hour or so drinking and listening to music. Cameron had moved over to my sofa, and his gentle eyes and Scottish burr were pulling me in. I refreshed our drinks and sat back down, but I was ready for action... I looked and Cameron and asked, “So... Are we going upstairs?”

I lay in the centre of the big white bed. Ben took one side, and Cameron the other. Soon I was trading kisses with the boys as their hands roamed, tugging up the hem of my shirt and exploring my breasts. I squirmed in pleasure, relishing my role as the centre of their attention. Cameron proved to be a gentle and skilled kisser, his tongue and lips moving deliciously with mine. I couldn’t help going back for more, even as Ben waited patiently.

Ben was... young. He was reasonably unskilled, his caresses as pointy as his hip bones, and professedly “100 per cent straight”. His tongue darted in and out of my mouth as the ends of his fingers ran up and down my arm and flank. I soon found myself turning to Cameron, letting Ben take care of other jobs, like taking down my jeans.

The men were slowly shedding clothes. Ben had the hard definition of youth and negligible bodyfat, whereas Cameron was more solid and bore the marks of being much larger in his past. I was intrigued to realise that their body types corresponded with their penis shapes – both long in correspondence with their 6-foot frames, but Ben’s cock was hard and spare, whereas Cameron’s was a thick, heavy caber of flesh.

It was Ben’s turn first. He knelt between my legs and fed his length into my waiting pussy. There’s one thing to say for the young – they’re fit and have endurance to spare. As he pounded into me, Cameron leaned in and kissed me deeply, massaging my breasts. Ben sat back on his heels and pulled my hips up into his lap as he thrust rhythmically, as Cameron sat up too and fed me his thick cock.

I was in heaven. Here I was, naked and stuffed full as two lovely young men administered their cocks to my willing body. I was drowning in a sea of attention – two mouths, four hands and two cocks. The depth of sensation was intoxicating.

Cameron wanted his turn next, so he manoeuvred behind me as I knelt on the bed. He was still only semi-hard, but he soon had me filled up and started thrusting, my mouth busy on Ben’s cock. He still seemed to have an air of intense concentration as we all fucked, his boyish face not betraying any great emotion. Cameron was massaging my tight pucker as he moved in and out, his index finger slipping into me and making me moan around Ben’s cock.

It was time for the grand show. Cameron lay down again as I straddled him, pushing him into me as Ben took his place behind. We found our rhythm as Ben massaged more lube into me and on his cock. He pushed suddenly, and I gasped at the sudden stab of pain. “Slower, baby,” I gasped as he backed off, before realigning himself and trying again.

It worked perfectly. He slid in slow and deep as I adjusted to his thickness. The oaths were flying out of my mouth in a long chain as the boys started pushing their cocks in and out of my cunt and arse. My first double penetration was a success, and I let myself go in the wealth of sensation.

We were all sweating by now. Cameron ducked out – checking the hallway for his housemate – and turned on the air conditioning as we sucked down water, sharing sheepish grins. I had a fleeting thought to Cameron’s housemate, and whether he had worked out that there was a female voice, and two male ones coming from the bedroom.

We curled up again on the bed. I had a cock in either hand and an attentive man with a breast each, trading kisses with me as we warmed up for a second round. At the nod from Cameron, I straddled Ben’s lap and sat down on his still rock-hard cock, wiggling into position. I leaned forward to kiss him deeply as Cameron took aim and pushed into my waiting anus. I moaned into Ben’s mouth as I was filled. Cameron’s big dick filled me enormously but was still on the soft side, making the stretch easier to handle.

I could have continued all night, but Cameron surprised me by withdrawing, only to suddenly push in alongside Ben’s cock. It blew my fucking mind. I was stretched to the brink and I screamed into the pillow even as I pushed back into his hips, wanting more. Ben continued his pace as Cameron pushed into me again and again. The stretch was like nothing I had experienced before. It was wonderfully excruciating, and I wanted more and more... But all good things come to an end. I had to tap out eventually, and we took a break as I recovered.

We reconfigured. I bent over Cameron’s prostrate form as Ben stood behind me, pounding into me as I sucked Cameron’s fat cock. Cameron ran one hand down my body, stroking my clit as I worked. His touch wasn’t consistent though, and I slipped a hand down and traced his movements. I realised he had Ben’s balls cupped in his hands – sweet, young hyper-heterosexual Ben. Admirably, Ben kept his cool and didn’t let the male-male contact faze him.

We were exhausted by this point. We had been kissing, fucking and sucking for nearly two hours, and I was getting tender. The boys knelt on either side of me as I sucked their cocks, stroking those beautiful long shafts. At one point they leaned in together, both of them pushing their cocks into my mouth at the same time.

It was time. The boys knelt over me and fisted their cocks. Cameron was the first to go, blowing on my open lips and down my cheek. Ben came only moments later, dropping load after load in my mouth. I smiled wickedly up at them both.

“Are you going to clean me up, then?”

Small town dating, Round 1

2011-05-10T21:55:00.000+09:30

He approached my table with the aplomb of a man who had done it before. He had the leather bag look of a man who had spent the previous 35 years in the sun, and his invisibly bleached eyebrows and eyes hidden in creases bespoke his northern Antipodean heritage.

I managed to keep a straight face as he told of his adult adventures in the years I spent in high school. I even managed to keep it together as he explained the male-female ratio in our city as being 55-50. But when he asked me to come back to his place, I had to break my steely resolve, and say no.

Death by a thousand texts

2011-05-06T21:56:00.001+09:30

A new city is always an odd thing. For the tourist, it is a place of exploration and discovery, and any less pleasant aspects can be glossed over by the beauty of new sights. The new resident experiences this too, but soon the veneer wears off, and reality encroaches. I've been reminded repeatedly of the old Doors song, People are Strange:

People are strange, when you're a stranger
Faces look ugly, when you're alone

There is always a period of readjustment required, but I've been thrust into an entirely different environment here. The climate, demographic, architecture and even bug species are all totally alien. I now have the safety of my belongings in a space that is rapidly becoming home - I even remember in which cupboard the salad bowls are stored, most of the time. But the population is smaller than I'm used to, and it's proving difficult to penetrate.

A few men contacted me on a dating site. Suddenly, I was exchanging messages with four separate men, each eager to meet the city's freshest meat. Some 'felt' better than others. One in particular was eager to get to know me as soon as possible, and after a few message exchanges on the site, I gave him my phone number. Immediately, the screen lit up with an SMS - the first of ten that night. He wanted to meet right then - at 11pm on a Thursday, thankyouverymuch. I declined, and he wanted to know why? It immediately set my teeth on edge. Why indeed, should I not want to meet a stranger late at night in my own home?

Cue today, and he sent me another message around lunchtime. And another, and another. They were friendly, but the volume was beginning to irritate me. He asked for a photo, so I sent him one - a clean, neutral, pretty head-and-shoulders shot - and asked for one in return.

Sure I'll figure out how to do it new phone
Hey can I email a pic. If so what's your email?
Is that ok?
Sure. Here's my address
Ok sure thing I'll send you some soon. Can you txt me when you get them please ?
Sent

He emailed me a gallery - one suited up for a wedding, another in short shorts leaning against a muscle car, and two more in a gym - I was less interested in his pecs than I was his terrible lifting technique. He had a whiff of Guido about him.

Then the messages started again.

Got it, thanks!
Like?
:)
Kool
Thoughts?
On what?
Me?
You're fine. What am I supposed to be saying?
Are you interested?
I won't know until I meet you.
Ok so you want to then?

My shoulders tensed every time I heard that fucking cheery message chirp. Every time I replied to one of his messages, he'd reply with two or thre more SMS. He was making me hate him, and I hadn't even met him. By the time he suggested a venue I was over it. I rejected him, then rejected him again. And again for good luck. He had sent me nearly 70 messages in less than 24 hours, and my patience had snapped.

It felt brutal, but I knew that my opinion of him was irrevocably tainted. I wasn't able to meet him - not tonight, not forever. The thought of spending a Friday night alone was more appealing than dragging myself to an unknown venue and having a stranger pushing me for sex.

Unsexy bloggery

2011-04-20T23:29:00.000+09:30

My apologies, princes and princesses - I've been a busy little chicken, packing up my life, saying goodbye to friends, shaking off old lovers and moving to the other end of the country.

In the meantime (mainly due to my lack of stories at the moment) I'm going to give you some blog statistics.

VISITORS:
Not terribly surprisingly, the United States and United Kingdom are my biggest traffic sources, with France taking third place. And month after month, the majority of my traffic is coming from California, Minnesota and New York. Holla to La Habra! And my (flawed and highly subjective) evidence suggests that there are a lot of big cocks in California - do you think I should be planning a trip?

SEARCH KEYWORDS:
Obviously, there are a lot of variations of Caramella, Caramela and Caramel, but these are some gems that have popped up in my stat analysis.

naughty questions to ask a girl (oooh! I hope good questions were found!)
caramel pussy arching back (actually sounds damn sexy... photo shoot time, I think)

Sometimes I feel like there's a story in these search terms - like somewhere out there, someone is is deliciously recreating an exciting night.
I picked him up in a bar and took him back to my place
before long his hand came up my leg
he buried his head between my thighs

"I have a fuckbuddy"
"hair dragging on the floor"
"went down on him"
"came on my breasts"

And then there's the odd ones:
pictures of some shooting ropes of sperm
woman lick up man nipples hot pics
lips open legs cock

I really hope that whoever ended up here at my warm little nook after searching for "teenage pussy" left soon after... Eeesh.

And I cannot conclude this post without giving a shoutout to Kiss Kiss Bang Bang. Her little link has sent my site the majority of its traffic - often over 50 per cent! And she's a gorgeous, ballsy, beautiful fellow Aussie - what's not to love?

Back to the irregularly programmed schedule soon, I promise!

Rejection

2011-03-30T22:28:00.000+10:30

I held no hopes for the date - his profile was fine, but nothing special. We were given a 90 per cent match, so I sent him "What do you think?" He accepted the challenge.

I first noticed his skin tone - his Arabic heritage was much more apparent in person. I then took in his tweedy grey jacket, an affectation that sat a little incongruously on his 30-year-old shoulders. Then as he sat down next to me, I became aware of his beautiful straight nose - truly a plastic surgeon's goal.

We talked, but I really only noticed his rather impulsive, forceful nature when he stood up to leave for dinner, while I still had half a drink in front of me. We bonded over chorizo and chickpeas, as he showed me pictures of his children and I disposed of another few Alhambras.

As we walked back up the busy restaurant strip, he turned to me and asked where we were going. I didn't have an answer - I had realised by then I was a bit drunker than previously thought, and I desperately wanted the cigarette that I couldn't smoke in front of a heart surgeon. He asked me to go back to his house, offering to give me his address beforehand, but I turned him down.

Why was I rejecting a beautiful, educated, intelligent man, who clearly had no issue with casual sex? I didn't know. I think a lot of it was the disappointment of recent months - a string of flaccid cocks, selfish lovers and frustrations. I had started the evening with no expectation of sex, and really, I was happy to end it that way too.

Hiding

2011-03-12T21:37:00.000+10:30

It was obvious, really.

The first warning sign was the obtuse email I received, trying to organise a meeting. He wanted to meet after work at a bar on the other side of town, but he was only available until 6pm, leaving us barely 45 minutes to converse. I turned him down.

We then decided to meet on another Friday evening, after he had completed his after-work drinks with colleagues. I waited for him at a different venue down the road.

He was as tall as his profile stated, and conventionally attractive. He seemed attentive but terribly nervous, and it was left to me to keep the conversation moving. At the bottom of our glasses, he rather suddenly asked how far away my house was.

He started undressing me as I sat on the kitchen counter, my legs around his hips as we kissed. We moved into the bedroom, where he stripped off and almost immediately reached for a condom. As he lay over me, I reached down to help guide him in. It was not what I expected. I didn’t realise that there could be such rose-tinted interpretation of the category “Long and Thick”.

We carried on, though – or tried to. By this time he had lost his erection, such as it was. His half-hearted manual ministrations to my underappreciated vagina continued for a time, before I attempted waking his dormant penis a little. Despite pulling out every oral trick I could think of he remained unresponsive.

We gave up after a time. I was bored and frustrated, and he lost no time in getting dressed and walking out the door.

Cue the next day. I opened my email to find a message from him, explaining the presence (that I had not fully computed) of the ring on his left hand. Suddenly all the delays and awkward scheduling made sense. His reluctance to provide me with his phone number until a scant 30 minutes prior to our meeting became clear. Turns out he wasn’t quite the player he thought he was.

My biggest issue is not that he was cheating – I’ve been in that boat before – but that he was lying to me too. I may have been ‘nobody’ to him, but I deserve the basic courtesy of honesty.

* * * *

And for those keeping score, that's 5 soft cocks out of 6.

Flop

2011-03-11T11:47:00.000+10:30

I've come to a terrible, insurmountable conclusion.

I am Erection Kryptonite.

It started with just the one bloke... and before I knew it, four of my last five men had succumbed to this deadly condition.

I'm still not clear on the reasons for it. I've been told that I'm intimidating - that I'm too good-looking; that my sexual appetite is more masculine than feminine; that my zipless fucks are causing insecurity, because I may be comparing my current partner to all that have come before him. Some men are lacking in self or sexual confidence.

The part I don't understand is why. I'm not a conventional beauty - I have too many ethnicities to conform to a single ideal. I have small breasts and a "forty-ounce bounce" butt. I'm not supermodel-thin; I wear jeans and flats; I have thick curly hair that does not succumb to straightening, blowdrying or bangs. I swear like an angry sailor, and smoke and drink like one too. I have a boyfriend who plays away at least as much as I do.

I'm not girlfriend material.

But, I'm unfailingly polite and engaging; I'll do my best to draw you into conversation and put you at ease. I'll remember the name of the town that your parents live in, and inquire after your dog. I'll smile and laugh, and flirt gently. I'll kiss you deeply and suck your cock; I'll make all the right enthusiastic noises. I'll even send you a thank you message after you leave. So why is it all so hard?

Oh wait - it's the softness that's causing all the issues.

Playing the game

2011-02-26T18:54:00.001+10:30

Recently I read The Game, by Neil Strauss – well, when I say ‘read’, it was a lot closer to ‘devour’. I’d heard of The Game and pick-up artists (PUAs), and their bad reputation, and a little of their methods, but I now have a greater understanding of the community and methods as a whole.

The part that had stuck with me so strongly originally was the concept of negging – using an ambiguous statement or compliment designed to subtly insult the woman. “That’s a great dress, but the colour’s doing nothing for you.” “Are you wearing perfume?” “Your surgeon did a fairly good job.” These statements are designed to deliberately undermine a woman’s confidence and foster insecurity, making them more susceptible to the PUA’s ministrations.

I have huge issues with negs. If a man told me that my hair was from the Eighties or that my laugh sounded like fornicating donkeys, the only part of me he’d be getting close to is my fist, delivered at speed. But then maybe I’m not really the kind of girl that the whole PUA thing works on. I’ve a strong personality; a secure self-identity and a sharp tongue, so my weaknesses are buried a little deeper than average. Plus I have the added advantage of being in a secure relationship – I’m not on a sausage hunt every weekend because I’m afraid of dying alone and shrivelled, blanketed in cat fur and splashed liberally with cheap white wine. No! I go sausage hunting because I love sausages. But I’ll skip the chipolatas, if you don’t mind.

Huge Hugh

2011-02-14T21:29:00.000+10:30

The first blatantly obvious thing I noticed about him was his height. His t-shirt barely met his belt buckle for a start, and the way he had to lean forward over his knees to eat was almost comical. His hands were bear paws. He told me later he was 6 foot 6 inches, a full fourteen inches over my stature.

He seemed a little shy, but I managed to draw him out by asking about how he grew up on the east coast, his work history – any experience worthy of a topic of conversation. We were five pints into the evening before I asked succinctly, “So, are we going to have sex?” Until then I hadn’t really made my mind up whether to bed him. However, I’d seen his online gallery, and knew he had something worth bothering with – I had no doubt that he could fill me well.

I could hear him taking off his shoes behind me as I fiddled with a lamp, before his huge hands wrapped around my waist, his lips hot on my neck. He tugged the zipper at my throat until it bottomed out, peeling my dress open like he was preparing fruit. He sat down on the edge of the bed and pulled me into his lap as he nuzzled into my breasts. I hauled my dress over my head, revealing a deep-cut black bra and lacy black French knickers, to his great appreciation.

Hugh ran his tongue along the curve of my breast as I cradled his head, my hands slowly examining the muscles of his shoulders and arms, before he lifted one peeking nipple out my bra and sucked it gently. I pushed my breast up into his face hard, encouraging him to suck harder. He took the hint and clamped down firmly, wrapping his arm around my waist as he flipped me over onto the bed.

He loomed over me at the side of the bed, watching the whole time as his chest and shoulders were revealed to my hungry eyes. He was broad and muscular, possibly the largest slab of low-fat man meat I’d had the opportunity to meet. But he still had those damn jeans on! Unbuttoned and unzipped, admittedly, but still on. I sat up to help him out, but he planted a paw between my breasts and pushed me back down to the bed.

He worked his way down the bed and pushed his head between my legs, pushing his nose up against my lace-clad pussy. A quick tug dispatched them, and he resumed duties betwixt thighs. He was good. A mix of long slow strokes, long clever fingers and long hard sucks had me pounding my heels into his back in short moments.

He sat up, wiping his mouth but unable to hide his grin. I was ready to find out what was still hidden in those jeans. The denim slid down, revealing a well-stuffed pair of black underpants, but he lay down beside me before shucking off his pants. I could feel the hot, heavy length of his cock pressed up against my thigh as I curled around him.

He snaked a hand down between our bodies to stroke himself as he manoeuvred it towards me, aiming straight as he pushed it in... Oh my. Delicious. He was thick, and long, but still a little soft. He had to keep one hand on the shaft to stay on target, but let’s face it – he had length to spare.

We soon warmed up and found our rhythm. His size and strength were wonderful bedfellows – he could pick me up and flip me over at whim, and his stamina was admirable. The sweat was pouring off him in rivulets, soaking the sheets and leaving me just as slick as he. His tempo picked up as I raised my legs higher, and it wasn’t long before his grunting and thrusting culminated in a powerful orgasm.

The tension ran out of his body as we lay together, before he hauled himself off to the shower and I poured several glasses of water down my throat. He stooped over me for a kiss, dripping clean water over me instead of sweat this time. I smiled and lead him back to the bedroom by the knot in his towel.

Snap, snap.

2011-01-25T23:09:00.001+10:30

We had spent the previous six months of chatting, and we still hadn’t managed to meet. The flame finally turned up under the pot when he sent me pictures of himself buried balls-deep in a girl. The conversation had been very flirtatious and cheeky for the whole period; I had a little time, so why not? He was of my peer group and was fit, so I arranged a rendez-vous with him.

We met on a Tuesday. I had caught up with friends and was running late, but I managed to spot the single guy in the pub who was looking at me a little too intently. We sat and talked for a while; he escorted me outside to smoke, and bought me drinks.

Several pints into the night, I still wasn’t finding him particularly attractive. There was too much of the adult Charlie Brown about him – something that hadn’t been apparent in his photos – but I was horny, so I invited him back to my house.

We stripped off quickly and set to work. Suddenly, I remembered my camera and ran off to the kitchen – after all, my man had specifically requested photos of my conquests. We got back into it. I went down on him with gusto. Snap, snap. He was of average length, but thicker than standard, elliptically. His crisp pubic hair was shorn short, but with enough left to avoid the pubescent look.

He tipped me over onto my back and travelled down the length of my body, slowing for a lingering suck of my nipples. I urged him on a little more, encouraging him to suck and bite a little harder, til I was whimpering and writhing on the bed. He moved down, dropping his head to my needy pussy. Slicking a finger between my legs, he suddenly stopped and repeated his action, withdrawing a louder cry from my throat. He then dived, pushing his face in hard at my junction, sucking and licking for all he was worth. I trapped his head between my thighs and rode him hard.

He came up for air, grinning. I pulled him up by his Charlie Brown ears and sat up over him. With one hand planted on his chest, I guided him into me.

And immediately realised it wasn’t enough. I needed more.

I rode him hard, trying to take as much of him as possible into me, trying to draw maximum sensation from him. As I ground down on his pubis, I realised that it wouldn’t be sufficient, so after he flipped me onto my back for a few minutes, he wanted to switch to anal.

It certainly wasn’t my first anal experience. To be honest, it was a good escape route from lacklustre sex, as average-sized guys are often perfectly sized for backdoor activities.

At first I was on my back, but the angle was all wrong and I couldn’t get comfortable, so after a little fumbling, I got to my hands and knees and we tried again. Much better. He slid home carefully – snap, snap – and before long he was slamming my arse hard. Charlie was becoming more vocal, so it was no surprise when he withdrew, somewhat reluctantly, and peeled off the condom.

I sat on the corner of the bed as he stuffed his cock into my mouth, tasting of rubber and lubricant and male. I bobbed up and down his length with enthusiasm – snap, snap – occasionally looking up the length of his torso to the lens.

Finally he started making the typically male noises of the terminally aroused as he took over the bulk of the actions, stroking the length of his cock as I waited for his load, mouth agape. He gasped as I felt the first spatter – snap, snap – over my brow and lip, swiftly followed by a second on the same trajectory. I got the giggles as it kept coming, my eyes tightly clenched against the sting. Suddenly I couldn’t breathe – I had inhaled a slug of semen and started coughing violently. I stood up abruptly and pushed past his jellied form to the bathroom, gasping for air as I tried desperately to dislodge his protein, my eyelashes a sticky, clumpy mess.

Nuts and Bolts

2011-01-22T16:47:00.000+10:30

Bob reminded me of my brother, but I managed to look past that as we sat together for a beer. He worked as a tour leader in New Zealand, taking groups on hiking trips through the mountains. I managed to look past the toe boots and the ratty dreadlocks before inviting him back to my house.

He kissed well, hands roaming as I sat on the edge of the kitchen counter. Clothes started dropping as we progressed to the bedroom, and his 6 and a half inch uncut cock was revealed. He smelled clean and good, with a hint of patchouli (we’re talking hippies here, after all) as I took him in my mouth.

Swirling my tongue over the tip, he buried his hands in my hair and moaned deeply. I took him deeper as he stood above me before he suddenly pulled me off his cock, pushing me back on the bed. I watched him slide up next to me, his cock pressing against my thigh as we kissed again. His body was slim and tautly muscled with a scattering of piercings and tattoos, the most interesting of which was a bolt through the back of his neck, which I discovered as I pulled him in closer.

Parting for a moment, he buried his face between my thighs. His tongue darted and lapped around my pussy, teasing me as I whimpered under his ministrations. A finger joined the party, and then another. By now I was soaking wet but he wouldn’t relent, pounding into me again and again as his lips latched tight to my engorged clit.

It was enough, but he resisted when I tried to pull him up. Finally in exasperation I sat up, pulling him up into another clinch. I could taste myself on his lips. He lay back as I unrolled the condom, but soon reanimated as I straddled his hips and lowered myself down on his cock.

I soon found my rhythm as I ground down on his cock, building up speed. My clit burned as I tilted down on his pubis, his tightly curled hair causing a fiery friction. However, what’s good for the goose isn’t always good for the gander, so before long he flipped me over and started pounding me.

The little room had retained the heat of the late afternoon sun, and before long we were slicked with sweat – mostly his. Our limbs slid over each other as he tried to retain purchase on my hips, his balls swinging freely against me as I sank down to my elbows.

Truth be told, I was getting a little bored by this point. He was a nice guy, but it was definitely in the zipless fuck category. Time to get down to business! I pushed him off the bed and knelt at his feet, sucking his cock deep as I teased his balls. He moaned as my finger grazed his tight pucker, and I rewarded him with a hard suction as my other hand worked his shaft.

He pulled me off him and took over as I watched, his fist pumping tight around his cock. “I’m coming,” he warned and I opened my mouth wide. With a final gasp he came hard, shooting ropes of shockingly hot semen over my waiting tongue. I started to laugh as it kept coming, spraying over my breasts and dripping down my belly.

The prodigal daughter returns

2011-01-20T20:47:00.000+10:30

You may not believe it, but after... hmmm, forever, I'm back online! It's been an interesting few months, and during that thime I was eagerly gathering material for you all (yeah right - taking my pants off is now called "research").

I'll be back to my irregularly programmed schedule before you know it.

Stay tuned!

Hiatus

2010-09-16T16:31:00.000+09:30

I'm off for a lovely break for a month.

On the upside, I'll get to catch up with long-lost family.

On the downside, I'll be completely celibate for a month.

(Deep breath)

Keep well, my pretties, I will be back with sordid tales.

20 Questions

2010-09-10T15:31:00.000+09:30

The emails were a lot of fun. An extended period of conversation, we asked lots of 'getting to know you' questions - some serious, some silly. It was looking promising. Mark seemed to have a good sense of the ridiculous, and the photo showed a cute, dark-haired Mediterranean-looking guy.

We finally met in a Spanish bar on Saturday night. A hen's night group were taking salsa lessons in the same area, making conversation impossible over the screeching of the women and shouted instructions from the hot dance teacher. We finished our drinks and moved on to a quieter venue.

The next bar was quieter, darker, more intimate. A French guitarist was onstage, crooning old Continental love songs to the empty room. It was here that we could finally attempt conversation - but we didn't converse. We asked questions.

To be fair, this is the dance that is always conducted between two people who are seeking to know more about each other. But the steps for that are non-linear:

Ask a question
Answer the question
The answer sparks another question and answer
Either person recounts an anecdote that shows them in a favourable light
The other person is reminded of a story of their own, and both laugh at the petty foibles of man.

Instead, I got:

Ask a question
Answer the question
Ask another question
Answer the question

It was the equivalent of the left foot-right foot shuffle of your teenage years at a school social. I tried to get somewhat anecdotal, or at least expand a little on the topic at hand, but it was like pushing mud up hill. It soon became apparent that Mark wasn't big on expanding on ideas, and was content to let me ramble.

Despite the awkwardness, despite the one-sidedness of the exchange, we managed to have fun. He stopped drinking after a while so he could drive home, but kept buying me drinks. By this time I had made up my mind that he was cute, but I wasn't going to have sex with him - he simply wasn't exciting for me. He walked me to my street before kissing me, and it was gentle and tingly and actually quite lovely, but no - not tonight. Exeunt into the night.

Why I don't pick up strangers

2010-09-04T11:48:00.001+09:30

Gush

2010-09-03T10:32:00.000+09:30

Pierce came over again on Sunday afternoon. Unfortunately I was due for dinner with colleagues that evening, so we only had a round two hours to play. I buzzed him in to the apartment and he greeted me with a kiss and a cold beer.

We sat in the gentle breezes of the balcony for a while, before I took his hand and led him back inside. He stopped me in the living room, kissing me as he peeled my short green dress up and over my head. Snapping the hook of my bra with an adept flick, he pushed me back til I was lying on the sofa.

He worked his way down my body til he was kneeling between my legs. He planted a kiss and a lick to my clit, before working a finger deep inside me. This was followed by a second, and before long he had braced himself against the back of the couch and set to work upon my g-spot, his left hand pushed down hard on my belly. It wasn't long til I had flooded the cushions... Thank the gods for leather upholstery.

We moved into the bedroom and he recommenced his ministrations. It was an intensity of feeling and pressure and endorphins that was overwhelming. After another few flows, I realised I was hanging off the bed, my hair dragging on the floor as I watched us in the mirror, his face a mask of concentration. I then promptly got the giggles and needed his help getting back up.

Pierce

2010-08-23T14:42:00.000+09:30

Once again, I walked into a rendezvous not knowing what this guy looked like or his real name. The bar was full, and amongst that many people, I couldn't just spot the single male and be assured that he was the right one. Thankfully he introduced himself quickly.

My first impression was, Piercings. He had gauged earlobes, with hollow wooden plugs holding them open. Another regular piercing sat above each one. A bar through his tongue flashed as he spoke. There was a bar through his left eyebrow. Though none of this should have been surprising, given I already knew about the barbell that passed through the head of his cock.

A few drinks. Dinner. A walk to my place. Once again, the spa saw nudity as we climbed in, the water refreshingly cool against our skin. We initiated our first proper contact, tongues twining and hands roaming. He pushed my torso up and out of the water, and sucked my nipples as they tightened up to hard brown buttons.

We didn't last long in the spa. After a brief and mostly ineffectual towelling-off, we scurried off to the bedroom. Now I could take a proper look at the bar that bisected the head of his cock. The balls were big - around 8mm in diameter, and I quicky found out that a standard blowjob was out of the question. There was simply too much risk of one of them snagging on my teeth. I went with a gentle sucking technique with little movement, my hands making up for what my mouth couldn't do.

We swapped, spun around. He buried his face between my legs, sucking on my clit as two fingers weaselled their way in. He pushed hard up against my g-spot, stroking again and again as his other hand bore down above my pubis. As my legs spasmed and my back arched, I realised that the sound of his fingers between my legs had changed to something distinctly wetter... I had squirted. It's happened before and in very similar circumstances, but this time I managed to avoid completely saturating the bedlinen.

I needed a break from the intensity, so I pulled him up and aligned his cock. He thrust in... and out and inandoutandinandoutandinandout and then he whipped off the condom and came on my breasts. Wha? How do I get all the One Minute Men?

By this time it was late, and I had to work in the morning. He got me some tissues to clean up, and I saw him out the front door, practically asleep on my feet.

Tropical nights

2010-08-18T16:59:00.000+09:30

The tropical heat and humidity is a pleasant shock. After months spent cocooned in merino wool and long socks, it feels lushly decadent to have so much skin exposed at once. I spent half an hour after arrival wandering about the apartment in a daze, trying to come to terms with the 25-degree air at 3am.

The following night, I could no longer ignore the siren song of the huge spa. I shucked my dress and knickers, letting the silken water wrap my body, as I watched the city lights from the seventh floor.

What, what?

2010-08-10T12:49:00.000+09:30

His photo showed a slimly muscular physique, a hand held across his face - I don't even need to read his profile to know he has a girlfriend. His emails were polite and gently flirtatious, and we arranged to meet at a pub slightly off the main strip. I walked in without a clue of what he looked like, hoping that he would recognise me and save me from the embarrassment of being stood up.

Thankfully, he approached me as soon as I walked in. Oh - he's a little shorter than I realised, and I'm at eye level to him in my heels. His slimness is all the more apparent, and I mentally calculate how many kilos heavier I am to him. But he's cute, and we relax into conversation easily, sharing a few gentle kisses as the night progresses.

After another drink, I decide to take him home. In the bedroom, he lets me take the lead. His actions are gentle and restrained... damn it. I tell him to get more assertive. We strip off and crawl under the covers, the little heater blasting warm air into the room.

I was a little disappointed with what was on offer - a generous six inches, but thin, a veritable 'pencil dick'. But I soldiered on, clenching down hard in order to suck out what little sensation I could find. We slide into that familiar dance of cocks and cunts, mouths and hands. I grind on his pubic bone, but I'm not really getting into this coupling. I'm feeling heifer-like and a little bored. He's happy to let me do my thing, but I can't find the spot.

We switch round into doggie, and I'm getting a little sensation now. Over time, I've flattened out so that I'm lying on my front, my back arching and keeping my butt up high. He slips out on a backstroke, and with a practiced grope I manage to get him back on target. A few minutes later it happens again, but before I even realise he's re-engaged - and slid straight up my bum.

For a moment I'm baffled and surprised, then realise he's actually the perfect size for such activities. Now I'm getting into it! It's smooth and arousing and it becomes clear that my troubles with anal sex in the past have been caused by the girth of my partners. My volume and reactions increase and before I know it he comes, his head sinking to my shoulderblades.

We relax, but he's still buried in my butt. I squeeze his cock gently with my tight muscles trying to elicit further reaction, but he clearly needs recuperation time. I chide him on his actions. I ask him if he did it deliberately; if he thought perhaps to ask first. His answers are post-coitally fuzzy and non-committal. I'm a little annoyed that he would do it without asking (plus no warm-up, no lube!), but ultimately no harm was done and it proved to be the redeeming feature of the evening. With a new condom, I set to work to get him ready for round two, telling him that he was going to fuck my arse again, thankyouverymuch. Which is why he came in my pussy.

Don't let the door hit you on the way out, sunshine.

The jokes write themselves

2010-08-09T12:52:00.000+09:30

More dating site shenanigans! I often wonder if some guys are aware how much importance a woman puts on a decent profile. Typing "I'll fill this in later" isn't really going to win many fans. The following mixed lolly bag is culled from my weekly email summary.

Awesome Engrish skills:

avereg can feet to catch the girl and looking good gorgous fuck smart to me and carry to any were free on weekend

Not really selling it to me:

Up for fun and meeting some woman for wateva

Petanque? Weeding my garden? An appointment with the oral hygienist?

Does this guy rely on his friends' advice for everything?:

Most of my friends would say I have a easy-going personality.

Most? So some of his friends think he's an uptight control freak...

Err...

just wanna know if ur pussy is hot enough to be digged. and i'm ready to handle all

I'm still waiting on the Cosmo article, "Is your pussy hot enough to be digged? Ten easy ways to tell!"

And I understand that guys get scammed a lot by fake profiles and the like, but enough with the vitriolic "DONT CONTACT ME IF UR NOT A REAL PERSON!!1!" It just makes you look a bit unhinged.

Crop dusters and sharp shooters

2010-07-19T15:55:00.000+09:30

I've been on dating sites for a few months now, and while a majority of men will read a profile and write a suitable message, others seem to miss the point entirely. In the first two weeks, I was receiving an average of 30 messages a day, not including the winks, kisses, nudges, flowers and flirts that accumulated without me realising. I deemed it necessary to get a little more strict - defining strict age brackets, a few pertinent character traits, and a key word to be referenced in their letter.

Many respondents are good sports about this. Many make a point of referencing not only my key word ("apple"), but other points raised as well. Others like to ignore everything and go for the cropduster approach, spraying every female in sight.

From a man who's 14 years beyond my upper limit:

Love the feel of a strong warm well trained tongue, slipping between your soft wet lips. Plunging into the depths, exploring every inch. Manipulating, caressing and dancing across your swollen clit until you scream with pleasure. CUM let me pleasure you in ALL ways. Want to chat drop me a note/pics

Others prefer to take a more direct approach:

hi there, can I fuck your pussy hard and experiment with placing apples in there?

Here's a thought: NO.

Connections

2010-07-13T10:17:00.000+09:30

Clothing hit the floor in rapid succession. Skin was revealed, the naked truth of hair and freckles, tattoos and scents. He towered over me as I lay on the bed, his body silhouetted by the light from the doorway. I could see him absorbing the figure before him, then he moved onto the bed, covering my body with his.

Our first kiss had occurred only minutes before, but I felt good about this one. We had chatted online for a while, the conversation heavy with innuendo and laughter. It felt promising - someone I could talk with, have a laugh with, someone who could handle my relationship status with maturity and tact. We sat at the bar, talking about this or that, skirting the edges of polite conversation but with thankfully little awkwardness.

He had already warned me that he was on limited time, but I didn't hurry into my decision. There was already a warmth between us, a familiarity borne of in-jokes that were only a week old. I also didn't get the impression that he couldn't believe his good fortune in landing such a beautiful girl. He was natural, a little nervous, for sure, but knew that we were in my bedroom on a mutual agreement.

Limbs twined on the bed. He kissed well - a soft touch, a little nip, and back to an enthusiastic, passionate connection. Hands roamed, examining skin. Tongues danced over nipples and navels. He moved with confidence, but was never pushy. Finally he could no longer deny the time. He'd checked his watch three times in ten minutes, and announced that he had leave, soon.

I sat him back on his haunches and showed him just what I could do. Wrapping my fingers round the base of his cock, I took his length in my mouth and brought him closer to the edge. His hands roamed over my breasts, tangled in my curls and pushed my head down over his cock. I traced my fingertips over his balls, pulled up tight against his body as he moaned his orgasm, hot and sweet in my mouth.

He pulled me back up to a sitting position and kissed me fiercely, tasting the last of his passion on my tongue. And with a final moan, he pulled on his clothes and sprinted out into the rainy night for a rendezvous with the last train.

Strange days

2010-06-25T10:28:00.000+09:30

Oscar and his regular girl have broken up. He came home as I was nursing the last waves of a migraine, to say that she had spent the last three hours crying, though they also managed two rounds of sex. She had ended it because she had feelings for him, but knew that she could never truly have him.

There's something truly odd about counselling your own boyfriend through a break-up.

First date fail

2010-06-16T09:45:00.000+09:30

Tuesday afternoon saw the cancellation of my date with Tim, a young man I met on AFF. It's his 23rd birthday this week, and he had dinner plans pushed upon him. Part of me was relieved. Physically he was a phenotype that doesn't normally appeal to my tastes, and his IM conversation was typical of his generation.

Papyrus. The pain...

We exchanged numbers, with him mentioning that he may come down to see me after his birthday celebrations. I didn't think much of it - platitudes, surely?

A few hours later, my phone buzzes. He wants to meet up at 9.30... Eh. Why not. I err on the side of caution and fill the bath, shaving and moisturising all necessary parts.

Walking down the road to the pub, I could see a tall, thin young man slouched at one of the tables. He reminds me of a younger version of Gareth (Mackenzie Crook) from the UK version of The Office.We greet, I buy him a drink and we commence the "getting to know you" part of the evening.

There's nothing. No vibe, no chemistry, nothing that's telling me yes, this will be something good. We have another drink, I chain smoke, and finally it's time to make a decision.

It's a no-go. I'm simply not interested, and he's too nervous to make a move. I place the blame on my wayward period (mostly true), and give him a kiss at the door - sorry son, not even a birthday blow job.

Naughty girl

2010-06-07T11:02:00.000+09:30

I've been spending far too much time chatting this past week. Although it allows me to get to know people a lot faster than in stilted email exhanges, it sucks up hours of time, leaving me drained and aroused. I'm meeting men through dating sites, exchanging a few messages there, before swapping email addresses and getting on a proper chat engine.

The main issue is the time difference. I'm speaking to British and American guys, with 8 and 15 hours between us respectively. It means that these guys are either going to bed, or drunk and about to go to bed, or about to go to work. Of course, there's always the weekend when it's perfectly acceptable for either party to be up chatting til the wee hours, but my only access is on my work computer...

Oh yes. My harddrive could get me fired.

Especially now that it's full of delicious cock shots - who knew there were so many well-endowed men out there, ready to share their gift with the world? And it's also nice to know that they're attached to good, genuinely nice men. Plus the impression I'm getting is that the very large men are considerate lovers - it's physically impossible to give a woman just a few desultory licks and immediately jam it in, so they develop an arsenal of foreplay techniques. And while I've have several ardent offers of big-cock sex, it's going to cost me a few thousand dollars in airline tickets to be taught to walk funny.

Open relationships in the news

2010-06-07T10:42:00.001+09:30

I found an interesting article today about a much-loved Indigenous actor, Ernie Dingo. About a month ago, he was involved in a "sex scandal" when a jilted ex-lover tried to sell nude photos of him to a women's magazine. This was rapidly followed by similar claims from a second woman, despite Dingo being happily married.

It has now been revealed by his wife that the pair has had an open marriage for a significant portion of their 21-year relationship. I'm now wondering what public opinion will say about the nature of their relationship - I may have to come back to this.

Hurting others

2010-05-31T15:38:00.000+09:30

No, not a post about spankings.

On Friday night, I realised I was well overdue to tell my best friend Ellen about our open relationship. It was partly Dutch courage. It was partly because Dov had made a few advances that evening. But I also knew it was because it simply couldn't wait any longer.

I took a deep breath and told her that Oscar and I were open; that we'd been having sex with others for about six months, but had discussed it for eighteen months before that. She asked who I had slept with - I told her of the two guys she knows, Dov and James. She was surprised, and bemused, but for the most part she simply went quiet, and we finished our drinks and left.

Fast forward a few days, and she requests a drink with me after work - alone. When we sat down, she told me that she felt hurt and betrayed that I hadn't told her anything about my relationship status. She started crying. I was baffled.

I should explain here that I'm not a showy person. I play my cards very close to my chest, and have never been one prone to wailing and gnashing of teeth, nor to demand sympathy from others. But I'm not bottling emotion either. I simply remain unaffected by the smaller issues, and am unlikely to put undue emotional investment into a problem.

We talked for the next hour and a half. She didn't understand how I could possibly keep such a huge issue to myself. I couldn't understand why it was anyone else's business. She felt betrayed that she had told me everything that has happened in her life, even the embarrassing or shameful parts, but that I hadn't considered her "enough of a friend" to tell her the intimate details of my life.

There was no resolution. She told me that she would probably never trust me with the intimate minutiae of her life, at least until I could demonstrate reciprocity.

Over the week, there were further developments. The following night, she offered me her cheek to kiss when I arrived at the pub, instead of her lips. She avoided all eye contact for the rest of the evening, then didn't bother with a departing kiss at all. She updated her Facebook status on Wednesday to read, "I don't like being treated like a mushroom. Kept in the dark and fed on bullshit." I refrained from perpetuating the passive-aggressive cycle.

The radio silence continued until Sunday, when I was surprised to see her turn up at my house for a small Eurovision gathering. Nothing was said, but perhaps we are now on the road to healing.

I'm better at this than I think

2010-05-25T16:24:00.000+09:30

The last few days (weeks...) have been overtaken by instant messaging. Due to the vagaries of time zones, I'm not getting a lot of work done while I'm at work. However, I am getting a lot of damp knickers as these intercontinental boys get me all hot and bothered...

CaliGuy: if you were in the same room as me right now
CaliGuy: and I pulled down my pants
CaliGuy: what would you do?
Caramella: I'd take your cock in my hands
CaliGuy: nice
Caramella: wrap my lips around the head
Caramella: take just a little taste with the tip of my tongue
CaliGuy: alright
Caramella: before engulfing you in my hot wet mouth
CaliGuy: wow
Caramella: one hand on your ass to keep you close
CaliGuy: yes
Caramella: spreading my tongue wide to lap your length
Caramella: top, bottom and sides
CaliGuy: wow!
CaliGuy: I'm hard
Caramella: one hand firm around your shaft
Caramella: as my tongue swirls around your head
CaliGuy: yeah
Caramella: taking you as deep as I can again
CaliGuy: and again?
Caramella: feel the pulse and constriction of my throat around your head
CaliGuy: ooh
CaliGuy: damn
Caramella: until I pull back, my hand slick with saliva as it pumps the length of your shaft
CaliGuy: omg
Caramella: note the devilish glint in my eye
CaliGuy: noted
Caramella: and the incurve of my cheeks as I suck you hard
CaliGuy: yeah
Caramella: my hand now tracing down to your balls
CaliGuy: this is a great BJ
Caramella: just a gentle stroke
CaliGuy: wow
Caramella: as I rest, your cock hot and wet against my cheek
CaliGuy: damn
Caramella: before starting the slow process again
Caramella: taking just the head in with a gentle kiss
CaliGuy: do you tap it against the side of your face?
Caramella: no, you do
CaliGuy: right
CaliGuy: perfect
Caramella: you want more, and I have to give it to you
CaliGuy: so I slide it down your throat again
Caramella: I open my mouth wide for you
Caramella: and let you in deep
CaliGuy: ummm
Caramella: mmm
CaliGuy: when I have to cum, what do you do?
Caramella: what would you like?
Caramella: shall I suck you hard till you come in my mouth, watching it spill from the corners of my lips?
CaliGuy: yes, along those lines
Caramella: should you come on my face, as it drips from my chin and webs my hair?
CaliGuy: yeah, I'd like that
Caramella: watching me lick my fingers clean
Caramella: before cleaning you with the utmost of attention
CaliGuy: I'd like to put it real deep in your throat when coming
Caramella: hold my head on your cock as you come
Caramella: watch me choke and gasp under your load
Caramella: the glint in my eye changed to fear and desire commingled
CaliGuy: wow
CaliGuy: that's the ticket
Caramella: smiles
CaliGuy: haha
Caramella: don't let me go til you're done
CaliGuy: that sounds amazing
CaliGuy: done baby
Caramella: my pleasure, sweets

Now all I have to do is work out how to get to California.

Intelligent conversation

2010-05-18T13:23:00.000+09:30

I recently started entering Instant Messaging conversations with some of the young men on 7orBetter. Admittedly, the majority of them are in America and thus, I won't be getting physical with them any time soon. I've met a few balanced and interesting individuals, guys who look inside themselves and can see their faults, and then I've met some right chumps...

chumpface:
you look healthy
great skin
beautiful face

Me:
terrible lifestyle though :)

chumpface:
u drink a lot?

Me:
I drink, but not every day and not to blackout or vomiting

chumpface:
thats good
do u wish u were thinner?

[Have we talked about weight or body issues? Or are you simply assuming that I'm female, therefore I must have an insecurity?]

Me:
I wish I had my 18 year old body!
98 lb & smooth muscle

chumpface:
well...i dont think id kick u out of bed

Me:
oh, ta!

chumpface:
r u kinky?

Me:
define?

chumpface:
do u like anal sex?

Me:
that's kinky?
I like it when I'm in the mood

chumpface:
how many times have u had it in the butt?
i guess its not that kinky

No sir, no it's not. I allowed him to Facebook friend me, but a quick look at his profile has left me distinctly underwhelmed. It's all tits and arse, and notifications that he's joined the "I LUV BOOBIES!!1!" group.

While I'm enjoying the flirting and the cock shots (I'm amassing quite the gallery), it's guys like this that make me want to hang up my vagina and walk away.

Second helpings

2010-05-14T11:03:00.000+09:30

I was at the pub on Friday night to see a long-lost friend. Drinks were consumed, so by the time I saw Dov I was in a great mood and ready for fun. He immediately recognised the gleam in my eye, and it was mere minutes before we were walking out the door.

Making ourselves comfortable on the sofa, I straddled his lap and peeled my top off, coincidentally revealing the same lacy black and pink bra that he saw last time. He rolled my nipples between his fingers, remembering the hiss of pleasure/pain he could wring from my lips. Crouching over, he took one dark tip into his mouth, sucking and biting hard. I arched my back, pushing my breasts into his hands and face, never ceasing the roll and stroke of my pelvis against his still-clothed cock.

He released my nipple with a final tug, the delicate skin burning. Finally he lifted me off his lap and slid out of his underwear. He apologised for not shaving, as I rolled a condom down his small, proud cock. Climbing back onto his lap, I guided him into my pussy... or tried to. I'd half-manage to smoosh him in, but he'd lost too much hardness to get anywhere. I tried again, and his cock bent in half. I couldn't stroke him to hardness with the condom on (small+condom+soft=disaster), so he ripped the damn thing off and stuffed it under the sofa.

Lowering me onto my back on the floor, he knelt between my knees and concentrated his attention on my pussy. He sucked my clit in between his lips, making me squirm as he rolled his tongue over my beleagured button. Finally, he pushed a finger deep inside... followed by a second... followed by a third. Another finger worked its way into my arse. Four fingers in all, pushing and stroking, while he sucked my clit... If I was the orgasmic type, that would have been about right, thankyouverymuch.

He sat back and watched as I wrapped my lips around his cock, now fully hard without its protective sheath. He gasped when I gently grazed the back of my fingernails over his scrotum, grabbed my hair when I flicked his shaft with the tip of my tongue. I swallowed him to the root, his lush hair tickling my nose, before he replaced my hand with his and started jacked off.

Giving him the lead, I let my tongue lap the tip of his cock as he brought himself to orgasm all over his chest, belly and my chin. I tasted a little - for a drinker and smoker, he was surprisingly sweet and clean. We sat together for a little longer, before jumping in the shower and rinsing off the damage.

* * *

Mere minutes after Dov had left, the front door opened again and Oscar came in. We sat and talked for a little about the experience as I recounted my night. Oscar unzipped my hoodie, pulled down my yoga pants and bent me over the sofa, fucking me hard with his big cock... What was, for him, a validation of our relationship and a way of reconnecting was a beautiful, passionate end for my evening. We went to bed as his come ran down my thigh.

Opening up - to everyone else

2010-05-07T16:21:00.001+09:30

Yesterday after work, I caught up with my closest friend, and one of her friends. Over our beers, we started talking about the whole 'French women don't get fat' phenomenon/media frenzy, which segued into an article I had seen that day, about how the French are somewhat blase about extramarital affairs. Cue Caramella-as-educator.

I explained the difference between cheating and open relationships (though I left out polyamory at that point - too much informtion would blow their minds), and how in the case of Sarkozy and Bruni, it was likely to be a discreet mutual agreement, without the lying and sneaking around behind each other's backs that tends to characterise cheating.

Both women listened to me solemnly, before declaring that they could never control their jealousy long enough to allow their partners to see others. Then my friend looked at me and said, "You could probably do it."

It was the perfect opportunity. All I had to do was open my mouth and say, "Yes, I can do it. Oscar and I have an open relationship right now", but I couldn't speak it. Partly because I don't really know the other girl well enough, and partly because I just don't think my friend would really understand.

Is it any wonder that the general populace doesn't understand a committed relationshipwith multiple partners, when we practitioners can't talk about it?

Dating sites and birthday sex

2010-04-29T16:48:00.000+09:30

Lately, it seems that I've been doing more reading than writing (and trying to avoid the 'rithmetic). The lack of a computer at home is still a hindrance - I could get another netbook for a few hundred, but the rate of obsolescence is staggeringly high, and I hated having to scroll sideways when viewing websites on its tiny screen.

Then again, it looks like I've just resolved a few issues relating to the house I just left. With any luck, a thousand dollars or so should come winding its way back into my account in the next few days. Time for a constructive splurge, methinks.

Rental bonds? Computers? Not sexy! More sexy, Caramella!

Hmmm... I've been in contact with a few of my 7 or Better boys. Two of them are looking promising - one is a 28 year old public servant with a 8-9 inch cut cock (the site likes to work in ballpark figures, rather than 1/32ths of inches - probably a good thing!), the other works at a law firm, is packing an uncut 7 to 8 inches, and is only 21 - practically a baby! He admits that he only just scrapes through the size requirements, but a comment or two makes me think he's a bit impressive girth-wise... Just the way I like them.

Tonight, however, I'll be devoting my attention to Oscar. It's the dreaded three-oh for him, so after I take him out for dinner, I may have to console him with a delicious blowjob, followed by a ride that makes him forget all his woes. I may even tell you all about it later.

Sex advice

2010-04-23T16:08:00.004+09:30

I'm trying not to be too harsh on these people but... no, fuck it. They're anonymous and so am I.

Seriously, I've hit the jackpot of sexual cluelessness. Are these people real? From the Four Seasons help page:

I admire the advisor's restraint in answering this baffling question:

Q: I am a woman age 32. I have no sex reaction, I am sweating always. How will I be slim?
A: A healthy diet and exercise will help you to lose weight. Many women have trouble feeling sensations during sex. You need to find out what makes you feel good. If you feel better about yourself you may enjoy sex more.

So very nearly a haiku:
I have no sex reaction,
I am sweating always.
How will I be slim?

Q: Me and my girlfriend have sex regularly. Everytime we have finished his sperm always comes back out from my vagina, is it normal? How can I get pregnant?

Boyfriend? Girlfriend? And I couldn't work out if she thought semen was like vaginal spackle or something - it usually does come out after sex. Unless your labia seal up post-coitus like the airlocks on the Enterprise, that is.

Q: Ive been with my boyfriend for a little over a year and we had sex for the first time a couple of days ago. His penis is a little smaller than its supposed to be. What can I do to make me feel more during sex or what can we use?

"Smaller than its supposed to be"?
That may translate to "I've been saving myself for that?"

Q: Im 20, Ive had sex twice and both times my man has achieved an orgasm but I haven't and I wanted to know if your clitoris could become desensitised. If so what can I do about it?

Twice, people. Talk about unrealistic expectations! Know thyself, young woman. A penis is not the Mystical Allen Key of Orgasm - you'll have to give him a hand, and I'd also suggest some research into the differences between male and female orgasm.

Too much?

2010-04-22T15:28:00.000+09:30

I was perusing 7orBetter this morning - mainly because I decided to brave up and get in contact with a few guys. Out of interest, I conducted another search, and found a new guy in my city. He's 21, so a little younger than me; he's a panel beater; and he's packing 12 inches.

One foot.

Thirty centimetres.

Oh, my.

What do you do with that? I can't even begin to imagine what that looks like in real, throbbing life. There are so many positions that wouldn't work. I love sitting on top, but that would be disastrous - my cervix would get pulverised. What if he's proportionately girthy too? Don't get me wrong - I love a bit of thickness, but if we're talking two stacked coke cans, I'm going to need some training.

I know I kind of asked for this when I signed up on a website for big-dicked men, but this guy is blowing (or bludgeoning) everyone else out of the water. Does anyone have any helpful hints in relation to surviving this battle-axe?

Bringing out the big guns

2010-04-15T16:28:00.000+09:30

I recently discovered 7 or Better - a dating site for men with penises of 7 inches or more, and the women who love them. At first, I thought the entire premise was hilarious - a lot of egotistical men and their whopper choppers. However, I read the site's manifesto and realised, they're right - what a guy's packing in his shorts is kind of important. Oscar has never had a problem in that regard! Clearly a tripod is no replacement for a personality, respect, decency, humour et al, but for some women it's important. After all, it's pretty nice to have sex and not feel as though your vagina is an aircraft hangar.

So I've spent a little time in the last few weeks on 7 or Better. Initially I had issues with verification emails and a few back and forths, as well as the 24 hours (but often a lot longer) required for Administration to check over every profile change and photo addition. I was finally able to browse the gallery. I created a checklist specifying age, build, location etc., and a few potential suitors popped up. I put half a dozen young guys on my hotlist, and then got snowed under at work, and promptly forgot about the whole thing.

Until yesterday, when I received notification that someone had contacted me. It was Billy, a tall 28 year old rugby enthusiast [Aside: what's with the well-hung rugby players? Most of the guys in my list are ruggers, and my city doesn't even have a national team!], who had obviously received notification that I'd shortlisted him and decided to get in contact. I wrote back a witty little reply and sent it into the void. Today he sent me a short note in acknowledgement. At this point, I'm interested. He hasn't written much yet (I take the written word very seriously), but I;m going to see if I can't nurture this along a little.

No doubt 7 or Better will prove to be rather interesting!

Ask a stupid question...

2010-04-14T14:59:00.000+09:30

I'm at the cafe, waiting for my takeaway coffee:

Waiter: So what's with the scarf, Caramella? Are you covering up all your lovebites?

Caramella: Actually, I've really been getting into rope play recently, and thought I should cover up the bruises.

Waiter: *Blink*

That's not how you use it

2010-04-12T12:33:00.000+09:30

Today, I found a step-by-step illustrated tutorial on darning socks, using a darning egg. In the day and age of mass-produced cotton socks, it's probably not the most relevant information (unless you knitted the buggers personally), but what caught my eye was this:

It's a beautiful piece of glass, but all I was thinking was, I could stick that somewhere other than a sock. You were too, I know. It wouldn't be the first time I've taked household goods somewhere they weren't designed for, but I found a word for it recently: Pervertibles. My stainless steel coffee tamper is another personal favourite [note to self: but something less attractive for use only with the coffee machine] - it looks very similar to this one, though the join between the halves is neater:

Hmm. It's now lunchtime - hopefully a little food and coffee will distract me from these thoughts - at least until I get home tonight.

Would you like a step-ladder for dismounting your high horse?

2010-03-31T12:59:00.001+10:30

I found this article today, written by Karen Salmansohn, asking whether open marriages work. I read the article with no prejudices (at first), but soon began seething at her smug, sanctimonious tone. Her personal view is made clear early in the piece - phrases like "...creating a system of rules for cheating" [emphasis mine] making it clear exactly which side of the fence she occupies.

Admittedly, her first exposure to the reality of an open marriage seems wacky - a partner insisting that, upon marriage, he would require his own apartment where he could have sex with other women up to three times a week. To me, he just sounds like a selfish bastard who wants his cake and will wallow in it, too.

I agreed with her list of "the good" side of open relationships - honesty, communication and an awareness of the needs of your partner. She then goes on to create a list of why open marriages don't work - although her statements are carefully prefixed with a lot of "I think..."s and "In my opinion..."s, the tone is still that of fascinated horror. Statements like "one big recipe for disaster" are self-serving and ignore the experiences of couples who have made an open relationship work. An open relationship is not about "avoiding commitment", as Salmansohn asserts, but about sharing an ideal, and one that can be just as 'natural' as exclusively monogamous relationships.

I find her argument to be a little primary school in nature - I distinctly remember being fought over by two friends who didn't like each other. They were both asserting that "She's MY friend", and refused to see that I could be friends with them both, and that it wasn't a personal attack if I didn't play with one of them at lunchtime. She can only see her own view, shaded in stark black and white.

Perhaps I'm biased towards the idea that open relationships can work because I'm in one. It's been about six months now, we have both had several extracurricular lovers, and we are still as emotionally and physically close as we ever were. I don't have a good track record of monogamy. I cheated four times in my last relationship - the first time, I told him. He then cheated on me a few months later, got the girl pregnant and almost got charged with rape. The next two times occurred without him finding out, and the last time was with Oscar, which pulled the pin from the grenade, lobbing it firmly into the middle of our crumbling six-year relationship. Frankly, the situation I'm in now with Oscar is far healthier, more egalitarian and honest than all of my former experiences.

I've also never been the jealous type. I've watched friends' relationships and the issues that come up - why, in this day and age, do we still need to argue that it's perfectly fine for partners to spend time with platonic friends of the opposite sex? Or that it's not weird to still be friends with an ex? The really odd thing about these people was that often the platonic friend or the ex had been around much longer than the present partner.

Getting back to Salmansohn, she then goes on to shoehorn in a plug for her latest book, and states that there is a 92 per cent chance of open marriages failing, and that only one per cent of marriages are open. Where did this research come from? Enter Dr Steve Brody, a psychologist specialising in family and marriage counselling. Although no citation or link is given, a little research unearths another quote from Brody. He asserts that trying to create rules for an open relationship is like "laying ground rules for an earthquake", and that we can never predict what our emotional responses will be, and we expose ourselves to falling in love with someone other than our primary partner [this a bad thing?]. True, but an open relationship already rests on a foundation of communication - probably more so than many monogamous relationships. Thus, an open relationship may be in a better place to handle issues when they arise.

Gah, rant over. Must be the low blood sugar - I'm off for lunch.

Thinking

2010-03-31T11:06:00.001+10:30

Thought:
The black pencil skirt that I'm wearing today has a slit in the back. Unfortunately I've broken a few stitches, making the slit run alarmingly high. Coupled with my preference for g-string knickers, I'm at real risk of flashing the world (and my colleagues) at every step.

Thought:
I've read a few times now (sorry, I don't remember where I saw it) that some bloggers can't write properly about sex or a person until a little time has passed. I think my memory tends to work the same way. My short-term memory is rubbish - you'll probably have to tell me twice that you're working on Thursday night and can't go out, whereas I'll remember you telling me eight years ago that your father is in rammed-earth construction. I think I'll probably be going back to a few stories and creating epilogues as the recollections resurface.

Thought:
My life is boxes and newspaper at present. We will be moving house in the next two weeks, and I'm trying to sort and pack with some semblance of order. I'm something of a hoarder, but our new house is tiny - I think the op shops will be doing well from me.

Thought:
Our workplace ISP had some kind of cataclysmic meltdown yesterday, leaving us with no internet access all day. Who knew I could be so productive at work?

I love it when you do that

2010-03-29T16:26:00.000+10:30

"I love it when you do that."

Oscar and I were tangled up on the couch, watching TV at the end of Sunday night. He was half-reclined, and I was curled up over and behind him.

Confused, I asked what he meant. "When you touch me like that," he repeated, indicating my hand that was resting softly on his cheek and neck.

I kissed his other cheek, and we settled back in to the unconsciously intimate position we have perfected over the last two years.

Rolling around with Bears

2010-03-25T16:27:00.001+10:30

Friday night drinks started well. My friends were uniformly in a good mood, as was I. We had seated ourselves in the beer garden, enjoying each other's company and the balmy autumn night. As the evening progressed, we were joined by a few others - regulars of the venue, as well as a few part-time employees.

One guy in particular was showing some interest in me. I'll name him Dov, which is Hebrew for 'Bear', an apt name for his size and hairiness. He was buying me drinks all night and slowly moved from the adjacent bench, to sharing mine.

We were both well into our cups when he responded suddenly to something I'd said with a "Are you flirting with me?" I replied in the affirmative. He seemed quite chuffed with this turn of events, and kissed me hard. I protested a little, explaining that my friends don't know that I'm "open", and would prefer to keep it quiet.

Back at my house, he sat down on the sofa and I quickly straddled his lap. He peeled off my top, exposing my black lace demi-cup bra, my nipples peeking over the top. I pushed my breasts to his face and was rewarded with a deep sigh of pleasure as he exclaimed, "You have amazing breasts" - a compliment that can truly never get old.

I was pleased to notice that we had gone from fully clothed to completely naked in (apparently) moments, and that Dov had somehow ninja-ed his way out of underwear and socks without me even realising. After all, the sight of the "I'll do the laundry tomorrow" undies, or socks left on during coitus, are seriously off-putting, and may even make me despise you. Just sayin'.

We were both ready to go. I straddled his lap and met his cock for the first time - eminently average, but a little longer and thicker than my last few conquests. We attempted to fuck with me squatting over his lap, but his lack of length (and the fact that my sofa is pretty fucked out these days) conspired against us, so we grabbed some blankets and moved to the lawn.

Here, we could relax. Lying down, we explored each other's bodies a little more. I wrapped my legs around his back as he drove into me, before he backed off and dived between my legs. His technique was pleasant and pleasurable, and with a little more time and relaxation could have proven to be pretty good. At one point he came back up for a kiss and asked, "I didn't stop too soon, did I?" I then explained that I didn't come but it was very nice.

I went down on him then. This is something I prefer to do when I'm comfortable with someone, and not just because it's "expected" of me, or through reciprocity. I was pleasantly surprised. Despite the fact that it was a warm evening, and that we'd been at the pub for several hours, he smelled fresh and male - no funk. I was also relieved to find out that he's a groomer: for an extremely hirsute man, it would have been nigh on impossible to find his cock amidst the jungle without judicious manscaping.

By now it was getting late, and we were nearing the end. He wasn't enjoying the condoms, and my phone was beeping every few minutes with Oscar seeking updates. He asked where I wanted him to come - I told him that, as my guest, it was his pick (though we'd given up on the condom by then, so my pussy was more or less out of the question). He asked very nicely if I wouldn't sucking his cock, and then he'd come on my breasts. I thought this sounded wonderful, and quickly proceeded to envelop his eager cock in my hot, warm mouth.

He was enjoying himself and didn't seem to be in a rush, so I took my time and showed him a little of what I could do. After a period, he told me to lie back, and he stroked himself to completion, unloading a hefty deposit between my breasts. We relaxed after this, sharing a beer and a cigarette, before he got dressed and took a gracious departure from the house.

The lovely thing about this union was the utter lack of pressure: although I wasn't particularly attracted to him, we had been having fun all night, and he wasn't about to fall in love with me, or make demands upon my time or relationship. He's a little older - I think about 35 - and experience has taught him to live in the moment.

About half an hour later, Oscar got home from work, a little tired but very horny. He kissed me hard when he walked in, then turned me around and fucked me even harder. He came with a small cry and kissed me again, the tension and stress ebbing from his body. It was hard, fast and about as brutal as vanilla sex gets, but it was what we both needed - for me, to get the last threads of arousal from my system, and for him, to reclaim me. We slept well that night.

HNF

2010-03-19T17:07:00.000+10:30

Happy Half-Nekkid Friday!

I figured this will still kinda count - you American types still have a fair bit of Thursday left.

Doing the laundry, Caramella-style.

Ex-ercises in futility, round 2

2010-03-19T16:25:00.000+10:30

So I saw young Michael again, with a few misgivings, after our wholly underwhelming fuck.

Wednesday's messages:
Michael: "U free tonite?"
(Translation: I'm horny and there's nothing on TV.)
Caramella: Should be fine. 6pm somewhere?
(Translation: I'm going to keep you at arm's length, and not show any great enthusiasm about this meeting, because I don't want to fuck you again.)
Michael: "That's good. Do u wanna come to my house in [Suburb]? Or I can come meet u in city."
(Translation: I have a bed at my house. Beds are good because I'm certain we'll have sex again, and the carpet burn I got last time has only just healed.)
Caramella: The city is better. I work on [City Street], but the Markets or East End are fine.
(Translation: No beds. Public area meetings only, because I don't want to fuck you again.)

We arranged a meeting time and place, and later that afternoon, we met for a drink and a chat.

No mention was made of the last time we saw each other - I was happy for it to be wiped off the slate, whereas his avoidance of the topic was more likely to be related to shyness, or awkwardness. I was also very careful of the signals that I was sending. There was a minimum of eye contact; I was wearing my work clothes with no visible cleavage; I sat back in my chair rather than leaning forward towards him. I was simply not willing to let him construe anything I did as a 'sign'.

When he asked me what I was doing that night, I said that I was going to go home, perhaps do some cleaning and packing for our impending move, then have a glass of Pinot. He seemed a bit piqued that my plans didn't involve him, but he let it pass.

Finally, I drained my drink and stood up. I gave the usual "Lovely to see you again" speech, gave him a kiss on the cheek and turned to leave. Oh, it appears that we will be walking in the same direction.

Michael: "So... We're not going to hook up tonight?"
Caramella: (Simply, clearly, and in a tone that brooks no rebuttal) "No."
Michael: "Oh. But I thought you were in an open relationship? Did something go wrong?"
Caramella: "I am in an open relationship; nothing went wrong." (What? Was he insinuating that an open relationship automatically obligates me to have sex with him, because we had sex two weeks ago? The nerve!)

He brought it up twice more in the ten minute trip to my house, and both times I turned him down. He was rather embarrassed that he'd misconstrued the situation, and I was left with the feeling that I would probably never hear from him again. I'm also glad that he didn't ask me why I didn't want to have sex with him again, becase that would have been (a) extremely rude, and (b) a question that I wouldn't have been able to answer without pointing out that he was a dud root.

See, the problem is that I took his cherry nearly ten years ago, and he fell in love with me. I don't think he's ever stopped holding a candle for me, so when I invited him back into my pants, it was probably the best thing that had happened to him in years. Also, why do I get the feeling that he hasn't really had a girlfriend since me?

Oh, my sainted aunt. Hopefully that's the end of that chapter. Onwards and upwards!

Quick, while everyone's on their lunchbreak

2010-03-12T13:07:00.000+10:30

The loss of my netbook is killing my ability to write. Although I'm in front of a computer all day at work, I share a space with two other guys. Our line of work simply doesn't require much, if any extended periods of typing, so the sound tends to attract attention. Thus, my writing may come down to snippets until I can replace my computer.

Thought:
What is the turn-on in someone tugging your knickers right up into your business? There are a few erotic writers who tend to use this motif frequently - either a lover pulling up on g-strings and creating pressure on clits and arses, or girls deliberately wearing smaller-than-required underwear and getting thoroughly turned on by it. I don't understand it at all. Is it a male writer thing? Surely they can't be au fait with the day-to-day reality of skimpy underwear. Hell, last week I was tugging on my skin-tight jeans, when I accidentally grabbed the top of my g-string as well. I damn near garrotted myself - and it wasn't at all sexy.

Thought:
What's with hippies? My ex would occasionally refer to himself as a yuppie-hippie - he liked his computers and mobile phones and stripy shirts, but was also a mung bean munching, brown rice boiling hippie (i.e., the "eating animals is bad" vegetarian who still wears leather shoes... Anyway...) His hippie practises also extended to the bathroom, but he wasn't willing to fork out the big bucks for the organic, free-range paraben-free shower products, which unfortunately extended to soap. And he was a hairy Mediterranean man. Which meant that his balls were hairy. Which meant they were sweaty. Which meant that his junk smelled like the last bit of Roquefort when it's been left on the kitchen counter after a party the night before. Which is not conducive to blow jobs. Seriously, I would have to scrub the funk off my hands following any kind of contact.

Moral of the story? Wash your bits if you want ladies to go near them. And look after your god-damn fingernails, too. We don't like raggedy, jaggedy talons up in our pink bits.

Now make the cuticles more flakey and ragged, and the nails longer and with more sharp angles.

Thought:
Is there any way of getting away with masturbation at work, if you work in an open-plan office? I'm thinking vibration is out of the question, but if you had something a bit girthy but very short (so you could still sit down on it for extended periods), could you get away with a bit of surreptitious rocking, and sitting up very straight? Would the scent of feminine arousal lead to a strange office dynamic? Erm, not that I've ever tried...

Ex-ercises in futility

2010-03-03T15:51:00.000+10:30

It appears that I have a wonderful knack for tying myself into knots.

I caught up with Michael over the weekend, as promised. It was a good night - Adelaide is a lot of fun at the moment, with the Festival and Fringe in full swing, as well as all sorts of free public events. We met at a bar in the city and had a few drinks, and a very general catch up on the last few years. It turns out that he decided to get back in contact with me due to the Barry White reference in that fateful Facebook update. Sure. I wore the shoes anyway, just to make certain.

We were enjoying our drinks, and chatting with the people sharing our table, when he suggested that we look at his studio, just up the road. He showed me some of the show reels he had worked on, gave me another gin and tonic, and it was then that I decided to lay my cards on the table.

"Would you like to fuck?"

He stammered and blushed (probably. The only light source was the computer screens) and agreed, so I leaned in for a kiss. Peeling off clothes, we arranged ourselves on the nylon carpet and started the process.

Oh. I'd forgotten about that.

He's small.

I'm no sizeist, but Oscar's nine inches has spoiled me rotten. Michael was pretty drunk, and wasn't really coping with the complexities of erection maintenance, which only compounded the issue at hand. To be fair to myself, I've never really remembered much about previous partners once they relinquish access to my genitals, so I simply didn't recall the properties of his junk but dear gods, I wished I did.

We finished up and got dressed, and he put me in a cab. I woke late up the next day feeling fine, but with a stomach that rejected all input. Exactly how much gin was in those drinks?

Fast forward to today: I was at my desk when my phone buzzed with a message from Michael.

"So weeknights r good? ... Any night in particular for u? Wed, thurs r usually my most free nights"

Aside from my pathological hatred for TXTSPK, his message raised an alarming question: What the fuck did I promise him on Saturday night? Did I tell him that we should keep fucking? I don't want to do that again, not ever! I decided the best way to handle the situation was to interpret his ambiguous message as wanting to catch up for a drink. Just a drink. In a public space. On a week night. Before dinner. With no sex.

He agreed to see me next week for a drink. Why do I do this to myself?

Twat.

2010-02-19T10:00:00.000+10:30

THis post is dedicated to the twat who broke into my house yesterday. The aforementioned twat came in through a window, took my netbook and an iPod Shuffle and emptied a few small-change bowls, but conveniently ignored the camera and two sets of Sennheiser headphones, one of which was right next to the iPod.

I didn't call the police. There is almost no chance of receiving my items back, I have no house insurance, and it was me who left the window unbolted. Plus I was already thinking of upgrading to a proper laptop, and the netbook was only $300 a year ago.

It made me shitty and fidgety. It was partly simply knowing that a stranger had been in my house,but it was also because I'd downloaded a heap of new erotica onto a memory stick that day and I was looking forward to a bit of a wank. Instead, I got shafted by some fucktard wanker.

The loss of my netbook also means that my writing might be [even more] thin on the ground, as my only other option is my work computer. I'm also privately mortified that my writing is on that damn computer - all my rough drafts and unfinished fantasies are sitting happily on the hard drive. My only consolation is that there is nothing identifying on it - no passwords, bank account details, or logins.

I still want to donkey punch the little fucker who did it though.

Facebook flirtations

2010-02-18T16:28:00.000+10:30

Last night, I updated my Facebook status with "Wearing fire-engine red stilettos while making dinner. If all goes to plan, I hope to dim the lights and take advantage of myself". A few friends "liked" and commented on it, and I enjoyed giving people a laugh, but a few hours later, I got a private message from an old boyfriend, Michael. We were together for about eight months when I was 17. I took his virginity and he fell in love with me, but I broke it off when I realised I just wasn't that interested anymore... and because an old flame with a huge cock had reappeared on the scene.

Michael's brief message was essentially "This is pretty random, but would you like to meet for coffee sometime?" I was flattered, but a little intrigued as to whether my blatantly flirtatious status post had triggered his interest. Perhaps he has a shoe fetish that was unrealised when we were together? I last saw him three or four years ago, and since then he's made a name for himself in music, playing in the backing band of one of the hugest dance music groups in the country. With any luck, he's blossomed out from the shy, talented Catholic boy I knew so many years ago.

I messaged back with my mobile number, so we'll just have to see what happens...

More than a handful is a waste

2010-02-08T17:01:00.000+10:30

I came across an article the other day, outlining the Australian Censorship Board's decision to ban pornography that features women with small breasts, as small-breasted women look child-like, which condones paedophilia.

Um, what?

This is a new argument for me. I have heard people arguing that Brazilian waxes and full shaves are favoured by men because a hair-free pussy is child-like, and that all men secretly harbour the desire to fuck their pre-pubescent daughters.

But breasts? I come from a line of compact women – big boobs have never been a family trait. I'm the same size now as I was when I purchased my first bra, twelve years ago. Dammit, I'm a 10A and proud! And I do not appreciate the insinuation that my small breasts make me look child-like and that every man that has ever slept with me, and every man that has ever looked at me with lust in his eyes was actually thinking of a 13-year-old girl.

I should point out that there probably are men who get off on small breasts for that reason, and that the sexualisation of children is abhorrent, but I don't feel that it's a relevant reason to ban otherwise innocuous skin flicks. What's next – every porn casting couch has a sign above it, stating You must be THIS big to ride a cock on camera?

I sent the link to Oscar that afternoon, and he was baffled. As a self-confessed small breast fan, he couldn't understand the apparent leap of logic between a preference and paedophilia. Surely a liking for small breasts is the same as liking large breasts, or blonde hair, or big bottoms – its simply a matter of personal taste.

It also raises further issues of body image and self-esteem. Porn already has a bad rap for giving men and women unrealistic expectations of body shape, as well as sexual practices. Tight abs and buns, permatan, freshly waxed pudenda, hyperflexibility and an insatiable desire for anal sex, creampies, and bukkake are supposed to be standard practise. Is it really so bad that natural, small-breasted women feature in porn?

The article also makes mention of a ban on squirting videos, because squirting is apparently both "an 'abhorrent' depiction" and "a form of urination", the depiction of which is banned in Australia. Sigh. The stupidity, it abounds. Aren't there studies analysing the composition of female ejaculate? After all, urine is filtered out by the kidneys, stored in the bladder, and evacuated via the urethra. Ejaculate doesn't use any of those pathways, so how can they be classified as the same thing? And I'm going to just put the abhorrent depiction thing into the *headdesk* category.

Gah. This type of spurious argument makes my blood boil. It is yet another example of how laws are created and enacted by miserable old men with a paltry understanding of biology; a knee-jerk reaction to a perceived threat. But for god's sake, can we be just a little bit sensible about this?

Delicious secrets

2010-01-28T16:44:00.000+10:30

I've been a little quiet of late, what with the holiday season and the return to work. It's also been consistently hot here - over 31 degrees Celsius permanently, with occasional 42-degree forays for days at a time (that's 87F to 110F for my non-metric friends).

My relationship with Oscar is going strong - as a hospitality worker, it's a lot easier for him to ride the pussy dragon, which has sparked a few long discussions. I (and he) worry about him turning into a slut - if it wasn't for the fact that he wouldn't have time for sleep if he was running off for rendezvous after work.

Apart from him, my relationships have been lacking. I'm not pushing James any harder - if we happen to end up fucking on an inebriated Friday evening, then it happens. He seems to strongly resist any kind of "booty call" approach. I'm considering doing some advertising on AFF or a similar site, see if I can't find someone interesting...

I keep getting distracted, however, by the box under my desk at work. It arrived in the post today while the front desk was unmanned, and only I know its contents. I'll give you a hint - it's pthalate-free.

A resolution

2009-12-23T11:25:00.000+10:30

I’m a few weeks early, but I already have a new year’s resolution. Some may think it unbelievable, some may think it appalling, but at age 26, I have never had an orgasm. I’ll let that sink in for a moment.

It’s certainly not for lack of trying. I have been masturbating regularly since I was five or six years old. As soon as my pelvis opened up and the first wispy pubic hair appeared at 11, I have rubbed, stroked and inserted my way through many lazy weekend afternoons, and all to no avail.

I purchased my first vibrator at 18. It was seven inches long, and perhaps an inch and a half in diameter. It ran on C-cell batteries, but when the first pair ran out, I never replaced them. It simply didn't do anything for me.

It was around this age that I started having regular sexual partners. Most of these guys were similar in age to me – which meant they were 17 or 18, and woefully inexperienced. By the time I was 18 and in my second long-term relationship, I had learned to tell the truth about my inorgasmia. Some guys were convinced that they had the knack – some particular method that would tip me over the brink into screaming bliss, because that’s what had worked on their previous girlfriend. Other guys were probably secretly relieved that the pressure was off them to pleasure me.

I’m also a little skeptical of the “magical” vibrators, the Hitachis and Lelos of the world. I’m sure they’re lovely. I’m sure they work for a majority of women. But frankly, I’m not really all that willing to fork out the big bucks for something that will likely leave me somewhat underwhelmed. After all, if the half-dozen vibes in my bedside table haven’t done it for me yet, why would a Lelo be any different?

I still enjoy sex. I know most people would think it insane to consider sex without orgasm even worth taking your pants off, but I still have a lot of fun. I love the intimacy and the skin, and I take pleasure in my partner’s pleasure. As I’ve grown and matured, I’ve learned to gain maximum pleasure from any encounter. It’s rare for me to have bad sex these days, based in part to Oscar’s skill as a lover, and also his big cock that reaches all the nice places. I’ve also learned that my g-spot is more responsive than my clit, so I want to look further into conditioning my response.

2010 starts soon and I have a new year’s resolution. I want to come, and I’m willing to accept other people’s help. I don’t think therapy is the right option for me because
a) We don’t really do that in Australia
b) Sex therapists are few and far between

c) It’s not proactive enough, and
d) I wasn’t abused as a child.
James ex-girlfriend told me of an acupuncturist who has done good work with sexual response problems. It looks like treatment will take a few months, a session every two weeks or so. By then I should have organised health insurance too, which will help with the costs. All I want for Christmas is an orgasm!

Caramella has a whinge

2009-12-22T14:57:00.000+10:30

I'm going to put a few posts up today. These were pieces that I wrote last week, but have only had a chance to post today. Bear with me!

From early Sunday morning, 20th December:

Open relationships are hard. We’re only at week one, and issues have already arisen.

It started well. On Friday night, I exchanged a few text messages with James. They were pretty flirtatious, but he had other plans and our paths just weren't going to synchronise. I could handle that – sometimes paths just can’t cross.

Saturday afternoon I replied to James message that I had missed because I was inebriated and had fallen asleep on the couch. I didn't hear anything further until 6.30pm, when a message came through – a photo of James, naked in the bathroom, cupping his genitals. I thought it was lovely and sweet and a little vulnerable, but I sent a reply photo of me in the backyard, sans pants.

No reply.

I still hadn't heard anything from him 90 minutes later, when I sent him a “Plans?” message, nor at 10.30pm when I tried to bait him into a reply with “It’s tonight or next year, tiger... Or do I start calling you a clit-tease?” Still nothing at 1.30 when I thought I’d try calling him in case he was too drunk to operate his phone.

Now I'm not sure what to do. It’s after 3am,and I’ve sent Oscar off on a fuck-date with his bit on the side. I'm angry because I'm jealous – I thought I’d be getting laid by my 2.0, and instead I'm home alone watching music videos while my boyfriend fucks an enthusiastic 22-year-old.

James knows the deal. He knows that my time is limited at present – I am available tonight, then nothing til mid-January to meet up. During that time, my brother will be staying with me; I’ll be out of town to see my family; then I’ll be back on the home base (with my brother for some of that time), but Oscar will have time off work that should count as “Us” time, not time for extra people.

I don't like this situation. It feels like it is running away from me – dammit, James should be feeling privileged to be fucking me. In my books, a naked photo means, I want to fuck you very soon. It doesn't mean disappear off the face of the fucking planet.

I also don't like the fact that I’ll be away for the majority of the next two weeks. That’s an awful lot of fucking time for Oscar when I’ll be wearing the mantle of the chaste daughter in my parents’ house. While I'm not necessarily worried that Oscar will develop a serious relationship with Suki, I'm a little jealous of the ease at which he’s slipped into this position in her bed. I'm also very competitive, and I don't like the score-card to get uneven. It was supposed to be one-for-one! I was supposed to have scratch-marks down my back by now!

Booty calling

2009-12-22T14:37:00.002+10:30

I'm going to put a few posts up today. These were pieces that I wrote last week, but have only had a chance to post today. Bear with me!

From Thursday, 17th December:

I'm facing a quandary at the moment. For the first time ever, I have a fuckbuddy. When James and I had sex for the first time last Friday night, we discussed (several times) the idea of booty calls. To be honest, a little of my motivation in offering him booty call rights was because he is single. He’s a good lover and a wonderful guy, and it seems a shame that he’s not getting regular sex. Plus, I wanted to bang him seven ways til Sunday.

But it’s been a week now, and I don't know what to do. We had a brief text conversation on Sunday, and I sent him a short email on Tuesday to further expand on one of our SMS exchanges. There has been no further contact. I don't really want to push him and become the fuck-stalker, but I genuinely enjoy his company, and I want a second ride on the carousel.

My quandary is, do I get in contact with him, or wait for him to contact me? Although we're friends, it’s not really a relationship where we send each other random hey, what’s happening messages. I usually see him once a week at a pub or two around town, but I'm really nervous about sending him a tomorrow night? message. I don't want to lose face and seem too eager or desperate, but I also don’t want him to have all the power.

He’s likely to be at the pub tomorrow afternoon. There will be other people there, and it’s likely to be amicable. But all I will be able to think about is his cock inside me, and his fingernails raking down my back.

Saturday afternoon

2009-12-21T10:48:00.000+10:30

Just another lazy afternoon.

This is the image I sent to James, my new bit on the side. I felt it was only the polite thing to do after receiving a photo from him - fresh out of the shower, cupping his genitals with a cheeky smile.

That was at 6.30pm. I did not receive a reply, nor did I receive any replies to my other messages, asking if he wanted to meet up. It's now approaching lunchtime on Monday, and there has been deafening silence.

Ungrateful little bastard.

Stubble trouble

2009-12-18T09:50:00.001+10:30

Shaving one’s pubic hair can be interesting. Apart from issues of minor cuts and abrasions, and the neverending effort to keep the soap away from the truly delicate bits, other issues soon arise.

Although I’ve always been one to keep the area tidy through trimming (and a few disastrous experiments with home waxing), I’ve only started shaving in the last few years. After a little internet research, I discovered helpful pointers like “shave with the grain!”, and an insistence on brand-new razors.

The majority of the time, this approach works well. However, after a thorough shave on Tuesday evening, Oscar’s work schedule changed, meaning that we were now spending Wednesday evening together. Wednesday was hot – 42 degrees Celsius, and in that heat, the sweat gets everywhere. Cue irritation 1. We had a few beers before walking home, then after dinner we got a bit amorous on the couch (which was lovely and intimate, and was exactly what he needed after a stressful week... but that’s for another post!). It’s still hot and we had been fucking hard – he loves it when I sit on him and grind.

We had a quick clean-up, and spent a little time just sitting together and watching TV. In time, Oscar was ready for round two. Again, we started on the couch before moving to the bedroom – all the better to pound you, my dear. After a very pleasant interlude that left me sweat-slicked and panting, I realised I had another problem on my hands: Chafing. Badly.

A combination of shaving irritation, sweat and fucking had turned my inner thighs into Napalm Valley. Even judicious applications of Lucas’ Pawpaw Ointment couldn’t soothe the irritation. Only time would take care of it, and a night off to heal.

Friday night, what a night

2009-12-16T15:46:00.001+10:30

Sometimes wishes come true, even if they do so with unexpected results.

Last Friday was travelling as usual. I finished work and went to the pub, knowing that the team from my local cafe would be having Friday drinks there. James was also part of that group, even though his new job in marketing had taken him away from the group.

We had a few drinks before people moved off, and James offered me a role as his drinking buddy. As we sat over our beers at the next venue, he brought up our "swinging" proclivities. I explained that we weren't swingers, but attempting an open relationship. He seemed pleased, and a little intrigued by my explanation.

We changed venue again for steak-based fuelling, before switching again for a shot of JD with beer chasers. It was in this subterranean bar that we finally kissed. It was tender, delicious and highly charged. We sneaked our beers outside and went down a short alley to drink, smoke and make out like kids.

We quickly abandoned the city to go to my place. I was definitely drunk at this point, but we delayed the fucking long enough to knock back tequila and crack another beer... And then it was on. He suggested a shower, so I stripped off and stood under the boiling water. It was too hot for him, so I compromised by kneeling in the tub and taking his cock in my mouth. Um, it was small. At a guess, it was four inches long and on the thin side. Admittedly, I was a little underwhelmed, but soldiered on and swallowed it in one gulp.

Towelling off, we moved back out to the rug on the lawn, and exploring each other’s bodies. He traced his long fingers up my thigh and flickered over my lips, before pushing into my slick depths. He had talented fingers that played my body, inside and out, before I climbed on top of him. We sat together, connected cock to cunt, and rocked.

It was around this time that I became aware of a hint of something spicier than plain vanilla. James repeatedly dragged his fingernails down my back and legs, hard enough to leave welts. He would bite my nipples as we fucked; alternating with hard sucks that left me tingling. I wasn't yet sure what to do with this information, as I didn't want to push him too hard and scare him off.

We continued. We would cleave together in a frenzy of tongues and fingers and skin, fucking and sucking and licking, before falling apart. We sat on the rug with a blanket wrapped round our nude forms, sharing a cigarette and talking some more. Periodically we would put on clothes for warmth and I would return text messages to Oscar, find more music, and take toilet breaks. We talked, and kissed, and fucked for hours.

Eventually, it was time for James to leave. We got dressed (again) and I called for a cab, and we went to stand on the street, waiting for his imminent departure. We talked a little more, idle chit-chat until we got sucked into another kiss, another squeeze. We ran back inside and cancelled the taxi.

We fell onto the bed in the spare bedroom. I pushed him down and worked my way down his body, sucking and biting at his large nipples. He flinched as I bit hard on his right nipple, twisting the left. Moving down further, I swirled my tongue over the head of his cock, taking the whole length into my mouth, smiling as he moaned. There was something about our coupling that felt very right. I was comfortable with James almost immediately. I wanted to do everything with him, to him. But it was the first time, so I behaved myself, and instead sucked his balls carefully into my mouth.

He groaned again, cradling my head between his hands. Eventually it was too much, and he dragged me up his body again. Our kisses were deep and hard, a meshing of tongues and teeth and lips that left me abraded and raw. I wanted to devour him whole. He reclined again and I worked him, giving him the badonkadonk shake that moves my pussy fast over his cock. I wanted more of him, more cock, but I couldn't have it – he was just too small. I wanted to be full of James, stuffed tight with him. It was the only real issue with the night – two years with Oscar had turned me into a size queen. Could I handle prolonged interaction with a small penis?

No matter. In the end, I rode him hard, and he took me hard. It was feral and fun, intimate but still with the joy of the new. In time, there was an unspoken mutual agreement that we were tired. I rode him hard, grinding my clit into his pubic bone. He gasped and came, digging his fingernails deep into my back as he spurted deep inside me.

Our first time

2009-12-10T16:42:00.000+10:30

I was nervous. Sure, I had sent Oscar the flirtatious text messages, telling him that I was home alone for the evening, and that he should visit me, but I couldn't be sure that he would take me up on the offer until he called me to confirm.

While I waited for him to arrive, I poured myself some Dutch courage – a combination of whatever I had in the fridge, which on this particular night was a mix of gin, Cointreau, soda water and fresh lime. Finally the door-knock came. I moved down the hall to find my slim, enigmatic paramour on the doorstep.

Inviting him in, I still wasn't sure what was going to happen. I wanted sex, but I’ve always been a little shy when it comes to the final approach. Little Jimmy Scott was playing, the lighting was subdued, and we sat on the plush, felted rug. After some awkward small talk, Oscar pulled me over between his legs, running his hands over my shoulders and arms. My heart was racing as he began to kiss my neck.

Suddenly, the dam was broken and we lunged at each other. His hands were roaming over my body, sliding under my little purple top and running over my legs. In very short time, he had my shorts around my ankles, and a hand weaselled into my knickers.

He pulled out his cock – the largest I had seen in a very long time. It was long and thick, uncut and with a smooth head. It was beautiful. He pulled me onto his lap, still facing away, and pushed up into my greedy pussy. He sank in as I moaned with desire, feeling stuffed full and truly aroused for the first time in years.

Wrapping his arms around my torso, he pumped me up and down his engorged cock repeatedly, until we fell to one side and disengaged only long enough to resume in missionary, my ankles over his shoulders. He pushed deep and fast til I was crying out in delirium, my pussy inflamed and stretched around his beautiful cock.

During all of this, I was still having the occasional ‘What the fuck are you doing?’ thought, but I no longer wanted to think of my boyfriend. He wasn't there for me, and he hadn't for a long time. All I wanted to think about was the smooth-skinned man holding me, the thick cock deep inside me, and the rising chorus of inarticulate sounds in my throat.

He drove his cock into me repeatedly, withdrawing almost entirely before pushing back in. I was breathless with desire and the summer evening heat. I found myself stretched out on the rug, clutching a cushion to my chest as he knelt between my legs, pounding me from behind. Draping himself over my back, he pushed deep inside me and came with a long sigh.

We lay silently for several minutes, catching our breath as our hearts slowed. I was euphoric with fucking endorphins as the sweat dried slowly on my skin. Oscar stirred, slowly sitting up behind me and disposing of the condom. He knelt over me again and licked my neck slowly. It was delicious, my skin tingled, and I melted a little further into the rug.

He ran his tongue slowly down my back... my legs... over my arse... to my arms... dwelling a little at my fingers, before returning to my back. He told me much later that he had never done that before, but that it had felt utterly right with me. I lay prone for a further ten minutes as he cleaned me with all the tenderness of a mother cat with her kitten.

Eventually we rose and pulled on clothes. A little sheepish with our new-found skin knowledge, we kissed at the door, and I watched his retreating back as he entered the night.

Hangovers and flirtations

2009-12-04T16:52:00.000+10:30

A few weeks ago, Oscar & I organised to catch up with James and his girlfriend, Sara. We met at a pub in the city, had a few drinks, talked balls, and had a few more drinks. Sara then had to leave for work, but James kicked on with us. Roll forward several hours, and Sara had finished her shift and rejoined us for a nightcap.

We decided to go back to her place and have yet more alcohol. By this time it was nearing midnight on a Sunday, but I was relaxed, and drunk, and managed to conveniently forget that I had to be up at 7am for work. It was a beautifully warm night, so we spread some blankets and cushions on the lawn, dotted with whiskey glasses and cigarettes. Sara went inside to organise some music, and James laughingly suggested that it would be hilarious if we were all naked when she came out – so we stripped off and resumed our relaxed poses.

The rest of the evening is lost in a whiskey-soaked haze. A few vignettes from the night:
- Oscar went down on me as the others watched.
- I lay my head down on Oscar’s stomach and sucked his cock.
- When I arose, I kissed James... Until Sara walked out and saw us. This caused, ahem, problems.

Apparently the two of them had had a discussion inside the house, which boiled down to, “Do you want to kiss Caramella?” “No,” followed by her catching us barely ten minutes later. A lot of the rest of the evening was occupied with consoling Sara, but still having drunken conversations. I’m told by Oscar that James had his fingers in my pussy at some point, and that I was kissing Sara’s breasts, but I barely remember.

I slept through my alarm the next morning, and went to work very late and with an appalling hangover. Little memories came back slowly, and more gaps were filled through conversation with Oscar. I felt a little embarrassed by my wantonness, my inebriation, my unmitigated lust for James. A few sheepish “Hey, wasn’t last night crazy!” text messages passed around, but there has been no direct mention made of that crazy Sunday night. I’ve also seen James since then – absolutely no mention of it has been made, but then, we’ve always been in groups of people and/or sober.

Still want to fuck him, though.

Hot nights

2009-11-17T11:42:00.001+10:30

It’s hot. Even at night, my skin is feverish, my thoughts bouncing from one idea to the next. Sleep is fractured and intangible. I dream vividly, confusingly, a tangle of reality and fiction.

I dream of you, lying on the floor of your bedroom that I’ve never entered. Your semi-hard cock fills my mouth, the cock that I’ve never seen, never touched. It is firm and soft at the same time, I struggle to keep it away from my teeth. I am crouched between your legs, taking my time with this sudden intimacy. We have the relaxed joy of long term lovers, though we've barely kissed in the real world. I stroke your belly and thighs, the coarse hair tickling my palms as my tongue explores your length. I can smell you – the last of your cologne, clean sweat, arousal and desire. An experimental lick up your thigh makes you shudder.

I want to feel you inside me, your length filling me tightly. I want to gasp as you thrust deeply, the sweat beading on your brow, slicking our skin as we touch. I want to feel your fingers digging into my hips and urging me on. I want to know what sounds you make when you come, whether your face turns fierce, or is suffused with joy. I want to watch as you lose control and all sense of decorum, coming deep within me. I want to fall down on the bed beside you, panting, exhausted, and look over at you and smile, sharing the joy of our union.

I wake. I can still feel the phantom of you inside me, but the only sweat on my body is my own. Rolling over, I can see the face of my lover, sleeping peacefully despite the oppressive heat. I touch his face gently, and he turns a little, brushing his lips on my palm.

It's so hot....

2009-11-12T10:03:00.000+10:30

It’s so hot...

... my garden is dying.
... the lawn is brown.
... birds rest in the shade, open-beaked.
... we sleep with a fan, and wet towels on our legs.
... I haven't worn clothes in a residential setting for three days.
... I'm eating apples and carrots for dinner.
... butter melts on the bench-top.
... cold showers are a necessity, not a punishment.
... laundry dries in the washing machine.
... my sandwich is stale before I get back to my desk.
... windows are only opened at night.
... the bugs rattle and buzz in the light fittings.
... sex is slick, and exhausting, and leaves the sheets damp and cloying.
... that one is tempted to excess and risk-taking.

A potted history, part one

2009-10-23T12:39:00.002+10:30

I spent the first few years of my high schooling at an all girls school. While the experience helped to form my character, and allowed me to excel in my education in a way that may not have happened at a co-ed school, I was woefully underprepared for life in the real world. Of course, I was fifteen and believed I understood everything, but the reality was that I didn't have the first clue about how to conduct myself around boys and in relationships with them.

After two years of boarding school and a constant crowd, day and night, of girls, I transferred to a more liberal high school that was, blessedly, co-educational. I lost several kilos over the summer and first few weeks of school, and it seemed that the young men around me approved. I was also living in a new boarding house, catering mainly for overseas students, that gave us essentially free rein. For the first time in two years, I had a room to myself, even if the bathrooms were still communal.

It took only a few weeks for my gentleman callers to start making the trek up to Room 31. The first lad was Adam. He played water polo, with a wonderfully muscled 17-year-old body, shaved underarms, and skin that always smelled faintly of chlorine. He was enthusiastic and tender, but I never got the impression that he had a lot of experience. We had been introduced at a friends Valentines Day dinner party, and segued from dessert to fucking in very short order. I had only lost my virginity a few months earlier, but I knew already that I loved sex. We had been standing on the front veranda when first physical contact was made, and we quickly slipped into the shadows at the side of the house. Suddenly, my skirt was pushed up around my waist, as he lay on the leaf-strewn pavers with his bursting adolescent cock pushing up out of his fly. I sat down on his cock and rode him hard til he came, making a mess on both of us. Of course, being a teenage male, he wasn't done yet. As we stood up to return to the party, we locked together in another passionate kiss. Moments later, my arse was up on the compost bin with my legs around his waist as he fucked me vigorously again. We eventually straightened ourselves up and returned to the party.

But it lasted only a few weeks. I was getting a lot of interest from other guys at school, and Adam just wasn't cutting it. I had made the mistake of faking an orgasm early on and felt obligated to keep doing it every time we had sex. Also, I wasn't convinced that he actually purchased his own condoms. In fact, it seemed that he was getting them, one at a time, from his friends. I couldn't understand it. He would come up to my room a few times a week, with a different brand or type of rubber every time. The one time we went to his house for a movie, we crept off to his room (silently, so his mum wouldn't catch us) and he didn't have a condom. I hadn't brought any with me, because I had assumed that he would have some in his own house. Silly me. We ended soon after.

I spent the rest of that year jumping from one boy’s arms to the next. The next guy was Samuel. I fell in love a little. He was the first guy at my new school who was brave enough to approach me, even though he wasn't in any of my classes. We ended up going out briefly, but he refused to have sex with me unless I started taking the Pill – apparently he didn't like condoms. We did, however, have an intense night of heavy petting at his house. I was naked, he was still in his boxer shorts (otherwise he'd lose control), and he had one hand buried in my pussy. He was filling me up in a savage and passionate way, brutalising my g-spot and cervix with his strong, elegant fingers. He played bass guitar and the strength in his hands and forearms was formidable. I was moaning and writhing, riding his hand hard, when everything got a little overwhelming and my moans of passion became mewlings of pain. He stopped suddenly and asked, “Did I hurt you? Did I hurt you?” I reluctantly affirmed and he freaked out.

I was too young and too inexperienced to tell him that yes, it had hurt but it was so close to pleasure-pain that it was hard to differentiate the two. Instead, he rolled off me and virtually refused to let me touch him. We went to sleep. In the morning, I realised that the wet patch that I had been avoiding all night was of my own creation, evidence of the first time I had squirted. A part of me was quite smug: I had left an indelible mark on his brand new mattress – so new, that the headboard and base were still awaiting assembly in the garage. He would now be forced to think of me every time he changed the sheets and saw the stain.

Scent memory

2009-10-15T10:58:00.000+10:30

Last week, I was walking to work when I got stuck behind two slower men. They were middle-aged, a little paunchy, and taking up the entire footpath. I drew closer, trying to work out how to move past them, when I caught the scent of one of them. He smelled exactly like my teenage boyfriends.

The man was wearing Lynx deodorant. Back in the day, I could have identified and named the entire range. However, amongst naïve teenage boys, it was the scent du jour – not that there was a lot of choice for pheromonic young men.

Inhaling this man's scent, I was instantly transported back to hot summer afternoons with my first proper boyfriend, Adam. He would come over on Friday evening with pasta takeaway, and we would eat and then peel our clothes off. His six-foot frame would be stretched out on my single bed, and we would fuck, the sweat slicking between our bodies. My tiny bedroom would fill with the intermingled scents of pussy, rubber, sweat and Lynx Java – quite the intoxicating mix. I remember riding him hard, chasing my pleasure, as his eyes rolled back in his head.

Many of the seventeen year old boys that followed Adam were similar, apart from Samuel, who had aspirations to classier things, and had a collection of glass cologne bottles on his bookshelf. But I still remember the Lynx range, and the eye-watering quantities applied by my male associates. It takes me back to fumbling on beds and sofas, overshadowed by the prospect of their mothers coming into the room. It takes me back to shy fingers and tongues, of blow jobs and encore performances. It takes me back to a youth that, though bittersweet, is best left in the past. And I don't need to be reminded of it by the underarms of a middle-aged office worker.

And we begin

2009-09-14T11:16:00.000+09:30

Welcome. My name is Caramella, and this is my blog. Please feel free to leave comments, even on old posts, and Follow Me if you enjoy my writing.