The book every man should read

The Ultimate Guide to Cunnilingus: How to Go Down on a Woman and Give Her Exquisite Pleasure 

Okay men, listen up. How many of you think the best way to send a girl’s core reactor into meltdown is to skip the starter and go straight to the main course. Penetration, followed by a galloping ejaculation. As lovemaking techniques go, let me tell you, this won’t exactly send her into outer space. You’ll light her blue touch paper then have her fizzle out.

Next question. How many of you believe foreplay involves plunging your ring-finger into her winky and, if you’re feeling especially generous, waggling it around a little? That many, huh.

Final question (I promise). If she’s just spent ten minutes on her knees giving you the acker bilk of blow jobs, do you A) reluctantly return the favour by dutifully salivating at her labia for thirty seconds like a dog eating a bowl of chum, or B) avoid going down altogether, for fear of making a complete butt-plug of yourself?

There’s a great quote near the beginning of Violet Blue’s The Ultimate Guide to Cunnilingus which sums up this sorry state of affairs nicely.

“When I gave guys head, I felt like they were ‘doing me,’ and when they went down on me, I felt like I was the one ‘being done.’”

We feel your pain, Violet.

It’s kind of embarrassing to admit guys, but the vast majority of us haven’t the foggiest idea when it comes to the noble art of cunnilingus. This was no big deal a century ago, when men were men and women stayed at home to knit socks, but today’s girl power generation wont swallow that man shit no more. We need to get our heads down and study.

As luck would have it, salvation is close at hand, thanks to Violet Blue’s handy little guidebook on the art of clit-lick, whose full title is: The Ultimate Guide to Cunnilingus: How to Go Down on a Woman and Give Her Exquisite Pleasure. If you don’t know your inner from your outer labia, or think the clitoral hood is something on the front of your motor car, this humorous, excellently written guide will tell you everything you need to know about a woman’s touchy feely bits, and how to turn your lover into a bowl of gello in an earthquake with a few expert flicks of your sensitive tongue.

Knowledge is power, my friends. As the author reveals in her book, the man who knows where a girl’s pleasure buttons are and how to press them has the power, literally, to give her as many orgasms as she wants. Did you know, for instance, that the female clitoris has more pleasure-giving nerve endings than any other part of the human anatomy? Neither did I. More than the tongue, apparently, and twice as many as the male penis. And we know how good it feels when THAT’S sucked.  Naturally the book has the obligatory must read section on her G spot, and how to find it. (What do you mean, what’s a G spot?) It also has a smattering of handy little diagrams to show you where everything goes. Plus a long list of do’s and don’ts, tips and techniques guaranteed to get her south mouth salivating like a mountain spring in flood.

In the rare event that your girlfriend is one of those girls in a million who feels a little uptight about you going down on her (probably because you never bothered before, which helped condition her to think of cunnilingus as sinful and dirty) help her out a little. You owe her, man. If it helps her separate the purity of her feelings for you from the naughty but nice sensation of being licked to orgasm, offer to do a little role play. Tell her to pick her favourite movie star and imagine it’s him dining out on her heavenly quim. As ever, Violet has some helpful advice here too.

“Don’t worry about being politically correct, faithful, or having sex in your fantasies: that’s why they’re called fantasies. They aren’t real, and your using them to get off doesn’t mean that you want them to come true. Your head is your erotic safe space – don’t worry about what your fantasies mean, or whether or not you are a ‘pervert’. Don’t make yourself guilty about having sex with three strangers.”

To be fair, I’m free-styling a bit here. Violet was talking about masturbation in the above quote. But shit, when I last went down on my girlfriend and told her to imagine I was Brad Pitt, she nearly broke my nose with her pussy. In case you didn’t know, I’m a great believer in sexual fantasy, a subject at the heart of my own Sex on the Brain: Poems and Stories for Men.

Okay, back to the book. As with any how-to guide there are bits you might want to skip. Stuff you know already, or really don’t want to know. The sections on S&M, bondage, anal penetration and rimming I could take or leave, but that’s just me. While the chapter on health, necessary as it was, did kind of work against the main premise of the book, for me. The list of horrible diseases I learned I might contract, from HIV and hepatitis to herpes and STDs, didn’t exactly get me rushing out to dive between the legs of the first stranger I met on the street. To be fair the author has devoted a whole section to safe sex tips. Unfortunately they mostly seemed to involve using various bits of clingfilm and rubber paraphernalia that would make most guys run a mile. Which leads me to my final gripe, if I can call it that. The book seemed written from a slightly lesbian viewpoint. Nothing wrong with that, it’s a free world. But since this is a guide for men as much as women, it would have been nice if the author had balanced out the girl on girl action with a few more hetero descriptions. But hey, I’m splitting hairs. It’s Violet Blue’s book, and I’m just grateful for the brilliant insights she offers.

Any text book will only ever be as good as the person writing it. On that score this author gets a big tick in the box. They don’t come much better than Violet Blue when it comes to penning lines about sex. Described amongst other things as  “the leading sex educator for the internet generation”, “America’s leading (very) public intellectual sexologist”, “Superstar sex writer” and “Oprah (Winfrey’s) porn pundit,” Violet is a multi-published, award-winning author on sex and porn. Her vast experience in this field shines through in the assured conversational style which never patronises the reader or becomes over technical. When Violet describes the female orgasm as “the standing ovation of the clitoral system,” you kinda get the feeling she knows what she’s talking about. You’re in good hands.

This excellent little volume should be essential reading for every self-respecting sex maniac’s bedside table. You wouldn’t dream of driving a car without reading the highway code. And for all you men who think you’re already god’s gift to women, you probably need to read this book most of all. Going down on your lady shouldn’t be a chore.  As Violet explains, if you’re doing it right, “eating pussy is like eating peaches on a really hot day”. If conjuring up that wonderful image doesn’t get you running out to buy this book, nothing will. You’ve run out of excuses, buddy. Lousy lovers are so last century. Saddle up, or move over for a real man who will.

How I wish this book had existed when I began my carnal journey as a hormone-fuelled adolescent all those years ago.  It would have saved me half a lifetime’s worth of sexual hang-ups, not a little embarrassment, and most likely a rap sheet of frustrated lovers and broken relationships as long as a porn star’s pork sword with a pommel on the end.

Guys, if you’re really serious about being an awesome lover, go out and buy this book today. It will be the best fiver you ever spend. In fact, I’m thinking of buying my girlfriend the author’s companion volume, The Ultimate Guide to Fellatio, next Christmas. Not that she needs it, you understand.

PS. I enjoyed this book so much, I tossed off a quick poem about it, called Don’t be a Prick. You’ll find it below. Happy reading, suckers. Remember those peaches.

Don’t be a prick

Hey vagina, said the penis, wassup

Whoa tiger, said the vagina
You cain’t hang out here man

Uh, said the penis
What’s your problem?

I’m not ready, is all

Well shit, like I give a shit

It’s always about you, ain’t it
What kind of vagina you think I am
You think I’m the loose kind
Gives it up for any old penis?

Don’t shit me pussy, I know you dig it

That may be, but a vagina
Likes to be wooed a lil too

Wooed?

Caressed, you know
Made to feel all loved and sexy

As in, kissed?

The vagina smiled

You expect my man to put his mout down here?

Uh-hu.

Shit, he ain’t gon eat no squid
From no grizzly bear’s armpit

You looked in the mirror lately, Kojak?
You ain’t exactly George Clooney
And for the record, your stuff tastes like bleach

Woh, chill out, bitch

A sly grin formed on the penis’s mouth
Well, if you ain’t gonna hug me none
How about you send your lady down
She knows how to give a brother a good time

You mean, a blow job?

You the expert, said the penis, grinning wide

And kiss your big bald head, with her lips?

Uh-hu, mebbees suck a lil
She’s reeeeal nice at that
Makes a penis feel kinda appreciated

Like, all loved up an’ sexy?

Bring it on, sister

You know what, you’re right, said the vagina
Wait right here

The penis sighed and stretched out
As the woman shifted position
It leaned back, closing its eye
Awaiting the warm hug from her mouth
With a triumphant smile

OWWW! The penis yelled
As her incisors bit into its neck
What the FFFFF!
Ya’ll early took my goddam head off, crazy bitch!

It glanced up at the glistening red lips
Which formed a sexy oval as she spoke
Getting his attention real good

I’m here to teach you some manners, you prick
You want to hang out with my vagina?

Well yeah, shit

Well here are the rules
Numero uno, this lady has two sets of lips
And they both like being kissed, kapeesh?

Uh?

Rule number two
Selfish pricks ain’t welcome round my hood
You don’t bring pleasure, you don’t come in

And if I do what you want?

Then we’ll ALL have a party, Kojak

Her lips softened into a friendly smile
As she bent to plant a sloppy kiss
On the penis’s shiny head
It sent a warm glow along its entire length
Causing it to flush with pleasure

You like that, big boy?

Mmm, yeah, lady

Okay, now you have to comply
With rule number three

I do?

Uh-hu, said the woman
Tell your man to get his big fat face down here
And kiss me… gently, she added
Pressing her glistening pink vulva
To his man’s lips
GENTLY, I said, softly, that’s better
You ain’t licking a stamp down there
Caress them lips slow, baby
Nibble ‘em, suck on ‘em, that’s it
Tickle that clit with your tongue
Left to right, right to left, up and down
Round and round in little circles
Lightly as a mouse’s nose
Til you hit that sweet spot
Now suck it in, eat that candy floss baby
That’s right, slide that tongue in real good
All the way, mmmm, yeahhhhhh

Mmmm, damn, that taste good
He said, as her salty sweetness
Exploded on his taste buds

It taste damn good, don’t it

The penis’s owner moaned with pleasure
As he drank in her honeyed juices

Up north, the woman’s tongue
Darted from its kennel
To lap eagerly at the cock’s face

Her pelvis was rocking urgently now
As the man’s mouth went walkabout
Sucking on her clit like a succulent morsel
Which rang like a bell in her head
Under each flick of his snake-like tongue

After half an hour of mutual bliss
The penis felt like he’d been through a car wash

Drunk from all her sucking
He scarcely noticed her change position
Until a dark shadow loomed overhead
Causing him to look up
As the woman began lowering her hot quim onto him

Would you like to come in and play now, big boy?

Her labia smiled as they slipped around his sides
Giving him an affectionate hug

Fuck yeah, lady

 

 

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Thinking with the right side of the brain

Thinking with the right side of the brain

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Today’s post is about a post I posted on Helen Mort’s blog, Poetry on the Brain.  http://www.poetryonthebrain.blogspot.co.uk/2012/12/the-poetry-of-running.html#comment-form

I’ve been a long time admirer of Helen from afar. As poets go, they’re not usually as easy on the eye, or the ear. But Helen’s poetry is accessible and if there was an identikit of my dream woman she’d tick most of the boxes. Beautiful, blonde, intelligent. She’s currently doing her PhD in Sheffield, some deep intellectual shit about metaphor and the influence of neuroscience in poetry. If you heard a big whooshing sound there, that was her PhD going straight over my head.

Helen posted the other day about an area she’s looking into – how the different sides of the brain affect creativity. I read a book about it once, so it seemed like the perfect opportunity to prove to her what a deeply beautiful mind I have, if nothing else. Here’s what I posted:

“I came across this revelation as an art student many years ago, when I read Betty Edwards’ book, Drawing on the Right Side of the Brain. The learning has stood me in good stead over the years. I liken it to ‘quietening’ the left side of the brain, though others describe it as ‘tricking’ or ‘distracting’ it. I couldn’t begin to explain the neuro-science behind it, I only know that movement or activity seems to switch off the interfering, logical side of my brain, allowing my more creative, imaginative right side to kick in. If a poem, story, bit of dialogue or narrative I’m working on is ‘stuck’, I can sit at my desk or laptop for days despairing I’ll ever write another interesting syllable. Every word arrives dead on the page. Then I’ll go out for a bike ride, or perhaps a walk in my lunch break, thinking about nothing in particular, just enjoying the surroundings, when mysteriously the creative cogs in the brain suddenly start turning, and the words begin to flow. I’ve learned to take a small notebook and pencil with me wherever I am (or my mobile on bike rides, so I can dictate into the voice recorder). Like you Helen, if I’m caught in the open when the word storm arrives, without any means of recording it, I begin mumbling passages to myself like an idiot all the way home, fearful of everything evaporating into thin air.

The reason I think the metaphor of ‘quietening’ is more apt than ‘tricking’ the LH brain, is because when I consciously try to ‘trick’ it (i.e. purposefully go on a walk, notebook and pen at the ready), it doesn’t seem to respond in the same way. Consciousness of the reason behind the activity seems to defeat the purpose, so you walk along thinking, come on then, words, where the bloody hell are you! It’s not until you give up and stop focusing on it, just enjoying the physical activity you’re doing, that the creative juices start flowing again. At least, that’s how it works for me.

Oftentimes it will happen when I’m doing something mundane like having a bath, or standing at the supermarket checkout – any activity which seems to occupy the ‘guards’ of my consciousness  long enough for my sub-conscious thoughts to slip out unnoticed.

Paradoxically, there is one sedentary activity that seems to work, for some reason, and that’s lying in bed. There’s something about being tucked up under the duvet, gazing at the ceiling or with a notepad propped on one’s knees, which seems to soothe the brain, convincing it you’re at a place of rest rather than work. Michael Morpurgo is an avid bed-writer, I learned from a recent TV interview. And The Paris Review is full of anecdotes describing authors’ favourite armchairs and garden sheds. The imagination, it would seem, lives in an entirely different room in our heads to the conscious world of work and commerce we inhabit every day. That’s why young children are so creative, before they are taught to lock their make-believe away and grow up in the real world. Jogging, cycling, gardening, or just snuggling up under a duvet – as writers and artists we just need to find the key to unlock that room in our heads whenever we need to go there, and tell the logical, interfering practical world to stay outside, and mind its own business.”

I was going to sign my post with protestations of love and a proposal of marriage, but hey, Helen’s in Sheffield and I’m in Norfolk, so that idea’s dead in the water. She’s probably got this thousand-strong Twitterverse of hunky male admirers anyhow. Mayp it’s best if I keep our relationship on a purely fantasy level for now. Still, I kinda like the way Helen’s blog ‘Poetry on the Brain’ chimes with my book title, ‘Sex on the Brain’. Poetic, you might almost say. Helen, I love you… your work, I mean.

 

 

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The sexiest blog on planet earth

Sex on the Brain cover - Low Res Welcome to the first ever day of my blog, dudes. A day that will live in infamy, as Roosevelt once said about another bad thing. Okay, let’s cut the stuff. The last thing the world needs is another blog. You’re here because of Sex on the Brain, right? You’re a sex fiend. Well that’s cool. So am I. It’s a kind of hobby of mine. A lifelong obsession that began the day my strawberries dropped, more years ago than I care to remember. Since then hardly a day has passed when I haven’t had, wanted, or thought about sex practically 24/7. Even my dreams are mostly about it. In a roundabout way, that’s how Sex on the Brain came about. Humour me peeps, while I explain. Way back in 2004 when I first got the idea for S.O.B., I was holding down a bum marketing job, helping raise my son and trying to work out how to break through as a writer. Cue violins. I’d had a near miss with a genre novel in 1997 which the publisher pulled the plug on at the last minute, flushing two years of my life down the toilet. The experience kind of poleaxed me for a while. For several years I wrote the square root of jack shit. Just thinking about another novel made me tired. Did I really want to spend another three years of my life coming home from work to hunch over a keyboard all night, and all weekend, and all my holidays, at the end of which I might not get a word published or a sou in return? Well no, duh. But yes. Life’s treadmill may almost have snuffed me out as a writer, but not quite. Sure I’d become Mr 9 to 5, yet somewhere inside me a small flame still flickered. Guttering, virtually extinguished, practically a smouldering taper with a dying glow. But it never went out completely. No sir. Then in 2004 it happened. One of those WTF Damascus deals. A.k.a. a mid-life crisis. When you get to middle age you look in the mirror one day and think oh shit. This is only going one way. It’s not a fucking rehearsal dude. This is your life, it’s half over, and you only get one shot. That’s the day the tumbler finally clicks into place in your brain. The fog clears. And you decide it’s now or never. Really. You either get off your ass and give your dreams a shot, or roll over and fade away. Hell, writing another novel was still off the radar at the time. There just weren’t enough hours left over after my day job had bitten a twelve hour chunk out of my ass. I needed something I could work up in bite-sized sessions, whenever I could carve out an hour, half an hour, ten minutes. I needed a subject I wouldn’t have to research. Something I was already interested in. Something we were ALL interested in, so reading and writing it might be a pleasure. That’s when the penny dropped. Sex, duh. The result, eight years later, is Sex on the Brain. A several hundred page collection of poems and stories about the pleasures of the flesh, imagined and real. A carnal copia that will have you roaring with laughter one minute then slipping a cheeky gun into your pocket the next. I hope. This book cost me eight years of my life dude, a shedload of eating sushi off a barbershop floor, and more dodgy one-night stands than I could count on the hands of twenty six-fingered men from Mars. I’m still in the bullshit marketing job but hey, if enough of you like my shit, who knows, one day I might be able to tell them to jam their lousy job up their ass. I’m counting on you guys. If you’ve checked out Sex on the Brain and think it’s cool, tell your friends. If you haven’t read it yet, WAYWF! Don’t let me down guys. I’ll be back soon when I’ve got some really sexy stuff to post on here.

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