Pervertables: If Halloween is Goth Christmas, then Thanksgiving is Feederism Christmas

It's true. It's the only time feeders/feedees in the US are allowed--and allowed to encourage other people--to overeat in public. It's like having a holiday where, for an entirely innocent reason, we're all told it's ok to gently rub our dicks or our pussies.

I used to hate Thanksgiving (relatives are boring, and I'm not too fond of turkey, stuffing, cranberries, or green beans). But thanks to several of the Belly Brigade* telling me that they'll think of me today as they push their capacities to the utmost, it's become the dirtiest holiday of the year.

What are my plans to celebrate? Well, since I'm a bit displaced at the moment (Q. is having a much-needed holiday with her BF) I'll be attending a dinner party with Avril that's being hosted by the BHM around 3pm today. If anything dramatic happens I'll probably blog about it later, since technically I'm crashing it. (I'd Tweet it, but I can't seem to get Twitter to acknowledge my phone. Maybe I need a new one for Christmas...)

Also, if you're a feedee in the US who's celebrating today, why don't you send me a photo of the results for the special Stuffies After Thanksgiving Edition? If you're a perv on Flickr, you can post your hot tummy pics (stuffed or unstuffed) under the tag "stuffiesblog"--currently, of which there are none. Or you can email me at missmollyren (at) gmail (dot) com. I'll post the best ones right here during the rest of this week.

* * *
The "Belly Brigade", BTW, isn't a club or something with a paid membership, as some people seem to think. Even though I've jokingly put it on a few photos I found on Flickr, it's really turned into the name for the few feedee boys I talk with online on a regular basis, such as Cee, the Colt, and BBB. They're the ones I care about the most.

Also:

◆ Confused as to who the heck it is that I'm writing about? Check out the Who's Who of Stuffies.

◆ See more beautiful bellies in Molly's Flickr favorites!

Normal Sex: The Last Part

Image via Delta Sigma Phi.

1. Desire
2. Fetish


He took me to his house, saying something about all his housemates, how they were in a rock band. He wasn't, tho. The rock band may have also been daylight house painters, but I'm no longer too sure about the facts.

"You're nice," I had told him on the subway. There was something about him that let me know he wasn't going to use me or play with me, that all he wanted was the human warmth.

He said it was because he was from Littletown, the same small town I had gone to college in. "Nothing bad ever came from there."

I found myself peacefully remembering a question I'd read once: Why don't all women who play around get in trouble? The answer was that they're lucky. That night, I thought, I was lucky. His house was still decorated with month-late Halloween decorations--which struck me as appropriate, because I think all rock bands are Goth. There were prayer flags and christmas lights tacked around his window. It was like any room in college, with a copy of the Brother's K. on the dresser. He could have been any of the few boys I had fumbled with on cramped mattresses in messy dorm rooms. I was in a strange house, with a boy I only knew by his first name, but he was already known, familiar.

I asked to use the bathroom, then he took a turn. While he was gone I took off my shoes, lay on the bed. It was all so normal it pleased me.

The only thing that almost ruined it was the quotation. Someone had scrawled a philosophic quote on the wooden frame of his bed. I can't remember exactly what it was now, but it was something about you should make sure you were doing what you really wanted before you died. It bothered me particularly, but then he came in again and I was able to forget about it.

"Take off your shirt and shoes," I told him, "and get into bed."

I had never told a man to do something like that, and it gave me a little thrill. He lay down beside me, just in his blue jeans and leather belt, and we began to explore one another.

I've found that you can never tell much about someone's body until they have their clothes off. With his t-shirt and scruffy beard, he looked like any lit grad, but once he had his shirt off I discovered the kind of body I had never been with. If every one of the men in that club had lined up with their shirts off, I would have chosen him for myself. "Large nipples," I said with pleasure, working my way down his body, "tattooed biceps, prominent hip bones..." He was lean, flat-bellied, and I ran my eyes with pleasure over the subtle curves of his muscles underneath the skin.

"I like your body," I told him when he was on top of me.

"It's not a great body," he said.

"It's a good start," I said, or something like that. I think it was the potential that caught me, the idea that with a few months of work he could look like this. As if I were seeing an X-ray vision of his future life.

I took off my clothes piece by piece, until I was in my corset teddy. He fumbled at the bra-like hooks that held it closed. I laughed at him as I began rubbing myself between my legs: "I have all my clothing off except this one piece, and you still can't get to my pussy!"

I took pity on him and undid the hooks. He fingered me for a while. That was nice. I slid my hand in his jeans

We had a brief discussion of why condoms are uncomfortable, but I can leave that out. He wasn't unwlling to wear one, it going with "the whole thing about having sex with strangers and all."

He started thrusting--not in my pussy yet, just in the groove where my thigh joined my body. With each thrust the head of his dick smacked into my palm, hard and hot through the slick wrapping of the condom. I breathed in as I felt the power in his thrusts.

It hurt when he first put it in, the ache sharp but not unexpected. I knew I wasn't aroused enough. But after the first few thrusts let my pussy know he wasn't there to hurt me it began to get wet like it was supposed to. I loosened up, wrapped my legs around him. I realized it had been a while since I'd done that, it had been impossible with the BHM. I remembered that with the BHM there had always been the strange thrill of his size, his excess of flesh pressing up against my mound and sometimes, a little, on my clit. This boy, though, still made my thighs ache because I was holding him so hard.

I realized, as I lay there under him, focused on his movements as I tried to figure out when he was going to orgasm, that this was normal sex. It didn't hurt, but I didn't feel pleasure. I just rested underneath him, as he did the main work, and it was my job to make it easier by tilting my pelvis up, kissing him, playing with his nipples. There were no strap ons. No leather chaps or handcuffs. He didn't even want anal sex. Just a boy and a girl, doing the thing that a year ago I never thought I'd be comfortable enough with to simply take in. His thrust were going faster and faster.

Suddenly he stopped. He must have cum, I thought, but instead he started whistling.

"What the hell!" I laughed.

"Tantric," he told me.

He did this a couple more times, stopping at the peak of his thrusts to hold himself for me, moving his hips in a figure eight to touch different places inside me. It wasn't his fault I couldn't cum. I only came when I shut my eyes, sucked my stomach muscles in and out, and thought of stuffer boys. I had gone home with him knowing this.

He allowed himself to cum at last. I admired the sperm in the transparent condom, he told me it would be hot if I swallowed it, then added, "No, not really." He was teasing.

It was so late I was a little afraid to go back home. It would take me an hour, and I was deep in the darkened wilds of Brooklyn. He let me stay the night, tho, wanted me to so we could curl up together naked on the bed, snuggle together. That was nice too.

He might not like what I have written. The next morning I wrote my blogger name and email down on an envelope, in case he wanted to see me again. I don't want him to think it was awful, he was funny and smart and I liked his body a lot, I really did. But being with him only made me realize, once more, that my body and my mind don't work like other people's do.

Normal Sex: Fetish

One in a series of David LaChapelle photos that I tagged "Holy Fuck".

1. Desire


"Let me say goodbye to people," I said, trying to gain more time to decide what I really wanted. And I really did wanna talk to Sinclair and Diva and Natt Nightly one more time.

I found Natt on the dance floor peeling of his shirt to show us his new tattoo. He was wearing a wife beater underneath.

Might I mention that Natt and Sinclair are the first two butches I have met in real life?

I totally forgot what I had come there to do and stared. This was how it had always been: me staring bug-eyed, tongueless with the kind of full-body surprise that comes over me at seeing these things, and ashamed of myself because of it. Stop staring! I think, and I can't. After an awkward second I came to myself enough to make my goodbyes and went back to the bar to find that the boy who had wanted to fuck me had disappeared.

I was both really pissed and kinda happy. Mostly embarrassed. But then it dawned on me: He might be waiting outside.

And he was.


He took me to Brooklyn. We cuddled up next to one another on the subway seat and I put my head on his shoulder. We looked at the Sugarbutch Star chapbook, read a few lines of The Diner on the Corner. At some point I started rubbing his thigh and he grinned at me like it was the best thing in the world.

We talked about Littletown, where I live now. I guess that's why I felt safe enough to go home with him, we were both from the same place. He was struggling to pay the rent, doing work for non-profits. I told him I wanted to try and live in NYC, someday. He told me that eventually I would tire of it. I felt a part of myself relaxing, eased after the stress of the party. It was nice just to lean my head on his shoulder...

Brooklyn. We got off, still talking, and I stopped for a moment to look over the railing before going down the stairs to the street. "Why does all of Brooklyn look the same?" I wanted to know. Those "Unisex" hair salons. That awning in the colors of the Italian flag. The outdoor produce...

"You want to get anything?" he asked, winking. He meant to feed him with. I looked at the rainbow array of fruits and vegetables and realized the prospect hadn't even dawned on me, the feeder. But then again, the kinds of things laid out weren't usually what people stuffed with. "We use soda, usually," I had told him, trying to act cool, like this was something I did every day.

"Soda?"

"Yes, or milk." This was all new to him.

"Do you like watermelon?" I asked. He said he did. Watermelon was good, but could he eat half a one...

I looked at him and suddenly I couldn't imagine doing it to him, what I thought of as my fetish. He wasn't a feedee, really. I had known that, when I picked him up, because of his confusion. This wasn't a fantasy of his, he just wanted to get with me.

And I didn't want to force it on him, all that excess and strangeness and physical stress. Forget about it, I told him, we don't have to do that. Let's just do it the usual way....

More to come.

Normal Sex: Desire

DCP_6089, originally uploaded by molly.ren.

Writing about the NYC Sex Bloggers' party gives me the same problem I have writing about any sex: I want to put in everything, and there's no way you can get all of Proust into a single blog post.

It happens every time. Even thought I don't always remember names (who was that chick in the polka dot dress?), I remember a million other things. And I want to describe everything, from each peak and dip of my mood to the drink in my hand to the color of the lights and the color of Diva's corset...and that doesn't even begin to describe all that happened there. There were burlesque dancers and a raffle that was so rigged one woman got a dozen things and awkward conversations with famous sex educators and sudden conversations with people I had never met before but were as easy as if I had known them for days. How did something that lasted only four hours have so many things packed into it?

I might not even write about this at all, except that he wanted me to. He told me so as we walked back to the subway the next morning: "I wanna be Mister Something."

I can't call you Mister X., I told him, there's already an X. on here and people might get confused.

One of the most amazing things about the sex blogger party wasn't the fact that I got to meet lots of people whose words had inspired me...or that people who I'd never heard of knew who I was from the comments I'd left on other people's blogs. (OK, that was at least equally amazing. When Tess asked me if she could introduce me to Diva I got so overwhelmed by all the cyber people suddenly becoming real I had to excuse myself and checked in my coat to gain time to recover from my attack of shyness.)

But in hindsight, the most amazing thing was that I got hit on.

See, outside of the internet, I NEVER get hit on. In the course of a week I probably IM, email, and webcam as many as five feedee boys, but I've pretty much crossed parties and bars off my list as places to meet people. The last time I was in NYC, me and my friends went out to bars for several weeks. I don't think I got hit on once, though I made advances toward maybe five guys. I finally got horny enough to solve the problem with my first and last Craigslist experiment, but still, whenever I get laid, it's usually because I make the advances.

But in the crush of the partygoers, as crowded as in any rave club where I'd danced alone, something was different. I dunno if it was the fact that I was at a party filled with some of the kinkiest people in NYC, but suddenly I could feel eyes on me. As many boys as I had hit on during those few weeks in NYC were looking at me over their drinks as if they were devouring me. They weren't ugly scary guys either. I think they were all in their mid-20s to 30s, which was gratifying, to say the least. But none were quite what I was looking for. Even though I'd been drinking water all night, I felt a kind of haze grow around me. Different boys would dip down towards me, to exchange a few words, but none were caught up in it the same as I was. Who would it be? A boy, a girl, or something I'd never had before, a creature I'd only caught glimpses of in the flickering light of a computer screen?

I came out of the bar for a breath of air. Two boys were looking at magazines, but the minute I showed up shoved them back in their pockets. I laughed and said something like, "Don't hide the porn! It's a sex blogger party!"

They were looking at a Njoy magazine, it turned out. We began talking, and one of the boys excused himself, so I was left alone with the other. I used the line that I had been using on everyone that night with such success, "Do you have a blog?"

"A secret one," he said, lighting a cigarette and grinning at me.

He asked me if I blogged, and I said yes with great pleasure--I belonged to the secret sexy organization of bloggers of smut! He wanted to know what my blog was about, and I cautiously explained feederism to him: "It's like, you think eating is sexy. But it's also extremely rare, so the blog is more about me looking for one. I haven't actually found one!"

He perked up when he heard that. "Where did you go to school?" he asked me.

I knew he was flirting with me. A year ago I wouldn't have been able to figure it out, would have been asking myself Is he/isn't he omg what if he is? But now I was getting the signal loud and clear. With him it was easy, he was like the scruffy philosophy majors I knew from college. And because he was known, I was able to relax and regain my confidence.

"You don't really have a blog!" I said, gleefully piercing though his joke, "you just say that to get girls!"

I decided to go back inside, try again. I was able to do the thing I had always been told to do but hadn't been able to: turn a boy down.

But after that I think nothing happened. I certainly don't remember anything happening. The party had begun to thin out by then, I circled around trying to find the few people I hadn't introduced myself to yet. I drank another glass of water.

I saw him again on one of my circuits of the room, he put himself in my line of sight and said, "Have you found any guys to like, feed yet?"

"No..." I wasn't sure where this was going.

"I'm kind of curious..."

"Ooooh," I said, acting stupid to gain time. He wasn't who I had expected to go home with. I had been expecting someone with feathers or sequins or extra sillicone parts. I suddenly remembered that before leaving my apt. that night I had finally decided I wasn't going to try and hit on anyone at this party, that I had left my "emergency kit" of condoms and lube at home.

But he was so nice I didn't want to say no.

* * *

More to come.

Facelift: UPDATE

Molly's going to be messing around with the code on this here blog this weekend. If it doesn't work, we will return to your regular blog (and it's pervy posts) by Monday*.

*Or even in an hour or two, depending on how big a mess she makes.

UPDATE:

Sadly, I am currently lacking in enough coding skills to turn a template with a good idea into a useable blog interface. So it's back to the old style...for now. I'm sure I'll be goofing with it again next weekend, this time with a how-to book in hand.

All I want for christmas is some CSS skills...

Honestly, for us this is just foreplay...

A Fox in the Woods II, originally uploaded by VisioLuxus.

I honestly couldn't make up my mind this week as to who sent me the most outrageous message. I mean, when I wouldn't get back to his txt about taking him to a lingerie shop to try on girly undies, the Colt did this:

The Colt: *bites onto the tip of your tail*

Me: Owowow!

The Colt: *sways around and keeps locked onto the little fluff at the end of your tail* grrr!

I can assure you, I admonished him severly! But just when I thought it was all over:

The Colt: I gun' eat you tail first!

* * *

But wait! Cee's relationship advice was even better! Stay tuned!

In Which I Become Intoxicated With World Domination

18 followers? My mind goes into overdrive: goddesses have followers! Where's the "deploy followers" button? Like zombies? ! More friends! More blog hits! More followers!!! *omnomnomnomnom!* *Destroys half of Tokyo.*

Also:

*Some real Godzilla girl porn that might just burn your eyes out with teh weirdness. Welcome to my world.

A Conversation About Fetishes

Sploshing image via Time Out New York.

The four of us were sitting in the living room, editing a comedy skit about fat acceptance, when the topic of fetishes came up. And, naturally, everyone began to name the strangest fetishes they had ever heard of for fun. Since we'd already been talking about fat chicks, the first girl told with wonder how she'd heard about a fetish where big women would jump on top of little tiny men. "Not big like we are, I mean these 400 pound women jumping on top of these 150 pound men in a bed!"

"Squashing," I said. There was a whole forum dedicated to it on my favorite pervy website, though it wasn't my thing.

"And there's this other one with food," said my theatre friend who had so kindly let me stay at her house.

"Sploshing," I said. "It's British."

Crap. Thank you for visiting the Museum of Sex. About this time a little voice in the back of my mind was going Shut up, shut up, shut up! Any minute now one of them would turn to me and demand to know how I knew all this stuff and my cover as a normal person would be blown.

"And there's this other fetish", the first girl went on in hushed tones, "where they tie the woman to a chair or something, she can't even walk, and the man will feed her to make her fatter."

"Feederism," I said, unable to resist getting in the last word. "Sometimes it goes the other way too," I added, in interests of gender equality. "Sometimes the girl feeds the man."

There was an awed silence from the other girls as they contemplated this, the most impressively strange of all fetishes yet named. My theatre friend said, in a tone of confusion, that she didn't know how the world kept going when it was full of people that were like this. And yet it does.

"Yeah, then you learn it's always been like this," one of the other girls said in a tone of worldly wisdom.

That naked chick clutching a photo of Obama

Photo of Darlinda Just Darlinda.

Here you go, peeps, as promised. More on the party after I recover from 6 hours of bus travel... *zzzzzzzz*

Who is Constantine?

Constantine ain't a real person no more. He's fucking historical.

See, that's the thing about history, literature, celebrities, anything you study to write a paper on so you can sum it up in all it's parts and get at, you know, the truth. But in the very act of you looking at it, it fragments. People gathering up every little bead off a dress a woman left on the sunken Titanic, every chicken bone in the trash heap left by Viking crusaders, are killing the thing they love through their own desire to hold every precious fragment all at once. Instead of it making a clearer picture, it pixelates into eight million tiny details. And the big mist of details that begins to surround something, that's myth. When people come up with six or seven theories over one celebrity car crash, then you know it's a goner, no matter how many times you try to nail down the truth.

From the time Constantine said, "I'm ready for that bottle of wine" to the time when my fist met his head a week later, that's the font of everything. All my cybersex and fetish sex and one night stands and barebacking and gender experimentation and thinking BDSM is fucking normal...all of that, it started right there. And yet during our one night together (some eight hours), we did none of these things. By most people's standards, by internet sex blog standards, what we did was boring. If I took you back to campus and I took you out on the quad and pointed and said, "There, that's Constantine," you wouldn't think it was anything special.

You live in a little town, you get to know everybody. You go to a little tiny boarding school, you get to know everybody's clothes. I know all of Constantine's wardrobe: the tartan scarf. The pinstripe suit. The baggy green sweater he wore over dress pants. Shiny shoes. Gold toe socks. Black leather gloves. A leather briefcase.

All these tiny details that I store up, rediscover, creating their own web and spawning new symbols and histories. His clothes are why I now see every Versache ad as porn. The high narrow bones of his cheeks, the reason I love the Colt. His fingers between my legs are the reason I would fuck A. two months later. The reason I'll fuck anyone, anywhere, for the entire rest of my life.

Even know, two years after that one short night, the sight of a man in a long coat holding a briefcase will make my heart rate zoom up to a trillion beats a second.

When Valerie Solanas shot Andy Warhol, she used only one bullet. But that one bullet ricocheted in his insides until it cut open his liver and lungs and spleen and stomach and it took six doctors five hours to put him back together again. And according to Gerard Malanga, my peeps, that was the end of the Sixties.

EDIT: I might write more about Constantine, or I might not. I find it difficult...and it might even need a whole other blog. But for now I'll post a few bits and peices when the mood strikes me.

I now have a pic of a hot naked girl clutching a photo of Obama

"Thank god you're alive," my friend told me when I walked in the door at 9am this morning. I had left at 6:30 yesterday evening. I am now laden with a Sugarbutch Star chapbook, a bottle of Sliquid lube, and more stickers and postcards and scribbled notes of blog addresses than I know what to do with. I also have sex hair.

Yes, the NYC Bloggers Calendar release party was made of awesome. Unfortunately you won't be able to see the few photos I took until Monday, for I foolishly packed the wrong cord for my camera (that's the kinda genius I am.) But in the meantime, here's a couple of the highlights:

1. No one looked the way I had imagined them. Actually, this is a good thing, because I usually imagined them as being totally naked all the time with their faces pixilated out.

2. Tess' tits really are that big.

3. Unspeakable Axe, I still think you got laid at least once, even tho I haven't read all your blog yet. And I still think you're cool. :)

4. Avah's corset rocked.

5. I met a charming androgyny named Natt. He says no one ever reads his blog, so you should change that!

I am going to be at the NYC Sex Bloggers Calendar Release Party TONIGHT!

This, by the way, is what I'm talking about. Just in case you've never heard of it. :)

I really should have planned this better.

If I was a good blogger, I would have hinted I was going a week ago. I would have written a post about my hopes, dreams, fears, and topped it off with an nice boob pic. I would have notified every boy that's within driving distance of NYC that I was coming a week in advance and started sorting though answers to my Craigslist ads. I would have bought a corset.

The reason that I didn't do any of these things was that my life wasn't together enough that I felt financially able to come. Then, 72 hours ago, two things happened:

1. I got another part time job.

2. I found out about the Dragon Coach, which can take me to NYC and back for a total of $40.

Now I am sitting in the same friend's apt. where I first read Working Stiff, with a view of the Empire State Building outside the window.

Just like old times.

So, yeah, I'm gonna be at this party in, like...an hour or so. And Sinclair will be there, who I've never so much as emailed, even though I've been reading the Sugarbutch Chronicles for, oh, about six months now. I don't know whether to squeal with fangirl glee or treat it like a sexy business meeting so all the bloggers there will treat me seriously. (I actually had some business cards made but left them at home.) I wanna have a famous blog someday too, ya know, and it's all about the networking!

Instead I'm a little scared. It's the odd feeling that comes from knowing someone only from what they've written over the internet, where you know as much about them as if you've read their minds...and yet they know absolutely nothing about you. Makes for social awkwardness, at the very least.

And then there's another part that feels like I'm finally starting to live the adventures I used to read about in books. I've never known anyone quite like these people whose blogs I've been following all these months, and, fetish or not, their lives seem to happen in a climate as exotic as India. For example, even though I've tried to be active in the local gay groups back home, I've never met anyone as openly genderqueer as Sinclair...and that's why I became so galvanized when I realized there was a small chance I could attend. Because a part of me doesn't quite believe that these people are true, and what I'm actually going to be attending is a party where some of my favorite fantasy characters have inexplicably come to life.

Barebacking and Umbrellas

The BHM is enforcing the rule of silence, so we are officially done. Over. Finished.

Usually, the quickest way to get to the top of my shit list is to start fucking me, then stop. We've been screwing each other off and on since July, which is really the longest time I've ever had a casual relationship. Usually, right about now I would be getting into hissy fits over his refusals to answer my requests for Facebook chat, or maudlin over the fact that I really shouldn't have told him about Constantine last time we fucked.

But actually, I'm kinda relieved.

Why? It's because of the anal. The BHM, despite his size, has nothing to do with my particular fetish. He's an ass and pussy man, all the way. And he particularly likes giving a girl anal sex.

Now, I've nothing against anal. Read this blog--it's one of my favorites--and you will find reams in praise of anal. My hero, Marquis de Sade, declared that all women should only practice anal and would never go back to pussy once they had had a dick in their ass. I once had a one night stand with a boy we'll call the Jackrabbit which consisted of nothing but anal: a delirious romp where he pounded my ass so hard I had to brace myself against the headboard to keep from being concussed. The effect I experienced when squatting on the toilet the next day is one of my stranger fond memories.

So I like anal. Except with the BHM.

I couldn't quite pin the reason for this down until the first and last time we tried barebacking*. The BHM has a dick which matches himself: solid, squat, with a head on it like a mushroom. Really, there's quite a big lip of flesh between the head of his dick and the shaft of his dick. When you don't have a condom you can feel everything, especially when the flaring base of the head gets squashed down and streamlined on the inward thrust, then how it opens up again when it's pulled back on the backward thrust.

In short, when the BHM gave me anal, the feeling was akin to having a small umbrella opened and shut in my ass.

*This is anal fucking without a condom, kids. FOR THE LOVE OF GOD, NEVER, NEVER DO THIS! You will get AIDS or something equally bad.

Pervertables: Big and Chunky

Madagascar: Escape 2 Africa Big and Chunky Video


It's a Disney movie, people. And they've written the next BBW lover's anthem.

I Want You To Be A Little Fucked Up

"He makes me think of a vampire... but then he wouldn't need the gun...". Originally uploaded by _Vorfas_.

As wonderful as all the hype has been for Fetlife, it sucks for meeting up with stuffer boys. To be exact, the only male feedee I've seen so far is Cee, and that's because I asked him to join soon after I did.

I guess I really do belong to one of the rarest fetishes in the world.

But just because I'm a feeder doesn't mean I don't have an insatiable appetite for a good old fashioned shag. In fact, one could say I'm perpetually horny because I'm perpetually unsatisfied. So tonight, between searching for a better job and a bigger city to move to, I've rewritten a couple of my profiles. I think they cater more to the type of man I've usually ended up with anyway:

You're more beautiful than I am. I want your ass to look better in women's underware than mine does, I want you to taunt me with the narrowness of your waist. I want you to outdrink me, outfuck me (well, you can try), have a sharper tongue and a randier wit. I want you to smoke endless cigarettes and have cheekbones like knives. I want you to look pale, consumptive, like you only come out at night. I want you to be a little fucked up... Read the rest.

Insensitive Dicks

Whether by luck or by chance, I've had both lovers and acquaintances whose cocks didn't work they way they were "supposed" to.

We all have an idea of how a dick works, right? That is, it gets hard, you give him a blow job, and then he squirts. I expect the comments to soon be filled with exceptions to this rule, but I believe this is the general idea.

Or perhaps I have this idea simply because X., my first lover, set a pattern of expectation. I'd come in, we'd fling ourselves on one another for about ten minutes of making out, and then we'd get down to the business of sucking or fucking. It was inevitable that within an hour of my stepping in the front door he would have cum. In other words, his penis always worked the way I expected a penis to work: it was his main erogenous zone, and no matter which way you sucked it or stroked it, he was bound to come within a relatively short amount of time. (He also liked to put things up his penis and getting fucked in the ass, but we'll ignore that for the sake of argument.)

But in several of the boys I've known since then, it doesn't work that way.

The first experience I ever had with a penis that defied my expectations was with a blind date we'll call C. This was many years ago: I'd just entered college, I think I'd had sex once, and I thought the internet was where you looked stuff up on Wikipedia. You know, stuff like where Iraq was or the profile of Virginia Woolf.

But anyway, I'd had a few conversations over IM with this boy before I actually met him in the flesh. Somehow it came up that his penis was extraordinarily large, and he told me that it was also curiously insensitive. He claimed that he could squeeze it "until my knuckles turn white" and he wouldn't feel a thing. When I mentioned this to one of his guy friends, deploring C. for lying, the mutual friend exclaimed that it was entirely true. "I've seen C. hit people with it!" he told me.

The further confirmation that C. wasn't lying about his dick's cartoonish size came when I saw its outline through his pants leg later on the night of our first date, and this probably contributed to it also being our last. I had a irrational fear of big dicks, sex with X.'s normal dick still being an uncomfortable proposition at the best of times. But even though we never fucked, I never forgot C.'s truly gigantic dick and his admission of insensitivity.

I've known, too, males who couldn't come right away. Now, I understand lots of women will wonder why the hell I am complaining, but in my early days of cock sucking, when I wanted like mad to meet X.'s exacting standards (he himself claimed he had learned how to deep throat with popsicles), if a boy didn't come within twenty minutes or less I would worry that I was doing something wrong. That I am still prey to this fear might also have something to do with my one night stand with Constantine, but more about him later.

I don't know why, but it took me a while to realize that men could hold back their orgasms. Jaime calls it being "tantric", used as a verb. ("I'm still tantric", he'll say, if I ask him if he's cum.) The BHM is another one with unbelievable stamina. He gets hard and stays hard for the two to four hours we're usually at play, but hardly ever shoots. He has told me that he's always been this way, no tantric practice required. Usually we'll bang away, go to sleep, and then I'll suck him off the next morning, when I'll finally have the pleasure of watching his sperm flow onto his big belly with its peach-colored stretch marks. (Which is really quite a pretty sight, in my opinion).

And then there is Constantine, the Ur-boy of insensitive dicks.

I don't, oddly enough, remember much about his dick except that it was white and smaller than X.'s--quite natural, since I didn't get a very good look at it. The the whole time we were fucking, and that went for several hours, it was either in me or in my mouth.

In my mouth.

(I still remember this with anger.)

He couldn't get off when I had it in my mouth.

I sucked him until my jaw hurt, but he didn't even moan. I had mastered, I thought, my technique with X., even though I couldn't quite deep throat him. I don't think I quite knew all the niceties of using my hands and pirouetting all around the shaft with my tongue, but he should have come by now. He had moaned and writhed in the first few minutes when I had started, but now he was just lying there. Suddenly I felt my first empathy with X., who, despite his best efforts at fingering me, would often feel my vagina go bone dry. One time he had sat back on his heels and exclaimed, "What am I doing wrong?"

It's only sensitive on the very end, Constantine told me at last. I was supposed to just rub it on the head. All my painstaking deep throating techniques were worse than useless.

That's where the anger comes from. How long was he going to go on laying there, hands behind his head, while I worked and worked for no result? I felt like he'd been holding back deliberately, keeping from me the liquid I so craved (for even though I didn't yet enjoy normal intercourse, I loved swallowing sperm). I had the sneaking suspicion that he was enjoying watching me failing at the one technique I had.

He got up, we switched places. I lay on my back, watched him work his own cock. He came at last mounted atop my chest. It was awkward to stretch my neck to get my lips around the head of his cock before he came, but I had to, for my own pleasure. I swallowed.

That's usually how it is, he told me. The only way to get yourself off is to do it yourself. No one else knew the exact inner workings of your genitalia except you.

I read a lot of articles about the difference between men and women getting off. The conventional wisdom now is that men are more straightforward, just unzip and plunge in, while a female's sexuality must be coaxed and teased out...that her mind must be aroused before her the place between her legs can be.

But I have yet to find an article about a man's dick the way I envision it now: numb here and exquisitely fine there, piebald with sensation. And what must Constantine have envisioned all that time to keep himself hard, if my own technique, my very self and physical body, was not near enough to stroke him to his peak? Perhaps the way men and women get off isn't so very different after all.

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