or The Scientific Reasoning Behind Keeping Your Socks on During Sex
She kept her socks on while she had sex. She liked being naked, but she didn’t like being cold, and the socks made a world of difference.
He kept his socks on during sex. In the heat she tore his shirt off, and in the passion he kicked his shoes across the room, and in the moment she peeled his pants down. But there was never a moment for the socks.
She kept her socks on as she had sex. She didn’t like the way her toes looked.
He kept his socks on while they had sex. He wasn’t sure what his feet smelled like, and he hoped maybe the socks would keep some of the smell in.
She kept her socks on for sex. They were cute.
He left his socks on as he stood up, perched her on the edge of the bed, and fucked her hard. But he kept slipping on the floor.
She left her socks on while he fucked her. He wanted to fuck her in her leather bitch boots and nothing else. The socks came with.
His socks stayed on while they had sex. They were in the darkest corner of a crowded club, so pretty much everything stayed on except his zipper and her panties underneath her hiked up dress.
Her socks stayed on while she had sex. She had forgotten to shave her legs, and at least the socks covered her from the knee down.
He kept his socks on when he had sex. He didn’t have a reason; he just didn’t care.
She left her socks on when she had sex. They made her feel safe. And snug.
or Abusing Back
I believe most of my readers are intelligent, tasteful, wholesome, loving people who are already fully aware that when I refer to sex, I am talking about a normal, natural dance of life which should only be performed with enthusiastic mutual consent and raw honesty.
I don’t believe we (writers or sex writers to be specific) should have to gear everything we say (or everything we say about sex) to the lowest element of rapists and abusers or the most fragile element of raped and abused. Yes, those things happen, and yes, they are sad. But I believe that humanity as a whole wants to be better than its tragedy and, in general, is in fact better.
I believe most of us have probably been physically or emotionally abused in some way at some point in our lives and are doing our damnedest to get past it. The abuse-recovery-growth cycle may even be part of the human condition.
But I don’t believe that censorship for the sensitive is the appropriate response to that cycle.
Censorship is the sensitive’s way of abusing back instead of bouncing back.
Catering to the lowest common denominator only drags everyone down. It irks me when sensitive people demand a universal lowering of the voice in order to make everyone grovel before their sensitivity. Oh really, you’re sensitive? Sucks for you! Cuz I’m not paying the price just because you’re more sensitive. I’m not more sensitive and look how happy I am right now. Maybe you should be less sensitive and then you’ll feel less bad.
If you have a wound that is still smarting, you need to spend time and energy healing it in a safe environment where normal healthy human activities can’t get in and fuck with your head. But it’s unfair to insist that everyone else get sick like you.
You can’t expect the world to tiptoe around you just because of something you refuse to get over. It’s like fat people demanding we make bigger doors or people with irrational fears demanding we kill clowns.
As fictional President Jed Bartlet in The West Wing liked to say, “It’s not our job to appeal to the lowest common denominator, Doug – it’s our job to raise it.”
or A Scientific Discussion of Promiscuity
What if women were objectively more sexually complex than men?
Although the ‘men are more visual than women’ theory is currently under heated debate, one recent study showed that, while men and women found certain visual stimuli equally arousing, men experienced higher levels of activity in the amygdala – the section of the brain that controls motivation. In other words, when we see a naked woman, we men are more mentally, cavemanically compelled to do something about it.
What is objectively provable is that women’s sexual organs are generally smaller and more concealed than men’s. And with all this tiny internal nanotechnology, as well as a more complex cognitive response to sexually-stimulating situations, it may be safe to say that women are objectively more sexually complex than men.
What if more complex activities required more hours of practice to master than simpler ones?
It’s easier to master building blocks or Legos than chess or Risk. Simpler sports like hopscotch or jumprope have a shorter learning curve than more complex sports like football, cricket, or war with other countries.
Some human behavioral experts cite a figure of 10,000 hours that it takes to master cognitively-demanding fields. Whatever the number, it seems like the more complex the task, the longer time and greater involvement it takes to excel in that task.
What if these two complementary factors required men to be the more promiscuous gender?
If you’ve sucked one dick, you’ve sucked them all (they say?), but every clitoris is different.
Maybe because more complex pursuits take more practice and because women are more sexually complex, men have to spend more hours practicing in order to be sexually competent with women than women have to with men.
Maybe this has been the underlying reason all along why men have been historically more promiscuous than women.
Maybe it’s for their own good.
or How I Meth Your Mother
The tiny ziploc bag of meth was sitting on the desk in the open, as it probably shouldn’t have been. It was thrown together with the art supplies, reading glasses, and a guitar pick – the muse and the music reunited in neglect.
I’m not much of a drug person, and this may or may not be a fictional account. A friend came over, and we couldn’t keep our hands off each other. After, as we lay side by side catching our breath, the topic of the little white ziploc bag came up.
One of the housemates had moved on, and I had found it among the things he had left behind. I asked him if it was cocaine or salt or dandruff, and he said no, it was meth, purchased on some ill-advised night at an ill-advised place and never used. He did not want it back. Neither did I.
But she did.
She liked to try things, she said, from crack to heroin to one-night stands in Cancun. Nothing really ruffled her. Meth fell somewhere on the adventure scale between not as edgy as heroin, but not as timid as cocaine. I wasn’t sure what she meant, but I didn’t have to drive anywhere for at least 14 hours, which is usually my biggest fear when experimenting with unfamiliar human pastimes.
Also, one gram of the stuff, split two ways, would probably not stop traffic.
It tasted sour and salty and a little bit soapy, like some kind of crushed medication on my fingertip. I sat back and took her in as my body digested the drug and my brain the experience. She was semi-clothed and smiling mysteriously, seductively and needily. Suddenly I wanted her again.
She grabbed me and gulped me into her again in a whirlwind of wet, lips, hands, and pussy. There was a kind of urgency scratching at the back of my brain this time, a frantic sort of necessity, like the most sensual of tasks had been assigned to us and must be completed punctually. Her sugary screams harmonized with the hive of honeybees buzzing in my head, and soon we collapsed again.
The lights went out, and we said good night.
And laid there. And laid and laid and laid there, laid awake staring at the boring insides of my eyelids while my fingertips caught fire and silently burned.
I laid awake as the universe seduced me with its molecules; Mother Earth undressed and sat on my face, rubbing her clitoris raw and rosy on my tongue until she exploded in a waterfall of Amazon lightning dripping down my face and neck. Then Mars took a turn, thrusting herself over me, grinding, pounding my body into ruby red dust.
Hours passed, or maybe minutes, of consensual cosmic copulation, and then suddenly I felt warm human hands on me. The goddesses dissipated, making respectful room for the mortal, fragile bodies that they could never be. She, flesh and blood by my side, grabbed my waist and said, “Are you awake?”
She climbed onto me and stuffed me into her greedy mouth again. The sun showed no signs of rising.
I love porn.
I think that making it is a proud profession and watching it a noble pastime. I think that adults should be able to choose their industries and interests as long as these don’t harm themselves or other people. I believe that the sex industry as a commodity has value and worth and can be an admirable and enjoyable enterprise.
So I’m pro-porn (or… pron).
I am also a firm believer in consciously directing your desires. I, for instance, didn’t know I loved skinny girls until I had an emaciated one 6 years ago and she blew my mind. I didn’t know I was also an ass man until a giant one was bouncing over me.
Sometimes, both in your digital sex life as well as your analog one, you can make a rut and then get stuck in it. You can find the thing that works for you and wallow in it. I think convention is an important part of a healthy sex life.
I also think that variety and exploration is another important part.
ThePornDude.com is a journey. Of exploration. Through the sexual appetites that you never knew you had.
Although this is paid content, I had one of the funnest (sic) afternoons of my writing career sifting through their links while researching for this article. I didn’t even know what TGP meant before today. Now I think it’s awesome. Also, I’ve never been a Hentai guy, but how much fun must it be getting all together in a studio to record the voices for those kinky cartoons. Do you think the talent is able to keep its hands off each other?
ThePornDude has a unique categorized layout that is sort of a cross between Tumblr and Pinterest. Like playing on a giant checkerboard of porn categories, you scroll to the headline that piques your interest and feast on the list of sites addressing that topic. One of the things I like best about The Dude is how simple it is to get from A to B. All the info is packed neatly into one page; you see what you like and then click on it. There is literally nothing between A and B (which is how alphabets should be).
The lists (750 sites in total) are “sorted by quality,” which is something I’m not sure I understand. (Why is PornMaki higher than xHamster or PornHub under Top Porn Tube sites?) Maybe quality is in the eye of the beholder. Maybe there could be a customizable interface that allows me to arrange the sites in my own order of quality. Or maybe I’ll soon find out that the wise old PornDude was right all along.
I’m a huge fan of the informal nature of the site. When I’m surfing for porn, I don’t necessarily need full sentences or surnames. Just a Dude will do. It’s also fun to see all the random kinky site names that these porn providers around the world came up with and their crazy videos. I found a video of a blowjob audition where the mom brings her daughter to make sure it’s legit and just sort of sits there in the background with a polite look on her face while her daughter performs (on eFukt under Best Funny Porn Sites).
Take a spin around ThePornDude for yourself. Find a fetish you never knew you fancied.
or The Marriage Ouroboros
I don’t understand marriage.
You have sex with various people until you find one with whom you can also be best friends. Then you get married and your supposed new “best friend” prohibits you from having sex with anyone else ever.
This friend, who is now your marriage partner, doesn’t prohibit you from having other friends, only from having other sex. This is strange because the friendship, not the sex, was what made them special in the first place, and presumably the reason you married them.
You had sex with many other people before and it never sank your friendships. And your friendships never discouraged the people you had sex with. Then all of sudden you find someone with whom you can be friends and have sex, and they have to immediately go and ruin it by prohibiting you from the arbitrary act of having sex with other people instead of prohibiting the meaningful union of being friends with other people (which they still, oddly, allow).
Besides this being a completely incomprehensible restriction, it sounds like a shitty friend to me.
Because now this new best friend / sex partner is doomed to go around with one eye on you all the time, constantly tormented by the possibility that you could dare revert to your nature and transgress against the irrational restriction they’ve put on you. And as we all know, friends who keep their friends in cages don’t stay friends for very long.
And by its very nature, this closed act of marriage has almost immediately turned you into no longer best friends anymore but back to just being sex partners, taking away the very reason for which you wed in the first place.
So you divorce and go back to having sex with various people until you find one with whom you can also be best friends.
I don’t understand marriage.
In this article, by ‘marriage’ i am referring to what is generally understood as the socially acceptable exclusive union of two people in the traditional manner, NOT any of the more practical, modern, open, human, natural types.
What does 30 feel like? I’m not sure. I guess I don’t know what other 30 year olds feel like. I know good and well that I’ve been alive and doing things and thinking for 30 years. I don’t feel “established” or settled down in any way in that thinking or in my mind. It’s always changing depending on new information and circumstances.
Some people already know what they think and how they think.
Me, not yet.
It’s like the difference between science and religion. Science is 100% sure about very few things, and its theories are always adapting with new discoveries.
Religion knows everything.
Some people think like religions.
I think there are two sides to humanity these days: tolerance and intolerance. Intolerance is the side that mocks things it thinks are “weird,” that believes strongly in (and against) things, that discriminates (even slightly) against things different from it, and that ends up killing students and being tyrannical.
And tolerance is the side that just says, That’s cool.