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Date Night
by Kilted Wookie

We make our separate ways to the hotel and meet in the bar. Light-hearted chat over drinks as we wait for our table.
Maybe it’s the alcohol, maybe it’s the ambiance of the surroundings, maybe it’s the result of the prolonged exchange of increasingly explicit messages that have been sent in the build-up to this evening; whatever it is, there is a sense of anticipation that tonight will be special.
I could feel it in her touch, in her response to the welcoming embrace; her body coiled like a spring as her lips lightly touched against mine. The slight flushing of her skin, that was more than just an effect of the wine, spoke of her arousal. The hunger in her eyes had little to do with the meal we were about to have, but spoke intensely of the banquet that would follow later.
I could feel the electricity in her body as I led her to the table. The familiar sigh as my hand settled on the exposed skin of the small of her back, was a subtle yet explicit signal of h…

So, it seems that #FoodForThoughtFriday this week is all about the clothes we find sexy, and #KinkOfTheWeek is all about fishnets.

Coincidence? 
Possibly…
Now, while for me the two aren’t entirely the same thing, there is enough overlap for me to combine them into the same post (I can be lazy that way sometimes…)
The first part of the  #FoodForThoughtFriday question this week was: What do you wear when you want to feel sexy/desirable? I’ll be honest here and say that there isn’t any actual thing I wear to make me feel that way; mainly because it’s not really how I see myself. Having said that, I am Scottish and, as my blogging name suggests, I do own a kilt, and I have been known to wear it with a particular effect in mind… I don’t actually wear it with the intention of being/feeling sexy, but if that’s the resulting effect it has on the ladies who see me so attired, then I won’t complain.

Parts two asks: What is the sexiest thing a member of the opposite sex can wear?Now this is kind…

I dabbled with writing erotic short stories since 2001. While I generally got a lot of very positive feedback, some, I will freely admit, were better than others. Then, in March 2016, exactly two years ago today, I stopped. I posted my final story and, other than the opinion pieces that I post here, and the very occasional haiku on twitter, I haven’t written anything since.
Why?
I don’t actually know. I just lost the spark. It would be easy to blame it on my depression and, indeed, that maybe did play a part, but it wasn’t that simple. Something had changed. The particular well of creativity had run dry. It wasn’t “writer’s block”, I was, quite simply empty.
When, late in 2017, Marie announced that she would be running Smut Marathon, I was intrigued. Would I join in? Could I do it? Would I be able to actually write anything? Would it, maybe, just maybe, reignite my writing bug?
I struggled with the idea. Resolving to sign-up and then deciding against it. This process went on and on un…

It’s a topic that I’ve written about before. It’s a topic that I am very well acquainted with. Given that I have suffered from depression off and on since my late teens, the two aspects of this topic are almost inextricably linked. Whilst I wouldn’t go as far as to say I have never had sex when I haven’t been suffering from depression, given that I have been on medication for my condition solidly for the past 14 years, and more often than not in the last 20, it’s fair to say that most of the sex I have had has been had while I have been on anti-depressant medication. A fact that, in itself is more than just a little depressing.
I was first diagnosed when I was 28. With the benefit of hindsight however, it became obvious that I had been suffering for the best (or should that be worst) part of a decade before that. The condition gradually worsening over time, with the episodes becoming harder to fight off, lasting longer, being rougher, and becoming ever more frequent.
So how has it aff…

In a previous relationship, we tended to see each other at most once or at most twice a week. More often it tended to be even less frequently. For us, sexting was very much a form of prolonged foreplay.
It would start several days before we actually saw each other. Sometimes it would start almost as soon as one or other of us got home from our most recent encounter.
At first, little more than simple texts to let each other know that we were thinking about each other; often little more than enquiries as to what the day’s plans were. As the chat progressed, it would become increasingly littered with sexy puns and double entendres; all fairly innocent but with decidedly naughty undertones.
We might, at some point discuss a particular aspect of our most recent time together; reliving it in words, remembering, savouring. From there we might move on to discussions of what we wanted/intended to do to each other when we next met. She would describe to me how she would suck my cock, how much sh…

Steak and Blow-Job Day irritates the fuck out of me; in much the same way that the whole “blow-jobs are flowers for men” thing irritates the fuck out of me. Now this could be construed as sour grapes on the part of someone who, this year, once again, will almost certainly get neither. I assure you that this is not the case.
Well, while it’s true that I regularly don’t get either of these things on March 14th, I am fortunate that I get my cock sucked regularly (and expertly) enough that I have no complaints on that front (other than that we never seem to find any time at the moment, but that’s beyond our control), and I can eat steak whenever I feel like cooking it.
My problem isn’t with the abundance (or lack) of either of the constituent parts, or whether or not I get one, both, either, neither or none on the day in question, or indeed, on any day for that matter. No, my problem with Steak and Blow-Job day is that it is even a thing.

Now I realise that, as a “thing”, it is really mean…

Waiting by Kilted Wookie
Sometimes it seems like ages pass, waiting there, alone in bed. What you want most of all is to feel the warmth of your lover’s body next to you, holding you close, sharing their body heat with you.
Seconds pass, then minutes. You count your heartbeats as you wait; anticipation mixed with frustration.
Footsteps.
A creaking stair.
Anticipation deepens as your lover approaches. Perversely, time seems pass ever more slowly as each step on the stairway is ascended.
A shiver runs down your spine; as much a visual display of your growing arousal as a reaction to the cool air of the bedroom.
The footsteps grow closer, yet seem further apart; the time between each footfall becoming increasingly, agonisingly drawn out.
And then they are there. You feel the bed yield beneath the extra weight. Your heart beats faster. You barely breath as they close the remaining distance between you.
You sigh contentedly as you feel their skin against yours, snuggling into you as they p…

Today I am going to talk to you about that burning topic, the GDPR, i.e. the General Dick Pic Regulation.

Yes, I know it’s a play on words, but actually there is one element that both the “real” version and my version of GDPR have in common, and that is consent.

Now I realise dick pics can be a bit of a prickly (pun intended) subject to get to grips with. Some women are quite amenable to receiving them, others prefer not to. That, of course, is how it should be; the world would be very boring if we were all the same.

But how do we know? How can we tell if our tumescent works of art will be appreciated by our intended recipient? I mean, it’s tricky, isn’t it?

Well, actually, no it fucking well isn’t!

Here’s a very simple clue, if you want to be 100% certain whether or not someone wants to see photos of your penis, try asking them first.  If they say “yes”, great, go ahead. If they say “no” then don’t do it.  This is one instance were you should absolutely, definitely ask for permission…

This week’s questions, were on the subject of hooking up. As, once again, it is a multi-part question, I have decided, once again, that the easiest way to answer is to break it down into its component strands. Have you ever “hooked up” with someone just for sex? I think it’s fair to say that if the answer to this one were “no”, this would be a pretty short post. Suffice to say that the answer is “yes” and that I have done so on a number of occasions. How did you arrange it? In every case, the hook-ups have come about, initially, through online contact; whether that be through actual hook-up sites like fabswingers or, more often than not, simply through that network that brings so many of us together, twitter.
The encounters have always followed a broadly similar pattern. First we follow each other, then we “get to know” each other online. At some point things will move to Direct Message and/or WhatsApp.
My work takes me around the country (particularly to London) and, where possible, …

Ephemeral /ɪˈfɛmərəl/
adjective
lasting for only a short time; transitory; short-lived: ephemeral pleasure On the great, cosmic scale, we are all ephemeral creatures. What really got me thinking though, was the online communities we now, increasingly, belong to.
Online relationships are still relationships. They are still real. People who get along with each other and enjoy each other’s “company” can still do so in a purely online context. I have a number of very good friendships that are 100% online as well as a few that while mostly online, also have an element of physical presence involved.
These friendships are, to me at least, “real” friendships, in that the feelings that I experience from these relationships is the same as those I experience when I am with “real life” friends.
Lines are, of course, forever moving and blurring. The separation between online and “real” lives is much less distinct. Increasingly, the online, far from being a distinct “other life” is being more de…

This week’s questions, as usual, got me thinking (which, I guess, is what they are meant to do). Rather than blurt out one long, incoherent stream of consciousness that attempts to answer all three components in one go, I’ve decided to break my thoughts down into three separate, somewhat shorter but no less incoherent streams of consciousness, taking each part in turn. How essential is love to you in a sexual relationship? At it’s simplest, the answer to this question is that isn’t essential at all. I have had sex with people where the only feeling I have have had for the person was one of simple sexual desire. I was sexually attracted to them, they (as it turned out) were sexually attracted to me. We had sex and we enjoyed it for what it was; namely uncomplicated, straightforward, we wanted to fuck (each other) so we fucked (each other) sex.
This does, of course, beg the question, at what point does having sex with someone constitute it being a “sexual relationship”? A one-nighter, wh…

I recently did a post on self-edging; the experience of prolonging that wonderfully exquisite agony just before allowing myself the much needed release of orgasm. I have also described my masturbation technique. Unfortunately, I have also mentioned that, for reasons of the medication I take for my depression, both of the aforementioned activities are rarities.
That, however, is just me. Just because it is an experience I am unable to enjoy very often for myself, it does not mean that I can’t be the cause of such enjoyment for someone else.
If you have read any of what I write on these pages, you will know that if there is one particular act I love performing on a woman, it is cunnilingus. I love it for a host of reasons. I love the reactions of the woman I am doing it with. I love the tastes and the scents. I love the noises, the moans, the sighs, the cries she makes as my tongue does its work, driving her towards her climax.
Most of all though, I love that I am very much the one in c…