A Perfect Ten

The delightful Luka recently asked people to write a real warts and all, blow by blow account of how they have sex, without recourse to the 'the orgasm was like waves crashing over me' and 'his penis was like a red hot rod drilling through my molten rosebud' clichees of erotica. For a while I thought I was up for it, until I realized that actually I was too shy. Yes, me! Too shy! It's more like, if you lot really knew the absolute ins and outs of what I get up to in the sack then I would have nothing private about me, since I have spilt quite a bit on my blog already, and I'm not ready to shed all my bodily fluids. But what I will tell you is that at the end of a session I will always give my orgasms marks out of ten. Mostly they are over nine. I will shout something like, "Wow, that was a nine point six!" Sometimes I will miss the mark and get one that's only around a seven. Masturbation usually doesn't provide much over a six.

So anyway, yesterday I scored a perfect ten. Everyone's perfect ten is different maybe. For me the perfect ten is that build up. There is a build up of about five seconds. The pleasure climbs a ladder. Throb throb throb, until you literally don't feel you can take it any more, you feel like your body cannot contain the pressure, but you breathe breathe and finally you explode. Having a ten always involves a total blackout, stars, screaming like a crazed chimpanzee and flinging around like crazy. The top of one's head feels like it has exploded off one's head and always one is dazed. The most extreme tens I have ever had were when I literally felt like I was levitating afterwards. It was like all the pleasure had seeped out and had filled the whole room.


Anyway, I always wish I knew how to guarantee myself a ten, but unfortunately, achieving stellar orgasms is something of a mystery. Yesterday, it was a surprise erotic encounter that did it. I went round to my girlfriend M's house at eight thirty in the morning because we'd arranged to meet. Now, this woman is tall, willowy, gorgeous, with big green eyes and wild wavy hair. Her husband G. is suntanned, blond, gorgeous. I don't know exactly how good or bad their sex life is, but when I'm with them I get this charge off them, a sexual charge that leaks out of both of them. So yesterday morning I knock on the door and G. kisses me and says, "Oh, M. is still asleep." And when she came down the stairs she looked so crumpled and sexy. Her breasts all loose, nipples pressing through flannel pyjamas. She looked more beautiful than she ever did made up. And there she was in the pale watery morning light and she's stretching away and G. is running around in boxer shorts. There was just this lovely erotic hum in the kitchen. I didn't want to sleep with them exactly, it was just lovely to be surrounded by such langorous beauty. And that sensation of golden erotism ground its way into my groin and stayed with me all day. The thought of them, of them having sex together, of me in between them and all the permutations, ratcheted up the orgasm that night to a ten.

And so...do you find the intensity of your orgasms to be unpredictable or can you do certain things to make sure you get really good ones? And how often do you have a perfect ten?

Love is all about tongues

This makes me feel so inadequate. How can I compete? I don't even have a removable tongue!!

Also to the guy in this video: If you can afford the $6,500 for one of these dolls maybe you can afford to move out of your parents' home?

The extract is from a documentary on Real Dolls called Guys and Dolls made by Channel 5

Literary Wednesday

I woke up this morning feeling crazed. Does anyone else feel like they are psychotic during their period? I feel like I am totally unravelling, like if this video were run in reverse:



So lucikly, my antipodean chum Ms Robinson had a calm soothing task for me. The equivalent of eating an egg with soldiers. She had tagged me to do a meme entitled: WHAT ARE YOU READING?

These are the rules:


1. Pick up the nearest book.


2. Open to page 123.


3. Find the fifth sentence.


4. Post the next three sentences.


5. Tag five people


So here I go:

1. 365 Manners Kids Should Know by Sheryl Eberly.

2. Under a heading called How to eat shish kabob the fifth sentence says:

When your child is served meat and vegetables on a large skewer, he should hold the skewer in his left hand with the end of the skewer resting on the plate.

4. The best approach is to take off just a few pieces at a time so that he doesn't lose control and send the meat onto the tablecloth. After the meat and vegetables are on the plate, they're cut into bite-sized pieces and eaten with a fork. Shish kabob served as an appetizer on a tiny skewer is held in the fingers and eaten directly from the skewer.

[N.B. after I read this I wondered what the proper etiquette might be for eating the new mash cone from Aunt Bessie's (sausage, mash potato, gravy and peas in an ice cream cone), or indeed which creative genius came up with the idea of the mash cone, but I digress. This is only available in the UK right now. Has anyone had one?]


5. And now I will tag the gorgeous sparsely kate (who is looking for a Scottish boyfriend), Inchy with the shiny helmet, Electro-Kevin,
a train driver who makes my engine throb, pussy fancier midnight and sex goddess Marcelle Manhattan.

The E-Spot: No Picnic

Dear The E-Spot,

I have just purchased a sexy new picnic table (see above), which now sits outside my house on my deck. The problem is that I am crazy about her. Yes, I think of the table as a woman and have become obsessed. At first I just caressed the table, and enjoyed pulling the umbrella in and out of its hole. But soon, unbenown to my wife, I started to, well, to have sexual impulses towards this table. Pretty soon I was making excuses to my wife, running out onto the deck and rubbing myself up against the table like a dog on heat. I keep wondering how it would feel to make love to this table, to slip my penis into the table's hole and make sweet sweet music. Please help me, because I am going crazy with worry. I mean, am I sick, or do other people feel like this about picnic tables? And do you think I would get this out of my system by fucking the table?

From
Brett with the Big Baguette


Dear Mr Baguette,

Wow! That is one good looking table you have there. Very smooth corners and an exceptionally caressable finish. I can see where you are coming from. This table is very provocative indeed.

Now to put your mind at rest: Are you sick? No. Are there others like you? Absolutely! There are many people to whom a good looking table presents an erotic challenge second to none. Tables aren't just for eating off, now are they, Mr Baguette?

But before you launch yourself onto the object of your affections, there are a few things you should know. I believe there was a gent called Art Price of Ohio who recently had similar strong affections for a picnic table with a very provocative hole, just like yours. He regularly went out on his deck naked, (which incidentally was across the street from a school), flipped the table on its side and relieved himself in a sexual manner in the hole.



Now, there is no doubt that he and maybe even the table had a high old time doing this. But there were problems (aren't there always?) and in this case the problem was a nosy neighbor who had nothing better to do than film all the Cock on Table Action and send the tapes to the local police. Well, it wasn't long before the long arm of the law hauled in Mr Price and stopped his fun:


So, my advice for you Mr Baguette, is that if you want to make sweet music with this table, don't do it outside while stark naked. Take the dear thing inside. And if you do get caught by the wife here are ten of the best excuses:

1. Got all worked up after looking through the IKEA catalog

2. C'mon, did you see that picnic table?

3. I was refinishing it and things just got out of hand

4. Just broke up with the pool table and didn't want to be alone

5. If you're gonna arrest every man who's had sex with a picnic table, you're gonna have to build a hell of a lot more prisons

6. Was curious if I could have sex with anything more flat and lifeless than you darling!

7. Hey, a man has needs

8. My doctor said I have Restless Nuts Syndrome

9. It's not like I spent $4,000 for a hooker

10. Well, it was our anniversary

Also, I was so moved by all this that I wrote a song called
Picnic Table Lover

Your round hole
Is too beautiful to hold
The umbrella pole
Every time I see you I get wood
My heart beats hard when I caress
Your shapely legs
Picnic Table
You are too pretty
Just to eat Bologna sandwiches off
I need to put my baguette
In your beautiful crevice
Oh oh oh
You're perfect as you are
All we need is a dab of mayonnaise
And maybe a dill pickle
To seal the deal

Good luck from
The E-Spot

The E-Spot is a problem page for people who are tired of the wishy-washy pscychobabble of Dr Phil. Please email me your problem at emma.theespot@[remove]gmail.com (please say if you wish to remain anonymous). Please also note that your problem will be treated with no sensitivity whatsoever.

Egoist or Voyeur?

I have decided that bloggers fall into two categories: egoists and voyeurs. I, for example, am an egoist.


EGOISTS

Egoists are in the most extreme cases, people who are deeply in love with themselves, relish the smell of their own farts, laugh at their own jokes, post pictures of their mangy cats and would marry themselves if they could. Many male egoists enjoy writing blogs that showcase their sexual prowess, the size of their member (at least the size of a marrow) and recounting unpleasant sexual details about the dozens of women they have satisfied. Many of them happily combine being a sexual god with spending twelve hours a day with their pants around their ankles cruising the blogosphere. Female egoists who don't post pics of their cats often post pictures of their back and front bottoms and yes, sometimes even their cat flaps.

VOYEURS

Voyeurs are socially inadequate individuals who believe that blogging is the equivalent of a social life and who enjoy obsessively stalking visiting the blogs of attractive strangers.

Voyeurs often feel they 'know' the bloggers they worship. But do they really? Probably not. Blogging seems to be about wearing one's heart on one's sleeve, but after you do it for a while you realize it has very little to do with revealing the truth. I think blogging is mainly about trying to hide certain parts of one's personality and creating an idealized version of oneself and one's own reality. Blogging is very much like Picasso said in 1923 about art (I have substituted the word blog here for art):

"We all know that [blogging]art is not truth. [Blogging]Art is a lie that makes us realize truth, at least the truth that is given us to understand. The [blogger]artist must know the manner whereby to convince others of the truthfulness of his lies."

So there you have it. What I really want to know is, are you an egoist or a voyeur? Also, how do you see me in reality, I mean, do you imagine I am happy go lucky, a manic depressive etc? Go on, be honest, what impression do you have of me?



Also, who is the blogger you would most like to have sexy time with?

Greedy Pigs Caught with Fists Full of Walnut Whips

Christine Ruther - a craving for Walnut Whips drove her into the arms of crime

In the heist of a sweet shop called Minges and Son (FOR REAL!) police in Cincinnati recently followed a helpful trail of candy and discarded wrappers that the half-witted thieves had discarded, leading them directly to the suspects.

Nineteen year old Christine Ruther had her 7-week-old daughter with her when she and three others broke into Peter Minges & Son candy store on Thursday. They are accused of taking about $400 (£203) worth of sweets.

They reportedly used the baby's pushchair to transport their loot away from Minges. The group was arrested a few blocks away. This story made me cry with laughter. Until I remembered I'd had a similar brush with the law when I was fifteen and had a Saturday job in a fancy schmanzy chocolate store in Hampstead High Street. The chocs were all hand made in the back of the shop and chocolate ran out of pipes a la Charlie and the Chocolate Factory. It was a fantastic lark. There was just one problem with the job. I was a greedy pig and the fumes of chocolate went to my head. I used to wear a big anorak to work and stuff it full of these yummy chocolates before I left for home. And one day I overstuffed the coat and, if memory serves me correctly, left a trail of chocolates behind me all the way down the street. I believe that was the reason I was 'let go', but it might simply have been that I ate my weight in chocolates every Saturday, so even though they were only paying me something like 14 pounds a day they were losing money hand over fist!

I don't suppose any of you will admit to any behavior more stupid than that, will you?

The Unweaned Generation

Okay, so no one who knows me could ever accuse me of being an overprotective parent. But I am so tired of them. One woman I know refuses to let her eight year old son go on field trips because she doesn't feel safe about him going on a school bus on the highway "In case the bus crashes." Right. Everywhere you look there are parents at playgrounds hovering over their kids and monitoring their play. And if they do (God forbid) get into a row with another kid, the parent referees the fight!

I laughed my head off when this maybe nine year old boy came up to me at the playground today, practically in tears, and told me that Sausage, age 4, "won't leave me alone and keeps shouting at me." What was I meant to say, apart from, "you sad sad individual. I feel so sorry that you can't defend yourself against a four year old." Well I would have said that, but I would probably have been arrested for child abuse. It's getting so I am scared to invite a child from my kids' school to my house for a 'playdate' because I fear some overprotective parent will stay for the date (and believe me, they do).

This sad trend of coddling kids was brought home by Ms. Skenazy, a columnist for The New York Sun, who recently wrote about letting her nine year old son take the subway home on his own. She got lots of nice comments about how normal she was being, and that when we were kids travelling on our own was fine. Obviously she also got many parents saying she was neglectful and should be roasted in hell.

Let's take a reality check. The cold, hard reality is that things are not more dangerous for children these days. There is not a paedophile behind every tree. The dangers to children these days are mostly generated by the media who whip every abduction story into a wild hysterical outburst on the evil state of society today.

And when a child does go missing or is abducted, the media blame the parents. The situation is totally out of control.

Trevor Butterworth, a spokesman for the research center STATS.org, said, ‘The statistics show that [a child's death via abduction] is an incredibly rare event, and you can't protect people from very rare events. It would be like trying to create a shield against being struck by lightning.’ ”

Justice Department data actually show the number of children abducted by strangers has been going down over the years. So why not let your kids travel home from school by themselves? Why indeed?

Yeah, I did used to walk home from school in London and take the subway around the city on my own from maybe eight or nine, and why not? Even these days I would say it is no more dangerous, depending of course that the bus/subway route is relatively safe.

Kids are becoming more and more afraid that the world is a dangerous place. Maybe it is. But you need to learn ways to survive it. You can't have mummy and daddy on the end of a cell phone every time you get into trouble, the modern day equivalent of hanging at the end of an umbilical cord.

And it all adds up to a heap of trouble once these kids get to college. Psychology Today reports that:

By all accounts, psychological distress is rampant on college campuses. It takes a variety of forms, including anxiety and depression—which are increasingly regarded as two faces of the same coin—binge drinking and substance abuse, self-mutilation and other forms of disconnection. The mental state of students is now so precarious for so many that, says Steven Hyman, provost of Harvard University and former director of the National Institute of Mental Health, "it is interfering with the core mission of the university."

"Children need to be gently encouraged to take risks and learn that nothing terrible happens," says Michael Liebowitz, clinical professor of psychiatry at Columbia University and head of the Anxiety Disorders Clinic at New York State Psychiatric Institute. "They need gradual exposure to find that the world is not dangerous. Having overprotective parents is a risk factor for anxiety disorders because children do not have opportunities to master their innate shyness and become more comfortable in the world."

So what I say is, okay, maybe traffic is worse than when we were kids, but as for the rest of it, well, I simply don't buy it. And I don't understand why kids need to be protected from reality.

What do you say? Do you think there are more dangers for kids today or not?

Ripping yourself a new one

The first point I want to make is, this is not a comment about the stupidity of Australians as I believe what I am about to impart is a worldwide trend. But I met this Aussie surgeon the other day who is working in the US for a year, who told me that from about ten years ago he has noticed a massive increase in anal tearing amongst women, many of them as young as eighteen, which he attributes to the relatively recent craze in anal porn. I am not an anal historian so please correct me on this but I believe that up until the eighties anal was a bit of an extra or a bit kinky whereas now it's as essential to every porn film as FF implants.

The problem is, because of copycat nutters who can't figure out how to safely have anal sex (for example, what you see on a porn film is not the whole story, female porn stars have to warm up their, er anal parts before the actually filming begins), this surgeon is having to sew up women's back passages. I was flabbergasted!! At what point did you (the girl) not realize that the agony you were feeling in your arse was not the feeling you get when you are having a pleasurable sexual experience? At what point did you (the guy) not notice you were not exactly getting anywhere?

I just get so freaked out sometimes, living in the little bubble that I do, about the stupidity of people who actually think that what they see on porn films is real and try and copy it.

A guy once told me he had learnt a lot about sex from porn but I can't see what he was getting at. The oral sex done on women is terrible, a bit of flicking with the tongue here and there, I suppose, because if one put one's tongue down there for ten, twenty minutes it would make for some pretty uninteresting footage.

Also, some other things they only do in porn films:

1. slap the girl's face with a penis (why?)
2. slap the girl's clit with a penis (ditto)
3. do really bad fake orgasms that sound like a cat being roasted on a barbecue (eee, oooo, aaaa, oh yeah, YEEEEEEEEEEEEAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAH!!)
4. men feel the need to take their penis out at end in order to do money shot to show off that they can squirt semen (like that's a skill)
5. double penetration (I don't mind DP, I just mean the way they do it in porn - the girl has to get herself into a wierd position so that all the genitals are in the shot - looks like a flesh pretzel squished between two hot dogs)
6. double vaginal (I can't imagine anyone apart from Catherine the Great getting anything out of this)
7. women start crying with joy as soon as sperm splatters their face
8. women start moaning with ecstasy as soon as there is a penis within ten yards of them
9. pizza delivery boys are sexy (well have you ever seen a sexy one?)
10. the man swaps constantly between anal and vaginal (do this if you like but you will probably end up with a UTI)

I personally do not believe you can learn anything practical about sex from porn. I believe it is there to turn you on and that is about it.

So what do you think? Did you learn anything from porn as a naive youth/girl? And what's the most ludicrous porn scene you ever saw?

In Bed with Gordon Ramsay

I know I know, I must have had my head up my backside for years. I simply didn't realize there was a version of me walking around until last night. So okay I don't have pockmarked skin and okay I'm not worth £67m, but otherwise myself and Gordon Ramsay are exactly alike!

So yesterday it happened, an epiphany! I watched Gordon Ramsay's Hell's Kitchen where fifteen chefs try and make it through torturous times with Ramsay to get a job in one of his restaurants without having their balls flambeed or their breasts clamped in a waffle iron. Comic gold!

There was one particular fat ugly little chef who I wanted to poke in the eyes, not even because he was fat and lazy but because he was the worst male chauvinist I've seen in a long time. There were two teams, men and women, and when the women's team won, fat chef had to say: "I can't believe this! The only thing I want to lose to a woman is an ironing contest." He also said, "If I win this competition I will be beating women off with a stick." I immediately thought "Oh dear. Oh dear. Not likely, mate."

But who I really want to talk about is Ramsey. He is so wonderful. These chefs were taking three hours just to prepare appetizers, so why shouldn't he give them an earful? And he did:

"Oh fuck me!
Oh fuck me senseless!
It’s way too peppery and you wouldn’t serve it to a fucking pig!
It’s rancid!
You’ll kill someone!
This is rubber!" he said, bouncing some fried chicken off the walls.

Absolute gold.

Why is he so angry? Is it the old story of the small penis and man trying to compensate? I think not, because Ramsay is 6' 2", with size-15 feet.

He is married to a woman called Cayetana Elizabeth Hutcheson and the couple have four children: Megan, twins Jack and Holly, and Matilda.

I couldn't help wondering how he is at home.

"Oh for fuck's sake Holly, fuck me sideways you've got a C on your report card again!
Megan this toast you've made me is fucking burnt. I wouldn't feed this to my cat!"

Or what about Ramsey in bed:

"Oh Cayetana, you fucking twat. I told you to bring me the KY. FUCK. I've just rubbed this cream all over my dick and now I find its Deep Heat and my fucking knob is burning away. You stupid bitch. I was going to fuck you into next week but now you can go sleep on the sofa, you cow."

The thing is if I didn't control myself I would be effing and blinding all over the shop especially first thing in the morning. But Gordon gets away with it because he's a perfectionist and a genius cook. So the thing is, I would be allowed to drop F-bombs all over myself if I was passionate about something. So okay, right now I'm not passionate about anything except for maybe making a twat of myself on youtube videos. But what do you reckon? Give me a passion and I swear I'll get passionate about it and then I'll have carte blanche to swear until I'm blue in the face. Result.

Also, if you like dirty dog stories I've a great one for you here. This is totally true, I swear!

God only knows what I'd be without you

My husband came back after ten days away in London/Dublin and I had one of those God only knows what I'd be without you moments. I fell on him like a rabid animal. I said, "I didn't know what I had really, until you were gone." I realized I hadn't appreciated him for so long. Love hit me like a rush.

Firstly, I realized I loved him for the task he'd completed. He'd been in London in my dad's basement (dad now deceased, my stuff had to be removed from stinking mouldy basement) and removed tons of my photo albums, personal effects etc. and drove them in a van back to Ireland. Okay, then he did have a few drinks with his buddies in Dublin, but still, not exactly much of a holiday?

Where love is concerned isn't it always actions speak louder than words? You were getting filthy in a stinking basement for me. Speaks louder than a thousand boxes of chocolates, what?

The usual things happened while husband was away. Car broke down. Battery dead. Coolant flooded out of wherever coolant is stored. Car stank like burning rubber or burning coolant and I thought it would explode.

Children drove me cuckoo. One of the kids, Sausage, had worms one day. No of course I didn't go to the doctor, I just bought some pills at the chemist and it seemed to do the trick.

Otherwise, total anarchy ruled in the house. My husband is the disciplinarian and I am Ms Slack. The four year old tyrant known as Sausage ruled the roost.

Still, Sausage is worth her weight in gold regarding quotes. We were watching Dodgeball in which one of the female stars hugs and kisses her girlfriend, at which point Sausage goes hopping mad and says: "Why are those two girls kissing each other? Because they are crazy?"

To which I reply the usual old fashioned spiel: "Sometimes when two women love each other they get married." Well, I don't want to get into all the er, ins and outs now do I?

Sausage really doesn't get lesbians. She is pretty keen on her young, buff swimming instructor Chris. Last week I watched her clutching onto the back of his swim shorts as he dragged her behind him. It looked like she was trying to yank them down at one point.

Later I asked her, "Why were you trying to pull Chris' shorts down?"

The answer was obvious:

"I wanted to look up his bum bum to see if he had worms."

Ah, these golden memories we cherish.