As Nikki so eloquently said in her post this past Wednesday in reference to picking the four best Met Another Frog posts of 2011…

“was hard mothafucka.”

But after over thinking if for a long while, I finally made the wise decision to allow my funny bone – with a bit of help from my soft, mushy side – to decide for me. Here’s what they came up with…

Elizabeth Rose: Secrets From The Goody Drawer, Vol. 23

My choice here was based on nostalgia for the heady early days of this blog, when we were hustling to pen the funniest, most outrageous and best dating and sex stories in our respective arsenals. Things have changed quite a bit since then, for the better I think. Still, it was great to laugh till I snorted (no joke) imagining my girl Elizabeth mid-spin.

Sam Sharpe: Secrets From The Goody Drawer, Vol. 15 – Male Sex Toy Review

You all know I couldn’t resist picking this one. If you’ve listened to virtually any of our podcasts, you’re likely well aware of how much I loooooove to take the piss out of the site’s one and only cocksman, by telling the world what a big bad trouser snake he’s hauling around in his pants. And when he put…

“The Tenga is broken; I repeat the Tenga is broken. My penis punched a hole in it.”

in print, I hit the mother lode. Now I have all the fuel – and proof – I’ll ever need to keep spreading the gospel of Sam’s man parts…for years to come.

Yours Truly: Men Rock…Who Knew?

If I’ve only learned one thing since I started blogging it’s this. Men get shit on a lot. (And that’s not a comparative analysis, so please don’t rush in to tell me that women are treated worse on many fronts. I am well aware of all the mess that women have to put up with.) As one of the last remaining groups most people think it’s safe to shit on publicly, men are depicted as stupid, unthinking and unfeeling beings all the time – like e’ry day. So, this post, was in part, my attempt to go against the grain and give men a little bit of much deserved love.

Guest Post: Ken’s I Was a Real Dick to Jane

More nostalgia here, ‘cause I so miss my boy Ken (where in the world are you guy?). But more than that, when this gem of a post landed in my inbox I was floored. My hi-larious e-homeboy Ken had written one the most moving, honest and real guest posts we had ever received. And I was introduced to whole new side of Tenacious “I’m-a-perv-who-loves-asses-and-will-do-anything-for-you-if-you-promise-to-sit-on-my-face” Ken after reading it.

Crossing my fingers that we’ll be able to bring at least as much funny, real and touching to you, our dear readers in 2012 and beyond.

Cheers,

S

It’s a new year. Many are making resolutions. I don’t really do resolutions but the powers that be around here have bullied me into making a few, so I will grudgingly offer some of my own. However, before I join the ranks of the newly resolved in 2012 let me take a moment to reflect on a few things 2011 taught me about myself, sex, and dating. And love.

One man’s freak is another man’s vanilla: In 2011 I attended my first kinky party. I saw whips. And chains. And leather. I saw a woman give a blow job to another woman. I saw paddles. And harnesses. And benches. I saw a man “punching” a woman’s buttocks. I saw studs. And body paint. And piercings. Nudity was everywhere. It taught me one thing; in some quarters I’m considered lewd, a little freaky and a bit kinky but the truth is I’m pretty vanilla.

Private Parts: Everyone loves a little voyeurism and exhibitionism right? Or is that just me? Anyway, as I’ve already mentioned, I’m not a total stranger to being watched or to taped sexual activity. I discussed some of my exploits with a lady who was curious and game to take a “peek”. My curiosity was piqued. My loins peaked. And she got her peek. In the end I felt strange, I think she felt strange but we’ve haven’t talked about it since and perhaps never will. The lesson here? I might not have any shame.

Gentleman’s club? No thanks: A close friend married his “soul-mate” this past summer. The bachelor party featured an evening at the rippers. The joint was jam packed with fine a$$ women with fine a$$ legs & a$$e$. I’m a legs and a$$ man so you’d figure I was in my element. Nope. I was bored out of my skull. If you’ve seen one naked t*tty jiggling to Usher or the Black Eyed Peas you’ve seen ‘em all. I couldn’t get out of there fast enough. It just reinforced something I already knew: nudity is only arousing in certain contexts. Oh, and as I’ve said before women worry way too much about what happens at bachelor parties.

Private Parts, Episode 2: After an evening of food, music, dancing and mucho alcohol a (I think) lucky lady convinced me to perform my best sexual chocolate strip tease routine. I shimmied. And shaked. I turned. And twisted. I bumped. And grinded. And at the moment of truth, when it came time for the big reveal; someone, something, somewhere in the depths of my reptilian brain–let’s call him/it my inner moron–decided it would be a good idea to rhythmically and forcefully move, nay, shake my hips from side to side thereby propelling my erect penis back and forth like a rigid hose possessed by Lucifer’s minions. What happened next? That, I will not share but I feel duty bound to inform you all that the lady in question has requested another Sam Sharpe Stripperpalooza. The lesson here? Yes, I might not have any shame (unless of course it powers my sexual imagination). And some girls like demon possessed hoses.

So, if you’re scoring at home, we know 2011 taught me that I’m not all that kinky, I might be shameless, bachelor parties bore me and yes there’s actually no might, because shame is just the sexual lubricant of my mind. But what about 2012? What are my resolutions? Simple. I, Sam Sharpe, resolve to embrace my lack of shame and indulge my inner moron as much as possible without breaking laws or offending the slightly less moronic. And of course I’m going to come here and share it all with you. Shamelessly.

Oh, and based on what I’ve just written I realize I apparently learned nothing about love in 2011. So I’m going to try rectifying that, I’m going to try and learn something new about me as it pertains to love. Why not? There’s no shame in learning about love is there?

CHARLIE

Hello again my scientific sexual explorers and explorettes. Here in the northern hemisphere the nights are getting longer and the end of year is drawing near. I’m going to be a little cheeky and glory my past achievements with a bit of a recap into our Full Frontal Nerdity journey this year. You see it all started back in January…

When we first met and learnt that men have three types of swimmers in every shot of sperm they issue forth.

Not to leave the ladies out, we went straight onto clitoral distance and the fox-like cunningness (not cunninglingus) of female fertility.

Having had our sources challenged regarding the “rule of thumb”, our third installment provided all the background to the eccentric Princess Marie Bonaparte and some dates not taught in a history class.

March of this year and our full frontal nerdity went into some sensitive territory for one fifth of the guys out there with a look at male circumsion.

Next took us into lent and rather than give up sex for 40 days and nights we looked at celibacy.  For those of you considering this route, consider the words of  Dr. Domeena C. Renshaw, a professor of psychiatry at the Loyola University, who stated in the Journal of Medical Aspects of Human Sexuality that “Celibacy may lead to psychological problems. Some celibates who say they have no difficulty with sexual suppression nonetheless develop symptoms such as irritability, insomnia, somatisation, or clinical depression.”

In our sixth column, we talked about first times… or rather recreating them through hymenoplasty to restore a lady’s virginity (usually for cultural reasons rather than a Christmas treat!)

Seven up and we were touching ourselves, or not…depending on if you were following the quoted mormon masturbation preventatives.

We were marital in May (something about a Royal Wedding - you may have caught the press coverage if you like that sort of thing) and so we looked into the history behind marriage; particularly the modern concept of romantic love as a cornerstone of a marriage.

Next I accompanied Elizabeth Rose on a shopping trip to Sh! Women’s Emporium and spent a pleasant hour interviewing the charming lady Kathryn Hoyle MD of the aforementioned sex shop (and Hoxton insitution these days).

For the tenth of our advent countdown we went back in history for some porn. Starting with a 35,000 year old dirty statue (some say “fertility symbol”, others say masturbatory aid…, po-tay-toe, po-ta-to).

Not a bad run for the first six months… you wouldn’t get cosmo covering foetal masturbation or theorising on the existing of the G-spot would you?

Remember folks… the best is yet to come!

Now here’s some research I’m going to keep my eye on! Cheryl Murphy, an optometrist, has started a new blog on Scientific American’s website called Learning the Look of Love. In the first installment of the series, she explores the connection between love and eye contact.

We’ve all heard love at first sight, lust at first sight and let’s go fuck in the bathroom because we made a bit of eye contact. Most people dismiss these as myths. But according to Murphy, who cites a few different studies, a lot happens between two people before they ever even speak to each other.

For instance, who knew the creepy leer can actually be an effective pick up tool? That’s how I always felt when gazing upon a lovely creature from across the room. I’d turn away to avoid being caught when that person turned and saw me. Apparently, all I had to do was maintain eye contact and add a smile and I’d have probably picked up way more than I ever did!

Strangers read a lot into a person’s ability and willingness to maintain eye contact. Murphy discusses a study wherein two strangers were put together to look into the other’s eyes for two minutes. When they were done, a great majority of the subjects had developed some sort of feelings for the other – even though they had no prior relationship.

Perhaps the most interesting study Murphy cites is the one about eye contact between couples. Apparently those couples who are very much in love and still enjoy spending time together look at each other significantly more often than unhappy couples. I think I just found my new party game!

–

How’s this for good advice to guys who are thinking about cheating on their partner: if you fuck around you might bust your cock.

Seriously.

Now, the possibility of perforating your penis is always present during sex, but Dr. Andrew Kramer, a urologist finds in a new study that men creating achy breaky hearts are much more likely to damage their dongs. Kramer finds that cheatin’ sex is more likely to take place in tricky places, such as cars and bathrooms, and involve being in difficult positions. Trysts also often happen in hurried circumstances. All of these can contribute to greater risks of boner breakage.

Does this mean you’re safe from dick damage if you just stay home and fuck in your bed? No way. Any overly enthusiastic or acrobatic sex can be dangerous for the male organ.

You may be saying,

“But there aren’t any bones in my bone!”

And yes, you are correct. It isn’t a bone that breaks that happens when you “fracture” your penis. What happens is a rupture of the tunica albuginea, a membrane that surrounds the spongy tissue in the middle of your cock. And is it serious? Hell yes, it is. Get yourself to an emergency room ASAP if you hear a loud pop. In many cases, surgery will be required.

So, think of it this way: is your partner going to rush you to the ER with a busted dick? Yes, more than likely. Is the person you’re cheating with going to do that?

–

And obviously we have learned nothing from SlutWalk. Even here, in the birthplace of the worldwide movement to stop the societally-justified oppression of women based on their clothing, a new incident has again fanned the flames over what women “should” wear.

Recently, two high school teenagers were riding public transit in their school-mandated uniforms: traditional Catholic school kilts. On that bus ride a man was caught looking up their kilts and began harassing the two young women. The response from school officials astounds me. The gist of it is that it was suggested by the principal that female students wear track pants to school and then change into the required kilts upon arrival.

What? Victim-blaming much?

Let’s review. You girls have to wear kilts to our school. But men are going to harass you, so you should bring two outfits, dress one way in public and one way for us. We don’t want you turning on men out there, which would be your fault.

In a society that has sexualized and fetishized various children’s attire, particularly the ‘dirty school girl’ (count how many grown women you see dressed this way for Halloween this year), why is the school blaming the students? Why aren’t they doing away with the kilt uniform instead? Why aren’t they educating students to be safe in the face of harassment?

–

You know, I want to applaud them, tell them they’ve taken a positive step forward, but I just can’t bring myself to do it. In the wake of the suicide of Jamie Hubley, the gay son of an Ottawa city councilor, members of the Conservative Party of Canada have put together an It Gets Better video to help get the message out that there is help available.

Put together by a gay former Conservative staffer, numerous Conservative politicians give messages of hope and often cite the Kids Help Phone as a source of help for youth facing issues. It was bullying that drove Jamie to take his own life.

Again, I wanted to like this effort, but ultimately, it doesn’t do anything to make me think the Conservative camp is any more enlightened than it was previous to Hubley’s death. The main thing that raised my ire is the frequent use of “gay or straight.” This attempt at inclusivity negates the significant hardship that bullying based on sexual orientation can have. Yes, straight kids are bullied for a multiple of reasons that are all awful. But Jamie was specifically targeted because he was gay. Making this an inclusive issue proves the Cons in the video aren’t willing to address a specifically queer situation.

And until they are, I’m not going to trust them at all.

I do not remember much of my formative years’ sexual education. I know there were a few key moments in its history that have always stuck in mind:

Putting condoms onto bananas in Grade five sex ed.

Discovering her “bag o’toys and porn” and masturbating to the thought of them (no touching of each other of course), with a close friend. She had the red Crayola marker and I, the yellow.

If there was any sexual education in class, outside of the banana incident, it certainly did not stick in my memory. Perhaps it was the fact that I lived in quite small towns in Nova Scotia and Ontario during junior high and high school, but still; you would think there would have been something educational along the way.

I discovered my own personal sexuality quite early on. Getting my hands on anything I could touch myself with seemed to be the most logical path in life, though I never gave any thought to whether or not anyone else was doing the same thing. I lived in my own little bubble of self-amusement, keeping my thoughts very much to myself as I am sure now, many other kids were doing as well.

While I ended up being a late bloomer when it came to sharing this pleasure with other people, I would say I have done pretty well for myself now in the naked activities department. Through personal experiments and self teaching, I have learned many a trick to keep the boys and girls happy and feeling good between the sheets – and their legs – though I will not deny it would have been nice to get a heads up on some of these tips a few years prior.

What I really wish I had learned in Sex Ed though is quite simple. As I think of it now I am realizing that it has nothing to do with technique or the realities of sexually transmitted diseases, though those items are certainly extremely important.

I wish that I had learned that everything would be ok and sex and sexuality can be fun and healthy. I wish that we had been taught that no matter how much peer pressure you were feeling if you were not ready to do something it was ok to say no, and to talk to someone about it without feeling ashamed.

I wish someone had told me that it really was ok to masturbate; healthy even. The things you can learn about your body’s personal responses to pleasure by experimenting yourself are amazing! I wish I had been encouraged to learn more about bi and homosexuality from an earlier age. I wish I had been told that it was ok to be a late bloomer and that my worth was not directly connected to how many teenage boys cocks I sucked on the side of the road on my way to becoming a ‘lady’.

Knowing that my first kiss would only be important to me later in life, as a funny story to tell would have been nice. Having someone tell me that one night stands can be an absolute blast if you take the necessary precautions would have saved me some questioning of myself in college. Finding out before going into it that sometimes, a hand job under the table is simply a hand job under the table and there was no need for me to fret and worry if he was going to call? Well, that would have been a fast, easy and sexy fact to know as well.

What I am trying to say is that I really would have liked to have been told that my sexuality; whatever it was going to turn itself into over the years, was ok and nothing to be ashamed of. It might not have been the same identity as the kid sitting next to me in class. Hell, it might have been different than the sexuality of almost everyone in that banana condom Grade five class, but it was mine and I was allowed to own it then as I am now.

I wish we had been taught that talking about our sexuality doesn’t make us freaks and instead is something that should be encouraged by teachers, parents and the media. Having the freedom now to talk about it something I am positive my 10, 13, or 16 year old selves could have benefited from greatly.

So were I ever to teach a Sex Ed class myself, it would go a little something like this. We would put the condoms on the bananas and make sure that STD prevention and awareness was always at the top of the list. However, for the older students we would probably learn how to give the bananas a hand job first. Then we would talk about how the banana might represent a guy’s cock or someone else’s dildo in a strap on. We would say words like cisgendered and transsexual; non-monogamy and BDSM fantasy. Expressions like gender neutral would become regular language and people would stop giggling because they would end up feeling comfortable with these normally, healthy words.

People would learn the importance of self respect and would stop partaking in activities that made them feel less about themselves and only join in on things that made them feel good inside.

As I look around at society I can tell daily how many people would have benefited from these lessons and can only hope that one day everyone will learn that it is, in fact, simply ok.

People, I‘ve got extra good news.

First, More Than Pillow Talk, your new favourite (I hope) podcast is back.

Secondly, in this episode – our fourth – in addition to hearing Sam and I shoot the shit in grand style (as we always do), on this episode for the first time ever, you’ll also be hearing the voice of our lovely Brit’ mate…

Elizabeth Rose!

That’s right y’all, the three of us finally sat down to record one of our crazy chats. The type of chats we used to have on a regular basis way back when Elizabeth still lived on this side of the pond, and that eventually led to the creation of Met Another Frog.

Okay, I’m not going to waste time giving you a long preamble, as I’m sure you’re all anxious to hear the ‘special’ brand of foolishness we bring to the table when we’re all together. So, good people, without further ado, I give you Sam, Elizabeth and I, your Met Another Frog team.

Enjoy!

SB

More Than Pillow Talk: Ep. 4

I don’t have much experience using sex toys. I suspect a lot of men could say the same; there seems to be some sort of “real men don’t” taboo surrounding sex toy usage among the straight male population. Outside of say, using a dildo or vibrator with or on a partner I’ve never had a straight male friend admit to using sex toys. And god knows I’m not well versed either. Well, that’s all about to change. As part of my sex life makeover and as part of my service to you dear froggers and frogettes, I, Sam Sharpe will test drive every male sex toy I can get my pervy hands on. Then I’ll report back to you all with my scientific findings. Oh, and feel free to give me suggestions or recommendations of what to try.

For my first foray into sex-toy-dom I decided to try the Tenga Egg Disposable Masturbator (part of the loot I received at the Feminist Porn Awards, let me take a moment to shout out the good people at Good For Her).  I decided I wanted to write about the experience in real time and since I only have two hands and I’m not ambidextrous, I convinced a lovely young lady to be my hand job accomplice. So, without further ado, I present to you my minute by minute report on the Tenga Egg:

1 min: So neither one of us knows what the f*ck is going on. We remove the “device” from its egg (It comes with its own lube!). The room seems a smidge too clinical so we dim the lights. Upon realizing the product is made in Japan my (Chinese) accomplice exclaims “It might not fit, maybe it’s made for little Japanese dicks!” Well then, stereotypes are in full effect tonight.

2 min: Okay, so we really don’t know what the f*ck is going on. After opening the lube packet we struggle to get the Tenga well lubricated. Good to see our combined 10 years of post secondary education is being put to good use. As she squeezes more lube into the Tenga my accomplice adds “ooh, it looks like an egg white” (have I told you guys that I don’t eat eggs?). I stuff my face with barbecue chips (What? I was hungry) and sip some of my water. I want to make sure I’m well hydrated.

3 min: We have achieved lift off. The tip of my semi erect penis is now covered by the Tenga. It looks like a mutant asparagus. Except tastier. And likely more nutritious ladies.

4 min: My accomplice, also known as the hand jobber, struggles to find her rhythm. I think the texture throws her off. My Tenga tipped penis looks like the extra terrestrial foetus from the Alien movies trying to force its way out of its unsuspecting human host. “Enough with the jokes” you say, “How does the thing feel Mr. Sharpe?” Well, it’s just okay. I’m not a big fan of hand jobs to be honest but the hand jobber does have a pretty good rhythm going. I hope she’s got good wrist endurance because I can count on my one potato chip filled hand the amount of times a woman has manually brought me to the Promised Land. She better be the Lance Armstrong of hand jobs.

5 min: Okay, now we’re really cooking with gas. The hand jobber reaches cruising speed. Right now I have to say the overall sensation is pleasant. It’s mildly amusing. Kind of like an amateur comedian. Oh….wait….oh….no…no…The Tenga is broken; I repeat the Tenga is broken. My penis punched a hole in it. “See, it really is for little Japanese dicks” my accomplice says giddily. Clearly, racial stereotypes die hard (Dear Japanese/Asian men everywhere: I am not a proponent of any dick related stereotyping or discrimination. Please do not hold me responsible for the hand jobbers racial profiling. I think I should also note that she has never “been with” an Asian man of any kind. Let me also note again that she is Chinese; shades of a little Sino-Japanese historical hostility perhaps?).

6 min: Clean up and disposal.

FINAL VERDICT:

All things considered I’m not a huge fan of the Tenga Disposable Egg in and of itself. It was pleasant enough but not earth shattering. My accomplice was indifferent to it and felt it made my penis look weird. But since I’m a proper sexologist (actually, I’m not a proper anything) let me note that my methodology may have been faulty. Perhaps I should have used more lube. Perhaps the hand jobber shouldn’t have pumped with as much enthusiasm. Perhaps I should have done it myself. But you know what? My partner in dick crime and I had a good time. We laughed, hugged and hi-fived. We also ended up having pretty good sex. Maybe, just maybe the Tenga played a role in setting the mood for our night. And I may just get me another Tenga Egg to see if I can’t do better by myself.

I used to be the kind of girl who wanted to be made love to. The kind who preferred candlelight to daylight and had soft music in the background. I used to want to be undressed slowly as if I were a gift he was savouring. I wanted to be touched worshipfully, gazed at adoringly. I believed that the more gently a man touched me the more he valued me. I wanted to be spoken to lovingly and thought that a man who uses the word pussy – especially when inside of one – hates women. I was the vanilla sex girl.

I am no longer a quiet woman. I don’t stand demurely at my man’s side; smiling benevolently and speaking only when addressed directly. Nor do I walk a deferential three steps behind him, my hand cradled gently in his as I follow wherever he leads. I make moves and if he doesn’t move fast he’ll be left behind.

So no I won’t lie beneath you in the dark, my head thrown artfully back in feigned ecstasy, ladylike mews escaping my throat. I don’t want to stare deeply in your eyes and caress your face gently; whispering that I love you so much. Don’t give me slow, deep kisses that feel as though you’re exploring every crevice of my mouth. I don’t want to be languidly stroked, held gently like a fragile doll.

No I want you to seize me. Push me up against a wall and try to take me. Fight me for control and hold me down if you have to. I want to be clutched, squeezed, my face pushed into the bed. Kiss me hard and bite my lip as you pull away. And turn the lights on – I want see you. I want you to see my face contort in painful pleasure as your hand closes over my throat. I will moan deeply, loudly, and often. I will tell you exactly what I want you to do to me and exactly how I want it done. I’ll pull you hard and deep into me, begging for more. I want all of you and I’m not too shy to let you know that.

I’m not a submissive woman anymore. I’m no longer a helpmate. I don’t live to please my man. What he says doesn’t go unless I want it to. I don’t defer to his superior judgment and I won’t follow his lead. I don’t smooth the path of your life. I don’t sacrifice my wants and needs to facilitate yours.

So I will not set a stage for you. There will be no powdered sheets, no soft candlelight, no romantic music playing. I won’t drift into the room in a filmy negligee and lie patiently waiting for you to remove it slowly. This doesn’t happen on your schedule, I won’t wait for you to be ready for me. You will not lie on top of me and pound relentlessly into me at your own pace. I will not stare at the ceiling and wrack my brain trying to remember if your favourite rice pudding recipe calls for one or two eggs while you work out your aggression on me. You will not roll off me and fall asleep the minute you bust a nut with no regard for my orgasm. And I won’t marvel at your moves and exclaim that no one has ever done that to me before.

I know what I like and I will make you give it to me. I will grab you when I want you. Climb on top of you and have my way with you. I will spread my legs and rock my hips on you and make you feel like I’m taking something from you. I won’t lie beneath you and whisper emphatically that I am all yours; I will look down at you and tell you that your dick is mine.

I’m not a good girl anymore. I don’t like hugs and flowers, don’t smile politely and move out of strangers’ paths. I’m not a decorous woman. I am bold, impolite and demanding. I don’t accept social conventions. I eat with my hands. There’s nothing bland or homogenous about me. So no please do not give me the generic fuck you gave the last girl and the girl before me. I won’t be pleased by your standard moves. You will not insert tab A into slot B, pump the default number of times and climb off me thinking you just did something. I want a custom fuck designed to please me. Don’t call me baby or honey or sweetheart. Don’t stare at the ceiling or squeeze your eyes shut in one-pussy-fits-all ecstasy.

Fuck me, look at me, talk to me. Study me. Learn me. Make me feel like you’re taking cues from every contortion of my face, every moan from my lips, every contraction of my pussy. Force me to go beyond my comfort zone. Push my boundaries. Fuck me the way you know I need to be fucked and make me tell you I like it.

I’m not a good girl. I live a big life and I need big sex. Not gentle, sweet, make-you-feel treasured sex, but epic sex. Mind-blowing, earth-shattering, make me question my morals sex. Leave my clothes in tatters sex. Anything but vanilla sex.

When Nikki B. asked me if I’d be interested in guest blogging for Met Another Frog’s Anything But Vanilla month, I instantly said,

Of-fucking-course!!

Conveniently, my friend, Kosta, and I had just confirmed plans to tie me up. He offered after I had a not-so-fruitful fling with a potential mentor/fuck-buddy.

Needless to say, I was super excited about the tying up. I have been exploring my “kink” side for quite some time but, for the most part, it has remained only in my fantasies. Through many conversations, Kosta has worked out many of my “likes” and “dislikes” about those fantasies. He is a dear friend and part of the BDSM scene where we live, thus a perfect mentor. I trust him and we have an established, open, and honest dialogue.

Sadly, Kosta and his girlfriend (they are polyamorous) are in a rocky patch right now. He postponed our rendezvous – to focus on his relationship – just days after I agreed to do this post. I was disappointed, because I thought I’d have to reneg on my agreement. But then I thought about…

Well, we’ll call him Niles.

Niles and I have known each other going on four years, and though we’ve discussed sex (and sexted!) plenty (and regularly) during all that time…we’ve never actually FUCKED each other. In fact, it was only eight months ago that we first got completely naked together.

Fine, you say, you guys are slow movers, shy, or…maybe just inhibited?

Makes sense.

My love of being manhandled...

Except he’s spanked the hell out of me. Multiple times. Too many times to count. So hard I hurt the next day. I’ve had bruises on my arms from his manhandling (all asked for and encouraged – don’t worry).

He’s smacked his dick on my face.

He’s called me every name in the book.

I’ve smacked him – HARD – in the face, spanked his ass, choked him, and egged him on. We’ve described all things we’d love to do to each other – explicitly.

But, I’ve never touched his dick when it’s been outside his pants; I’ve never seen him come; he’s never seen me come; and, most unbelievably for people…

We’ve never fucked. EVER.

I thought I’d made this very clear to my two closest friends with whom I share these escapades, but I was shocked to discover that one of them just assumed we had. “Why haven’t you?” he countered. “Spanking…that’s a step beyond…it comes after.”

And I thought about Niles.

At this point, our escapades – to me – seem “normal.” Sure I want to fuck his brains out, but I realize that’s not part of our standard operating procedure – at least not right now. I’m fine with that. The sessions Niles and I share are intimate in their own right, and we’ve built them according to our own rules.

But, in the brief moment of my friend’s disbelief I saw my encounters with Nile’s from an outsider’s perspective:

They are anything but vanilla.

Not just in terms of spanking and choking and dick-slapping and name-calling; but also in terms of the “emotional/relationship” agreement that we’ve established. In Vanilla Land, of course , the spanking would come after the sex (if there was spanking at all), because that’s the “normal” procedure.

Was my friend right? Was my sexual relationship with Niles ”fucked up” in some way? Were the comments I heard throughout the years of, “he doesn’t like you because he won’t fuck you!” (thank you He’s Just Not That Into You) true? I became insecure. I started to question this “standard operating procedure” that worked for so many years.

The answer I came up with is that what I said before stands.“The sessions [we] share are intimate in their own right, and we’ve built them according to our own rules.”

doesn't EVER stop me from takin' charge.

Those well-meaning advisers are right: Niles doesn’t “like me.” We aren’t “dating” and we likely never will. That doesn’t mean he doesn’t respect me immensely or enjoy my company.

Vice versa.

I think Niles is an amazing man. But the epic-level obstacle course that would be committing to a relationship with him isn’t a game I want to play.

Furthermore, it doesn’t really matter to me if Niles and I have crazy amounts of sex or not. I anticipate our sexy-times eagerly as they are and they always give me little hard-ons for days afterward! Who doesn’t want that??

So, bring on the kink and let the naysayers say what they will. Niles and I do what we want, and this, to me, is all that matters in any sexual relationship (exempting abuse, of course): but particularly in a kinky relationship. Ultimately, all you need is the enthusiastic consent of those involved, not those who aren’t.

Standard operating procedures need not apply.