Story: Attack of the Infinite Monkey
My poetry muse had struck during dinner, so the setting sun found me curled on my couch with my journal and a pen. Archaic though it may be, it makes a difference.
I write for a living, cranking out political commentary and articles for my bread, butter, and beverages. I also write novels and other stuff for the fun of it because bread and butter by themselves get awfully boring after a while. Over the years I’ve discovered that each style of writing has its own utensils.
Non-fiction demands speed, accuracy, and easy access to a universe of facts. That means computer. I also use my computer at home for writing mystery novels but only after I’ve disabled my e-mail, web browsers, instant messaging, and games, lest they distract my weak and feeble mind. If I’m on the road I can use my Palm Pilot, which inspires entries that are concise (which makes sense) and wittier (which does not).
However, my computer and handheld are both useless to me for writing poetry. I’ve tried and nothing happens, I might as well be sitting in front of my toaster oven. For poetry I have to have pen and paper before my mind will relax enough to let my emotions out.
I also need silence, which was scarce at the moment because my girlfriend Lucy walked over and stood in front of me to sing “Happy Birthday” at the top of her lungs. She was holding a very large box wrapped in the newspaper comics section.
She finished with a ridiculously deep “and many moooooore!” and dropped the box on my lap. It hurt, this thing was heavy. Suspiciously heavy. I looked up to see if Lucy had unobtrusively dived behind something large and blast-absorbing while I was preoccupied with the ribbon.
Nope. She was still standing there, twirling a strand of her long, blond hair between her fingers, waiting for me to open my brand new engine block or whatever the hell this was. “Go ahead, goofy. Whip it out,” she said with a grin, clearly enjoying herself.
“Why not,” I said. “I’ve had a good life.” I tore the paper away to reveal a very solid cardboard box, and then opened that to reveal… a typewriter. An old one, as if there were any other kind these days, but a really massive old one, totally manual, the kind with the little round keys perched in neat rows on slender black stems. A black and red striped ribbon ran from the two large spools on top. The decal on the paper table declared in bright gold letters that this was a “Royal,” and I didn’t doubt it for a second.
I set it down with a grunt and swept Lucy up in my arms, swinging her around the apartment. “This is great! Thank you! Where did you find this?”
“Not telling,” she said, “but if you need parts or more ribbons I know where there’s a place. Totally coincidental, me knowing that.”
“Of course. And I believe you.” I bent down to inspect my prize more closely. My nostrils flared at the faint smell of machine oil mixed with the sharper tang of a new ink ribbon. Ancient writing senses tingled. I touched the carriage return lever and marveled at the ease in which it ratcheted. “What brought this on?”
“Hello? Birthday? You told me once about playing with your grandmother’s old machine, I thought you’d get a kick out of it.” She knelt down besides me and gave me a squeeze. “Besides, who knows what you’ll write on this?”
I stood up and gathered her up in my arms. “I’ll write you love letters,” I said, nuzzling her neck. “Long, passionate, badly mistyped love letters, reeking of carbon paper and WhiteOut, as God intended.”
“As long as you spell my name right.” She curled a finger over my belt and tugged towards the bedroom. “C’mon,” she said playfully. “Now you have to thank me.”
An hour later I was back at my new toy, but I felt troubled. Across the hallway Lucy was sprawled across our bed, glowing blue in the moonlight and looking like a lunar landscape, all curves and slopes and rises. The sex had been wonderful, as always, but something was off.
We had collapsed on the bed, still kissing and laughing, and we broke to pull our clothes off. I had some trouble with my socks. We kissed again and stroked each other, teasing and tickling and caressing until our breath became ragged. I kissed her lightly on the cheek, careful to avoid her neck because she’s ticklish there. She trailed her hands across my chest and no lower because she gets a little shy around my genitals, but we’re used to working around that.
When we were ready she reached over her head to the nightstand and pumped a dollop of lotion into her hand. She kissed me quick and applied it where we needed it, jumping slightly at the cold. I rolled over her, keeping my weight off, and rubbed the head of my dick against her moist slit. She sighed and relaxed her thighs, opening herself to me. I kept rubbing until the lotion covered both of us and then I let my weight push me into her slowly, a half-inch, then back out, then again until I was completely in her.
She reached up to hold my shoulders; I set my hands to the sides of her head and our dance began. I always go slow to give her time to adjust and that lets both of us build our fires to the boiling point. She raised her hips to urge me on. I went faster, pumping away, pulling up a little to let her get her hand between us so she could bring herself right along with me. I gasped and burst inside her, fighting to keep going long after I was spent and dwindling so she could come under me with happy moans.
After she fell asleep I crept out of bed and now here I was, staring at forty pounds of metal, trying not to be intimidated. The typewriter seemed to be waiting for something, and I began to suspect it was waiting for a real writer to come along. It was grinning evilly at me.
Heck with this. Writer’s tip #1: Write something, no matter what. Then at least you have something to edit. I stuck in a sheet of paper, smiling at the barely-remembered feel of the platen ratcheting, and typed “Dear Lucy.” The sounds of the keys striking cracked! In the still room; Lucy snored gently on.
“Dear Lucy,” I typed. “I love you. This is the perfect present and I thank you for it. You always know just what I need, even before I know it myself. Right now I’m looking down the hall and I can see you laying there. You’ve kicked the covers off like you always do and your hip is rising above the sheets like a snowy mountain, cool and untamable. But I can tame you. My hands ache to grab your hips and flip you over, exposing your sweet, rounded ass to my hungry gaz”
I stopped, horrified. Where the hell had that come from? I shook my head and laughed a bit, trying not to notice how heavily I was breathing. “Okay,” I said out loud. “Pen and paper for poetry, computer for politics, typewriter for bad porn.” I grabbed a Coke and chugged half of it before sitting back down and trying again.
“Dear Lucy. I love you. Even after two years my heart jumps whenever I see you. When we’re in the mall and we go to different stores and then I come back and see you across the crowded room, I can’t believe that you chose to be with me. You’re incredible. I see other guys looking at you and I think how lucky I am. I see guys come up to you whenever I’m not right next to you and they hit on you, and I just want to roar and smack them away from you. You’re mine, you belong to me, and I will fight for”
When I pulled away I was panting like I’d run a marathon, and my head was pounding. What the hell? I don’t write stuff like this. I don’t even think stuff like this! This is stalker shit, this is… this is my subconscious or something. It’s like my monkey genes woke up and asserted my alpha maleness or something, and that was just wrong. We didn’t spend millions of years evolving up from apes so I could go caveman on my girlfriend.
It was the typewriter. Had to be. Tapping away on this thing was bringing out some weird kind of atavistic ur-writer in me, the kind that smokes nonstop and dies of alcohol poisoning. The kind that wasn’t me.
Still, I felt… powerful. Strong, in a way I never had before. I stood in the bedroom doorway and looked at her. Lucy had rolled over in her sleep and was now on her back, naked to the waist, her full breasts rising and falling gently.
I wanted her.
I still loved her and I still needed her and I still respected her as a person, but just then I wanted her with an intensity that frightened me. I took a step forward, shaking, and then threw myself back into the living room and behind the typewriter.
“I’m not like this,” I typed, although I’m not sure who or what I was trying to convince. “I don’t listen to my animal instincts. I’m a civilized man. An infinite number of monkeys might be able to type the works of Shakespeare, but my inner monkey needs to shut up. I don’t do brutal.”
It wouldn’t be brutal. I could feel it. It would be forceful and definite, but it wouldn’t be brutal. I’d stop if she wanted me to. I knew it. I pounded on the keys, reveling in the simple violence of smacking metal keys into paper until it wasn’t enough anymore.
The bed creaked when I sat on it. I laid my hand flat on her stomach and stroked it gently but firmly, taking possession of it. This is mine, I thought, and I felt guilty and strong. I stroked up to her breast and I grasped it, gently but firmly, and enjoyed the fierce pride of ownership.
Lucy opened her eyes. “Wha…? Honey? Are you–”
I leaned over her and took her mouth. My tongue easily captured hers and made it mine. She gasped and came fully awake, looking into my hunger, and her eyes widened. As I watched they darkened to a deep and smoky pool I’d only glimpsed before and never understood. I knew what it was now. I’d found her monkey.
I trailed my tongue across her cheek. She shivered with the feel of it. I whispered hoarsely into her ear, “I want you,” and just as she arched her neck to push against me I ducked my head and bit down on her shoulder.
She cried out. Part of me wanted to stop, make sure she was okay, but the monkey reveled in the way she pushed her ass back against me, the way she moved in my arms. I reached around and slid my hand down between her legs to circle her clit, already buzzing and hot. I caught it between my fingers and tugged on it and she cried out again and reached back to grab my hair and pull my lips to hers. We kissed savagely. My fingers slipped deep into her where she was boiling hot and getting wetter by the second.
She reached around to grab my cock, yanking at it, pulling it closer to her. I closed my eyes to relish the feel of it before I grabbed her hip to hold her steady and sank into her hard enough to smack against her ass. We screamed at the connection, my thrusts branding her inside, making sure that she knew forever that she was mine. Lucy lurched forward to grab my butt and pull me frantically towards her, into her, urging me faster and faster, harder and harder.
I didn’t care about her pleasure, even as I angled to maximize it. I didn’t care about keeping my weight off her; I pushed her into the bed and pounded harder. I didn’t care about being sensitive or about being careful or whether or not we had simultaneous orgasms. I was taking her, and I felt free.
And she took it. She took everything I had and coaxed me harder, making me fight to stay on and not get thrown off the bed. Her muscles clenched and her teeth were bared and she laughed a deep and guttural laugh that didn’t come from a human throat. I gripped the side of her neck in my jaws and felt the hot pulse, just under the surface, calling to me.
There were no missteps, no goofs, no “sorrys.” Everywhere I touched her, she burned. Everywhere she touched me, I ached. Everything I said to her made her moan and clutch at me like a lifeline. Every thrust pushed a cry out of her throat, deep and guttural and heartfelt. I lay completely on her, my groin chasing her clit all over her pelvic bone, and I rode her into a red-hot place where all that mattered was feeling and passion and fire.
I roared when I emptied myself into her, pounding hard enough to shake the bed. In response she pushed harder back, screaming with me and shaking with her own bursts. I collapsed on top of her, still fully hard inside her, and she whimpered and squeezed me and shuddered through another climax. We were both drenched in sweat. The tiniest movement caused both of us to gasp again and we pushed gently against each other, quivering in the aftershocks.
Te last thing I remember, as consciousness began to creep back and my monkey scuttled back into my hindbrain, was me whispering into her ear, “I love you,” and feeling her shiver at the sensation.
I awoke, alone. The bed looked as though hippos had been wallowing on it. I was sore in a dozen places. And she was gone.
I couldn’t believe what I had done. My lovely, my tender Lucy, and I had all but raped her. How the hell could I ever face her again? Had she left? How could she ever trust me again? I wasn’t even sure that I trusted myself. Even in my shame I felt the stirrings, knew I wanted her still, knew I could take her again, and it frightened me. The monkey is always under the surface, waiting.
A noise startled me and I looked up to see Lucy standing in the doorway. She was gloriously nude, draped in the torn sheet, looking like a ravished goddess. In her eyes was the look that lionesses use to tempt their mates. “Type something for me,” she said in a husky voice.
I started to say something, to apologize, but she stopped me with a look. “A little rough for every day,” she said, chuckling, “but right now I want you to write something for me, right there on that machine.” She turned and looked back over her bare shoulder. There were red marks on it, bite marks, and they thrilled me. “I’ll be waiting for it.”
She disappeared into the bathroom, but her voice carried back. “And then it’ll be my turn.”
Inside me the monkey laughed. I began to type.
Hoot Island Halloween Party!
Hey, cool, glad you could make it! Great costumes! Don’t you get cold like that?
C’mon in, I’ll get you set up. Mind your step, the fog covers the floor and we’ve already discovered how dangerous that can be around here. Whatever you do, don’t walk around barefoot. I’ve got little latex booties for everyone and you can hose your feet off later if you want. Worth it for the effect, though.
Drinks are over at the bar, leave your keys in the bowl. Food is buffet-style over there. The orgy’s “come-as-you-are,” leave your proof of birth control and blood tests with Marcia, she’s the blonde over on the couch, the one dressed like Lady Godiva’s horse.
Try to keep a sense of style about you if you can, work it so that if you fuck someone your costumes match or at least conflict in an amusing way, like that couple over there dressed as Pat Robertson and the boy scout, or that group trying to make a star. Nice grouping, guys!
Lotta great costumes here tonight. The guy by the punch bowl? Naked guy on skates? That’s Billy, he came as a pull toy. Jennifer, the one with the black gloves and black shoes and interesting trim job, she came as the 5 of spades. There’s at least six or seven human condoms walking around, two sets of testicles, one guy came as Margaret Sanger, and one courageous woman came as a female ejaculation (with hidden hydraulics, careful around her). Oh, and Bernie by the stairs is a dick. What? No, I didn’t notice what his costume is, he’s just a dick. Not many ghosts, though, No spare sheets.
We’ve got lots of party games going on. Out by the pool they’re playing “Bobbing for Boobies.” They float, you see… You can’t use your hands and most of the girls don’t fancy the kind of jaw strength that can grab an apple, so it’s a game for masters. Well, as it happens Sharon is an apple girl, so she only counts as half points, but the rest of them you gotta be more careful.
Let’s see what’s in here… hey, what’s with the lights?
“So I reached out and took her ripe, taut buttock in my hand. Here, pass this around. Feel how full, how sweet it is.”
Just back out quietly. That was Dave, doing the body parts game. Ever been at a Halloween party where they turn the lights off and one guy tells a scary story while he passes around creepy stuff? Like talking about a witch’s eyes and passing around peeled grapes or something? Well, we don’t go in for scary stuff too much here.
In the next room they’re doing the same sort of thing but they’re passing around a flashlight. Under their faces? Not hardly…
For those of you who have always wanted to live a childhood fantasy, the back bedroom is three feet deep with candy. It’s by far the most requested romantic rendezvous room of the evening. There’s just something about the smell of it, the crinkling of the paper… If you’re interested you’ll need to sign up. You can tell who’s been in there already; I had a Butterfingers wrapper stuck to my ass for an hour before anyone told me. The bastards.
Out in the backyard they’re trick-or-treating. Yeah, the backyard. You go up to someone and go “trick or treat” and you get one or the other, usually right there on the spot. Be careful approaching groups, they might all chip in.
Upstairs we’ve got a haunted whore house set up, tours go through every half hour. Ghoulish ladies of the evening, in several sense of the term. You walk through spooky State Supreme Court hearings on sodomy laws, there’s a room decked out like your parents’ bedroom, and I still have nightmares thinking about the Hall of Impotence.
There’s a group experimenting in the kitchen. See, they started out making caramel apples, but they ran out of apples, so they’re making do. They stuff wraps nicely around so many things, you know? And it just gets gooier when it heats up, but then, so do I. Oh, safety note – do not insert candy corn anywhere you can’t shake it out of. We had an incident earlier. Amazing what you can do with a pumpkin scooper when you really have to.
Hmm? Oh, that’s the local witches’ group celebrating Samhain on the roof. Ordinarily this is a time when witches and pagans celebrate the final harvest time of the year, the halfway point between winter and spring, the final turn of the wheel of life, and they put themselves in harmony with the elements of the universe and seek to honor those who have gone before. Our group just fucks, mostly. The Hoot Island coven call themselves Waccans; they’re a bit goofier and more whimsical than your average pagan. Right now they’re raising a cone of power with three cases of aerosol whipped cream cans.
Just settle in and enjoy yourselves, I’ve got more guests to greet. Happy Halloween, everyone! Hey, you folks need another hand in the back bedroom? The candy man can!
Guess Your Fetish
Do you have any idea, any idea at all just how sick and twisted the people around you really are?
You do? Seriously?
Good, you’ll ace the quiz. Each of the terms below is an actual clinical term that describes a specific sexual kink, preference or action. All you have to do is guess which definition is accurate. Go wild. You sick fuck.
1. A harpaxophiliac is aroused by:
a. Aborigines
b. from being robbed
c. a Marx brother
d. stringed instruments, especially upright – oh god, upright ? ones
e. wigs.
2. Bradycubia refers to:
a. an overpowering attraction to Marsha Brady
b. an overpowering attraction to Greg Brady
c. an overpowering desire to watch Greg nail Marsha
d. a sex technique where the male slowly thrusts in and out of his partner’s vagina or anus
e. a sex technique where the male slowly thrusts in and out of Greg and/or Marsha Brady
3. If you’re an ochlophiliac you really get off on:
a. crowds
b. summer squash
c. Scottish accents
d. the Spider-man bad guy with the arms
e. spitting off highway bypasses
4. If a lover offered you a little scrotal infusion, it means they’re about to:
a. kick you in the nuts
b. kiss you on the nuts
c. help you kiss your own nuts, with ropes and a fence puller
d. let you force your scrotum into one of their orifices
e. inject a saline solution into your ballsack until it looks like a hairy water balloon
5. A wild evening of formicophilia would require
a. a hydraulic jack and a can of Fix-A-Flat
b. a kitchen countertop with a hole in it
c. a jar of honey and a jar of ants
d. a wire brush and a bottle of iodine
e. a pile of dirty laundry
6. A stupprator is only sexually interested in:
a. newlyweds
b. virgins
c. uniformed people
d. comatose people
e. stupid people
7. A gomphipothic person would be intensely aroused by the sight of your:
a. Social Security card
b. Aunt
c. Jesse Helms hand puppet
d. Incisors
e. anorak
8. If you hop in the bed of an ophidicist, watch out for:
a. snakes
b. beetles
c. novelty lunchboxes
d. piles of sand
e. unspooled cassette tape
9. If your lover offers you a quick round of genuphallation it means you get to stick your dick:
a. in your lover’s armpit
b. in your lover’s toaster oven
c. between your lover’s earphones
d. in a moistened light socket
e. between your lover’s knees
10. Kokigami is the art of wrapping the penis in:
a. aluminum foil
b. piping hot towels
c. darling little paper or cloth costumes
d. bacon and held in place with toothpicks
e. hundreds of rubber bands until it looks like a balloon animal
11. If you engage in amatripsis it means you masturbate by:
a. stroking your penis with your own heels
b. rubbing your labia together
c. rubbing up against a public official
d. thinking about pop stars
e. rubbing fistfuls of money all over yourself
12. An albutophiliac would just lose all control in your:
a. hiney
b. lobby
c. attic
d. sprinklers
e. socks
13. Tripsolagniacs could probably pick up a cheap thrill at:
a. the local beauty salon
b. the local grocery store
c. the local cemetery
d. the local courthouse, especially the witness stand
e. the local slaughterhouse, especially by the runoff area
14. If a thlipsosist sneaks up behind you, you’re about to get:
a. hugged
b. mugged
c. showered
d. goosed
e. pinched
15. Siderodromopjiliacs are aroused to a remarkable degree from:
a. voting
b. soap operas
c. trains
d. a guy named Sid
e. scuba suits with the nipples cut out
16. Hoot Island patrons would probably appreciate a knismolagniac – they get get turned on from:
a. laughing
b. tickling
c. falling off furniture during sexual congress
d. falling off a municipal bus during sexual congress
e. engaging in an act of sexual congress with a member of Congress
17. Which word does not mean “arousal from person of same sex”:
a. iterandria
b. uranism
c. sexual inversion
d. selglalia
e. lung-yang
18. I could be considered a nanophiliac because all of my lovers have been:
a. short
b. incontinent
c. indiscriminating
d. big busted, thank heaven
e. blind, deaf, and apparently unable to smell
19. Pareunasthenia is a fancified word for:
a. a sexual attraction to sea bass
b. male masturbation with the hole in a 45 rpm record
c. sex involving runny cheese
d. a desire to pollinate flower displays in store windows
e. a limp willy
20. Perhaps the strangest fetish of all is normophilia, which refers to:
a. an attraction to fat guys on barstools
b. a desire to have sex the same way your neighbor does, but better
c. a preference for being ravished by William, Duke of Normandy
d. those only aroused from acts considered normal by their particular society or religion
e. a fetish for men with penises of exactly average size, to be determined by means of a measuring tape, a micrometer, a weight scale, and the latest copy of Cosmo
Answers:
1 b, 2 d, 3 a, 4 e, 5 c, 6 b, 7 d, 8 a, 9 e, 10 c, 11 b, 12 d, 13 a, 14 e, 15 c, 16 b, 17 d, 18 a, 19 e, 20 d
All terms taken from Encyclopedia of Unusual Sex Practices by Brenda Love. I recommend it; it’s guaranteed to make you feel better about your own twisted perversions.
Making Any (Throbbing) Story (Quiveringly) Erotic
As any writer can tell you, writing erotic stories can be incredibly difficult. You’ve got to balance story with character, dialogue with exposition, and make it steamy and arousing while still keeping it entertaining and true to itself. Erotica is possibly the hardest genre to write convincingly and well, they’ll tell you.
They’re all wrong, of course. See, dirty stories are like feature films. You write the plot, character, and situations first, and then add the filth in post-production, like CGI effects. Just include notes to mark where the sex will need to go later.
Carlos stood over her, furious. “You’ve betrayed me! How can I trust you ever again?”
Maria eased back and loosened her blouse. “Come to me, lover. Let me [INSERT SMUT HERE]
Bone-tired but with a lighter heart, Carlos lay back against the burst fruit. “I love you, Maria. Could you pull that out now, please? I’m starting to chafe.”
See? Get the story out of the way first without obsessing over the juicy scenes. Once you have your story polished and ready, then it’s time to make it hot, hot, hot!
TWEAKING THE LANGUAGE
Even ordinary dialogue becomes sexy when the right adverb is applied.
“I can’t see how investing in such a shaky venture will help your financial situation,” she said lustily.
“Well, time to go,” he said fuckingly.
Or add a simple clause, like “stroking himself.”
“I won’t stand for any more of your bullying,” he said, stroking himself.
“As God is my witness,” she said, stroking herself,” I’ll never be hungry again!”
“Give us Barabbas!” the crowd cried, stroking themselves.
Sometimes all you need is a well-placed adjective.
Samuel stood, mournfully, and picked up his hot, hard, pulsating briefcase.
Burning rivulets of thick, white-hot liquid ran down her sidewalls.
Jameel had never seen such a voluptuous, lust-filled pineapple.
Just look at how easy it is! First, here’s the original text:
Rain beat against the windows and pounded against the door. Lightning blazed through the howling skies to burn demented patterns into my eyes and the thunder was an angry beast, roaring across the night. I warmed my hands over the fireplace.
Behind me, Lucille frowned her disapproval. “I wish you’d reconsider.”
I turned to face her. “That’s my final word.”
Without another word she spun on her heel and stormed out, a worthy addition to the maelstrom outside.
And here’s the same story, after a bit of tweaking:
Rain beat against the yielding windows and pounded sensually against the reddening door. Lightning blazed through the howling, moaning skies to burn demented patterns into my thighs and the thunder was an angry, aroused beast, roaring across the gasp-filled night. I warmed my hands over the fireplace, reveling in the heat against the taut skin of my throbbing, two-foot cock.
Behind me, Lucille, resplendent in lace and burlap, frowned her disapproval. “I wish you’d reconsider, you golden-skinned stallion without whom I could never find climactic release.”
She walked up behind me and pressed her massive breasts against my back, her diamond-hard nipples scratching a message into my kidneys. I turned to face her and, within seconds, was thrusting my enraged dick past her botoxed lips while I closed my eyes and thought furiously about the Indian woman on the margarine box. After a few more seconds I was zipping up and Lucille was gargling with brandy. I limped to a chair and collapsed, spent.
“That’s my final word,” I gasped.
Without another word she spun on her heel and stormed out, a worthy addition to the maelstrom outside.
Go ahead, tell me that didn’t turn you on.
Writing erotica can be as simple as taking a well-loved story and cramming sex scenes in it. Just change the names and who’d know? If you steal children’s stories, make sure you up the ages so the cops don’t come calling. I’m still doing public service for my thrilling novel “Sherri Futter and the Order of the Penis.”
A visit to your local library can offer thousands of stories that just need some grease to be good. “Wuthering Heights” can be improved immeasurably with a double-penetration scene, and how much more poignant is Carton’s sacrifice in “A Tale of Two Cities” if he had shared a baby oil threeway with Lucie and Charles beforehand. Then there’s the Dr. Seuss stuff…
Write your stories first. The rest will come. And come. And come.
One-Handed Jack
Tired of your friends bragging about the all-night strip poker game? Frustrated at all the fun adult games in novelty stores or porn shops, games with names like “Around the World in Bed” or “Between the Sheets” or “Shutes and Garters” or something? The ones with blurry-yet-sensual pictures of an impossibly handsome man and a centerfold woman playing a board game in front of a fireplace?
Or you’ve seen dice that always seem to be bright pink, with words on them instead of numbers (one die has verbs, the other invariably lists body parts). And you’ve thought to yourself, “Wow, you can really have a lot of sexy fun when you have a playful lover. Now, if only I had a goddamn lover!”
Hey, hey, imaginary person! Calm the fuck down. You don’t need anyone else to have fun, unless you’re trying to seesaw. Any game ever designed or twisted for adult purposes can also be used for some solitary pleasure. And why not? Why should you limit yourself to quick, furtive wanking when you can enjoy the same sorts of playful, competitive, gonna-end-in-sex fun as anybody else?
I don’t mean just playing naked Solitaire. That’s pathetic and boring, especially after the first twenty-five times. No, you want something lively and sensual, something designed to tantalize and arouse so as to bring about greater and more powerful sexual satisfaction. Sex games are also a good way to ease yourself past your own shyness. Maybe you’re not sure if you want to take the relationship you have with yourself to the next level. Maybe you’re uncomfortable with your body, and you’re not sure if you’re ready to let yourself see it. Sex games are a great way to break the ice and get yourself into a relaxed, excited mood, especially when used in conjunction with vodka. So give it a try! Here’s some examples.
Jack Poker – Like the strip variant, only with a few less people. You can play it the old fashioned way, by dealing out two or more hands and playing them all in turn, losing bits of clothing as each hand loses, but it gets complicated trying to hurriedly dress and strip again as you change hands. Positions. You know what I mean. Much easier to go online and find a virtual poker game to play against (Yahoo has one). Play against the computer and bid as directed, but lose articles of clothing every time you lose a hand. Naughty, isn’t it? Can you feel the excitement building as you unbutton your shirt? Do you find yourself hunching to conceal a raging erection from yourself? Damn, this is hot!
Twisted – Naked Wesson Oil Twister is tricky to play by yourself, but don’t give up. Keep the spinner near whichever hand isn’t currently load-bearing. Then just spin the spinner and call the shots! The oil gives your body a slick and sexy feel, and playing in front of a mirror allows you to catch surreptitious glances of parts of your anatomy you don’t ordinarily get to see, such as your own perineum. But the real fun of playing Twister is the close contact. You?ll never know if you’re going to direct yourself to move your hand or your leg in such a way as to come into contact with yourself. Will you get offended? Will you get aroused? Will you get lucky? Get Twister!
Truth or Dare – Now we’re talking! Get in your pajamas, make some s’mores, huddle up on the bed and play. Each turn you have to either answer your own question, no matter how personal or embarrassing, or you can choose an intimate task for yourself to perform. Hours of fun, and you’ll be much closer to yourself afterwards. Feel the heat rise as you wait breathlessly to hear what erotic task awaits!
Role-playing – It can get boring doing it the same way, time after time. Hop into bed or slink into the bathroom and do what needs doing. Where’s the excitement in that? Liven it up by trying different costumes, be different people. Every sex guide, even the respectable ones, suggests role-playing as a way to spice up your sex life, so give it a try! You can dress up and be a masturbating priest, a pirate, a president! Whack off the way Humphrey Bogart would, or Madonna, or the Secretary General of the United Nations. Pretend you’re a babysitter pleasuring herself, or Cleopatra after an unsatisfying date with Marc Antony.
Please note I am not referring to the Dungeons & Dragons type of role-playing. I’m sorry, but figuring out your masturbating experience on graph paper and rolling for encumbrance would just be pathetic.
Sensations – Masturbation is a powerful erotic experience, but it tends to lack surprise and spontaneity. You can bring the sparks back into your love life by bringing back the element of uncertainty. Next time you’re sitting there watching the game, sneak up and grab yourself without warning. Surprise yourself in the bath, or pounce on your unsuspecting body in the car wash. Blindfold yourself and feed yourself different types of food – you’ll get lost in the rapturous sensation of helplessness and trust, and the delighted surprise and sensuality of never knowing what you’ll tantalize yourself with next. Avoid hot soup.
There’s lots of others, just take any game you enjoy and assign smutty penalties, rewards and prizes. Monopoly (long, but worthwhile), Hide and Seek (thrilling and adventurous), even Checkers can be a wildly arousing activity when you know you’ll have yourself naked and wet at the end of it. Try it! Liven up your sex life with a little playfulness, and I promise you’ll be amazed at the reaction you get. Especially if your roommate walks in to find you playing naked Wesson Oil Twister by yourself.
