Chloe Thurlow's Blog, page 16

Why Dressing Up Reveals The Real You

Dressing up is a chance to remake yourself. When you gaze into the closet, what you see is a cast of characters, and what runs subliminally through your mind is: Who am I? Who can I be? What do I want?

Dressing up for a woman is a chance to show the real you. The woman you can be. You don’t choose clothes to cover yourself, but reveal your personality, desirability, availability. Bare flesh draws the eye to what remains hidden. Our skin reacts to the warm breath of a lover’s kiss, the dab of scent that hints at secrets. Skin is a sex field of sensuality. Precious.

That’s why we scrimp and save looking for bargains in the supermarket and splurge with a sense of being worth it when it comes to creams, oils, unguents and makeup. To give that some context, the United States Government spends $30 billion a year on foreign aid; American women spend double that on cosmetics.

That says more about foreign aid than beauty products, seeing how women have been dressing up since prehistoric girls started stringing shells together and staining their flesh with henna. It’s in our genes. Charles Darwin observed in his journal the: ‘Universal passion for adornment, often involving wonderfully great suffering.’ Even the Creationist who has gone out in a pair of heels a half size too small wouldn’t argue with that.

Mesopotamians discovered the pleasures of perfume 2000 years before Christ. The Pharaoh’s daughters in Egypt painted their eyelids and rouged their cheeks as they watched slaves build the pyramids. Mirrors made of polished metal appeared in the age of the Romans and women never looked back. They used a tool called a ‘strigil’ for scraping off dry skin, face packs made from crocodile dung and scented bath oils; doubtlessly to cover the lingering whiff of crocodile. They wore golden slippers showing painted toenails and flowing transparent gowns. Orgies were in fashion and have stayed in fashion, if less overt, ever since.

Dressing Up Renaissance

They say in Italy: Clothes Make the Man. I don’t believe that at all. Likewise, clothes don’t make the woman. The woman makes herself. Clothes are a device, a costume. It’s not your Nike trainers that run the marathon. You do.

The anticipation of the dinner or dance or party is often just as pleasurable as the party itself. Dressing up provides freedom from the daily haste. Far from being frivolous, or superficial, dressing up is a meditation, a renaissance, a chance to look back into the closet and forward into the future.

If I am going somewhere special, I need about six hours for preparation, depilation, bathing, creaming, blending fragrances and moods from my alchemist stash of tubes, tubs, atomisers. A girl’s body is a blank canvas and, on it, we paint our masterpiece.

Before dressing up we face hair angst. There is nothing more important than hair. If you are wearing a million dollar dress with bad hair you feel like you’re stepping out in sackcloth and ashes. With brushes, combs, fingertips and the dryer, you become Michelangelo weaving and sculpting without always knowing where it may lead – a flick or a curl, up in a French pleat; the every-which-way of a woman who has just got out of bed and can’t wait to climb back in again.

Fate decides and you slide into silky-soft undies: pink (girlie), white (virginal), scarlet (daring), black (erotic) with garters or suspenders. Underwear is the unseen part of the iceberg, the novel’s subtext, the surprise ending. And all the while you are dressing up, you are nursing fantasies of how and with whom you might be undressing.

After the long look in the closet, I am inclined to take out everything and try every combination – first to make sure I haven’t got fat and my clothes fit still, but it is also a good time to cull, put the ignored and neglected in the sack for the charity shop. You feel good giving away possessions. I imagine my donated things carry genes infused with the good times and other girls will benefit from my DNA.

Jewellery, a puff of scent, shoes (like hair at the other end, shoes have their own special angst). After the dressing up, you look into the mirror and study the result. You don’t want to be the latest 15 year old Russian or Nubian model. You are not looking to compete with Scarlett Johansson or Keira Knightly. You want to see if you have made the most of yourself and, at the same time, revealed the real you.

Have a great time.

Happy Hols, wherever you are. See You All in 2015

Leave me a message – kiss kiss Chloe

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For A Really Good Blowjob Find The Male G-Spot

There is nothing more feminine than a blowjob. You naked on your knees. Your guy with his hand resting on the back of your head. A really good blowjob confirms some primal nostalgia. It puts the world in balance.

A really good blowjob is like making a cake, the gathering of ingredients, the mixing and stirring, the slow baking in the warm oven of your mouth. Timing is everything. So is the variety of flicks, licks, nicks and kisses that culminate with gentle persistent pressure on the frenulum. The what?

The frenulum (or frenum) is a membrane on the underside of the penis – similar to the one beneath the tongue – that connects the head to the shaft. Here, the low rises of soft flesh (the mons) are etched by a fine gulley lined with nerve endings. Press your teeth down on this spot, the male equivalent of the female g-spot, at the maximum level of his arousal, and a really good blowjob reaches a really great climax.

The position if the male g-spot is a bit like Atlantis – here, there and in the mystical nowhere. Some ‘experts’ place the g-pot in the ears or the hollow of the throat, the prostate, the anus, or the perineum, that delicate no man’s land between the anus and scrotum. They are all pleasure points, but only the frenulum provides that overwhelming feeling of bliss the precedes orgasm.

Many women with a good sex life and routine acquaintance with RGB (a really good blowjob) have little knowledge of the male apparatus, even the difference between a penis complete with a foreskin and one that has been circumcised. If you are one of those women, take a peep at the illustrations. 

Secrets of a Really Good Blowjob

Your boyfriend’s penis is not an awkward string of spaghetti that has to be scooped up and sucked down. The Emperor of China once asked Lao-tzu: How should I rule the kingdom? To which Lao-tzu replied: Rule the kingdom as you would cook a small fish.

A really good blowjob is the same. Be delicate, careful, perceptive. Tickle the pale-skinned cap with your tongue. Run the tip into the groove, push down on the g-spot with your lips or teeth or both – don’t bite, you’re not eating a chocolate brazil nut, just awaken the pleasure zone with tender pressure.

Now moisten the shaft with lots of slobbery tongue action. Maintain eye contact as you take the entire length down to your tonsils; learn not to gag, they hate that, and hold it there. This vision of his mouth maiden on her knees hits a vanity nerve that runs back through space and time to their woolly progenitors living in the age before clothes.

With your mouth in a rictus, bob your head up and down, up and down. When you need to take a breath and rest your jaw, grip his column with gentle firmness and pump the moist flesh in slow, even, unhurried strokes.

Continue the handjob as you pop the head back in your mouth. Keep up the same rhythm: a really good blowjob is like the movement of the stars across the universe, a tango, a ballet, a symphony.

Timing, to repeat, is everything. You feel it, or it feels you. Run the tip of your tongue back into the groove at the top of the cap, press down on the g-spot and be ready for the crescendo.

Don’t spit, swallow: there is protein and other good stuff in male semen; it’s an acquired taste and, once acquired, totally addictive.

Of course, he may not give you the choice. But that’s okay. Milky warm jism is a superb skin cream if he spurts over your face or breasts (that’s why it’s best to be naked in the first place). When when he’s finished puffing and sighing, pop it back in your mouth again and suck out every last drop.

That’s how you give a really good blowjob.

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Cervical Orgasm – What is it? How Can I Have One?

Cervical orgasm is the Big Bang that begins life, an upsurge of pleasure that spreads through the entire body until your toes tingle, your eyes press shut and you become weightless, a celestial star released from gravity.

Clitoral and related female orgasms arise from pelvic contractions that build to a climax by stimulating the pudendal nerve-system. Cervical orgasm results from exciting the hypo-gastric and vagus nerve-systems and can last for hours.

The cervix, Latin for neck, is a slender tube about the size of a pen top situated in the heart of the vagina at the entrance to the uterus. With its sense cells and fizzing nerve endings, the canal dilates and contracts during sex, releasing a silky ooze of females juices that help the male seeds survive on their journey to the waiting egg.

Great mysteries and great luck come in sevens. There are Seven Wonders of the World. Seven Ages of Man. Seven Female Orgasms:

clitoral
g-spot
simultaneous
multiple
female ejaculation (also called squirting)
anal
cervical

Cervical orgasm is the pyramid’s capstone. The answer to the question you never thought of asking. The 8th Wonder of the World.

Cervical Orgasm & Reflexology

When a woman is fully aroused, the uterus and cervix rise up, creating space in the vagina for the penis or a sex toy. When the cervix stretches open, fairy lights glitter in the nerve complex and the orgasm when reached rolls on like a slowly erupting volcano. If the woman is not aroused, the cervix doesn’t open and the head of the penis hammering against the gates is unpleasant, even painful.

The sensation of cervical orgasm has been described as that feeling of love two people share. It is explained in reflexology by the cervix being aligned to the heart. Reflexology is a form of massage used to lessen anxiety and treat illness by applying pressure at reflex points, or acupressure points, on the feet, hands and head.

Massaging the cervix points can be profoundly healing, “opening a woman’s heart so she is better able to receive and give love,” according to Tamra Mercieca, writing in Nature & Health. “Once this area is awoken, a woman can experience a ‘heart-gasm,’ or full-body orgasm. Not only will you experience deeper pleasure, but you will keep the body healthy.”

During orgasm, the body releases oxytocin, a hormone that aids happiness, reduces stress and regulates the menstrual cycle. There is no such thing as a bad orgasm, but only cervical orgasm is thought to be unique in that it opens the mind to that thing we call love.

Achieving Cervical Orgasm

What is the best position for cervical orgasm? On hands and knees, doggy style. You need to be comfortable, uninhibited and prepared for deep penetration by a penis or a partner with a dildo.

Orgasm is release. If you are holding on to thoughts outside the experience of making love, if you have doubts or tension, the cervix remains stubbornly closed. That narrow neck like a pen top opens when you relax and your partner begins with cunnilingus, the more the better, and continues with patient fingering.

When you become tranquil, when all thoughts drift from your head, the cervix grows slippery with syrupy mucus and the doorway to heaven springs open.

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Non-Paternity Event Explains My Yearning for a Horse

A “non-paternity event” has broken the chain of the royal line and there is no reason to believe that I should not be the next Queen of England.

The Thaulows were Vikings mercenaries who arrived with flowing blonde locks on England’s shores in 1066 with the French King, William the Conqueror, also known as William the Bastard, explaining why the English have branded the French with the B word ever since.

Beneath an autumn sky, in what became known as the Battle of Hastings, William’s armies set about slaughtering the English. King Harold bled to death when an archer put an arrow through his eye, and William was crowned king on Christmas Day 1066.

The Thaulows celebrated on a Viking non-paternity event spree of ravaging and pillaging that went on for two centuries. They rounded off those guttural edges changing Thaulow to Thurlow, and, according to family legend, went to all the best parties.

Non-Paternity Event & the Genome

My designs on the throne began in 2012, when archaeologists dug up the bones of Richard III where Greyfriars Abbey had once stood in the Leicestershire countryside and planners have, in modern times, turned into a car park. Richard (he of the limp and: “A horse, a horse, my kingdom for a horse,”) was entombed at the Abbey in 1485 after being run through by an enemy sword at the Battle of Bosworth.

After thorough research to confirm the bones found in the car park are indeed those of Richard III, DNA testing has now revealed the shocking news that the present residents of Buckingham Palace have no Y-chromosome lineage to Richard. Genome data and radiocarbon dating found not a ghost of blue blood. Not a tic or a limp. Zilch.

The results, published in the journal Nature Communications, the authors risking exile or banishment to the Tower, state clearly that there had been a “non-paternity event” – the English way of saying a tumble on the wrong side of the bedsheets, a bit on the side. Maybe more than a bit.

Leicester University’s Dr Turi King (with that name clearly another candidate for succession) told reporters that the lack of a match on the male side “came as no surprise” because research had shown a 1-2% rate of “false paternity” per generation. Do the maths.

Non-Paternity Event Through Time

From the death of Richard III in 1485 to the life of George III (1728 – 1828), kings have been cuckolds and queens have indulged in the non-paternity event as if there is no tomorrow. And in royal circles, that is often the case.

Why my claim? First, as enthusiasts of the non-paternity event, Thaulow women are infamously promiscuous and, second: 700 years after my Viking ancestors crunched over the pebbles at Hastings, Edward, 1st Baron Thurlow (1731 – 1806) rose under George III from humble backbencher in Parliament to Lord Chancellor, a post he clung on to under four Prime Ministers for fourteen years – ignoring his wife and daughters.

What do bored women do when their men are climbing the heights of their own ambitions? When there are no security cameras or telephoto lenses? It suggests to me that, with desire and opportunity, a Thurlow woman, indeed, almost any woman, has over the last five centuries, opened her legs for a royal non-paternity event, her offspring grafted to the Royal Family Tree.

It struck me that I should have my DNA tested for royal genes after seeing the portrait of Richard III in the National Portrait Gallery (compare Richard and the profile picture on this page) and discerned a surprising similarity in our eyes, nose, chin and frown. If more conclusive evidence is needed, of late, I have developed a limp and a yearning for a horse.

Any lawyer valiant enough to come forward with a gracious pro-bono offer, I shall reward with a knighthood; even a peerage. That’s how it works.

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30 Things To Do Before 30

Thirty is a turning point. You are no longer in your twenties, clearly, but you are still young enough for there to be things that you feel you should have done and have yet to do.

I have compiled this list (which I have yet to complete) to both inspire and make readers think outside their own personal box. The list is designed for self-growth, and for fun. Some of the suggestions you should begin before you are 30 and completion may take a lifetime.

Spend a year living abroad.
Learn a foreign language; Nelson Mandela said – If you talk to a man in a language he understands, that goes to his head. If you talk to him in his language, that goes to his heart.
Work as a volunteer in you local community.
Learn a skill that needs your hands more than your head: pottery, carpentry, life-drawing, tassel-making, something madly original.
Make a New Year Resolution as you watch the sunrise on the first day of a new year.
Go alone on holiday for a week to a place where no one knows you.
Make up a broken friendship.
Surprise your parents with unexpected tickets to a musical, the theatre, or a ballet.
Go on a yoga retreat without your cell phone.
Give up smoking.
Read The Dice Man by Luke Rhinehart.
Watch the movie Nightcrawler with Jake Gyllenhaal.
Watch the TV series Homeland with Claire Danes.
Visit the Louvre in Paris to see the Mona Lisa.
Keep a diary. Write about the things happening around you and how you feel about those things. When you read the entries back later, you will see if your opinions have changed and why they have changed.
Ride a camel around the Great Pyramid at Giza.
Complete a parachute jump.
Get so drunk you fall over, vow never to do it again, and keep your vow.
Learn to dive (so you can see tropical fish in their own habitat).
Plant a tree. Look after the Earth. The Planet belongs to us all.
Apologise to your mother or father or best friend after an argument even if you believe you were in the right.
Respond to old friends who have posted on Facebook; they might be feeling lost or lonely and need a friend.
Decorate your room in a new way that surprises even yourself.
Go somewhere remote – Patagonia, Kathmandu, Mount Kilimanjaro; do your own research, make your own plans and go with a friend, not on a package.
Learn the rules, so you know whether or not you are breaking them.
If you discover you are on the wrong road, turn back. If you keep going, you will end up lost.
Learn not to be possessed by your possessions. Anything in your closet you have not worn for two years, give to a charity shop.
Don’t do things because they are easy, take on challenges, do things that are difficult so that you expand your mind and expand yourself.
Stop waiting for signs. When you stop looking, they appear.
Socrates said: To find yourself, think for yourself. Apply this advice when you choose clothes, gifts, holiday destinations; and think about both sides of the argument in politics and environmental issues. In everything. If you don’t start thinking for yourself before you are 30, you never will.

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Eroticism – Living Life To The Point of Death

‘Eroticism, it may be said, is assenting to life up to the point of death.’

The quote is by Georges Bataille, the one man from history I would have jumped straight into bed with, if only to have learned more about eroticism.

Before Bataille, I flirted with Albert Camus, Henry Miller and Martin Amis, whose novel The Rachel Papers I read with a torch after lights out. I rejected Jean-Paul Sartre and Orwell (that moustache), admired the surrealists, be it with brush or pen, and had a lasting devotion to Picasso, who would blatantly give girls who caught his eye a small gold figurine of a man with a huge phallus.

One night, after we had played the ‘who would you like to have gone to bed with’ game at school, I dreamed that I was naked on the beach in the South of France watching Picasso drawing pictures of me in the sand with a long stick as the tide came in, a lesson in impermanence.

Eroticism Life Choice

Georges Bataille entered my affections when I read Eroticism, his simply titled study of those passions and impulses that ‘exist in our subconscious like creatures in darkness seeking the light’ – a reminder, for me, of my literary pursuits beneath the boarding school blankets.

Eroticism is a life choice, an attempt to break down all barriers: to live life so fully, even death loses its grip. As the Marquis de Sade put it: ‘There is no better way to know death than to link it with some licentious image.’

The human animal is uniquely graced with choice. Once you take reproduction out of the equation, there remains, says Bataille, two choices: bourgeois coupling, doomed to ennui and monotony, or the exploration of sexuality as if it is a magical kingdom interwoven with sensual peaks and rivers running with untold pleasure.

There is, writes Bataille, an innate gratification in falling from grace. The supreme pleasure of love is illicit love, a feeling that you are doing wrong. Add eroticism to existentialism – the belief that the individual, not religion or tradition, is responsible to give meaning to his or her own life – and what you get is that fresh air feeling of stripping naked and diving from a high cliff into a warm sea of silky water.

Eroticism and Existence

Spanking in eroticism is intrinsic as a corruptor of established patterns; as those who know, and those who try are amazed to discover, the heat produced from spanking sends pulses of electric energy through all the tissues and nerve endings, uniting in a time bomb of sensations that explode in a breath-taking orgasm.

Being dressed is civilized. Stripping naked, especially where it is inappropriate to do so, is a direct challenge to civilisation. People are programmed to believe that they live independently of their passions. Bataille says we must never imagine existence except in terms of our passions.

I had been subjected to those patterns of traditional thinking at my strict school and it seems odd to me that parents and educators are not aware that the firmer the discipline the greater the desire to transgress.

To return to the opening line of this essay: ‘Eroticism, it may be said, is assenting to life up to the point of death.’ What Bataille is saying is live life without fear, do everything you are capable of, be everything you can be. Ultimately, eroticism is a cerebral weapon of war to break down traditional attitudes in preparation for living life fully and free of rules.

How do you make that leap of faith? How fully is fully? Bataille in his study discusses complex and divisive subjects, human impulses seen through the practises of sacrifice, orgy, BDSM, prostitution, and incest, that taboo of all taboos. Sex, he believes is the greatest of human gifts, not to be wasted through fear, custom and conditioning, but spent on the pursuit of pleasure and mind-expanding eroticism.

Eroticism was first published by Les Editions de Minuit in 1957. I have on my shelf the first English translation by Mary Dalwood, published in 1962 by Calder and Boyars. Track it down on Amazon.

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Sex is Fun – Especially Threesomes

Bella knows sex is fun and discovers threesomes are even better in this excerpt from The Secret Life of Girls

Bella wants to get her family home back after being cheated out of inheritance by her stepfather. She is on a mission to become a pop star and has just seen her idol, Dallas McTee, in concert. Bella scores a backstage pass giving head to one of the roadies and we find her in Dallas’s dressing room sipping champagne through a straw with Dallas and her manager, Rupert.

We were pressed together so tightly our skin made sucking noises against the leather sofa. I giggled. Champagne slipped from the corners of my mouth and over my chin. Dallas licked it off, then spilled her drink on my chest on purpose. It ran over my tummy and made my knickers wet.

‘Do you like sex?’ she asked me and I nodded.

‘Yes, sex is fun.’

‘Do you like girls?’

‘Course,’ I said. ‘But I like boys more.’

‘What about threesomes?’

‘Threesomes?’

‘If sex is fun, threesomes are, like, awesome.’ She grinned. ‘You’re something else. What’s your name?’

‘Bella.’

Dallas dropped the straw from the champagne on the floor and offered me the bottle. I shook my head.

‘Never say no to champagne,’ Rupert said sternly. ‘It’s the unwritten law.’

Dallas tipped back the bottle like I was a baby. She cradled me in her arms. As I gulped it down, I realised that the more you drink the more giggly and silly you feel.

Rupert started massaging Dallas’s feet. He moved his palms up her legs and over her thighs, then across my thighs and down my legs in a smooth motion that made it feel as if we were being wrapped together in a parcel. He undid the straps, removed my shoes, and started pressing his thumbs into my soles. It felt delicious and I wondered if it were true what the girls said about black men.

‘He has magic hands,’ Dallas whispered.

My eye-lids dropped. I felt as if I were flying and the chair made a sighing sound as I was lifted into the air. Rupert carried me to the window bay. I opened my eyes and the silvery moon emerged from the clouds like a face peering back at me. Two sets of hands peeled off my clothes. They stroked my breasts, my bottom, my hips, the curly damp patch of my pubic hair.

I loved being the centre of attention and this was Dallas McTee on her knees with her wriggly tongue worming its way between my thighs.

Threesome Sex Is Fun

Suddenly I was flying again. Rupert lifted me up and placed me down on a narrow table with my head hanging over one end and my legs stretched out over the other. Dallas plunged back into my pussy. Rupert must have lost his clothes and slid his cock between my lips. It felt like porcelain and slid in and out of my open mouth with long even strokes.

It was the first time I had taken a man in one end and a woman in the other. Sex is fun, always, whatever you do, but a threesome really is the best thing ever. As Rupert moved faster, I pressed down on the warm flesh and long spasms like warnings before an earthquake shuddered through me. The tremors went on and on. Then he came in fierce spurts, filling my mouth and splashing warm stuff over my face. I came at the same time, my body jerking so much Dallas had to hold my sides to stop me falling off the table.

When the eruption settled, they changed places. Rupert’s come was sparkling in my mouth and Dallas drew it out and licked my cheeks and chin, over my eyes, my ears. Rupert’s tongue was as long as his china cock and reached new places that he gently massaged, the tip caressing the secret button, and I started to climax again. It was different this time, longer and slower, like I was jumping between two high buildings and I didn’t know if I was ever going to reach the other side.

The room was warm, condensation streaked the windows, you could smell sex in the air like an aphrodisiac. I wanted more, I always wanted more, and the mood was ruined suddenly by a knock on the door. When it opened, the man standing in the light made me think of Mother when she entered my room at night. He was holding between his outstretched arms the cape Dallas had worn on stage and she stepped obediently into its embrace.

‘You sweet like sugarcane, baby,’ Rupert whispered in a Jamaican voice, and it sounded strange because he’d been speaking really posh before.

Dallas turned in the doorway as I sat up. She was wearing my sunglasses. ‘Gotta go,’ she said.

Rupert was dressing. ‘Don’t look sad, sugar.’

‘You didn’t tell me what I have to do?’

He pulled on his shirt and leaned against the door jamb. ‘Yeah?’

‘To be a singer?’

He shook his head in that condescending way people have with children. ‘You want to hit the big time, baby? All you need is that elusive little four-letter word. And it ain’t fuck: it’s luck. Lots of luck.’

‘Is that all?’

‘Is that all?’ He polished his bald head with his hand. ‘That’s for starters. You need a shitload of talent, amazing music, good arrangements, a great demo and a sexy little body.’ He paused and pointed a finger at me like it was a gun. ‘You get lucky, baby, everyone gonna wanna piece of your ass.’

He made a peace sign with his long fingers. ‘Keep it gangsta,’ he added, and I sat cross-legged on the table with semen drying on my face and the bittersweet taste of champagne in my mouth. The moon was brighter now, my head kept spinning, and I wondered what I was going to have to do to make a music demo.

The Secret Life of Girls, book and download, from AMAZON – and everywhere that sells good books.

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Love Drug Oxytocin Bad for Good Sex

When your clitoris faintly throbs and your nipples tingle for no reason, it is the love drug oxytocin that urges you to dress with perky breasts filling a sheer satin dress, the blood-red gash of your mouth like an invitation to oral sex – immediately.

Men presented with this tableau may see you as a mirage, out of reach, game on a far off horizon. When he tries to speak, it feels as if his tongue is glued to the top of his mouth.

Conversely, girls feeling a love drug buzz radiate an oxytocin force, like a magnetic field, that draws the man into her orbit as stars are drawn to a heavenly body. As I always suspected, it is the female of the species who chooses, makes marriages, builds dynasties.

Scientists have known about the love drug, or cuddle drug, for a long time. What’s new, is that research at Rockefeller University, New York, shows that white mice in estrus (on heat) given shots of oxytocin sniff out the males and go at it like, well, mice. Take the love drug away, and they lose interest in Mickey and Jerry, but still have warm feelings for Minnie and Nibbles – proving what, the scientists didn’t say.

What Is This Thing Called Love Drug?

According to Medical News Today, oxytocin is a hormone produced in the part of the brain called the hypothalamus. It is transported to, and secreted by, the pituitary gland, at the base of the brain.

The release of the hormone during labour is triggered by the widening of the cervix and vagina, increasing uterine sensitivity and making the womb muscles contract. Oxytocin later aids in regulating breast-feeding.

The love drug is a pituitary aphrodisiac exclusive to females. Nathaniel Heintz, professor of molecular biology at Rockefeller University, explains that when oxytocin levels rise, it acts as an interneuron that sends out oxytocin-responsive neurons across the brain. It is this mechanism that lights the fire between the sexes, creates crushes and explains love at first sight.

What the scientists are telling us is that romance is nothing more than a chemical reaction that takes place in the subconscious of the female and the Big O doesn’t mean what we thought it meant. Like the frogs, zebras and chimpanzees, we are merely vehicles to continue the species.

The lipstick we choose and the sudden waft of arousal are not driven by passion, but the accidental pools of oxytocin in the dark heart of our skull. It explains why Eve, not Adam, is blamed for the Fall, and why Helen of Troy’s infamous beauty, rather than her lover’s guile and duplicity, led to the Trojan Wars.

Love Drug Free

If love is just hormonal, we are no more in control of our sexuality than laboratory mice. Sex is reduced to an animal instinct for breeding, and desire is an oxytocin black hole sucking out the human capacity to make personal life decisions.

Thinking for yourself becomes an act of rebellion, a march through those cells grown rotten from  societal programming in search of that lost oasis where sex in a procreative sense is rejected, and we begin to explore our individuality, potential and hidden desires.

Romance is designed to end in orgasm, creating the stuff that makes babies. The erotic is about suspending orgasm, delaying and heightening pleasure to reach still greater pleasure.

If love is simply a puff of oxytocin, my novels and blogs are prose poems of human enjoyment, the cerebral substitute to the love drug swishing about our heads. If you have never read one of my books, try The Secret Life of Girls, it is oxytocin-free.

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How A Gay Girl Discovered Intentional Sex – Ingrid Druslan

Then She Winked At Me

Trays clattered and voices echoed and people rushed through the high school cafeteria. Then Madi Curtis winked at me and the world stood still. A senior with mile-long legs, captain of the swim team, skin so tight it squeaked–smiling and winking at me?

Madi lived on Olympus with the other Gods and seniors. It would be sacrilegious for a 10th grader to have impure thoughts about any upperclasswoman. I stared as she approached. She tapped her fingertips on my table and gave me a smile and kept going. My body twisted all the way around until I nearly fell off the seat.

What the hell did that mean?

Maybe she’s congratulating me because I’d scored a huge goal in the final seconds to keep our school in the state championships.

I knew I was gay. But at that age, I didn’t want to be. If you wanted to fit in, you wore the right fashions, listened to the right music, plastered on the right makeup, quoted Camus like you’d read him. You didn’t cream your panties when a girl winked at you.

My first serious sexual encounter with a boy required so much effort that I figured getting drunk would help. But it didn’t. One time, I got all the way to third base with a guy without puking. I began to believe I could do it if I tried hard enough. But then Madi winked at me.

On the rare occasions when I saw her on campus, I blushed, my heart raced, sweat formed in conspicuous places. But she always looked away. By May, I decided maybe she’d had something in her eye.

That summer, I tried to teach soccer at the local summer camp. Madi coached swimming. The soccer pitch backed up to the twelve-foot fence surrounding the pool. One day I launched a ball over the net, over the fence, and into the pool. Intentional? Maybe. Probably.

Madi fished it out and met me at the fence. She had sparkling eyes, a broad smile, and packed some hard nipples into a tight one-piece.

“Want to go to Wilson’s party?” she asked.

“Uuhh.”

One ugly syllable was all I could get out. I felt the blush flowing up my neck, I nodded, grabbed the ball, and ran away.

Nothing in Common

My gut twisted around like a washing machine agitator when Madi picked me up that night. We attempted conversation in brief sentences with monosyllabic answers. We had traveled in different circles and played in physically opposite sports. Nothing in common.

Fifty cars lined Wilson’s street. A few teenagers milled about the front yard while a multitude partied in back. We parked at the curb two blocks away. She turned the motor off and sat with her hands tense and white-knuckled on the steering wheel. After an awkward minute, we got out and walked toward the party.

She stopped and looked into my eyes. A street lamp lit her in stark contrast, the right half of her face in light. Big, sweet, pillowy lips. Big brown eyes. She was so beautiful I wanted to cry.

“I’m not good at parties. And um…” She tried to add words but nothing came out. She looked away. Two kids shuffled by on their way to Wilson’s with a twelve-pack of cheap beer.

“I’m good at parties. I can talk…” I had no idea where that sentence was going. What? I could introduce her to seniors I’d never met? Stupid thing to say. Stupid. Stupid.

“That’s not what I mean.” She turned away from me and leaned against an oak. “You go to a party, you meet someone, you kiss, right?” I nodded. “But first you smoke weed, you drink beer. I don’t like that. I don’t want to kiss Miller Lite.”

My heart revved up like a vibrator. My breathing became a series of exhales. I was scared because the party and my fantasy were slipping away like a leaf on a breeze. She looked at me again.

“I don’t want to kiss someone because I got stoned and fell into it by accident. Just some meaningless…” She looked away. Her words formed a harmony in my soul. Madi Curtis had winked at me and asked me to a party. She would never be any closer and soon she would be far away at college.

I’d once flown to Rome sitting next to an English guy who had a patch on his uniform, “Who Dares Wins.”

Suddenly, I wasn’t scared anymore. I was angry. I was done photoshopping my life into someone else’s happy-picture. I would no longer take less than what I wanted. I felt like I was standing on a flagpole, losing my balance would bring disaster. I was leaning into her space. She had her back to the tree. I moved in until our noses touched.

“What’re you doing?” Her eyes opened wide, her voice shook.

Madi put her hands out like a mime in a glass box. I grabbed her wrists and pushed her hands behind her back and pressed hard against her body.

“You’re irresistible and you’re going away in a few weeks–I have to know.”

I planted my lips on hers. Her tongue shot into my mouth. She wrapped her legs around me. Her hands slipped around my face, holding me captive in our kiss. Finally, we needed air.

“Damn,” she said smacking her lips, “I never knew a white girl could kiss like that.”

I dove back in. Ten minutes later, our hair and clothes tousled, we gazed into each other’s eyes. She said, “My parents are out of town.”

Intentional Sex

We raced through the city, two transformed souls now laughing and talking a thousand words a minute. At her place, we cuddled, taking off one bit of clothing at a time and playing with the exposed skin. She touched and caressed my body until every square inch of my skin tingled. When we were finally naked, she lay on top of me and rubbed her beautiful breasts against mine.

“How did you make such a bold move?” she asked.

“I’ve wanted you, mind, body, and soul since you winked at me. You said you wanted a kiss on purpose and not by accident.”

“Put one knee on either side of my face, and look at me the whole time.”

Her tongue sent electric shock waves from the sphincter of my ass, through my lips, up my cunt, all the way into my ovaries. I rode her, lifting away when she became too intense, and pressing down when I was ready for more. Guys always have some stubble that scratches in tender places but Madi was smoother than silk and knew what she was doing.

I built up a wave of pleasure inside me that I feared would make me explode. Grinding and riding her face from her first light probe, through her intense lip-sucks, to her last slashing clit-flicks was more pleasure than I thought possible in life. We kept our eyes locked from beginning to end. Even when I felt myself falling into the abyss of orgasm, I couldn’t look away. I felt powerful, in complete control of my sexuality, and therefore in control of my destiny.

We were lovers and best friends for the rest of that summer. We’re still the best of friends and see each other on holidays when we visit our home town.

Too many people wait for someone else to bring their fantasies to life. Madi taught me not to wait. As a junior, I started hitting on beautiful women, gay or straight, tying them up and making them do nasty things they’d only read about in books but ended up loving like a drug in real life.

Sex is not something to watch or read, it’s something that requires courage and intention. When you take control of your sex life, everything else falls into place.

Ingrid Druslan is writer based in New York.

Visit Ingrid’s WEBSITE – and don’t miss the unmissable Why Straight Girls Have Sex With Gay Girls.

The post How A Gay Girl Discovered Intentional Sex – Ingrid Druslan appeared first on Erotic romance writer Chloe Thurlow.

Eros to Erotic, Porn & Piccadilly Circus

Eros had curly dark hair tumbling over green eyes and sulky full lips. We met when I was a teenager staying with his family in Paris to improve my French. His real name was Yves, but that night when he slipped down the dark corridor into my bedroom, I felt as if I were in the sculpting hands of Eros.

Eros is the Greek word for love. The French in the 17th century converted eros into érotique and gave it that sense of oo là là; that desire after the Dark Ages to explore human sexuality, just as adventurers were exploring the world.

The English at this time were so occupied colonizing peoples perfectly satisfied with their own gods of love, they were slow in discovering eros. They changed érotique to the flat-toned erotic, without grasping that érotique embraces the je ne sais quoi of flirtation, mystery and arousal.

Getting it wrong when it comes to love is an English convention. The winged bronze in Piccadilly Circus, by sculptor Alfred Gilbert, is actually the Greek god Anteros – the god of ‘loved returned,’ the punisher of those who scorn love. When the statue was erected in 1893, the English thought it was Eros and still do.

Eye of Eros

It may be common currency to refer to a sixty-niner, but it comes from soixante-neuf. Whisper c’est bon, c’est bon and it’s like a prayer more persuasive than the English that’s good, that’s good, which sounds like dad teaching his son catch with a baseball mitt. J’adore means I love you. But on the lips of a Frenchman it doesn’t mean that at all. It means I am going to make love to you.

Anaïs Nin is French. Catherine Millet is French. Brigitte Bardot is French. Countless images of Marilyn Monroe capture her vulnerability. In Bardot we see the inscrutable eye of eros.

Greta Garbo (Swedish) famously said: ‘I want to be alone.’ And later amended it to: ‘I want to be left alone.’ Marlene Dietrich (German) yawned as she sang: “I’m so tired.” And Mae West (American) complained: “It’s not the men in my life, it’s the life in my men.”

The Spanish are brimming with passion, their hearts on their sleeve: death in the bullring. The Spanish flag has two lines of red divided by a stripe of yellow: blood in the sand. Latin America, with its carnivals and curvy women, is like an advertisement for sex: sex as entertainment but light on eros.

Eros as Cupid

The Italians are more show over content, sex as an underwear commercial. The Germans have a dark side, an inclination towards uniforms and bondage; sex as war. American men are addicted to oral sex, while Russians – according to Pravda – believe “love was invented to save money.” Not a lot of eros on the steppes, then.

As one of the primordial gods, Eros in Greek mythology is part of the pantheon that created the cosmos. Storytellers, with their passion for romance, turned Eros into the mischievous son of Aphrodite and was blamed for meddling in the love affairs of mortals. After the Romans renamed Eros as Cupid, Renaissance painters began to depict the full-bodied man who ignited the big bang as a fat baby playing a lyre and eating grapes. The only permanence, they say, is change.

After those four weeks studying French, I left Paris and didn’t see my teenage amour again for ten years. He found me through the internet, the Yellow Pages of our past, and we met for lunch in London. Yves was no longer Eros, but a tubby Cupid, or the scornful Anteros in a quilted jacket and red corduroys, more English than French.

Porn is about sex in a primal sense. Women in porn are shown and described as icons of male fantasy, objects to be hunted, beaten and ravaged. Eros is subtle, illusive, enigmatic. Eros is not about sex, but sexuality, desire and that hard to define but o so French je ne sais quoi.

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The post Eros to Erotic, Porn & Piccadilly Circus appeared first on Erotic romance writer Chloe Thurlow.