Chloe Thurlow's Blog, page 9

The Crack of the Whip

We came to a dark chamber where the candlelight cast long shadows on the walls. I could see a rack of paddles and canes, a table with whips coiled like black snakes. Chains with leather wrist straps hung from the walls. I ran my palms over my breasts. The blood beat in my nipples. My back was clammy and a dewy dampness clung to my thighs. 

I had been on a long journey. I had reached its end. But it wasn’t the end. It was the beginning of another journey. If we make ourselves, we can break ourselves and begin again.

We looked at each other. There were no words, the ball-gags prevented that. Just feelings heightened and magnified by the silence.

I was wearing leather wrist and ankle straps holding metal rings. I discovered now what they were for. I bent forward over a four-legged contraption like a vaulting horse. Lacy connected the rings hanging from the ankle straps to hooks on the front legs of the device. The rings at my wrists she connected to the hooks on the back.

The position was natural, comfortable. I was stretched out, totally vulnerable, my bottom in the air. I could not move. I could not scream. Just as I had felt contented walking naked through the crowds in Soho, I felt contented pinioned to the vaulting horse.

First Crack of the Whip

I heard the crack of the whip she had chosen before I felt the pain and, when the pain came, it was like no pain I had ever felt before. It was like being struck by a tongue of fire, then plunged into an icy pool. A second crack  of the whip followed the first and the air fled from my lungs. My skin flooded in a tide of sweat. I fizzed like a firework about to explode. Down the whip came again, the third, unfurling across the protruding domes of sizzling flesh. I groaned and quivered.

The fourth lash crossed the top of my bottom, just below my back, and it felt less painful, more like the fleeting sting of static. I waited for the fifth crack of the whip with vague anticipation. I was not disappointed. A warm blush spread up my back and down my legs. The pain had not gone, but had grown into a sensation that was new and impossible to define. I felt the geisha balls nudge at my clitoris, and realized that in extreme pain there is extreme pleasure and in our bland, safe, empty lives reaching for extremes is the only thing worth reaching for.

One more. Six. I had taken six lashes from the whip. My body and soul were a single sense field. I could smell the pungent scent of my own arousal. And I could feel the salty lick of Lacy’s tongue as it traversed the red stripes, one after the other, before plunging into the chasm of my aching sex.

Contractions rippled through me, growing deeper, faster. A bomb had ignited and it exploded, rocking down through my intestines and exploding in a waterfall of creamy juice.

I wanted to scream out and couldn’t in the ball-gag. I was screaming inside, screaming with the pure pleasure that comes at the moment of orgasm, the petite mort, the little death that reminds you what it feels like to be alive.

The crack of the whip had found something in me waiting to be found. I had transmuted physical pain into a strange mysterious joy so refined the imperatives that had made me what I am had broken into small pieces and reformed in another computation. After death there is life. I was reborn.

It is pleasure that turns on the light. In those dark places filled with shadows and fear, we see in that first moment of brightness the hidden desires of our true nature. When you take off you clothes and walk naked in the street, when you submit to the crack of the whip, the swish of the cane, the sound of one hand clapping, sex with a stranger, a man, a woman, you understand what it is to be fully human, animal and divine. It was something I would never be able to tell anyone. It was my secret.

Excerpt from Sophie’s Secret

5***** “Follow Sophie on a whirlwind of sexual discovery as she comes to learn the truth that lies within us all. Chloe Thurlow is a very fine writer indeed.” Alan Hardy, Amazon

Amazon.com              Amazon.co.uk

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Teen Sex Epidemic Shows Boys Out of Control

Teen Sex Survey

Four out of ten schoolgirls in England have been forced to have sex against their will.


Four in ten girls have texted sexually explicit images to boys, the majority pressured into doing so, a large percentage of those girls then going into a sexual relationship.


Girls report not only coercion, but high levels of violence, rape and partners who control their activities and use of social media.


Four in ten boys aged 14 to 17 admit regularly watching pornography, one in five acknowledging ‘negative attitudes towards women.’

The findings come in a survey into teen sex by the NSPCC (the National Society for the Prevention of Cruelty to Children) conducted in England between 2013 – 2015 by teams from the Universities of Bristol and Central Lancashire. The same study was carried out in Italy, Norway, Bulgaria and Cyprus, and is one of the largest of its kind involving schools with 4,500 children taking part.

Teen Sex & Cuts

In this age of spin, hypocrisy and cuts, where the police fail to investigate groomers passing around girls ‘like bags of sweets,’ where a celebrity having an affair requires endless tabloid pages of salacious trivia, where sex is as omnipresent as the air we breathe, schools in England have lost 8% of their budgets in austerity cuts and sex education has been slashed.

Sex – marriage, divorce, affairs, rape, teen love, teen sex – is the underlying theme of TV soaps, the touchstone of the advertising industry, all-pervasive in underwear ads across the sides of buses, in shop windows where clothes for teen and prepubescent girls are designed more to reveal than conceal, in every dark corner of the internet and, according to the NSPCC survey, between the desks in every classroom.

Show a bare breast on FaceBook and either the trolls or mind police will have it taken down – to protect whom from what I have no idea. Political and corporate leaders with a bible in one hand and a mouth full of morals secretly hiring call girls and being caught out for corrupt business practises is so common we barely raise an eyebrow.

While those same reactionary forces are censoring free speech, teens in bedrooms with boy band posters on the wall are hanging nude-selfies on the web – there are millions, hundreds of millions, you’d go blind before you could see them all.

Were the girls forced into taking and posting the images? According to the survey, most were. But when teen hormones are fizzing, when your body is changing shape at an alarming rate, sexual feelings arise naturally. Throughout the long millennia of human history, teen sex was normal, healthy, encouraged.

When our cave man ancestors died before they were thirty, teen sex began as soon as teens were old enough to breed. Their role was to ensure the future of the tribe. Now the global tribe has grown to 7.3 billion (UN July 2015 figures) we don’t need excess babies and we don’t need teenaged girls giving birth a year after they stop playing with dolls.

Teen Sex & Innocence

Claire Lilley, head of NSPCC’s child safety online, has said the survey shows action is urgently needed by the UK government to make updated sex and relationship education a statutory right for every child and young person. ‘There needs to be a greater focus in schools on topics such as sexual exploitation and violence against girls and young women as part of a balanced curriculum.’

Teens need to learn that sex and love are not the same thing. They need to know that sex under pressure will tarnish caring, loving consensual sex for a long time. Girls need to know that sex is not something boys demand and they are obliged to provide. On the contrary, 21st century women merit and expect total equality and that starts at birth. Girls need to know they are the masters of their own body and how to make right decisions from the start.

Girls usually lose their virginity long before they lose their innocence. Which is where we need education. I am not advocating underage sex. But it has to be understood that teen sex is not abnormal, immoral or sacrilegious. Trying to curb natural instincts is like King Canute trying to stop the incoming tide.

Teens don’t need lessons in morality, they need to know about relationships, protection from pregnancy and disease. Teens need to learn from able, confident, well-paid teachers that they are individuals, not clones, statistics, a fresh new market for corporations eager to fill their heads with brand loyalty and wardrobes with stuff.

While we’re about it, teens need to learn about the dangers of smoking, drug taking, the value of good diet, exercise. By slashing school budgets today, governments are storing up far greater costs in the future – the teen single mum needing housing, crises in obesity, addiction, lung cancer. Teens in school have minds like sponges able to absorb all the advice and knowledge parents may be reluctant, unable or too ill-educated to pass on.

Education, like sex, is a precious gift. The UK government and governments everywhere need to take Claire Lilley’s advice: put the funds back in education budgets, and cherish their most valuable asset – the teachers.

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The Bush is Back & Smells Delicious

The bush is back. Regrown. Soft and kinky. Neatly trimmed. A magic carpet.

Drop the lady razor in the garbage (recycling section), give the tweezers a rest and watch the garden grow.

As one who has wavered between sleek Brazilian, hairy mammoth and scalped pre-pubescent, the return of those short and curlies comes as something of a relief in every way except one, perhaps: the bank account.

Yes, the bush is back – but with new perceptions on care, attention and grooming. We wash, dry, style, mousse and fret over our hair. We are constantly nurturing our skin with unguents and oils, sun cream, anti-aging cream, eyelid cream, squirts of perfume from the Victorian atomiser…It’s not easy being a woman. Then, it’s not easy being anything else for that matter.

Jars, bottles, brushes, lipstick tubes, palettes of powder and sachets of make-up sprawl like defeated soldiers on shelves in the bathroom as if waiting for the inner alchemist to turn the base metal of the mirror’s reflection into the golden glow of Helen of Troy, the beauty whose face launched a thousand ships and plunged the Ancient World into years of war.

And yet, the frilly rug leading to our most intimate place is often snubbed, neglected, forgotten.

The Bush is Back au Natural

It struck me that the bush is back because in our consumer society where pollution is bundled in rights and traded rather than treated, where high street shops sell bras for seven year olds, where milk is poured down the drain to keep prices high, there remains a patch of humanity that had yet to be conquered by the ad man.

Ah, what irony, a girl who writes about erotica and has a conscience, who scorns new products even as she shoves her debit card into the jaws of the machine that whisks out her cash in the flick of a false eyelash. We are all prone to hypocrisy. We are all our own worst enemy. Paradox is Us.

But to get back to the bush is back, Gemma arrived from New York with a present: Fur Oil, a neat round bottle with a lemony gold emollient and a plunger like an eye-dropper that makes you think each drop is as precious as the elixir of life and it is – retailing at $39 from the website, with stores coming on board and the promise of a launch in the UK in the coming months.

Naturally, I went straight to Fur website and enjoyed the sassy introduction: ‘Few things in life are certain, but pubic hair is one of them. Fur is the first line of products that cares for pubic hair and skin.’

The three young women behind Fur – Emily and Laura Schubert and friend Lillian Tung – advise us to ‘treat our most sensitive area with more respect,’ and promise that their natural products will nourish your pubic hair… ‘and won’t stain your silk.’ That is a relief.

Note the word ‘products’ above. Along with the oil, the Fur girls have also developed a Stubble Cream for those behind the curve and still asking the question: To Cut Or Not To Be Cut? 

Fur Oil smells delicious and contains nine natural oils including grape seed, jojoba, tea tree oil and clary sage seed oil – add hot water and I imagine it will taste as good as it smells. The bush is back and not before time.

Please share with the links below xx Chloe

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A Hopeless Romantic on a New Playing Field

Guest Blog by Justin Robinson

In relationships men have a pretty hard time of it nowadays, and so we should; we’ve ruled the roost unchallenged for millennia. Our prior governance, however, makes relationships no less challenging.

When I say ‘men’, I actually mean ‘me.’ I have a hard time of it. Or rather, I and other men like me. So what do I mean by ‘men like me?’ I refer to the hopeless romantic, men for whom love is important. We are happy to make sacrifices, to compromise, to allow the involvement of a significant other to take a large slice of our life. We want to be chivalrous and charming, loving and gentle. We want to cook and clean and build and repair. We want to caress and kiss.

And ravage. We certainly want to ravage. Breathless quickies in inappropriate places or long, slow lovemaking full of eye contact and deep kisses. Occasionally we want to spend an afternoon in the bedroom that’s so frantic and sexual that a requirement for redecoration is prompted.

For the hopeless romantic, loyalty, fearsome loyalty, is guaranteed. A dog’s loyalty resembles that of Tiger Woods in comparison to us. We do not wander. Our heads may get turned, but we will look, then promptly walk the other way. The hopeless romantic never needs to delete a text or email. We are loyal in other ways…your faults and mistakes (you do have them), our rows and bickering (we’ll certainly have them), are between us. We don’t bitch and moan about you to anyone.

You will be showered with affirmations. Not meaningless, trite ones, or just when you’re gussied up with perfect hair, faultless make-up, and the sort of skin that only happens with great care and at the right time in the month. You can take our breath away first thing in the morning when your hair is capable of nesting a family of roosting ravens, with streaks of improperly removed mascara schlepped across one eyelid and a crust of dried dribble on your cheek.

Hopeless Romantic Rules

In short, you’ll be worshipped by the hopeless romantic. We may walk that treacherous fine line between healthy dependency and co-dependency, but we – we men – are bloody good to have around most of the time.

What do we want in return? Not much, just a version of the above to be reciprocated. Don’t panic, we don’t want the whole shebang, just your version of it. The 100% loyalty should be a given, but as for the rest, we just need regular glimpses of a ‘love lite,’ if you like. Enjoy your life, your work and your friends. Have a blast, stay out until dawn; we’ll be looking forward to you crawling under the covers when you get home. We just ask that you keep your lips to yourself…and your phone number.  And your WhatsApp, Skype, Facebook, Twitter, Pinger, and all that other shite.

So why am I and my ilk so hard done by? Because the rules have changed in recent years; multiple dating, overlaps, testing water from within the relationship. I’m sure that always went on to some extent, but social media and the myriad online communication tools have made it all so horribly simple. Not to mention concealable.

You know, I’ve just had a hideous thought.

Whilst writing I’ve been thinking of past relationships that have foundered with women of different ages, varying nationalities, from a range of social and economic classes, and I’ve been hit with the awful realisation that with all these variables, there is only one constant. Me.

Perhaps I’m not a hopeless romantic, maybe I’m just romantically hopeless.

Copyright 2015, Justin Robinson

Read – The Blind Date From Hell
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Why Afternoon Sex Makes You Feel More Alive

Afternoon sex with the room turning amber in the lowering sun is like a gift from ancient gods. Like stolen time. Like discovering a new star.

Forget the afternoon siesta, afternoon sex is life-affirming, it puts a sparkle in your eyes and prepares you for the night and life ahead.

Afternoons can slip away doing nothing; dull, unremembered. You’ve finished the novel you were reading. You don’t want to send emails or flick through images on your iPhone. Photographs capture mementoes from the past. Afternoon sex is now, easy and slow, a guilty secret, like eating chocolate, or peeing in a shared bath.

There is a Kama Sutra position called Afternoon Delight where he lies stretched out on his side leaning on one elbow, while she lies crossways with her legs over him, her open yoni meeting his erect lingam.

Lingam is Sanskrit for shaft of light, the metaphor relating to the Hindu god Shiva and exemplified by the erect phallus. Yoni – the vulva – represents the goddess Shakti – the source of Creative Energy. In joining, they form Bhrama – the Universe, or Oneness – completing the Hindu Trinity.

W.C. Fields said: ‘Some things are better than sex, and some are worse, but there’s nothing exactly like it.’ It is not easy to think of many things that are better than sex, but he was right in saying that there is nothing exactly like it, and there is nothing exactly like Afternoon Delight – follow the link for an illustration and surprise your partner.

Afternoon Sex & Pregnancy

You don’t need an excuse for afternoon sex, but girls trying to get pregnant can use it if they think it’s necessary. Sperm lives for three to five days, but the egg only has a maximum 24 hour cycle. To increase your chance of conception, it’s vital to have sex in the days leading to ovulation and on the day you ovulate in order to have a healthy supply of sperm waiting like sale day crowds in the fallopian tube when an egg is released.

According to the Baby Center, exactly when a woman ovulates isn’t clear. It depends in part on the length of your menstrual cycle. A woman typically ovulates about 14 days before her next period — not mid-cycle, as is commonly thought. If you have an average 28-day cycle, then you would ovulate about halfway through. But if you have a 35-day cycle, you would ovulate around day 21, not day 17, day 1 being the first day of your period.

But, really, seriously, afternoon sex doesn’t need excuses. It’s fun, it’s young, it’s human. Afternoon sex is more like a feast than a takeaway. There’s time for copious and devoted foreplay without rush, the very opposite of car sex, which makes your pulse race, your heart beat faster, and marks your clothes with stains that never come out.

Back seat sex is illicit love, love borrowed knowing that it will never be returned. Afternoon sex is that rare marvel that slows the hands of time, ’emotion in motion,’ as Mae West once said, an opportunity to experiment with new positions and explore the depths of your passion.

Please share with the links below – xx Chloe

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Capturing Lost Moments

Guest Blog by Bliss Lost

Does art imitate life or does life imitate art? The best of art captures moments in life that we as humans failed to observe, or did see but failed to appreciate it for what it truly was and is. A place or a moment of Bliss, a beautiful moment, or indeed that defining moment in our lives that in many ways we prefer to forget.

Is that what it is to be a true artist, capturing lost moments and preserving perfect ones? Are our memories not enough? Is that why we need art?

Or is art a constant torture, that way of reminding us of what we have missed or failed to see, an experience we will never have or are never to have again? Paintings do this best, or are fair in capturing the moment, of preserving lost moments. Where the lines become blurred is in writing and, indeed, cinema.

Perhaps not. Maybe cinema really does just imitate life, stealing from it. Accentuating it to the extent that it tries to bombard our senses with its taste of fictional worlds, or our own world in a way that we could never hope to experience or live in. That panoramic moment in a film, or the action sequence that teases us, jolting us from our dull lives, feed the monster that is our imagination with joy.

No, best of all is those few words, those perfectly composed lines from a treasured book. The descriptive power some writers have that suddenly hooks us into their story. The one where we never want the tale to end.

Just like those few wonderful moments in life, that moment of Bliss, whatever it is, that creates the fantasy from which we are forever torn as the moment passes almost wishing it was never that good. Knowing that it will never come again, living that it might. Hoping to find a balance in life that allows us to live forever sanely in its memory.

Copyright 2015, Bliss Lost

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Why Do Women Cheat? Because They Like Sex

Women cheat because it is in our genes, coded in the dark spirals of our prehistoric DNA.

Neanderthal girls when they left the cave to gather wood thought nothing of lifting their furs for passing strangers. Casual sex was the only form of entertainment and provided potential escorts to help rear the children should their primary mate get devoured on a hunting trip by a wild beast.

These free sexy girls must have known instinctively that a child from a casual lover would add to the genetic pool (essential for brain development), as well as giving herself and the tribe a greater chance of survival. Life was short, hard and precarious. The more children a woman had the more likely one would live long enough to look after her when she reached a grand old age, like thirty.

Research by Helen Fisher – the anthropologist and author of Why Him Why Her? – challenges the long-held Darwinian theory that men commit adultery because of their inherent need to spread their seed, while women cheat because they crave attention and affection.

People cheat for different reasons – revenge, spite, inebriation, jealousy, nymphomania, novelty, boredom, the list is endless. But the assumption that men are sex warriors seeking new thrills, while women cheat because they are sad cases yearning for a hug is as passé as the pony and trap.

Women cheat because they like sex and are not getting it. Or they are not getting the right sort. Or they are not getting enough. Sex with the same partner becomes dull, formulaic, less coming than going.

Women cheat…just because…

Women cheat because a new man – or woman – revives our quintessential life force and renews all that has grown weary and stale. Look at your friends: you know who is having a fling by the roses in her cheeks, the smile that comes easily to her lips; she has a knowing swagger, a glimpse of cleavage and she’s lost ten pounds.

It was generally accepted that women cheat when they are discontented with their relationship, while men are cited as being happy in marriage and cheat for the fun of it. Men were less likely to fall in love, while women were bound to the emotional chains of that inane promise: to death do us part.

Such formulas may once have been true – we used to believe the earth was flat – but women cheat now for the same reasons as men: because it’s fun, because they adore sex, variety is the hot chile pepper of life, and a new partner may do those wicked things other lovers have neglected.

In 1900, women were considered brazen if they showed their ankles. We have come a long way in a 100 years and must, in the 21st century, complete the circle and live full, unlimited, uninhibited lives as coded in our DNA and practised by our hairy prehistoric ancestors.

Half of all marriages end in divorce. Adultery is not betrayal, it is normal. Couples need to know when they go into a relationship that the dust of time will inevitably clog up the love works and free open relationships without the need for cheating, lying and duplicity are happier, healthier and sexier. As for the question: Why do women cheat? It will in time lose all relevance.

Please share with Facebook, Google, Pinterest – and, remember, say yes when you are about to say no – xx Chloe

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How Good Habits Are the Way to Success

We think of habits as bad – smoking, the extra glass of wine, forgetting to reply to emails, calling Mother.

But habits can also be good and good habits are the way to success – the athlete who trains every day, the A student burning the midnight oil, the best-selling author who crosses out every cliché and redundant adjective.

In a TED broadcast, Matt Cutts describes how he started to set himself simple tasks that he would carry out every day for 30 days, and how, by sticking to them, he has grown more confident and outgoing. He explains that by making small strides rather than occasional bold leaps to achieve these personal goals, it has brought him greater satisfaction and closer to discovering his true potential.

Starting a new routine is the hardest part, especially if you want to change your old bad habits into a new good habits. By setting reachable goals, it is easier to keep going – Lao-tsu said a journey of a thousand miles begins with the first step. You feel good about yourself doing what you set out to do and able to set more difficult challenges.

Matt Cutts’s broadcast encouraged me to go back to my Spanish exercise books. I have never gone beyond a rudimentary conversation level and have often given up when the finishing line was almost in view, a common mistake. Good habits require determination.

What I decided to do was learn 10 new words a day by creating 3 questions that contained those 10 words, for example:

How long does it take your children to get to school?
Where did you go for your holidays last year?
When are you going to visit me in London?

These questions contain basic words. Each day for 30 days, I added questions with words that are less common but essential if I was ever going to speak Spanish with a degree of fluency – for example: Do you believe small changes are sustainable and essential in reaching your goals?

Sustaining Good Habits

I had read that people in everyday conversation in Spain only use 1000 words. By learning 10 words a day for 30 days, I would have 300 new words and be one third of the way up the mountain.

Matt Cutts’ first goal was easy: he decided to take a photograph every day for 30 days. Looking back at those photographs now, he recalls exactly where he was and what he was doing that day – when, so often in our lives, 30 days can slip by and we remember nothing at all.

Having reached his goal, Matt took on greater and greater tasks: he gave up sugar, biked to work and, a year later, trekked up Mount Kilimanjaro, the highest mountain in Africa, something he says he would never have had confidence to do without creating and sustaining good habits.

He also wrote a novel in 30 days which, he admitted, ‘was awful.’ But, then, novels are not liked other challenges. What Matt does have is a first draft. He just needs another dozen or so 30 days challenges to edit, re-write and finish it. I have no doubt he will and, meanwhile, wish me bon suerte: I’m on the 15th day of my 10-words a day challenge.

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Multiple Orgasm is Good For Your Health

Multiple orgasm is a blessing granted only to women. Men get floppy and have to wait, while multiple orgasm is that rare gift that strikes suddenly and leaves girls feeling in touch with the beating heart of the universe.

A multiple orgasm is like an internal earthquake that erupts in your vagina. It runs shivering and rippling up through your whole body, then down tingling in sensory explosions to your toes and fingertips. The magma is magnificent, warm, silky and copious.

Multiple orgasm leaves you feeling breathless, complete, in touch with your shaggy prehistoric self. I once ran the marathon in under four hours and crossing the line for me was orgasmic.

A multiple orgasm is like surfing or mountain climbing. Once you can balance on a wave, you are ready to climb the next wave. Once you have reached the first pinnacle, you can keep going, conquer the entire range, peak after peak, rising into a cloud of sheer ecstasy. After multiple orgasm, everything else is a dip in a warm bath without the thrill and threat of a tsunami.

An orgasm releases the happiness hormone oxytocin, reduces stress, regulates your menstrual cycle and is good for your heart and general health. If you get all that from one BIG O, just imagine what multiple orgasm is going to do for you?

According to one recent study, only one woman in three regularly has an orgasm. That’s sad. The stats for multiple orgasm are no better for multiple reasons: stress, an inability to relax, the switched on clamour and buzz of modern life, a lack of foreplay – yes, it’s his fault, or her fault. Multiple orgasm can be achieved as easily, or more easily, with a dildo or strap-on. They don’t sag with brewer’s droop or complain about commuting, IT glitches and the boss at work.

Multiple Orgasm Tips

How do you achieve multiple orgasm?

I repeat: foreplay, petting, kissing, cuddling, massage. You don’t climb the mountain without limbering, stretching, preparation. Sex should never be hurried – yes, of course, the quickie in the elevator before work is better than a double hit Starbucks any day – but multiple orgasm is the Promised Land reached by that old-fashioned quality: patience.

It takes men on average three to seven minutes to climax (teens about 45 seconds). Women require from ten to twenty minutes. This lack of compatibility is called ‘the arousal gap’ and has haunted humanity since the asp wriggled down from the tree. That is until women started to climb on top and invented – you got it – foreplay.

Between the sheets you have to give to get. That means a leisurely candlelit session giving head until your partner is relaxed, peaceful, mind emptied of everything except the warm watery moment. Satisfy his needs, let him rest and regain desire, then lay back, legs spread waiting for the wave. If that sounds a lot like meditation, it will come as no surprise that two writers who believe ‘any woman’ can have a multiple orgasm have published the The Multi-Orgasmic Woman, a ‘healing journey into female desire and sexual satisfaction.’

Taoist teacher Mantak Chia and physician Rachel Carlton Abrams have combined the sexual wisdom of the East with sexual-medical research from the West to show how we can live healthy, dynamic lives by connecting to our sexual energy. By following their methods, Chia and Abrams claim women can learn how to reach intense, prolonged, whole-body orgasms. Like most guide books, The Multi-Orgasmic Woman contains a lot of things that are obvious, but it never hurts to be reminded of what we already know or feel intuitively.

One piece of advice I do agree with is breathing. We tend to hold our breath during orgasm, then let it all out in a roaring scream of earth-shattering joy. Instead, you should learn to breathe normally, hold on to the orgasm, bathe in the afterglow and nurture the flame until it sparkles again. If you practise deep-breathing, you stay locked in the moment and surf on into multiple orgasm.

While one in three women never gets so much as a glimpse of orgasm, the majority of women rarely reach that agh-agh-agh moment by penetration alone. She needs the constant pleasure of clitoral stimulation, either with his, her or your own fingertip or sex toy. Multiple orgasm is a magic box waiting to be unlocked. She is not the ghost everyone has heard of but never seen. She is real and present, waiting to be discovered.

Now, darlings, if are on FaceBook and share this post by clicking on the link below, the ripple effect will give you a multiple orgasm. Guaranteed. 

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Young Prostitute Girlfriend Experience (GFE)

Guest Blog by David Simon Strauss

I have had only one bad experience with a young prostitute. Her name was Carlota. She was from Argentina, she said. I have a photograph in my phone. Nothing else.

A young prostitute is in the happiness business. Prostitutes sell sex, yes. But they provide human warmth and comfort, an animal connection, a sort of love. A young prostitute wants to do a good job so you come back for more.

I say ‘young prostitute’ because, as we age we grow jaded, whatever the profession; the professor teaching the same course year in year out; the public official weary of unpredictable humanity; the man closer to fifty than forty selling shipping insurance.

I was married at thirty and divorced at forty. When you are young, you move in packs. Boys and girls pair up, change partners, start again. It all works out – or, in fact, doesn’t: 50% of marriages, like my own, end in tears. What was routine at twenty, dating a girl, having sex, is not so easy at forty. Where do you go to find a partner? A bar? A disco? Church?

The only place now for dating is the Internet, a cloying ubiquitous web that engulfs your soul like a spider wrapping a fly and leaves you feeling empty. You meet women who list their age as 39 who are clearly 52. They are seeking companionship, when what you want is casual sex the way it once was – the way it is with a young prostitute.

A young prostitute on the game by choice generally offers the girlfriend experience – you find the acronym GFE in ads online and in magazines – and those I have known certainly seem to enjoy their work as well as the money and freedom it provides.

Of course there are women trapped into hustling and whoring by pimps and poverty. Not only does my heart go out to them, I send donations to relevant charities. There are good corporations to work for as well as bad. It is the same in all walks of life.

Young Prostitute Début

My first experience with a young prostitute was in Singapore on a business trip. A Swiss colleague at the end of a long day invited me back to his hotel suite for a drink. He filled two glasses, then asked me if I would like a couple of girls to join us. I was immediately excited by the idea.

He made a call and two girls appeared like humming birds in traditional silk dresses. They were like concubines from some forgotten time. We paired off and I was surprised that it was so easy, so informal, so natural – a pleasure I had not felt since the early days of my marriage.

I started to seek out girls wherever my travels took me. I enjoyed their fresh young bodies, the vague feeling of decadence, but also the brief after time when the girls told me their dreams and stories, true or false, it didn’t matter. I would rather be in bed with a young prostitute talking about her plans to live in Hawaii or buy a house for her mother than be stuck at a hotel bar exchanging prattle with some salesman like myself obsessed with his divorce and baseball.

Young prostitutes are courageous, determined, often wise beyond their years. They deliver human connection through sex for an equitable price. They call prostitution the oldest profession, but surely, that is inaccurate. In order for there to be a commercial exchange, the bankers and accountants must have already formed their guilds and systematized the market.

Which brings me back to Carlota. I was staying at the Boston Harbor Hotel while attending a five-day conference. At the end of the first monotonous day I found in a local magazine the customary GFE ad and made a call.

I walked six blocks to an apartment building where the Madame, a woman my age, thin as a stick in a shiny black dress, provided the format I like. I sat on a sofa and five girls were paraded before me. I chose Carlota, the youngest, fresh-faced and pretty with full pink lips turned in a smile.

The girls filed out and I waited by the window for Carlota to return. She opened the door, closed it quietly, and remained with her back against the woodwork for a few intriguing moments. She then crossed the room, took my cheeks in her palms and kissed me as if we had been parted for a long time.

She ran her hand down between my legs, looked up into my eyes and whispered something that has haunted me from that day to this. She said: ‘Have you got a present for me?’ and stroked my erection. She pulled down my shorts and kissed the tip of my cock. As she took me into her mouth, I sighed like a traveler at the end of an exhausting journey.

I slipped from my clothes. She removed her black bra and panties, her high heels. The blinds were three-quarters closed and the setting sun striped her long thin body in lines of light and shadow. I was engulfed by her perfume, her beauty, her youth. We feasted on each other. We had sex with a condom and I felt the leaden years lift from me as if I had been released from gravity.

Immediately I got back to my hotel, I called and booked to see Carlota the same time the following day.

Young Prostitute Dance

You go to a young prostitute because she makes you feel young. While you want her to please you, paradoxically, it is just as important to please her. You want her to reach orgasm through the care of your tongue, with the rubber sheath holding you a millimeter apart. You want to believe you still have that something that makes you who you believe you are.

After you have had sex with a prostitute, it is never quiet the same if you visit her again. We are nomads, relentlessly moving on. Carlota was the exception. Sex that night, the second time, was symphonic, rhythmic, a marvelous dance. We had learned the steps and moved like a couple defying convention, the world, death. We lay entwined, the clock running, talking breathlessly.

She was at college paying her way through a course in the history of art. She had a brother in Buenos Aires ‘living a bad life,’ she said. She wanted to help him; she wanted to visit Naples, where her mother was from. She was new to Boston. She hated the cold. She didn’t know how she was going to survive the winter.

I adored her rich, gestured, accented English, the passion in her liquid dark eyes, her animated expression as she talked. I stroked her long fine body as if beneath my palms was a rare object that needed to be protected.

The inevitable double tap on the door told us that the time was up. I dressed. I booked Carlota for the following night and walked back to Boston Harbor in a state of elation and confusion.

I skipped the Convention center next day, the networking, the exchange of business cards and promises. I swam in the pool. I ate an avocado salad with a glass of white wine. Flashes of adrenaline pumped through my bones. I had forgotten how it felt to be content, to be happy. I owned my apartment. No more alimony. My daughter had finished college. She was the same age as Carlota and came from a different part of the universe.

After my shower, I gazed at myself in the mirror. I was in good shape, a few seams of grey in my hair, firm neck, the whites of my eyes still white, the blue like the sky a girl had once said. I had always enjoyed Italy, the food, the people, but for some reason had never been to Naples.

The sea turned orange as the sun went down. She was waiting for me, the room patterned in silver lines. I was anxious to rid us of our clothes and feel her firm flesh beneath me. I savored the warm salty wetness of her mouth. It was like I was sucking her soul from her body into mine and my soul was shaking free of its chains.

As she was about to open a condom, I stopped her. I want to be inside you, I said, and she smiled. Her eyes were bright. She understood. I slid into her. We made love without haste, riding the surf of an autumn tide. We had a connection, something impossible to describe, and that double knock on the door was brutal like barbarians breaking down the gate, trampling over civilization.

She clung on to my neck. I took her photograph, head and shoulders, her expression solemn and soulful, the white sheet around her making her look less like a young prostitute than a Madonna in a Renaissance painting.

We kissed and I hated the thought that another man would be sharing her. It was like a knife in my heart. It felt as if the devil’s hands were squeezing the breath from my throat as I walked back to the hotel. Sometimes we make decisions and sometimes decisions make us who we are. Again, I called to reserve Carlota for the following night and spent a long time staring out at the boats in the harbor.

We get one life, few second chances. What did I have to lose? Nothing? What did I have to gain? Hope, a new start, change, those things we always imagine are out of reach. I was due some vacation time. I went online and read about Naples. I visualized walking through the ruins of Pompeii, her hand in mine. We could travel. Live in Europe. The limits we see and we set are only in our minds. When we have hope, there are no limits.

I arrived at the usual time. Carlota wasn’t there. The Madame told me she was new, unreliable. Her lips curled. The woman had a face like an axe, all bitterness and sharp edges. No, she didn’t know Carlota’s surname, even if Carlota was her real name. No, she didn’t have an address. She’d moved on, she said. Some girls take to it like a fish to water. Perhaps she just doesn’t like it.

I walked the city streets day after day, autumn turning to winter. I drove through every campus and looked up every art history course. I showed students her photograph. No one knew her. No one had seen her. I was advised to make a missing person report. I didn’t. I went to Naples and strolled through Pompeii.

Sometimes, I would see a girl who looked like Carlota but each time I approached I was disappointed. I did seek out a young prostitute from time to time, but my heart wasn’t in it anymore.

Copyright 2015 –  David Simon Strauss

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