On the non-funniness of sex

A thing that puritans, especially religious conservatives, often say is that sex is funny. He, and it’s always a he, will talk about how he and his wife like to have a good laugh when they’re having sex. They’re always laughing. 

I don’t believe them, or if it’s true I’m sorry for them, especially the woman. Sex is a peak of emotion and raw physical body need; there’s no place for “funny” in there, at least if you’re a participant wanting to commit yourself and enjoy yourself. 

Sex matters: humour is sexual anti-matter.

There are exceptions, of course. If my partner is trying to do something ambitious and she accidentally sticks her elbow in my eye, say, I’m going to laugh, to relieve tension and let her know it’s ok. But that’s going to be quick, a moment, to keep the sex going. That moment itself, and an “ah, stuff happens” laugh are momentary to keep the overall mood going.

In itself there’s nothing sexy about the problem, or my response. 

The funniest thing that ever happened to me during sex involved trying to put a contraceptive diaphragm into the twat of a lovely girl who thought the stars were god’s daisy chain and used that form of contraception. I coated the diaphragm with spermicide, which got it mildly slippery, and tried to slip in in. 

Yeah, it’s simple, so long as you or your lover are a cut-away cartoon woman…

But diaphragms have springy sides, and sure enough it escaped my fingers and sproinged off to the other side of the room. Flew like it yearned to be free. So I picked it up, washed it, and coated the fucking thing with spermicide again.

I lined it up to the squishy cunt of my lovely girl, who thought that every time a pixy sneezed a flower was born, and slid the first few centimetres in. Triumph, and hardening cock. Until the fucking thing sproinged free again. Hit a different corner of the room.

So I collected it, cleaned it, and applied slippery spermicide again, and came back to the bed.

Readers, this happened four times before I successfully got the thing in. Into the yummy cunt of my lovely girl who thought that the weeping of angels causes the rain. And, readers, believe me when I say my cock was soft.

Believe me, these things can fly. And they want to.

It was funny, sure. And my patience and ability to not get too upset was probably a good thing. But sexy? If sex is Madrid, and it might be, then that was Christchurch, a ruined city on almost exactly the other side of the planet from sex. 

Anyway, we were in our twenties, so motivation was extremely high, and we managed to recover and get down to fucking.

But the lesson I learned was this. Spare me, please, from all things funny during sex. 

I think the “sex is funny” crowd actually don’t like sex. They are uncomfortable with the emotional and physical nakedness and need, and by the way that cocks get hard and spurty, and cunts get plump and wet and slippery, and people make strong faces they’d never make if they were self-conscious. So they say it’s funny, all those bottoms bobbing up and down.

But the claim that sex is funny is just an acceptable way of saying what they really think, which is that sex is disgusting. There’s no dignity in it, and precious little self-control and self-presentation.  And it’s got… bodies.

So when I’m doing sexy things, I hope to be a lot of things, intense, kind, cruel, competent. But funny? No. Fuck off with your funny. 


I’ve never really expressed my cold, congealed contempt for the Literary Review‘s annual Bad Sex Awards. Maybe that’s a post for another day. 

Wicked Wednesday: Tears before the pause

Will places Jennifer over his knee. Jennifer reacts to his spanks at first, wailing and writhing over his knee. Then she discovers his cock, absolutely hard for her. That seemed to need further investigation.

It’s a hot scene but it’s had to leave my blog because it’s published now, and publishers don’t like their stuff to be available for free. I’ll put up a link to where you can buy this very hot text, shortly.

Masturbation Monday: The first time I punished a submissive 1

Emily still smoked cigarettes, though she knew better and wanted to stop. I praised and rewarded every smoke-free day, and I was patient while the cravings made her almost continuously angry. She got through a month without smoking, and that should have been that. But after three months she started again.

It’s odd, in retrospect, how hard I resisted accepting the right and duty to punish

Soon after that relapse, Emily asked me to help by taking control. She suggested that I should cane her if I smelt tobacco on her breath or clothes. Not caning her for play, not for sex: a real punishment, hard enough to hurt and make her want to avoid getting another punishment like it.

She wanted to fear the consequences more than she craved the nicotine. I’d had discussions like this before, and I refused, again.

Punishing Emily for smoking probably would help her give it up, and she’d enjoy being a submissive girl who got punished if she didn’t do as she was told. I could see that. But I still didn’t think I had the right to do it. I’d managed to find a way to do bdsm without acting like a sexist bully-boy, and I didn’t want to lose the formula.

On occasions like this, it was acceptable to call me “Sir”

Emily called me “sir”, but only when she was naked.

This issue grumbled on in the background. My rule against assuming real power suited me. It kept me comfortable politically. Emily was finding that it didn’t really suit her. I knew she wasn’t quite satisfied, but I decided to stick with the rule.

Until Emily unstuck me.

One afternoon there was a party. I had to work, so Emily went without me. I expected it to wind up by about ten or so, and to see Emily before midnight. By early morning I was worried. Emily’s car had recently been in an accident. It hadn’t been her fault, but it made it easy for me to imagine harm.

I called police and hospitals and ambulance services. Just after two she called me. She was staying at her girlfriend’s because she’d drunk too much to drive home. I told her I loved her and went to bed.

Oh, this is going to be all awkward, isn’t it?

But the next morning that girlfriend called and asked for Emily. I caught myself in time not to say, “Isn’t she with you?” Instead we chatted cheerfully, and I promised I’d get Emily to call when she got home. 

So when Emily came home – she looked scared – I passed on her friend’s message.

And I waited while she understood that I knew she’d lied. We knew we were about to enact a boring cliché, but we were stuck with it.


Sinful Sunday: Self-awareness, and the colour of beauty

The object our girl is bent over is called a prie-dieu. It’s designed to encourage submission to the Christian god. When I saw this one on sale in a junk shop in the great Australian outback, I had to have it, as a pervertible.

Religious and sexual submission have always been very closely related. The form of the prie-dieu, which can be used for both kneeling and bending, is very encouraging and conducive to that oceanic, submissive feeling. It helps a submissive to feel self-awareness: I am submissive; I am submitting…

But that’s not what I came here to talk about. What I see first, and last, is the blush on my girl’s lovely bottom after a light tawsing. It really is the colour of beauty.


Wicked Wednesday: Let the good girl shine

Jennifer undresses for her spanking. She knows that while she has to do as she’s told, she has far more power in her and Will’s mutual seduction than either of them want to acknowledge.

It’s a hot scene but it’s had to leave my blog because it’s published now, and publishers don’t like their stuff to be available for free. I’ll put up a link to where you can buy this very hot text, shortly.

Masturbation Monday: Adventures with Emily 2

The previous episode is here.

Sucking my cock had to be made awkward for Emily, because she liked my cock in her mouth. It was, she said, both velvety and hard, and it tasted like I smell, which was apparently good. She could also feel my pleasure, and she took pleasure from that.

She should have enjoyed doing something that she liked, but she liked her pleasures complex. Her sensual enjoyment of having my cock in her mouth diluted the more intense pleasure she wanted, of feeling that she’d surrendered and lost herself in serving.

She wanted to suffer for her service. 

That’s why I reached under her shoulders and cupped her breasts, taking a hard nipple between the thumb and forefinger of each hand. I squeezed until her face showed that it hurt, then relaxed for a few seconds and squeezed harder.

Emily lost her rhythm, then found it again and worked on, eyes closed, oblivious – I had to imagine – to everything but her pain and her service to her man’s cock in her mouth. She’d told me she thought she could come just from this, though we never managed to keep it going long enough to find out.

I knew to watch the skin of Emily’s shoulders at this point. I released her breasts and unbuckled my belt, pulling it in one motion from the loops of my pants. There they were, in response to that sound: Emily’s goosebumps on her shoulders and the upper slopes of her breasts.

I folded the belt, holding the buckle, and swatted the loop down her back, so that the leather would swing down and under her, the end striking the undercurve of her bottom.

I kept the slaps coming, though not hard. The goal wasn’t to hurt her but to allow her to tell herself that she was being whipped, quite unfairly, while she served like a good girl. Emily made small, indecipherable sounds, her head bobbing intently.

But soon I had to pull back from her mouth, and lift her head. We looked at each other, my thumb a poor substitute in her mouth, my fingers caressing her cheek. I said, “Emily”. She closed her eyes, still focussed inwards, and did not reply. I knelt beside her then, kissing her shoulders and undoing the ties with fumbling urgency.

When I’d freed her Emily stretched and rubbed her wrists, then helped me to undress, also urgently. I lay on my back on the carpet, for her to straddle me.