Suggested Audio Lube
 Salt-N-Pepa “Let’s Talk About Sex”
 Alice Cooper “School’s Out”
 Clarence Carter “Strokin”
 Bruce Springsteen “Dancing in The Dark”
 Robin Beck “First Time”
 Beck “Loser”
 The Troggs “Wild Thing”
Given that I have had so much damned fun with my long-running True ABCs of Death sequence and finally arrived at Z, the time is right to put my wasted youth watching Sesame Street to use once again and tackle another topic that I am well versed on. Sex is a mindfield and, I’ll hold my hands up, almost thirty years on from commencing my penile pilgrimage, I’ve still got as much to learn as the next man. It would be foolish of me to suggest that I have all the answers to one of life’s most perplexing conundrums as my voyage has been one of many splutters and false starts. However, I’m nothing if not honest, and will gladly share if it can help others to avoid the many pitfalls associated with coitus. Moreover, there are few subjects quite so enjoyable to wax lyrical about than sex and fewer still that come to us all, regardless of inclination or orientation. Thus, I’m all lubed up and ready to plunder my mind’s fortress.
Anybody who knows me will be aware that I prefer not to mince my words and have no problem with leaving my readership slack-jawed by refusing to censor myself. At the end of the day, we’re all adults here and, even if we’re not, sex is the most natural act a human can indulge in so why not call a spade a spade? That said, I have no intention to shock and appall at the first available opportunity and, given that A could quite easily stand for Anus, I think it may be better not to begin ass-about-face on this occasion. My informed decision is to treat this whole exercise like the act of sex itself and ease us in with dash of foreplay before breaking out the cum faces and curling my toes up. Twenty six individual letters seems too much to cram into one article, should I wish to be thorough, so this particular sequence will be delivered in bite-sized chunks. First, second and third bases should suffice and expect the tone to be increasingly lowered as we head towards our climax. So, without further ado, let’s talk about sex shall we?
A is for Academy
There appears no better place to begin than at the very start as we all learn the basics way before we look to engage in the act itself. I was twelve when I received my primary education and this was long before the internet literally spelt things out. Back then, sex education consisted of an animated video charting the carnal exploits of Mr. & Mrs. Bunny and it used metaphor to make its point. I remember the time well as it coincided with my first pubic spurt and my parents had negated to inform me about the birds and the bees so I was going in somewhat blind. Erections were little more than curious regularities at the time and I had no concept of how to utilize the special purpose that I had been provided at birth. Others may have been more aware but, to me, it was one large grey area and that was about to change in an instant.
You see, how Mr. & Mrs. Bunny spent their leisure time was completely different from my prior estimations. I naturally presumed that the customary noughts and crosses and hopscotch were their way of passing the time but the video suggested that any extracurricular activity involved far more physical exertion. Mrs. Bunny’s private parts doubled up as a warren for Mr. Bunny to plant his carrot and it made perfect sense to me as it was explained like a puzzle of sorts. By slotting together for a few minutes every day, the couple could release much of their pent-up stress of the dreaded Myxomatosis paying them a visit and both appeared to be smiling come the conclusion. Moreover, by pooling their resources, a baby bunny would arrive on the scene and they both seemed thrilled by the fresh addition so everyone appeared to be a winner.
I think there was a subliminal warning in there about the threat of procreation but twelve-year-olds aren’t fussed about such trivial matters and I was far more intrigued by the fact that both Mr. & Mrs. Bunny looked relaxed and fully unwound by the time the credits rolled. I had received my first lesson in sex and, while admittedly somewhat vague, was determined to remove the shrink-wrap on my own carrot at the first available opportunity. Needless to say, I still had plenty of unanswered questions as a result of my time with these rampant rabbits and conferred with my close friends as we attempted to make sense of our enlightenment. From what I could gather, the best way to practice for the inevitable sexual deflowering was to spend some alone time with my special purpose and further decipher how it functioned. It was high time I returned to my warren.
B is for Beating the Bishop/Basting the Tuna
I wasted little time in commencing training and found masturbation to be a rather beneficial pastime. Primary contact was made and, aside from the overwhelming initial feeling of having pissed myself once the beans were spilled, a good time was had by all. Granted, clean-up duties were something of a drag, but it was worth it for the precious last few moments before splurge-gate. I continued to practice at every available opportunity and became something of a pro in no time. Before long, I had learned to incorporate visual stimuli courtesy of light entertainment such as Porky’s and Screwballs and, while my mother hunted high and low for my elusive right sock, I was yanking away for dear life and becoming on first-name basis with my member. The name Paulie the Penis seemed to be taken so I opted for Percival and we swiftly became the very best of friends.
I hadn’t paid much mind to how the opposite sex would relieve their pent-up frustration and hadn’t the vaguest idea how they could achieve the same results without the necessary hardware. It boggled my mind, while I clearly had something dangling between my legs, they appeared to have drawn the short straw as all that they possessed was a triangle of moss and it felt a little unfair if truth be known. However, that was their problem as I had a cock and knew precisely how to operate said equipment. I couldn’t shake the nagging feeling that my parents would be less than pleased with my extracurricular activity so kept it to myself and learned the art of beating the clock. Should my mother’s slipper make contact with the bottom stair then time was of the essence and I knew that I either had to make it to the finish line fast or make up some excuse for barricading my bedroom door and pick it back up when the coast was clear.
However, there were distinct downsides to my new favorite hobby. Much as I would have loved to wank the hours away without a care in the world, there was a frustrating refueling period that made it impossible to chain together combos. Moreover, I was aware that this was a team sport and hadn’t even begun to grow into my skin at that point so there was no Mrs. Bunny on hand to join forces with. Even more disconcerting was that my testicles seemed to be protesting against my habitual masturbation and were beginning to distance themselves from the crime scene. My voice even started to change and squeaky falsetto was replaced by gruff baritone which I was convinced was a side-effect of my actions. I needed answers fast and none appeared to be forthcoming so it was still something of a mystery to me. While I would never be so ungrateful as to suggest that spanking the monkey ever grew old, eventually I needed more than solo strumming to satisfy my needs.
C is for Courtship
With school life providing scant few opportunities to take things to the next level, I arrived at my late teens and finally my luck began to change. Where before my legs had resembled a pair of nine irons, they started to fill out and, thanks to a part-time job, I now possessed the funds to buy myself some more edgy clothing. College represented reinvention to me and, within no time, I started to turn a few heads in the hallways. Soon I had bagged myself a real-life girlfriend and was primed to further explore the possibilities this presented. Details were still sketchy but I knew that steady progression was the key. Kissing was mastered in no time and, for a while at least, this offered no end of gratification. However, I knew that there was something more beyond the obligatory tonsil tennis and was fascinated to learn what the object of my affections was packing beneath her clothing. It wasn’t as though I hadn’t seen a naked woman before but magazines seemed scant substitute for the real thing and my opposite number seemed to share the sentiment.
Second base was looming and, after a reasonably successful cinema date, the chance finally presented itself. Determined not to bolt the gate, I commenced my voyage of discovery with a hand beneath the blouse and my first grope appeared to be going swimmingly as I placed my clammy hand on her bra and met absolutely no resistance. This was definite progress but, with no objections being made, I wished to traverse a little deeper. This is where it all became a dash confusing as her underwire seemed reluctant to budge enough to afford access. Mercifully, she came to my aid by stating that there was a release mechanism at the rear which would relinquish her bra’s vice-like grip so I headed there post-haste and swiftly met my next obstacle. This was no simple latch and, instead, a complex lock that required inhuman endurance to overcome. I could feel her growing restless and this just heaped on further pressure as I started to wish I had spent more time with my Rubix Cube and less using up my mother’s hand cream. Eventually, she put me out of my misery and my twitchy fingers made contact with forbidden flesh for the first time.
I have to report that they felt absolutely delightful and it didn’t matter that I hadn’t the faintest idea what to do with them so I jiggled these fun bags for all they were worth and hoped that I was on the right track. However, her hands had begun to wander too by this point and were loosening my belt so I knew it was time to discard the orbs and take that short journey south to the hot spot. She wasn’t wearing a belt so I had a head start, although the button on her denims was almost as stubborn as that wretched bra release and it took some time before I was provided access to the all important sub-basement. By this point, her fingers were making themselves acquainted with my junk and I was playing catch-up so I hurriedly slid my hand into her panties and prepared to return the favor. However, on arrival, a new riddle greeted me and this one was even more befuddling than the last. I could tell by her labored breathing that I was in the ball park but it all felt alien to me.
Until now, I had only been made aware of the frontal foliage but what lies beneath was a great deal more troublesome to navigate. Folds of skin appeared to be concealing an entrance beacon of sorts and I frantically recalled Mrs. Bunny in an attempt to locate the gateway but it was nowhere to be found. Her excitement seemed to be replaced by mild boredom so I widened my search and finally came across the hole I seeked. For a moment, I felt like the man. That was, until she uttered three words that shattered my sense of accomplishment in one fell swoop. “That’s my asshole.” Indeed it was and I was still none the wiser as to the correct placement so I returned front side and fumbled some more in vain. After a few more excruciating seconds that felt like an hour, our time was up, and I was left even more discombobulated than I had been on commencement. Alas, she didn’t take kindly to my failed expedition and our brief courtship came to an end the very next day as she paired up with my friend instead.
D is for Debutante
To her credit, she didn’t divulge my pathetic display to another soul and it wasn’t long before I found another subject to explore. Talk about jump from the frying pan into the furnace, my next suitor was not a virgin and had numerous past experience to call upon, whereas I was still thumbing through medical journals in an attempt to learn the lay-out. This time, we were headed straight to last base and, with Valentine’s day fast approaching, planned our rendezvous meticulously. My house was to be empty and this presented the rare opportunity for complete privacy so we made our best laid plans and I made sure that my preparations were thorough. Scented candles – check. Seductive music – check. Very best underwear – check. Clean bed linen – check. All bases appeared to be covered. At the eleventh hour she informed me that she wouldn’t proceed without protection and I had read about the benefits of contraception so agreed to her terms enthusiastically. Well-versed she may have been but she was also conscientious and I relished the chance to purchase my first ever pack of condoms. Moreover, she accompanied me to the chemist, relieving much of the embarrassment of approaching the counter and making my request. Bless her. Seemed like I had found myself a keeper.
With our pack of three now procured and an empty lair beckoning, we headed home and prepared to commence our union. To begin with, it was all fun and games and, within no time, we were both laid bare and ready to pop my cherry. All that was left was to attach my sheath and, like the gift that just kept giving, she was only too happy to donate her services. Alas, what I hadn’t considered, was that condoms would act as Kryptonite for my Johnson and, as she struggled to slide it on, my erect status became soundly compromised. This is where being a deep thinker becomes something of a curse as I began to second-think myself and this only made me more flaccid. Suddenly, my previously proud girth was beginning to invert and nothing she could do seemed to make the blindest bit of difference. How could this be? I focused on her breasts which were far more evolved than the ones I had encountered previously and hoped that this would kick-start my drive but to no avail whatsoever. Worse still, her annoyance was becoming visible and my genitals were beginning to resemble those of a small child. With the balance of power now firmly in her favor, I felt like a pathetic excuse for a buck and nothing in her rolling eyes did anything but corroborate my fears.
Somehow I had managed to snatch defeat from the jaws of victory and I felt like the biggest mule on the planet. So, when she convinced me that there was no need to apologize and that everything was fine, I felt like I had truly dodged a bullet when, in truth, I was the douche who couldn’t release the safety. I convinced myself that this was a minor setback and kissed her goodbye at the door as she headed off with her box of luxury chocolates and untapped vagina. Of course, I was disappointed, but next time would be different and I would damned well prove to her that I was the king of coitus with a rousing comeback that would put The Godfather Part II to shame. The next day at college, I spotted her in the hallway and swaggered over to claim my first embrace of the day as if nothing had happened. To my bemusement, she appeared to have contracted some kind of overnight oral infection that made kissing a distinct no-no. Worse still, during my first lecture, her friend approached clutching a scrawled note and that is never a positive sign. I had been relinquished of duties effective immediately and spent almost £6 on confectionery and prophylactics for nothing. Dumped I believe is the term. At least I wasn’t alone as my intact virginity offered a shoulder to cry on. Whilst not quite a sweaty fuck, sometimes you have to take consolation wherever you can find it.
E is for Emasculate
Have you ever been castrated? Neither have I although that is precisely how I felt after my unsuccessful maiden voyage. Sexual confidence is a fickle thing at best and mine was at an all-time low after failure to launch. I became my own worst enemy by over thinking my part in the whole valentine debacle and consequently held onto my virginity for far longer than would be considered healthy. By the time the opportunity presented itself again, I was ready to throw in the towel before engagement commenced and I started to believe that something was wrong with me. It was all Mr. Bunny’s fault as there was nothing in the instruction video to prepare me for the moment when it all went awry. I consoled myself by becoming something of a cunnilingus master and thankfully my success rate there was far more encouraging. However, actual full-blown sex eluded me for my entire twenties as, each time I attempted to break my duck, fear became the mindkiller.
Here’s something you won’t hear every day. I got married at twenty-four to the girl I had fixated on right through school and we never even consummated our marriage. Turned out that she was indifferent to sex and, while this took much of the pressure off, it didn’t help me overcome my problem either. By the time she informed me a year down the line that she loved me but wasn’t “in love” with me, I was spat back out onto the dating scene still wearing my V-plates. If I had seen Mr. Bunny around this time, then there would have been bloodshed but eventually I met the right person to put my racing mind at ease and escaped being awarded the undesirable tag of The 40-Year Old Virgin by almost a full ten stretch. However, for anyone out there still learning the ropes and finding it a more troublesome pursuit than Mr. Bunny suggested, I feel duty bound to inform you that you’re not alone. It may feel like it as folk are a lot less likely to speak of their foibles than successes but, believe me when I say, that it happens to the best of us.
F is for Fetishist
Now that I had mastered the act of copulation or, at least, earned my beginner’s stripes, it was time to explore every option available to me and work out what worked for me and what left me cold. I had rather a lot of lost time to make up for and a decidedly open mind so there weren’t many things I wouldn’t try at least once in the name of research. Should your partner be as open as you to the idea of experimentation, then the sky is the limit here, as there are many of other extracurricular activities a couple can engage in outside of plain old missionary to keep lovemaking fresh as a daisy. Some appeal to me more than others on a personal level but I haven’t come across one yet that I regret partaking in at least once. If I attempted to list them all then we’d have another ABCs right here so I shall cherry pick a handful and enlighten you as to my experience.
First up is the foot fetish and, to some, this holds absolutely no interest whatsoever. I have mixed feelings on feet as, while they look mighty purty when in proportion, a bogus pair can prove something of a turn-off. We all know the culprits – second toes longer than the first, unsightly bunions and cracked heels, and the toe at the end that has no right to call itself such as it doesn’t even possess its own nail. Throw in a little fungus and feet can be far less than arousing. That said, should they be presentable and perhaps embellished with a decorative ring or some swanky polish, then I’m the first to suck on all ten. Quentin Tarantino is well-known for his unhealthy fixation with feet and I make him right within reason as there is plenty of harmless fun to be had once the socks come off.
Then there’s the rectum and this one is far more divisive as we all know this muscle’s primary function. Moreover, many of us suffer from issues with regularity of bowel movement and similar quandary so the asshole remains firmly off-limits in such cases. Personally I have never had to worry on this front so it’s as legitimate an entry point as any other and there’s a good reason why the rectum plays host to G-spots. Lubrication is key here as damaged tissue can have dire repercussions as it is far less accessible than its traditional counterpart and there’s a reason why men take reading material to the restroom when the time comes for surplus disposal. In my opinion, there isn’t a solitary part of the human body that isn’t fair game and it sure as shit beats a colonoscopy.
Bodily functions are even more taboo for some and I fully understand the sentiment. That said, as long as health and safety protocol is adhered to, there’s no shame in a little water sports. As for the other, I’ll admit that it’s a little too much of an unknown quantity to be fully comfortable with as diet plays a significant part in what comes out once we slacken those sphincters. We’ve all heard the warnings that coming into contact with feces can make you blind, whereas urine is sterile and an acceptable refreshment should you be stranded in a desert in blazing hot conditions. My first outing with golden showers was a decidedly mixed affair. We elected the bathtub as our playground and my partner went first, which proved a resounding success and set us up nicely for the return leg. However, this is where it all went terribly wrong as I underestimated the capacity of my bladder and, once the dam burst, there really was no stopping it. A good minute and a half later, the water level had risen by around an inch and my spotter was far from amused at the new coloration. Needless to say, I was more keen than she for a repeat performance.
Whips, handcuffs and the like are commonplace in the bedroom and many enjoy a dash of pain with their pleasure. Indeed, this can stretch as far as asphyxiation and the most important thing here is that both parties must be comfortable and discuss any tap-outs beforehand. I used to find it all a little pointless but have long since come round to the idea of a dash of controlled torture for the benefit of heightened arousal. A little rough and tumble is perfectly acceptable in my book and I wouldn’t take exception to a smidgen of playful cutting as long as the instrument is sterilized beforehand. Likewise, leather bondage gear is fair game although I would take knee-high socks, pig-tails and bubblegum any day of the week to having my back tenderized by ten-inch heels whilst my partner recites Mon Frere.
By far my favorite of all fetishes is exhibitionism and I have always been a shameless voyeur at heart. There is something about the danger of being caught in the act that I find intoxicating and, when my mid-life crisis was at its height, I would think nothing of walking naked onto my patio at the dead of night and being at one with nature. Indeed, I found it incredibly liberating and it helped me to release much of that pent-up frustration in one fell swoop. I eventually called time on my nude midnight expeditions as it was destined to end in tears but still have fond recollections of baring all outside in the elements. Add another person to the mix and the possibilities are nigh on unbounded. Meanwhile, anyone in possession of a telescope also gets off so everyone’s a winner right?
Okay, that appears to be first base covered and things are only going to get more debauched from hereon in as we still have twenty letters to cover and I intend on changing things up for our next installment as we move into more ominous territory. This has been a largely autobiographical affair and I will continue to share personal details (with no names mentioned other than my own of course) as we delve a little deeper but it will no longer be chronological and, instead, more of a no holds barred sexual free-for-all. I trust our first rendezvous has been enlightening and pledge to keep it coming as we move beyond initial foreplay and into full-blown debauchery. Come again Grueheads.
I was recently introduced to the art of Mel Ramos and was thrilled to discover that it incorporated two of my favorite things – naked females and confectionery. Considering I possess such a sweet tooth and find the fairer sex so delightful to peruse when clothing is not necessitated, his work is something of a marriage made in heaven and I love nothing more than a closing gallery. I’ve heard it said that the way to a man’s heart is through the stomach but let’s not forget that it’s an even shorter journey southward to the loins. Fret not my beloved friends and order what you want from the menu as I am more than happy to pick up the bill on this occasion. Should you like when you see then feel free to click here and continue the banquet.