The ABCs of Sex: Second Base




Suggested Audio Lube


[1] George Michael “I Want Your Sex”

[2] Blur “Tender”

[3] Frankie Goes To Hollywood “Relax”

[4] The Rolling Stones “Rocks Off”



A quick recap Grueheads for those who wished to skip any foreplay. This is The ABCs of Sex as considered by Keeper. Should you be well versed from our first rendezvous, then you may recall that I kept the tone just above gutter level and decided to gently lift those straps off your shoulders. Well I’ve got news for you Grueheads. I don’t see nothing wrong with a little bump and grind. We’re all adults here (or thereabouts) so why not penetrate deep together while we’re all oiled up? Just be grateful that this ain’t the Third Verse as I wrote that before this and it all goes directly to the sewage around the halfway mark. You see, I’m all about the climax and wish this to be as interactive an experience as humanly possible. I guess what I’m saying is that the Love Doctor is all scrubbed up and my stethoscope is ready for a full and thorough examination. I’ll even throw a spot of learning in their too and, who knows, we may all benefit from my alphabetical excursion. So I would like to take out your textbooks and thumb your way to page 69 please. Too obvious? Okay then, page 88. That’s two fat ladies right?

G is for Geography



It took a while for me to get familiar with the layout of lady gardens. Unlike my better informed associates, I never took the time to familiarize myself with the floor plan before galloping in for my first dose of horseplay like Seabiscuit. The vagina is much like Tetris in a respect as we have to spin our T’s strategically to keep the dreaded GAME OVER at bay, while fashioning a fissure for the elusive long-job to ease into. For the record, my primary outing ended in tragedy as I ran out of landing strip and wound up in the warren. Not that I was particularly perturbed but maybe it was a tad strong for second base. Mercifully, we learn from our foibles, and that breadcrumb trail is no longer compulsory. Through years of meticulous inspection, I now know my way around the entire female body and it has thrown up some unexpected treats along the way. Who would have thought that the back of the wrists, inside arms, and lower back could have been so erogenous? Once we travel into general groin territory, then surprises are few but there are numerous spots littered about that can drive you literally gaga. The fun is in tracking those babies down and that’s just basic geography.

H is for Hickey



It has just dawned on me that it has been years since I last saw a love bite. Have they fallen out of favor? I’m a little concerned if I’m honest. Granted, they are somewhat unsightly, and I’ve never really been a fan of roll-necks. But I still remember how swollen with pride I felt to parade my very first “slag tag”. Of course, we all know how it pans out at school. Should you be captain of the cheerleader squad and sport one of these purple nasties, then you will be considered little more than a cock disposal unit and your reputation be accordingly tarnished. Boys, on the other hand, are held in considerably higher esteem and flash them to their friends like fake I.D.s. I think it’s about time they make a rousing comeback y’now. My refusal to accept their extinction likely stems from my love of vampires. The jugular is admittedly a rather succulent strip of loin and I’d happily bite necks regardless of any promise of eternal life.


I is for Intimacy



There are few activities we can engage in quite as intimate as the act of lovemaking. When you consider that many of us are camera-shy or socially awkward, the idea of laying ourselves bare for another’s perusal becomes a decidedly daunting one. However, it is also when we are at our most vulnerable and this can be quite the aphrodisiac. The tender moments you share with your partner post-coitus can be beyond precious as there is no longer a goal to strive for and you can simply relax and just be. To me, sex only plays a supporting role in intimacy, and the true climax often comes after the act. That is what we all crave, the connection with another that is almost unspoken. If I tell you I love you, I don’t say so for a reply. If talk can be cheap, then why cheapen it further with generic responses? Of course, you need to be truly at ease with one another for this to work best as insecurity is a plague of the many and we all hang out for those three little but never insignificant words. Over the past three years a scribe, I have been more intimate than at any other time in my life. Every solitary syllable that I write is steeped with intimacy as I don’t hold back through my prose. Indeed, it has taught me that every friendship you form is intimate, whether platonic or otherwise.

J is for Jailhouse



Inevitably, there are certain rules to abide to when engaging in coitus and failure to adhere to them can have dire ramifications. Rohypnol is a no-no, as is fucking anything without a healthy pulse, and there are other regulations that we needn’t even go into. However, should you travel to Saudi Arabia and flash your cans to any camel jockeys, then it’s straight to the cells for you and you may want to use that one phone call on your respective embassy. Dogging is a favorite pastime in Essex and that too is frowned upon as unlawful. There have been moments where I’ve felt the overwhelming urge to strip off completely outside of the usual designated areas and this could have landed me in particularly tepid water had 5-0 busted my pale white ass. I think what makes it most intoxicating is being aware of modern security measures. Who knows what eyes are in the sky anymore? If you ever open your curtain and discern a naked Englishman strolling around the great outdoors, then think nothing of it. I’m not a sexual deviant or anything like that. But exhibitionism has always been a vice of mine. If that’s a crime (and I’m fairly assured that it may bend a law or three), then it’s a fair cop governor. But if you could read me my rights back at the jailhouse then I’d be much appreciative. Frosty night air and blind terror do one’s junk absolute no favors.

K is for Kama Sutra



We’ve all read that one right? Guess what? I actually haven’t. Sure, I may have seen a few pictorials here and there but I’ve never had my clammy hands on an actual hardback copy. You see, I was a virgin into my early thirties (through a mixture of grave self-doubt and general pratfall) and that put me around thirty positions behind the everyday sexual adventurer. Missionary I know and, to be honest, it ain’t my personal darling. I love me some spoon and the friction this enables although I’m fairly assured that is not the correct terminology. Doggie style is well worth fetching the stick for and, being such a humongous fan of Patrick Bateman, allows for some genuinely priceless Polaroid moments. It is here that I am at my most freakish and pretty much results in a round of musical statues. I guarantee you that the face I pull each time you look over your shoulder will be grossly different from the goofy shit spread across my cheeks when your face is in the pillow. Other than that, I am aware of a few angles and techniques, but would fail an on-the-spot Kama Sutra exam with the fattest of F’s.


L is for Libido



We all have different sexual appetites and, while some may consider themselves sexual rhinoceroses, others have precious little get-up-and-go with regards to nocturnal pursuit. This can be determined by all number of factors and poor diet sure as shit does one’s sex drive absolutely no favors. It is also worth noting than men and women reach their peaks at completely different phases in their evolution. Personally, I run just above empty more often than not, and spend more of my time writing about copulation than actually engaging in it. Sorry to burst a bubble there but a sexual dynamo I am not. My recharge rate is lousy and this makes coitus a one-time deal I’m afraid. Perhaps it has something to do with the seesaw accident I suffered just before adolescence. Have you ever sat on your testicle? They tend not to like that much. My punishment for unwittingly tucking the nut has been a lifetime of fair to middling prowess in the sack. That’s not to say that the time isn’t spent well however. God loves him a trier apparently.

M is for Menstruation



Ovulation is possibly something most women don’t care for in the slightest as stomach cramps really are no laughing matter. However, there are distinct advantages from reaching a particular point in one’s menstrual cycle as it is then that we are at our most sexually productive. Blood sport isn’t everyone’s bag and that counts for both respective sexes. However, it seems ludicrous to be forced into a hiatus when we can make it more of a busman’s holiday. I have bloodied my snout on occasion and, if that makes me a swine, then oink! oink! and watch me go to market. There is nothing to fear here but fear itself as Arnie once remarked that “if it bleeds, we can kill it” and bagged himself a predator to back up that claim. It’s the mood swings that’ll get you guys. By no means whatsoever should you ever answer the question “does my butt look big in this?” with “there she blows” when menstruation is approaching. Those few days prior to drop are critical to tow the line and wash those dishes.

N is for Nourishment



Can we hope to flourish without a hot meal inside us? Can we replenish our mulberry bush without first filling the watering can? Are our penises destined to invert and vaginas reseal if we don’t nourish them regularly? Perhaps not but best feed them anyway. My diet is a staple one of rigorous masturbation and many a buffet is laid on in its honor. My grandmother always taught me to eat little and often and I apply the same logic to spanking my monkey. It can’t hurt right? At least not since my mother hid her cheese grater. One’s automobile cannot expect to start each morning like clockwork without regular service and my two-wheeled low rider should not be treated any less respectfully. In addition, I hear that a dash of semen works as a splendorous exfoliant. This need not be quite the dirty little secret that it is as genitalia isn’t put there for exhibition alone. Expedition is mandatory and I’m the first to undertake penile pilgrimage in the name of nourishment.


O is for Orgasm (Duh!)



Being male, this tends to be a blink-and-you’ll-miss-it photo finish affair. Just a mere few seconds of contortion and it’s time for that post-coitus smoke. Interest levels can drop off the moment those beans hit the back wall but it’s not over yet by a long chalk. You see, ladies are all about the endurance and occasionally multiply orgasmic. Should you hit the spot with enough consistency or have your repetition down to pat, then climax can go on for some time. There is a term which I find rather delightful called riding the volcano and involves a fair degree of timing to master. Time things correctly and percolating in unison can send sex into the stratosphere and beyond. Bucking bronco skills are a necessity here as no man wishes to bite the dust without first achieving some sort of personal record. I would love to edit together every last cum shot and compile a full length best-of compilation. Heaven knows the ridiculous faces I would pull.


P is for Pollinate



I’ve never been much of a fan of wasps but bees, on the other hand, I’m happy to let slide. Honey happens to be a rather glorious source of natural sugar and amber nectar is naturally produced should we punch those buttons in sequence. I happen to possess something of a sweet tooth and buzz like a bumble the very moment I observe a flower unfurling before me and approaching full blossom. Were you aware that mankind would be extinct in mere days without busy bees and their thankless graft to pollinate? Indeed, we owe the very oxygen we breathe to their industry. Alphas spew honey too of course although that tends to be more of an acquired taste and too much excess salt can wreak havoc with your blood pressure. Have I tasted my own? Has any man alive not? Of course they have. Dogs chow down on their own feces for chrissakes so let’s keep this in perspective. You think Willy Wonka doesn’t sip from the estuary from time to time? We call it quality control. Or that’s our excuse and we’re sticking to it. Right fellas? Fellas? Bunch of fucking wasps you lot.


And…STOP! Please put down those pencils and take any restroom breaks necessary. Should you not have your hall passes on hand then I would be only too happy to accompany you to the restroom and I promise not to peek (the hero always peeks). We’re done with the foreplay and have now ascertained the correct rhythm I feel, so Third Base proposes a finale of climactic proportions of my name ain’t Dick Stevens. So I guess the best way to close Lesson #2 would be with a short recap right? Among the topics we have covered today are winged insects, final flourishes, dietary requirements, discharge, ardor, ancient Hindu literature, criminal law, rapport, vampirism, and topography. Feel free to stay behind after last bell as I’m more than happy to offer a dash of private tuition for the true bookworms amongst us. Class dismissed.

Click here to read Third Base






These young ladies have been very bad and deserve to be punished most severely. You see, I have a particular weakness for those pig-tails and knee-high socks, not to mention the pink bubblegum and skirts that I’m reasonably convinced don’t meet school regulation. I have my meter rule at the ready and regret to inform you that I’m somewhat old school in my approach to teaching so please don’t be alarmed by the odd thwack to those rosy red back bubbles. I’m well within my rights you know, after all you have been positively beastly and cannot be allowed to get away scot-free or else I’ll lose the respect of the classroom. You don’t want that do you now? An uprising? Outright bedlam? After all, I’m just following curriculum. Yes I know my methods are a little unorthodox. Christ, who’s teaching who here. Stop stalling and get over my knee you filthy little Fräulein.


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