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NOTE/WARNING/DISCLAIMER: This post is about dicks. Specifically, about how I prefer to use cock rings on the dicks I play with. To be perfectly clear, I do not care about YOUR dick. Seriously, I do NOT care. Kindly do NOT, as a result of reading this manifest, behave like a twatwaddle and send me ridiculous unsolicited bullshit featuring your dick.
(It’s ludicrous that I should even have to say that, but such is the world in which we live. Twatwaddles. Everywhere.)
So: Cock Rings
To begin with, I need to emphasize that the point of a cock ring is to keep a cock at attention. Basically, a cock ring serves to enhance hardness.
In my experience, men tend to have three ‘levels’ of Hard:
- Hard (Enough): This falls somewhere between “uncooked sausage” and “pudding pop(sicle)” – it’s good enough to get the job done, but lacks a certain joi de oomph.
- HARD: Think along the lines of thick and throb-y. This level is emphatically hard. Swollen. Focused. Driven. Ice would not banish this erection, at least not without total extended submersion.
- HARDEST: Blood is no longer flowing anywhere but in his cock. It’s engorged, past the point of swollen, hard enough to pound nails. This is a cock that’s ready to fuck someone into the ground. Repeatedly. And it’s sensitive, especially at the tip.
There are ways of getting to each of these levels without the aid of cock rings (and I may post about those techniques another time), but *with* a ring – and the appropriate amount of interest – HARD is achieved relatively quickly, and HARDEST can be maintained (or strengthened!) over an extended period of time.
I happen to like the feel of HARD under my hands, and when I get my partner to HARDEST, I can tease him mercilessly because of the enhanced sensitivity. One of the ways to help him reach that NoNoStopDon’tStop state of hardness is to use cock rings.
Dance of light through unstill depths
So I, too, swim in you
It’s a simple enough statement, but laced between those three plain syllables are intricate layers of delectable need: the need to taste, the need to be filled, the need to sate a craving.
“Me too,” he says, and un-twines from our late morning sleep-in snuggle, lazily rolling over me.
Lackadaisically awake, still warm from late-morning half-slumber, I stretch under him, arching my back to push against his weight and sliding my legs outward to wrap him in the cradle of my body.
It is all the encouragement he needs.
…many things that are erotic to some may be lewd or crass for others…the difference between what is erotic versus what is pornographic begins with our initial neuro-association with each term. When most people think of “erotic” it elicits sensuality, essentially being tantalized and teased by whatever the art form is…
It is typically suggestive and not overt, leaving much to the participants’ imagination, and as such, leading to the continuity of pleasure, lust, and desire.
~ Marissa Nelson, LGMFT
When I think of pornography, what comes to mind is explicit visual depictions of penetrative sex acts: disembodied genitals, objectification of the individual, baseness/crassness… Basically, graphic displays of sexual aggression.
And while I know it can be argued that porn comes (heh) in multiple forms, the word is associative for me, and is specific to images. Pictures. Moving pictures, especially. You know the ones:
- Fake tits, fake moans, fake orgasms.
- Giant, always-hard dicks.
- Slam-slam, grunt-grunt, focus on the carnal bits.
- Completely unsexy pointy-tongued clit stabbing that passes for cunnilingus, and shot at angles that make the whole thing look ridiculous.
- Quick, get to the fucking! Focus on the penis as a pleasure center.
- Got the money shot?
- Annnnd, that’s a wrap!
Watching a pornographic film is, to me, about as uplifting an experience as watching a slug crawl through the freshly turned dirt in my rose garden. My response to each of these two activities is equal: (1) I get a terrible squiggy feeling in my tummy, and (2) I feel a desperate need to shower off any atmospheric ick-slime I may have accidentally acquired in the watching. The primary difference being that I typically can’t tear my eyes away from the slug, whereas I can barely keep my eyes open during a porno. (Porn puts me to sleep. Literally.)
So: Porn? NO.
However, I do enjoy erotic imagery.
But, you are wondering, aren’t they the same thing, Feve?
Yes and no.
Or, if you prefer: Luuuuurv.
Love is this… thing… that insinuates itself between two (or more!) people. It’s a living, breathing entity that can be fed or starved, nurtured or neglected, grow or die, and it somehow manages to be both a part of and apart from the people it influences. It has the capability of shackling or of setting free, but – being at best a nebulous concept without a tangible body and bound by no rules but those of its own making – accepts no responsibility for either.
Love is one of the oldest stories ever told.
But somehow the plot manages to remain interesting enough – after thousands of years – to continually captivate audiences of all ages. It’s expounded upon in books (The Five Love Languages, anyone? – I’ve talked about that one before), lamented in sonnets (My love is as a fever, longing still ~ thank you, William Shakespeare) and plays (and while I’m at it: Romeo and Juliet is NOT a great love story; it is a timeless tragedy for fuck’s sake – kindly learn your forms), sanctified in religion (as in Corinthians: Love is patient, love is kind…), and crooned over in songs. To wit:
- Love Hurts (Nazareth, 1975) (yes, I know it was first recorded by The Everly Brothers)
- Love Bites (Def Leppard, 1987)
- Love Stinks (The J. Geils Band, 1980)
Oh dear, you are thinking. That doesn’t sound very positive, does it?