The reality of sex – a wanker’s view

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The reality of sex – a wanker’s viewI’ve talked about my ‘sex education’, and over the decades back to the 60s, there’s a lot I can’t remember along the way. But the contrast between clicking on a porn site today, and what could be seen back then couldn’t be greater. Nowadays girls have their own sites and nothing but nothing is left to the imagination (more’s the pity). Back then, yes there was porn of a sort. I remember Harrison Mark’s magazines had nudity, but anything below the belt was airbrushed out (we’re talking women of course), and for years I thought that was what women looked like. Not that I looked at that sort of porn, but I had to pretend to like it – “warrh, get a load of her” etc etc – when the blokes at school passed this stuff round. You didn’t have Page 3, there wasn’t nudity on TV or in films, so you might think ‘what awful times’. The saving grace for me was that I didn’t need to see much, and the excitement that built up in me as we got closer to Friday and Ready Steady Go!, the dancing girls who showed their knickers in very short skirts, giving me hands-free ecstasy and wet pants, was overwhelming. Trouble was, with no ‘pause live TV’, no re-wind, no recording of any sort, and just three channels to choose from, with years to wait for re-runs (RSG! hardly ever was, till this day), seeing bareness on TV was rare. Seeing it anywhere else was too, and as for hardcore, there was none to my knowledge. I think the Swedes had more liberalism, and there was the underground stuff, Polaroid parties – all of which blokes at school brought in from time to time. Fortunately for me, I found the magazines of my dreams – Spick, Span, Spick & Span and Beautiful Britons – girl next door, short skirts, raised skirts, knicker-showing, occasional bikinis or topless, but no more. They stopped in the 70s but over the following years I completed my collection using the second-hand exchange bookshops. So, until the 80s, my world revolved around my glamour mags, peeping out my window or through my fence, later going out and about in my ‘dirty’ rainmac. I don’t recall any reality penetrating that. But thinking back now, yes I was naive and innocent, but a lot of that was a deliberate defence, an unwillingness to face reality, or at least a complete indifference and disinterest in what the world was about, sex-wise. That was partly because I didn’t want to think about the girls I worshipped having anything to do with men. I mean in the carnal sense, and I couldn’t imagine some of the screen queens ever letting a man touch them. You have to remember that back then women were not supposed to like sex, it was all supposed to be about romance. Now that didn’t put many men off, and their ability to ‘conquer’ was the stuff of boasts in the classroom and workplace. But it was convenient for me to believe that girls didn’t want to be touched, or even show-off. Why they posed in mags or did risqué films I didn’t know. Of course I heard the names of the girls at school I worshipped and the boys talking about how they ‘got on’ next day, and while I didn’t want to know about that I did feel a nice sort of humiliation that those blokes were dating and trying it on, whereas my evenings were all about my mags, views out my window, and my hand on my knob – exactly as they are to this day. I did see covers of porn mags in the Soho shops on my regular trips, kaçak iddaa and saw some odd scenes (odd to me) which I couldn’t quite make out, but then there was a clampdown. In the 80s VHS tapes came out, and they were playing one in one of my bookshops, meaning I came face to face with it and what the couple were doing, though not at all explicit, and a lot of things dropped into place. A lot of it was obvious I suppose, but I hadn’t ever wanted to think about it, or rather there was no reason for me to. It was a shock though.Between now and then there has been a gradual and inexorable liberalisation and relaxing of censorship, to the extent now that almost anything goes. None of that made any difference to me of course, until the Internet. Two things happened. First, after having to give up buying mags because they had become far too explicit, and the demise of my beloved Spick & Spans, I found wonderful sites where all you saw was stocking-tops, knickers, legginess, cleavage – the sort of poses I loved and which were more than enough for me to get all the sex pleasure I needed. I also discovered you could correspond with the posing girls but that’s another story.Secondly, as I surfed, without warning graphic scenes would come up. I was being force-fed explicit sex against my will. In the early days, the early 2000s, censorship persisted – ‘cumshots’ were years off – but I remember very well that first time, clicking on a link to what I thought would be a nice pic of a girl, and there was a close-up of an erect penis – I knew what that looked like – sliding in and out of a girl – I didn’t know what that looked like. (Btw, I’m in my 50s by this time).It seemed such an odd thing to me that I studied it for a while despite myself, more than a little bemused. Now I’m sure that, certainly by that time, I had some sort of idea what made the world turn, but the actuality of it, though logically it all made sense, was still a touch disturbing to me. It seemed such an invasion – to a perv who was always careful not to be any closer than 3 feet to a girl, and then only because a work situation required it – and I wondered what was supposed to happen next. I mean I know what happens when a penis is rubbed – in fact mine cums all by itself at the mere sight of a girl – and I knew I’m sure that the contents of the balls was the key factor in procreation. I can’t recall the thought process I went through – as I say it was not so much ignorance as preferred ignorance that resulted in my naivety – but I enjoyed the humiliation of another reminder of what normal people do – what I was supposed to do but was incapable of. And the Internet, with the new-found ability to communicate with the girls I was perving over, gave me the opportunity to confess to any girls that would listen, my incapability – that I was just a wanker, who’d never ‘done it’, and hoped to feel the delicious disdain and mockery of girls that posed. Unfortunately, they were mostly too kind and understanding, though that was nice too. Over the next couple of decades the loosening of online morals continued and nowadays if I’m not careful, a single thoughtless click can bring me face-to face with video of a spunking cock gooing a girl’s face, or a girl with 5 men in Her, or something. I do like the dirtiness implicit in a girl gang-banging, or being nude in front of many men – like Nudes kaçak bahis a Poppin’. Funnily enough, I can look at nudity in that context, but only because the thought of a girl letting a man see Her nude is so exciting, even more so when She’s posing in a magazine or online for many men to see, even more so when She’s being filmed with several men inside Her at the same time for the sex pleasure of many men watching. Girls in any of those categories to me are Spunk Queens. Girls I’ve worshiped have embraced that term, and one, on a video She did for me, asks – “so, am I a spunk queen Graham?! All those men spunking over me?!” That answered the final question, if it hadn’t already been answered – do girls know what men do with their photos and videos? That lovely Spunk Queen obviously did, and She liked that. I love it. I do miss the innocence of those early times, though the innocence was probably all mine, and few other people, girls included, were. I think back to times at school, like Miss Julie emerging from a bedroom at an afternoon sort of party to take a phone call, and at the time me thinking ‘what’s She gone to bed for at this time, She can’t be that tired’. Then at work in the 70s and 80s, looking back I can see girls were winding me up, talking about suggestive things to see my reaction, and laughing when they realised I’d no idea what they were referring to – “cor, Bob last night, I could hardly take him, he must have grown or something!” It was my fault for setting out to gradually let them all know what sort of perv I was – no girlfriend, never married, being seen in the local shop buying dirty mags, easily mesmerised by a show of leg or cleavage.But I loved the thought that they all knew I was just a wanker, and I enjoyed the humiliation and embarrassment of being wound up like that. A classic was with a few of the girls choosing to talk about ‘a BJ’ when I was delivering the mail. I knew this was deliberate, as it happened most times I was up in the offices. It was along the lines of the ways they ‘liked BJs’. I could guess it was something sexual but as always I was far too nervous and timid to join in the conversation. So when one girl pointedly asked me “which way do you like a BJ, Graham?!” the easiest way was to mumble “I don’t know”, while at the time gawping at Miss Jane’s legginess in Her minidress (or someone’s, I don’t remember exactly). My pathetic response produced loud laughter and I flushed up, but the feeling of pitiful humiliation is delicious, and my next port of call was to the toilets to allow the image of leggy Miss Jane to cause almost instant ejaculation, while I imagined all the girls laughing at this further proof that Graham is just a wanker, and a really sad one at that – who’s no idea what a blow-job is, and at that time, I truly didn’t. I couldn’t imagine for a moment that a girl would put Her mouth over a disgusting ugly veiny penis. Another classic is the two girls who shared an office at the end of the corridor, one, Miss Lynn, so bosomy She made my penis weep every time I saw Her in Her tight tops. I guess She knew my obsession with Her – which culminated in a compulsive and highly-risky mac-wank seeing Her and Her friend leave work one evening – and on this occasion they chose to talk about an experience with some bloke who’d tried to ‘get off’ with Her the previous evening. It was something illegal bahis along the lines of attempted ‘snogging’ and groping, and Miss Lynn laughing to Her friend that “his hands weren’t big enough”, as She held Her hands up in an appropriate position and squeezed Her fingers together, as a man might do when placing his hands on a woman’s breasts standing in front of Her (yes I’ve had a long time to think about that). “Much too big for that wally”, Miss Lynn laughed, holding Her hands in place. “Big bazooms!” Miss Sally laughed. “He wouldn’t know what to do with them!” Miss Lynn laughed. Then Miss Lynn made a couple of gestures, including holding Her hands in front of Her big tits to mock this bloke while they both laughed. I was standing there absolutely stunned (and probably already erect) and Miss Sally turned to me to say “are you still here Wankalot?!” Miss Lynn never ever spoke to me or acknowledged my existence, but She knew that’s what the girls called me, though I’d never heard it to my face before. Of course I was in a toilet in a matter of seconds and barely needed to wank as I thought about the lovely things I’d just heard and just how bosomy Miss Lynn looked in Her tight top. A lot of cleaning up of that toilet was needed then. Every time I visited that office, it was lovely to let Miss Sally see me going boss-eyed as I gawped at Miss Lynn in Her top. I loved to feel my knob stiffening as I did this, and deliberately trying to string out my visit to look for as long as I could, while Miss Sally laughed behind Her hand. Once after doing this I was leaving the office heading for the toilets and I looked back through the window to see Miss Sally doing the ‘wanker’ sign as She and Miss Lynn laughed. Looking back at all those memories, specially the early ones, where my powers of recall are stretched but the gist is certainly right, it was always a struggle to fulfil my dream of letting girls know I was a wanker, a perv, a mac-wanker, magazine collector, a girl-worshipper who never ‘went with’ girls. The more detail I could get across the better, but it was too risky to spell it out. How I would have loved, when girls in the offices were talking about their week-ends, to say I’d been in the ‘adult’ cinema to see the Russ Meyer film with big tit girls dancing and sat there in my mac with the other pervs dotted about, cumming in my pants seeing the cleavage girl right at the beginning of the film. It wasn’t until years later and the Internet and email, that my life story could be told. The only exception to that was the years worshipping Miss Melanie, where I could do all those things, including video of me and my antics. That ended in the late 90s and it seemed a long wait till the next Goddess I worshipped, who I told about my mac-wanking and who seemed genuinely entertained by it all. There were several online Goddesses who I had conversations with over several years sometimes, and apart from my life history – everything I’ve said above really – I could also keep up-to-date with my antics each day, what pants-spunking I’d done out and about in my mac, sending them cum-tributes and so on. You could say that finally I got my wish, and certainly it was a golden era of girl-worship, culminating in worship-in-person, where a girl who knew She made me cum in my pants looking at Her photos and videos, posed in favourite outfits knowing She would make me spunk my pants in the studio. Trouble is, all the Goddesses I was worshipping have stopped modelling and withdrawn from the scene. I desperately need to find a new Goddess. Rewards await.

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