Warning: this post is rather more explicit than previous ones. (Probably the warning is unnecessary really, but I just thought I’d say in case you’re expecting something else.)

This post is a bit of an experiment: I’m writing about reality (my situation while I write, or not long before writing) as well as the fantasy of you, the reader, joining in with me. Just a sharing of an intimate moment.

I’ve made a special effort to be in bed “early”. Which for me means that it’s just after midnight . . . I’m sleepy, but don’t feel ready to sleep. This happens a lot. And I’m naked, because that’s how I usually am when I sleep. I’m propped up in bed, typing this on my netbook.

I’m quite warm. I didn’t judge the heater setting quite right, so it’s a little warmer in my bedroom than I usually aim for. Another good reason to be naked.

The warmth means my scrotum is very relaxed. My balls hanging low and free. Very comfortable. A moment ago I had to get out of bed to turn the heater down another notch; they swung pleasantly as I moved. I enjoy that feeling. It can feel sexy, or just comforting. At the moment it’s a bit of both. In fact I often wear the pouch in this photo (it’s made of knitted silk, which is amazingly comfortable) precisely because it allows that free feeling while cradling them just a little bit. It’s the closest thing to being naked under my clothes.

Knitted silk pouch supporting my bits

Comfort of silk

But I’m digressing. No pouch at the moment. Just my naked, comfortable body in bed. (There will now be a little writer’s licence in terms of tenses, since some of the following happened before I got into bed.)

The relaxed feeling is good. The feeling of my balls hanging low is good. It’s hard to resist the temptation to let my hand move down and feel them. Not that I think of it as a temptation; more a part of enjoying my sleepy, relaxed state. I stroke the skin of my scrotum with my fingers. My nakedness means the air is free to circulate and there’s no feeling of sweatiness; the skin is surprisingly smooth to my touch. It’s about a week since I last shaved them, so the hair has grown past the stubble stage to something more like a layer of down. The hairs tingle as my fingers move over them. It feels good.

My hand moves lower, supporting them with my fingers for a moment then letting them roll free. Curling my fingers under them again, and letting the same happen . . . and then cupping them in my hand. Letting the fingers of my other hand stroke the soft hairs.

At some point in this, my mind wanders and it’s no longer my fingers which are touching me like this. You are next to me, also naked. I imagine your hand cradling my balls, gently massaging them, rolling them around, feeling their weight, stroking and exploring. (Yes I do mean you, the reader.) A soft female hand, warm and comforting. The feeling hints at how it might feel later if your warm lips were to close around them, drawing them into your mouth and making me melt into the sensuousness and the blood rush to my hardening shaft . . . How you would tease me until I could hold back no more . . . Or maybe first you would let your tongue trail over and around them, teasing me with its tip. And my hand would be buried in your hair, stroking and massaging the back of your neck as the soft wet warmth of your mouth engulfed me . . .

And so as I type, I imagine you here in bed with me, your body warm against mine as you roll my balls in the palm of your hand and trace your fingers through the thin layer of hairs. Maybe your eyes are on the screen, watching what I type as you tease me. Or maybe you’re watching my face, or focused on what’s happening between your fingers . . . But either way it’s clear from the way my cock is hardening and my concentration diminishing that I’ll have to stop typing any moment. Until then, I do my best to continue my description. Losing myself in the erotic haze . . . Closing my eyes and letting the sensations take over as your other hand closes around my shaft . . . We both know that my arousal is unstoppable now, and that I have no real choice in the matter: my arousal is in your hands, and even though things are just beginning, it’s clear that you will lead me on inexorably on to a hard, straining erection and then to an explosive orgasm.

I’m sleepy now. It took longer to write this than I expected. So rather than more words, here is a photo. I took it a few weeks ago, just after shaving.

My balls, held in my hand, in black and white

Just after shaving. Ready for your fingers, or your lips and tongue . . .

Today (on Tumblr) I came across what was clearly intended as an erotic photo. I’m not sure whether it’s an old photo, or a recent one emulating an old one . . . Anyway it features a woman in her underwear, standing next to a harp. Her head is resting on the against the top part of the harp, and her hand on what should be the pillar (I think that’s the correct terminology). One shoulder strap is half way down her upper arm. Her bare thighs and upper chest and neck are highlighted by the pose. The harp has nice curves. So does she.

But several things bother me about the photo—probably not helped by the fact that I’m heavily involved in music:

  • Something is wrong with the column or pillar. To be precise, what’s wrong is that most of it is missing. What we’re seeing is basically part of a dismembered harp.
  • It appears not to have any strings, except for a few of the long ones at the bass end. They are hanging loose, adding to the sense that what we’re looking at is not a musical instrument, but the remains of one.
  • She looks as though she’s never had anything to do with a harp in her life.

Basically I look at the photo and think “Oh my God—what has happened to that instrument?!” For me, this is not an erotic thought.

But the most puzzling thing for me is the choice of pose. I think the photographer intended the way she’s standing, and touching the ex-harp, to be sensuously suggestive and erotic. Because if she were merely playing the harp, she wouldn’t touch it like that. And she’d almost certainly be wearing more clothes. Clearly we’re meant to think that she’s imagining touching something else . . .

The only thing is: the normal playing position for a harp is far sexier than the pose in the photo. So if you’re used to seeing someone play a harp, the photo feels as though she’s carefully trying to avoid the sexiness by just standing there and keeping her distance from it.

Was this intentional—was the photo taken at a time when the photographer felt that the combination of underwear and a normal playing position would be too risqué? Were the photographer and model simply clueless about musical instruments? Or just unconcerned about the possibility of anyone with a music background seeing the photo? Whatever the reason, the result is a photo which at first sight seems as though I ought to find it erotic, but which actually . . . feels like somone standing awkwardly with a piece of wreckage.

So, what do we learn? An unexpected message, maybe:

  • there are actually situations in which reality is sexier than fantasy
  • real music is sexier than fantasy music.

. . . well, perhaps.

Black and white photo of my hairy chest

I never thought of myself as hairy

Imagining your bare body against mine . . .

I’m tired, and it’s late. So this may not be the most polished of posts.

It’s a long time since I last posted. Too long; I started this blog as part of a freeing exploration of the erotic and sensual side of myself (OK, imagine me sensually exploring you too if you must . . . ) and I was indeed finding it a liberating experience: expressing my true self in areas that often remain hidden. Getting into conversation with some amazing people. Being free to talk intelligently and sensitively about sensuality and eroticism . . . being free from having to choose between talking sexually and talking intelligently. Bringing together the part of me that wants to think and reflect, and the part that wants to give pleasure to every inch of someone’s body . . . letting myself be my whole self.

What happened?

It wouldn’t be right to go into a lot of detail, so I’ll just say that one or two things happened in my life which knocked that exploration off course somewhat. And that it was more difficult than I expected to get back on track.

Well, I’m feeling my way back again. (And talking of feeling, I like the warmth of your skin under my fingers . . . Hang on, that’s not the kind of feeling I meant . . . I do though, and if I just kiss here and here and here and gently . . . Look you’re distracting me, that’s not what I . . . Oh gosh yes do that some more . . . Mmmm . . . Damn I really can’t concentrate . . . )

Sorry, where was I?

Oh yes. I was exploring, and being sidetracked, and feeling my way, and being sleepy. Too sleepy to write as thoughtfully as I’d like to. Too sleepy to satisfy my own perfectionism. Sleepily running my hands over your . . .

I value this blog, and I value what writing it gives me, even though I’ve been absent for a while. Today, I especially value those friends who have noticed my absence and asked me about it. I really appreciate that. It feels good. I hope to post more regularly again. I hope you’ll enjoy what I write, whatever I explore. And I hope that despite my sleepiness now, this will all seem coherent when I read it again in the morning.

Time to sleep. And dream . . .

Is it possible to love online?

Yes, it is. Written words which come from the heart have the power to touch another heart. Emotions are expressed. Lives thousands of miles apart come into contact, and aspects of those lives become entwined through what is expressed and shared . . .

And as in real life, love can go unrecognised, or one person may make a greater emotional commitment than the other. Or you can merrily go along thinking that you’re just going to be friends, but an attachment you never intended forms anyway. Emotions don’t normally behave rationally; it would be irrational to expect them to.

I wrote these two haiku some months ago, in such a situation.

Invisible

Bit by tiny bit
I gave all my heart to you.
Didn’t you notice?

Kisses

I miss your kisses
and my heart breaks as I see
your kiss on his lips.