Let’s Get Married, And Have A Gay Old Time! Part One

When I thought this topic up, I thought it’d be quite easy. All I had to do was do a bit of research, do a quick write up here, with arguments both for and against, and then I could go back to looking at pictures of a naked woman, and then masturbate to them. You know, the usual. This would have been quite easy because I possess the ability to see things from a different point of view – one that I may not necessarily agree with – yet still understand how people could come to that conclusion. For this topic, though, I failed. I just couldn’t do it. The reasons I found held, I believe, no merit whatsoever. So, instead of making this an unbiased presentation, I decided to make this an opinion piece. That basically means I get to be as sarcastic as possible. I view that as a challenge.

The topic under scrutiny today is that of gay marriage. It’s a touchy subject, I know, and one that is usual to produce flare ups of anger, though I’ll ask any and all who comment on such a thing – not just on here, but in real life, too – to be respectful of other people’s opinions. Even though I probably won’t…

According to BalancedPolitics, the first reason against is: 

• Most religions consider homosexuality a sin. Virtually every religion in the world, including the major ones in this country, consider homosexuality unacceptable. It is offensive and a swipe to the religious freedom of the majority to have to recognize a relationship they consider sinful. The legal system in the United States evolved out of the laws contained in the Bible. We shouldn’t go even farther to tear down those laws.

Which is, indeed, true. Almost. Many religions do consider homosexuality (and the cooler, sexier female version of lesbianism – or ‘Bow Chika Bow Wow’ as it is known in some parts) a sin, yet just as many do not. In Ancient Greece, it has been said by one member on JK, marriage was just a ‘legal document for the passing on of property through the production of legally recognised heirs’, and that many same sex couples were married in just the same way as straight Greeks. While I don’t know that for sure, it does sound likely. The Greeks kept the male and female children separated during their formative years – which gave rise to many gay relationships during those times. And, indeed, most likely carried on into adulthood, since men could not marry until they were thirty (and the girls could marry at approximately 14 years of age). However, it just as easily may not be true, as in other old cultures, the act of marriage was specifically done for the sake of producing offspring (it’s interesting to note that, in the cases I’ve found, it was irrespective of sexual orientation. Meaning, you could be openly gay, but you still had to marry a woman and have kids. It is theorised that this was because there weren’t a lot of women around, so marriages and procreation were necessary for the continuation of a culture).

The Romans had no problem with it – though they did think it was wrong if you were ‘the woman’ during the act. Meaning, it was okay if you were the one giving it, not taking it. Too, the Romans were also fans of adoption. It wasn’t about bloodline so much as the legacy. They adopted those with good qualities to further strengthen the family. 

As to the legal system, why, that is quite preposterous. The US constitution clearly defines a separation of church and state. To have laws defined on beliefs that don’t even apply to the whole of the country is unconstitutional (I’ve always wanted to say that!). Luckily, I’m a Brit, and we have no such problems (I believe the words ‘suck it’ are the most appropriate at the moment). Too, for a government to force anything on a religious institution is unconstitutional. But for the government to refuse marriage on religious grounds is, as I’ve said, also unconstitutional.

The second reason against it is thus:

• It would weaken the definition and respect for the institution of marriage. The 50 percent divorce rate has already weakened the definition of marriage. We shouldn’t be taking further steps to define what marriage is. A law allowing gay marriage would increase the number of joke or non-serious marriages, such as a couple of friends who want to save on taxes. Marriage is the most sacred institution in this country, and every society considers it the joining of a man and a woman. It makes biological sense since only a man and woman can pro-create.

The definition of marriage, as with the definitions of all words, is an on-going, never ceasing process. Words change often, sometimes as quickly as a few years. The word ‘cool’ has, within the last couple of decades, taken on the meaning of denoting acceptance, yet it also meant to be reserved, and also meant a certain temperature.

However, I don’t think that this would demean marriage. Yes, there probably will be people making joke marriages (such a thing has been known to happen to Rocky Horror virgins during Rocky Horror stage shows) as well as those trying to avoid tax. But the issue of same sex marriage is one that has been, and still is, hard fought over. Would those people, who have been denied something we heterosexuals now take for granted, not take it seriously? Of course they would. Well, some would. We’d be fools not to think that. But for those who have been in loving relationships with the ones they love for years, who have waited to be recognised as man and manly-wife legally, it is my firm belief, they would not debase it. Besides, the real reason is to get said tax benefits. Who’d be stupid enough to divorce, and lose them?

That's Who.

Yeah, because it’s really the gays who are weakening marriage…

Number 3: 

• It would further weaken the traditional family values essential to our society. The building blocks of our society and the thing that makes it strong is the traditional family of man, woman, and children. It is what has sustained us through two world wars, terrorist attacks, a Great Depression, and numerous other challenges over the centuries. While friends & lovers come and go, your family is always there. The main reason our culture and values have started to crumble is the weakening of families. Introducing another form of “family” would only make the situation worse. 

It’s interesting to note that it doesn’t really say how it would make it worse, merely that the traditional family is superior. I argue that it’s not the simple fact that the family consists of a man, woman and children that makes the family the essential building block, but the fact that they love each other; that they care for each other; that they cherish, respect and trust one another. That the family is stable and happy and secure, with ‘decent’  moral values (I’ll let you fill in what you mean by that, here: _______________). Just because there’s a man and a woman doesn’t mean there are these things. 

The Killer Combo: Karla Homolko And Paul Bernardo

It seems that this post has run longer than I had expected (we prefer to keep our blog posts short, for various reasons I won’t go into), so I shall continue this in another post. Don’t worry. You won’t have to wait long. I shall finish this completely, and then post it with only the barest of breaks. 

The Great Outdoors – Great For Outdoor Sex?

What a weekend. My head is still thumping and my stomach churns at just the thought of a beef burger with ham, lettuce, tomato, cheese, mayonnaise and ketchup. Now I have to find something else to have for breakfast. There’s a reason why I don’t drink, and Sunday was the perfect example. A Thespionic friend of mine was returning home with a less than heroic welcome (two of our circle were already drunk and one was thrown out of the nightclub for flirting for too much with the bartender. He was a little annoyed but what he hadn’t realised was that we’d gone to a drag bar-a bar where the staff periodically dress up as the opposite sex)

But, nevertheless, it promised to be quite a night. We met up with friends, real women this time, although some of the boobs were still fake. The lot of us decided to take a guided tour-of a city we know very, very well. Okay, not that much, so sometimes we just made stuff up. ‘On your left you’ll see a boat. It’s a very pretty boat, with big wooden polls, making me jealous and insecure. Such a sight is rare around that area of the city, but if you turn to your right you’ll see the naval dockyard. Like someone played Jenga with barge polls. “My one’s bigger than your one”. “No, my one’s bigger than your one”. “Nope, my one’s thicker than your one”. “Well mine has a bend in it, which is great for reaching round corners. Crap for sailing though”. Yes, we gave each ship a personality. Each one of them a whiny teenager. What? It was midnight, and most of us were too drunk to get very creative.

As usual I declined the drinks, for I am the designated hair-puller-backer. The one who holds the hair back as you throw up. However, as it was a special occasion, I agreed to a wee tipple.

Bad idea.

never again.

I can’t quite recall what happened afterwards, but Monday morning I woke up with one side of my hair shaved off. It wasn’t a neat shave, either. It appeared that they had attempted to carve a word in to my hair, failed, and attempted several other carvings, each worser than the last. I scrambled to get dressed, brushed my teeth, got my wallet, picked up my tassled Pompey hat and headed into town to see my barber. Who wasn’t there. Now, my city is known to have several barber shops (and around fifty clothes shops, who invited me in to get a better hat, but I declined), but  these barber shops I tried, frantically haggling with them for a discount (I had around £10 on me), but they didn’t know me. They would no take a line of credit for a stranger. Unless they’re really attractive. Even as I walked out of that last shop, I did not panic, for  knew what I had to do. I had to shave my own  hair off.

For reasons best left unexplained, I already owned a hair shaving kit (please, please don’t ask) and so I trudged home, rifled underneath my bed for the box, plugged in the shaver and then stared, stock still, for a good ten minutes before I plucked up the courage to actually turn it on. Which didn’t help. It let out a deep, wheezing groan that sounded like it was on its last legs, and with my headache in place it was not welcome. But I got the number 1 length out, steeled myself, turned it on and let it loose to my hair.

Bad idea.

Never again.

I have superb hair. Fine, thick, Scottish hair. Which does not like to be cut without a howdy-do. It complained. It resisted. I had managed to take away my widow’s peak but tat was it. It got stuck. I pulled and pulled but it would not be undone. Eventually I had to turn it off and use the scissors to cut dangerously close to my head. I switched to a number 5 blade. Where it got stuck again. What can I say? My hair is as stubborn as I am. I persevered through the pain (which, in my opinion, was comparable to childbirth at that point) and got it stuck again. And again. I lamented, for it was not going well. But I carried on regardless, unbeknownst to me that  was providing great entertainment to the crowd, which consisted of my family, who cheered on each shearing. Silently, of course. hey didn’t want me to stop and their entertainment to end.

You may ask why I didn’t ask one of them to do it for me? Because I’m not that dumb for a start. The only one with experience at cutting hair was my middle sister, who went to a beauty college. And failed. The sister who, against my better judgement, I let cut my own hair once (or twice) and I came away with severely cut ears. But this time was different. There was no tale of woe. I got my hair short enough, and managed to get it down to a no. 1 (really, there was no alternative without it looking like I had bald spots). And now I feel the cold a lot more. Bugger. And my niece has taken to staring at me, and then running away. Oh dear.

But this week I do not talk about hair cuts, although if you want you could post your thoughts on pubic hair and grooming habits at the end of this blog. Do you like to shave your nethers? Do you like a partner to be known as the hairless wonder? Or do you like the hairstyle known as the Landing Strip? Although why you need hair to give you directions to a woman’s pussy I’ll never know. I guess some men need to be told where the clit is. I do not like these men. There are some things you should know in life without the aid of a guide!

Instead, my kinky readers, I talk to you about the great outdoors. Alfresco sex. Inspired by several member’s posts, including the most recent one being an offering to the kinky gods from SJ. Does it turn you on, I ask you? Or do you think it far too risqué for your tastes? More importantly, have you ever tried it? And, even more importantly, would you care to share?

Personally, I’m a fan. I remember my first time in the great outdoors, was actually my first time altogether. I was playing cricket on a lovely, sunny, July morn (such picaresque times are rare here but they do happen), and a lovely young Swedish hippie woman – she really was dressed like a hippie – came up to me and, wait for it, actually started talking to me! Now, in my defense, while I have certainly gotten better at talking to women, and while I was comfortable around women always, I was not very good then. Because I had gone to an all boys school, and controlling parents meant I had no social life, my interactions with the opposite sex was few and far between. I say that as if there were any interactions. There were none. Yes, feel sorry for me. *Sniff* I may need a pick me up. Feel free to send in your pick me up nudie photos to (EDIT by Jules – send them to my email instead). And now that you have my email, feel free to email me any time with stories, anecdotes, reviews or suggestions for the blog.

So, we talked. About nothing of consequence, and I tried to be suave and interesting, and failed miserably. Yet it worked. I don’t know how, but I suppose if you do everything wrong, somehow, you manage to get it right! But I was not one to question my good fortunes as, even though my turn to bat was up as soon as our current player was bowled out, I walked eagerly beside her. Who wouldn’t? A blonde Swede? Are you kidding me? She led me up the knoll, and we tucked ourselves in, hidden by very thorny bushes to every side. She lifted her dress off to expose her lithe body, and took off her undergarments in a very erotic fashion as I clumsily yanked off my clothes, desperate to be out of them as quick as possible. I sat down and she lowered herself on to me, taking me inside her in one smooth motion. I thought I had died and gone to heaven. I thought I was going to explode just from that smooth, wet caress of her pussy taking me, but I held on. Not, as you may have guessed, for long. She was an expert. She’s Swedish, what did you expect? Rocking her hips in motions, practiced and perfected, sliding her inner walls over my already engorged head, and all too soon I felt my head explode with the pleasure of it, letting out a loud groan that I hoped no one had heard. After, as I regained my sex addled senses, I saw she was smiling at me and I kissed her, passionately. She must have felt that I had not gone soft on her, for she started to bounce again.

This time, I controlled myself. My hands ran over her smooth, sun-kissed body, taking my fill of her curves, tasting her breasts, sucking on her nipples, as my hands searched, clumsily (although I’m happy to report with happy endings) massaging her clit, relying on my many, many hours of watching porn to guide my hand so that she’d feel at least some pleasure. And, after what seemed an eternity, I began to feel her body rocking harder down on me, her muscles clenching (I thought she was having a fit, for a second!), her groans echoing around us, holding me to her as she rode herself over the edge, letting out a strangled cry. The feeling of her muscles clenching around me felt amazing, too incredible for words, and I came again, filling her with my seed, but still she was not content. Faster she rode me, her back arching, tugging my member down so much it hurt, but to her, I later learned (several years later. Naturally.) that this was a very good position for her, which showed in how her body contracted, clenched and tensed, again and again (of course, after this I thought I was a sex god! This notion came crashing down with my next conquest, sadly) until she collapsed on to me, arms limp, breathing in deep, ragged breaths, filling my ears with sweet words that I didn’t understand.

We lay there, entwined in each others arms for an age, until we realised that my name was being called. It was my turn to bat. Oh dear. Hurriedly we dressed, although with a smile on our faces, and it was then that, in typical JV fashion, my true self came to the fore-front. As I struggled to get my trousers on, I fell backwards. Into the thorny bushes. This was not good, but luckily she laughed, in the good way, and put it down to British charm. Never have I been more thankful of Hugh Grant pervading his charm on-screen, making others believe that we’re all like that. But, fully dressed, we scrambled out of the brambles and went our separate ways, never to see each other again, and I’m ashamed to say that I never knew her name. Don’t ask for the name I gave her. On the plus side, as I walked away with a hitch in my step and a sore arse, I did manage to bat a Century…

Well, well. It seems I went rather farther than I intended in telling that story. Would you like to see some better written erotica?

And so my day passed without further excitement, apart from my appointment to have hot wax put to my skin and the hair ripped from my body. (Does anyone else find that actually rather… pleasing?) Anyhow, leaving the salon freshly smooth, I set off on my walk. In my handbag lay my little egg vibe, ever so innocently peeking out of a side pocket. I ducked into the shopping centre, and then into the ladies, and then once more ducked into a cubicle. My fingers ran over my smooth flesh, dipped between, and I was surprised to find that my thoughts alone had made me quite moist. Of course, they were delicious thoughts. I eased the egg inside me with a quiet sigh, and fixed my clothes. I located the remote and, holding my breath, hit the power button. There was a half second delay where I thought nothing would happen, and then the signal was received and the vibe kicked to life. Well! That was slightly more powerful than I expected, as evidenced by the way I leapt in surprise.

SJ’s first acquaintance with the vibe. And later:

As I walked through the park, there were less and less people, and when I took the path up around the river, there were no people. My body was already alive with sensation as I found a nice secluded grassy patch and settled down. My nipples were puckered and hard, demanding attention which I readily gave them. Once more I flicked through the settings, found a delicious pulsing throb and sat back to enjoy.

The sensations were exquisite but not quite enough, and I had to unbutton my shorts and let my hand slide down inside them. My fingers danced a sweet tattoo over my wet flesh, to my clit. I teased, stroked, tapped, pulled, pinched and rubbed it until I was in a near frenzy. I had to bite back a cry when my orgasm hit, my body shuddering deliciously with pure pleasure, writhing on the soft grass

Oh my…

Ahem. Of course, I cannot compare. Although I will try. It was another night out recently, in the same city, although with no accidents as bad as the hair one. Well, not quite. It started in a bar. I had met a fine young woman. She was a lieutenant in the royal navy, who recently came to port in one of the arrivals after serving a tour of duty in the gulf. I didn’t ask which gulf. But nevertheless, she was very attractive. And so I felt it my patriotic duty to buy her a drink. And then try to sleep with her. Naturally. Well, you may have guessed, my dirty mind quickly turned a casual, friendly chat into a rather sordid one, one which she eagerly returned (I put this down not to my looks or charm but the fact that she’s been cooped up on a ship the last six months. Always the way…). Soon, as the bar became crowded, and our bodies became closer, we found our hands sliding over each other’s bodies. And, soon, I found my hand down between her fey thighs, rubbing swiftly over her hardened nub and, soon after, we found ourselves outside, then in a taxi, kissing passionately. And then, in her barracks, her pinned up against the wall, her legs around my waist as I urged her clothes off and myself inside her.

Then the military police came. Bastards.

It’s been a while.

We hastily corrected our clothes, but she knew that, if she was put in the brig, it would go on her record, and she urged me to run for it before the MPs came close enough to identify us. So we ran. The MPs gave chase. It was rather exciting, like being in a movie, although the excitement came later, you know, when I wasn’t being chased and perhaps being charged, so we decided to split up. Don’t worry, I wasn’t abandoning her, but we both realised, almost at the exact same moment, that we’d stand a better chance on our own, hoping that the MPs would be slowed by indecision. Well, it worked. Don’t worry, she got away scot-free, no charges to her name, but I on the other hand, found myself up against the superior runner. I dodged and turned, weaved in and out, around buildings, hoping to use the terrain to evade my faster pursuer. It did not work as well as I had hoped.

Eventually, I decided to rely on my parkour skills and went for elevation and, soon, I had lost him, the MP, and was at the boundary of the naval base, which I gladly jumped over. And landed badly. In front of a moving car. Luckily, I was already moving out-of-the-way when the car hit, so it only winged me, but even still it hurt. And, when I saw the driver was an attractive young woman with an exotic accent, I did what any decent man would do under the circumstances. I did the hammy acting. First, I pretended that the injury was severe, but then, slowly, but not too slow as to be obvious, I gathered myself for a heroic comeback, brushing away the pain with gritted teeth and a soothing smile. ‘But at least let my buy you a drink at ze bar,’ she purred. Voila. I was in.

She was French. You have to love the French. As Molly does in her epic multi-part blog about Paris. I felt a little guilty over my subterfuge, and I owned up, fully expecting a slap in the face, or at least a drink in the face, and a lonely walk home, but it was one of those times when my failure turns into a win, and thought the fact that I was willing to turn away sex with a beautiful woman in order to be truthful with her was quite charming. Yes, I’m feeling quite smug. Sorry! We didn’t even wait until we got to her place, having passionate, lustful sex on the bonnet of her car, and then, just a few minutes later, in the back of her car as we pulled over on a motorway right there and then.

But then we had a problem. I had brought one condom, and she one herself. We were out of condoms, and both wanted a passionate, lust-filled night at home. So we did what any normal person would do. She drove around the city for an hour and a half, looking for an open shop or chemists, while I was nestled between her thighs, licking her wet slit, flicking her pulsing clit, until she came, over and over again (this time it was down to countless hours of practice, not porn) until one particularly strong orgasm shuddered through her body, causing the car to swerve nearly entirely off the road. Luckily, it was deserted, but we decided to give it a rest until we got home. And, you may have remembered my saying that I knew the place very well earlier. Well, I do, and so it was only a couple of minutes before we found a shop. She looked at me suspiciously, but said nothing. We retreated back to her hotel room and that, ladies and gentlemen, my freaky darlings, is where we depart in our story.

And, instead, I ask you, my kinky readers, to write down your kinky stories, how you feel about outdoor sex? Feel free to leave a comment down below.

Take care, and have an orgasm filled week!