Male Desires and All The Men I Have Slept With
Male desires come in every shape, just like their penises, more shades than the rainbow, more mysterious than you can imagine. More mysterious than you can imagine.
Ramon – bless him – would wake with an erection and I gulped down a mouthful of protein before starting my hectic day. At night, after he had come, he would stay hard and fall asleep inside me as he softened. There is nothing like the male desires of a younger lover.
Male desires are often brutal. Their caveman genes demand obedience, domination, a heavy hand. I remember the stranger I met in a champagne bar in Soho where I often went with Lizzie, sometimes alone. He held my wrist all the way back to my flat as if I were a bird that might take wing and fly through the taxi window.
‘Take your clothes off,’ he said, the moment I closed the door and I did. ‘Have you been a naughty girl?’
‘Yes,’ I replied in all honesty.
‘Then come here.’
I stretched over his knee and he gave my ass a good tanning, warming all the coils and spirals about my bottom until lines of fire stretched through me and I was wet with lust long before penetration, a casual disappointment.
Male Desires & DNA
There were others who were truly brutal. They call you a slag and a slut. They hit you and take you by force, their male desires fed by their own failings and lack of self-worth. It’s always a danger going home with strangers met randomly in bars and on dance floors, but it shakes you from the luke warm bath of our quotidian existence. A life without danger is a life that has never been lived. I had a boyfriend once who jumped with a parachute into the Amazon jungle and took twenty days to walk out. He was a considerate lover.
Not all male desires are brutal. They can be timid, unrealised, misunderstood. They love women without knowing what a woman wants and what a woman wants is to feel their weight on top of them. They want to be filled to the rim and drilled deep as if in your core is an undiscovered seam of gold.
I remember the man who never took off his socks. The matador I met in Andalusia who dressed in his suit of lights and teased me, swirling and turning with his flesh-coloured cape as we chased about the hotel room. There was one who snored and one who got out of bed immediately to wash my salt-sea smell from his genitals. I recall the man whose cock was too big and another whose cock was so small it felt like a feather tickling my insides and I had to force away the laughter bubbling up inside me.
Male desires are a mystery to women, an enigma. They are complex, pumped up with ego, and often turn liquid. They lick, they dribble, they come over your face, they piss on you. There is some renegade gene, some kink in the DNA, that makes men both worship and want to destroy beauty. It was always the most beautiful girl in the tribe chosen for sacrifice, a virgin, the fantasy of every elder who knows he will never have her. Better to send her to the flames than watching some young stud take the prize.
Male desires grow romantic after ejaculation and they want to marry you. They want to know when you lost your virginity. They want to know how many men you have slept with. They want you to be as pure as the driven snow when you appear on their arm and a skilled courtesan between their bedsheets.
Men may imagine they are the hunters but they are only one half of the matrix and women like magnets are hunting to connect. Men thrive on male delusions and women flourish on male desires.
“An erotic novel that touches on a range of social and philosophical issues. Sex scenes are notoriously difficult to get right, and it’s equally difficult to avoid tedious repetition if you’re writing a succession of them. Thurlow does both and manages to integrate them in an absorbing story.” 5***** JWM – Amazon