Luckily, out in the middle of nowhere, there was something: rust-pocked, grease-smeared, dirt-encrusted, GARAGE was nevertheless a blessed sight. Luckily, the rental had just enough momentum to carry Lisa off the endless stretch of highway and up to one of the antique pumps.

“Hello?” she said, slamming the door in frustration. “Anyone here?”

The only thing that responded was the sad squeaking of a Propane sign.

“Great,” she said, leaning back against the warm metal of the car. “Just great.”

The funny part was that the day had started out well enough — her flight into Phoenix hadn’t been delayed, her luggage hadn’t gone on a whirlwind tour of Europe, and the deal waiting for her in Taos had looked mighty tasty.

That, and the drive had been pleasant — the highway narrowing towards the vanishing point, dry desert air, a vast blue sky had been almost… well, she felt more like a spry 21 than a respectable 30. Life had been looking sweet, profitable and — yeah — even fun.

Then the car had died; then she was stuck in the middle of a hot, dry nowhere; then realized that she was completely, utterly alone.

“Hey there — having a little engine trouble?”
She was more startled to discover that after spending so much time trying to out-think her business competition — she could still be shocked: but the feeling was right there, fresh and electric. Spinning around, she tried to gulp back the frightened little squeal that had started in her belly.

But then, seeing him, she let it out anyway. “Um, er — yeah. It just conked out on me.”

He was someone she totally didn’t expect to run across in a dusty little corner of nowhere: tall, with broad shoulders that showed a great deal of poise and strength; a handsome, slightly tanned and windblown face; gray eyes dancing with a kind of deep, internal laughter. He walked out of the garage office, wiping his powerful-looking hands with a bright red rag. Dressed simply, in jeans and blue denim shirt, he looked much more alive than the tired, almost-dead, garage.

Against her will, Lisa felt her body respond — feeling her nipples harden in her no-nonsense bra, and even her pussy gave a sympathetic little twinge. Almost instantly, she tried to get her mind off him — the randy college kid she used to be might have come onto him, might have tried to think of someplace private where they could get more… comfortable, but this wasn’t her — this was the more respectable, more cool and collected Lisa.

Still, he was damned hot.

“Could be anything I guess,” he said, walking toward her, smiling broadly. “Weather like this can totally screw up an engine.”

“It just cut out on me. Luckily I was able to coast in here.”

Closer, she was surprised even more by his face — tanned, with a sexy play of laugh lines — and by how much her body continued to respond to him being so close.

“I could take a look at it, but frankly these new cars with all their microchips… ” he shrugged, a gesture Lisa would normally have found irritating for its vagueness, but in him it was even more sexy.

“I’d really appreciate it. I have a meeting to get to –” it was actually three days away, but him being so close was driving her nuts.

He smiled again. “Roger –” he said, extending his hand. “If I’m going be prowling around under your hood we should at least be formally introduced.”

Warm, dry — his hand in hers sent an electric shiver up Lisa’s spine. Despite herself, she started to think about how his lips might feel. “Like I said, it’s very important. I’ll do whatever it takes –” the instant she said it, she bit her lips, shocked at her bravado.

He never stopped smiling. “From a beautiful woman like you that’s quite an offer. How could I refuse?”

In a blur, his sleeves were rolled, and he had his head under her hood. Standing in the shade by the pumps, Lisa watched him — almost too intently — work. The jeans and his denim shirt showed a very strong back and — very intently, she watched — very nice ass. It was all Lisa could do to not just walk up and put her hands on him.

“I think it’s something with your electrical system,” he said, getting out from under the rental car’s hood and turning to face her. “I could try jumping it from another car, but I really think you need an expert.”

“Damn. Like I said, I really have to get going.”

“Well, I can give it a shot. Shouldn’t take that long to get hooked up I guess.”

“Thanks — this means a lot to me. Just let me know what you need to get the job done. I really do need to get going.”

Roger looked at her, and she felt his sight like a warm hand flowing over her body. Normally she would have been shocked, maybe even insulted but there — in the hot afternoon sun, miles from anywhere — her body started to hotly react: she liked it.

“Well, you could start –” he said, leaning close, voice in a husky, playful whisper “– by showing me what color panties you’re wearing.”

Again, she should have blushed, should have straightened up and just walked away. Even in her wild college days she would have been shocked… but, heat, miles and miles of empty road, a handsome man… she blinked, blinked again, and then smiled.

Leaning back against the warm fender of her car, she took hold of the hem of her skirt and slowly — very slowly — raised it, giving him an inch by inch view of her long, shapely legs, the tops of her stockings (she hated pantyhose) and then the bright red triangle of her pussy. “I never wear them,” she said in a husky whisper. “I don’t like to feel confined.”

His eyes danced from her bush to meet her stare. “Great minds think alike,” he said, brushing a hand down the front of his jeans — where Lisa noticed a spectacularly long bulge showed.

She was about to say something — anything to give her an excuse to get down on her knees, unzip his confining fly and take out that huge cock — when he crouched down next to one of the old pumps. “You know, you have a very pretty bush — but I can’t see all that much of you,” he said, “Come here.”

Legs quaking, Lisa eased herself off the fender and slowly walked towards him, keeping one hand on the hem of her skirt, so his view wouldn’t be unobscured. Standing right in front of him, so close that she could almost feel his breath on her thighs, she said, “Is this better?”

“Much,” he said, staring up at her. One of his hands reached up under her skirt and cupped one ass cheek. The contact was electric, high-voltage — it felt almost like a fragment of a come, it was so powerful. Without looking, Lisa knew that she was more than wet: she could feel herself start to flow.

With one of his powerful hands gripping her ass tightly, he pulled her inexorably forward. The touch of his lips was ecstatic — even though that’s all it was: just a touch. In an instant, Lisa was aware of every sensation: the impression of his hand as he squeezed her cheeks; his hot breath on her public hair, on her so-wet lips; the dry desert air blowing around them, the way her feet skidded apart on the gritty asphalt.

Then he really started: first a few tentative licks, as if getting to know her wet territory — tongue gently parting her lips, and then giving her long, strong strokes that sent shivers up and down her spine — and then in earnest. He did more than just lick her; it felt like Roger was devouring her.

Legs quaking, Lisa felt herself press down onto his face, a wild chorus of moans escaping from her pursed lips. Before she was even aware of it, she started to come. It was shocking, unreal: like a powerful jolt of body electricity, it rocketed up from Roger’s firm tongue on her throbbing clit, up her spine, past her aching nipples, and out her now-open mouth in a guttural cry.

Instantly, her balance left her and she stumbled back, ass smacking against her car’s fender. Panting heavily, she blinked — and blinked again — until she was finally able to focus. “Wow,” she finally managed to say.

And what a sight greeted her clearing eyesight: Roger standing just a few feet away, smiling broad and happy, big cock in his tanned hand. For a moment — her orgasm still quivering through her — all Lisa could do was stare: he wasn’t huge, he wasn’t tremendous, he wasn’t even BIG, but Roger did have one of the most damned handsome cocks she’d ever seen.

Seven, maybe eight inches, with a glorious bulbous head that instantly started Lisa hungering for its taste, for it to fill her hungry mouth. Just before she was ready to straighten herself slightly, wobble over, kneel down and swallow him whole, he said, “Of course there might be an extra charge for parts –”

Despite her raging horniness, Lisa coughed out a short, hysterical laugh. “Well, I said I’d do anything –”

The ground didn’t look too inviting — grease-spotted and covered with a sprinkling of who-knew what, so Lisa walked over and took hold of Roger’s cock and gently led him over to her car. “Get up there,” she said, patting the trunk.

In her hand, Roger’s cock was incredible — silken skin covering rock-hard muscle, a sweet drop of pre-cum glimmering at the tip — but in her mouth it was magical. Leaning down, she first kissed the tip, relishing in the salty, sweet flavor of that pre-cum, then licked all around — smiling at the chorus of delighted groans and moans Roger made — before opening her mouth and slowly easing him inside.

For a long time it was just Lisa and his cock — she felt she had gone … somewhere else, somewhere where only her tongue, lips, the roof of her mouth and even (carefully) her teeth, and Roger’s magnificent cock were all that existed. She sucked, and licked, and stroked, and swallowed him, delighted in his cock’s texture, flavor, smell — totally lost in her sucking.

She could tell he was ready to come, could feel it in the way his cock jumped and quivered as she stroked and sucked at him — in her mind, she was ready for his come, ready for the flood of salty delight she knew was just around the bend, so was a little (just a little) shocked when he said. “I want to feel you.”

The words were odd, but she instantly caught his meaning — and wasn’t disappointed at all that he wasn’t going to shoot in her mouth. Getting off the hood, he passed her, stopping to give her a wonderful, passionate kiss, and then gently moved her till she was bent over the car.

Distantly, she felt her skirt raise, felt his gentle, slick cock probe between her cheeks, glancing by her pussy lips, then… then he was inside her.

Slowly, at first, he fucked her — and Lisa was grateful for his steady rhythm: she could feel him glide in and out, sliding back and forth between her ass cheeks. It was special, magical: a sedate oscillation when her body screaming for a pounding fuck. Sometimes, Lisa realized, the last thing you think you’d like is just right.

Hours, days, weeks… time vanished in the pumping action of his cock inside her. Eyes squeezed shut, Lisa half-expected to open them to a dark desert sky, or a breaking dawn.

Then it changed — and he was really fucking her, pounding her, slamming his heavy thighs onto her ass, banging his balls against her pussy lips — and his cock into the depths of her.

When it came, her come was like a blast of hot sunlight through her body — a rush of deep body joy that knocked her legs out from under her, dropping her solidly onto the trunk of the rental.

Distantly, she was aware that Roger had collapsed next to her, his body a greater heat than even the sun.

She must have slept, dozed off, because the next thing she remembered was waking to the sound of an engine.

#

Someone, somewhere must have gotten dressed faster — but Lisa was damned sure that they must have come a close second. In a furious comedic scurry of zippers, belts, tucks, and straightens, they both tried to jump back into respectability.

Softly giggling as she straightened her seams, Lisa exchanged wicked smiles with Roger — and tried to keep from laughing as he tried to fold his half-hard cock back into his jeans. It was only after she’d adjusted her seams and tried to make her hair not broadcast a ‘just-fucked’ look, that she looked toward the sound of that engine.

An ancient tow truck, all dents and rust had pulled up in front of the garage. Getting out of the cab was an old man, as wrinkled and gray as his truck was pitted and corroded. Seeing Roger, the old man smiled, saying, “Hey there, Mr. Bainbridge. Sorry it took so long, but it took me a while to find that alternator –”

Lisa stood next to Roger, her mouth — she knew — hanging open.

The mechanic smiled a gap-toothed grin and nodded towards Lisa and the rental. “Hey there, lady; got a problem with your car?”

Roger smiled, putting a hand around her waist. “Take care of it, will you? Just put it on my tab –”

Slowly, Lisa smiled and put her own arm around Roger. “I’m certainly good for it,” she said, smiling.

M. Christian is the author of the critically acclaimed and best selling collections Dirty Words, Speaking Parts, The Bachelor Machine and the upcoming Filthy. He is the editor of The Burning Pen, Guilty Pleasures, the Best S/M Erotica series, The Mammoth Book of Future Cops and The Mammoth Book of Tales of the Road (with Maxim Jakubowski) and over 14 other anthologies. His short fiction has appeared in over 200 publications including Best American Erotica, Best Gay Erotica, Best Lesbian Erotica, Best Transgender Erotica, Best Fetish Erotica, Best Bondage Erotica and … well, you get the idea. He just finished one novel for Alyson Books, and has a second coming from Haworth Books. For more info, check out www.mchristian.com.

But that’s not to say that the ships didn’t rock and roll, or the crew didn’t do their own kind of rhythm magic. But there were extreme penalties in many cases for any attempts to bring women on board a ship — and sex and the sea have always been part of a sailor’s life.

The logic behind keeping crews all male appears sound — for about a minute. The idea was to prevent romantic and sexual conflict among the crew, not to mention preventing the disaster of a pregnancy at sea during eras that had no effective birth control. But it doesn’t take a Ph.D. in History to guess that banning women from ships certainly didn’t eliminate nautical sex. Whether onboard masturbation was encouraged is unknown, but homosexual behavior must have been pretty common, given how much energy was spent prohibiting it.

In response to homosexual behavior on ships, the nations of the West during the age of sail expressly prohibited sex between crewmates, with penalties ranging from simple monetary fines to floggings — British ships being the strictest. However, the big-wigs with the fruit salad on their chests were hundreds or thousands of miles away, so it was usually the discretion of the ship’s captain as to whether sex between men was a good thing or a bad thing. The same went for the ban on female shipmates.

Some captains and ships bent the rules considerably, and thus was born the custom of the “Captain’s Wife” or “Captain’s Daughter” — a female courtesan (or occasionally a man cross-dressed as a woman) brought on board simply to service the officers of the ship. Other captains allowed their crews to smuggle women aboard ship, cross-dressed as men.

Pirates, on the other hand, were quite stern in their banning of women; some pirate captains went as far as issuing severe floggings or stranding crewmembers on islands for bringing women aboard.

Ironically enough, however, two of the most well known pirates in the Western age of sail, Anne Bonny and Mary Read, were women. When captured, they both escaped the gallows by saying “We plead our bellies,” meaning they were pregnant at the time. Another famous female pirate, this one in 19th-century China, there was the pirate Cheng I Sao, who ruled the Chinese pirate fleets during the 1810s. She was an equal-opportunity pirate, including women in her battle parties, and is known as the most successful pirate captain in all of world history.

Male pirates from the West kept any number of common-law wives in a variety of ports. Many of their wives were also the wives of more than one sailor sailing on different ships. The only time there was a problem was when there was a question of seniority, such as when a husband died and his goods had to be divided among his wives — in such cases the women he was married to the longest usually won out, unless a younger one had children. Pirates, despite their bad reputation, were often remarkably civilized.

Other pirate societies, such as the buccaneers, created a form of partnership that often included homosexual love. “Matelots” were a form of permanent relationship between two men that served in many ways the needs of both financial and emotional well-being. Many men were more protective and emotionally tied to their matelots than their own wives — going so far as to will them their lands and goods. Early Christian missionaries as well as pirate-hunters often used these forms of same-sex marriage to condemn pirate society.

In more rough-and-tumble pirate societies, such as among the famous South China sea pirates, sex and love between men became a political force as well as a sexual one. Kidnapped as children from raided ships, these boys would often form long-lasting sexual relationships among themselves and with their captors that later helped hold together the scattered pirate tribes.

There was also a long-standing tradition of having a cabin boy on board. For many years, the position of cabin boy entailed “positions” that weren’t on the official job description. Depending on the ship, this involved sexually servicing either the officers or the entire crew. Most of those hired on as cabin boy were clear from the outset about these duties.

But for those not familiar with these duties, the crew had a special tradition to “enlighten” a new cabin boy; they would lure the crewmember into the bowels of the ship. Each and every ship, it was said, was given a special, good-luck, gold rivet when its keel was laid. This could be found in the bottom of the ship.

The “golden rivet,” of course, was a fiction, just like the lack of sex on ships.

The mechanics of it are here, on a table next to the sling or someplace near the bed: Wherever the place, they are there. Roll call: gloves (comfortable, surgical if you fancy that), lube (lots and lots and lots and lots — if you think you have enough you don’t have enough), and the other things that she might need (vibrator, dildo, whatever else). These are the keys, necessary but artificial — the facts of life. The rest, though, is not artificial — way, way beyond artificial.

My gloved hand knocks, wanting in.

Carefully, I dance with her lips, waltz with her minora, majora. She leads, naturally. She takes my hand with her cunt and shows me herself. She opens w – i – d – e, says hello, invites me in.

I bow, caress, and take a first step. I insert one finger, with a come-hither action. Not a lot. Not a lot at all — just a first step, one finger through the threshold. I hand one finger in her pussy, her cunt, her vagina. One finger inside her, feeling the heat of her, taking her temperature from inside — a special, intimate, inside.

She nods, I nod, and we take another step; both listening to the music she makes.

Two is small. Just two. Two is a little number — just one and one. I move them inside her, feeling around, getting to know this special place, feeling her interior architecture. I feel a rough spot (G), the narrowing, slick walls (to cervix), the hard jab of bone under, the tight muscles over, the way her lips move, the way they won’t.

Lube and more lube. She shines, glimmers with it, looking red-mirrored with the slickness, and her own slickness as well. I note the smile she gives me, with the rise and salute of her clit. Some women like it touched, during this, some don’t. I ask, and she nods, so I do: bathing her bead with a careful rotations of my thumb.

Then — three.

Still a small number, a little number. Three isn’t a lot, but the tightness has started. The play of one and one and one isn’t as flexible as just one, just two. It’s harder to move now, but I have a feel for the land, for the flow of her lips and walls. I slowly turn my hand, rotating it slowly, pushing gently, massaging but not forcing her muscles, cooing with a special kind of sign language to her cunt, pussy, vagina: No one here who doesn’t love you, no one here who means you any harm. Let me in and we’ll dance.

Three fingers, bent together: turning slowly, pushing oh-so-gently at the strength of her cunt. Not forcing. Easing, yes; massaging, yes; enticing — oh, yes! She opens wider, slowly allowing me passage in. Her door yields to my three long, reaching fingers. Inside, within, I tap her G-spot, feeling its corrugated pleasure.

Within, I explore the architecture of her interior.

More lube, some conversation. I ask and she answers: all is well. I stroke and ring her clit, making her smile wide and magical. Four. When all you have is five, four is a big number. Actually all you do have is four — five is the thumb. Four now inside. Four fingers in a squeezed duckbill, forced so my fingertips touch. Four inside, pushing gently but still firmly, firm but still gentle: Inside her. Fingers are long and thin, pointed and supple (aside from the small nuts of their joints) — I perform an origami of my own hand: collapsing it, curling my fingers, cupping her from inside, sliding and dancing within her. The hard, literal, part is next, knocking on the door, wanting to be let in.

The hard part is next. I tell her as much.

She breathes, controlling the pain and pleasure that has painted her in reflections of sweat, preparing herself for the reverse birth — taking someone in rather than pushing someone out.

The hard part is the thumb and bones of my hand, the knuckles. I watch her face, hypnotized by her beauty and bravery, amazed by the dance of delight that flickers and swells over her eyes (closed in concentration, open in amazement and near shock), lips (blowing kisses, hissing past the pain), and nose (scrunching up with the rest of her face). Bathing her clit with my lube-shiny thumb, I ask, polite and civil, if she would be so kind as at allow me into her most inner of sanctums.

Her yes is silent but obvious: with a few gentle turns of the hand, she relaxes and allows me the space and time and delight to push those last few inches in. The hard part is over, the knuckles are through. Welcome.

This is it: I am inside and filling. This is it, one hand within.

The rest is icing on the cake: I have to do is close my long, long (sometimes too long) fingers around my thumb. I am inside, within — that says it all.

I watch the pleasure and the pain (more former than latter) dance on her face as I slowly, slowly, slowly turn my hand with a gentle twist, rubbing my knuckles across her G-spot.

Yes, it’s my hand, my fingers, my gentle pressure behind it all — but she is in control: she can say “yes,” “no,” “stop,” “slow,” “out.” I would, of course, because even though it is my hand it is her temple I am entering: a supplicant, a respective worshiper: Whatever you say, Goddess.

Then she does say it — after quakes of pounding comes paint her even more with reflective sweat she clenches down on my hand, arches her spine. She says, “out” and I go, telling her to push against my hand, to squeeze me out as I gently withdraw.

Then I’m out.

I clean up, kissing her hot tummy. I rub her from breasts to legs, from arms to cheeks, from the top of her head to the dimple of her navel. I put a warm blanket over her and hold her while she drifts towards sleep, falls towards exhausted slumber.

I follow close behind, having come much deeper from my hand — from being within — than I’ve ever come from my cock.

M. Christian is the editor of Eros Ex Machina and Midsummer Night’s Dreams, coeditor of Rough Stuff, and author of the forthcoming Dirty Words.

Just outside of Chicago he opened the compartment door, smiled and — without a word — indicated the seat opposite with a tilt of his head.

The train was almost empty. My woman-sitting-by-herself paranoia had long ago been wiped away by the boredom of watching the landscape blur by. So: “Sure,” I said, giving him a welcome gesture.

Tall, broad. Not fat, just big. Face that may have worked the land at some point, now gone a bit soft. His eyes, though, were anything but. Funny how one resorts to clichés when talking faces, but his was too classic not to use it: steel gray. Hard eyes. But there was something else there, too, something that made me forget my place in the book I was trying to read. Something too crafty, too intelligent, for the cheap suit and the gone-to-soft muscles.

A few clicking, clacking miles later, he started a conversation about the railroads. Not many people traveled them, not many even thought of them as a way to get from here to there. “Good people, though,” I remember him saying, “use the rails. People who don’t see the obvious route. The road less traveled and all that shit. True, though. Us train people, we don’t just go — we cruise.”

I agreed, interested in him — or the something about him that I couldn’t place beyond the classical demeanor.

“Something about a train… manly, I’d call it. Stokes the boiler, you know what I mean? Shovels the coal into the ol’ furnace,” saying this, he started to rub his crotch, slowly at first, but then with a escalating rhythm. Through the cheap material I could see the hardness of his dick.

He gripped his member in a callused hand. “Something about the rails, something about… cruising, I guess you could say.” He looked down at his dick, then slowly unzipped his fly and hauled it out.

I’d seen my share of dicks, and his wasn’t anything special. Again, clichés, but there was something about him — aside from the lurking “other” — that just ached for that kind of description: long, strong dick. Uncut head. Smooth skin. No fancy words, just a man’s dick in a man’s hand.

“Yes, sir,” he repeated after licking his hand and starting to stroke himself. “Something about a train just makes a man want to yank.”

And so he did, and as he did, I couldn’t help but watch, couldn’t help but touch myself — slowly, casually at first, as if brushing aside lint from my skirt, but then with more enthusiasm.

“Fine one,” he said, nodding his head towards my bunched skirt, my slightly parted thighs.

“Yours, too,” I echoed, matching him stroke for stroke. There, in the moving train, I had an image of staring into someone else’s mirror, watching myself wearing someone else’s body, and face, feeling his dick in my hand, watching his bliss dawn on my face. Without awareness, our breathing matched, became one person — one man sitting in a moving train, stroking his cocks, fingering her pussies, watching his faces. Now, when I rub myself and think of him, I never wonder why I didn’t just get up and take him down my throat, or why he didn’t get down and lick me. It wasn’t what that trip was about, wasn’t the tracks we were both on.

Then we were there — no, the train hadn’t shuddered to a stop, hadn’t achieved its goal. Rather we had reached ours — his sticky come splashing down onto the dirty floor, mine less fluid, but more muscular: two groans, twin signs of bliss and release.

One breath, or two, three, four, maybe five. Not six, though — not that long. Just long enough to still a hammering heart. Then he neatly put his lovely cock away, zipped himself up, rearranged his simple suit, and got up.

And with a “nice traveling with you,” he went out with a simple smile on his beaming face, closing the door as he went.

But, before it closed, he said, “Nice getting there with ya.”

M. Christian is the editor of Eros Ex Machina and Midsummer Night’s Dreams, coeditor of Rough Stuff,and author of the forthcoming Dirty Words.

The first step in getting to know your anus is to simply touch it. If you’re worried about cleanliness (and you probably should be), simple soap and water is a good place to start. A sprawl in the bathtub is a very convenient position — even better with a shower massager. Just soap yourself up carefully, rinse, repeat. Then touch. Note the puckered tissue around the sphincter; explore the way it reflexively grips even the tip of a finger pressed against the opening. Some men experience a delightful sexual response from simply having the outside of the anus touched, or circled with a lubricated finger.

After exploring the perimeter, try carefully inserting a well-lubricated finger — maybe just to the first joint. Make sure your fingernail is trimmed — not rough or sharp. Tense your anal muscles (as if you were going to push out) and then relax them just as you push gently and slowly with your finger. “Slowly” inserting is the key. It’s never a good idea to rush when anuses are concerned — especially when you’re not used to anything coming in, after a lifetime of only letting stuff out. Stop if it hurts. If it does, then ease your finger slowly out. Use plenty of lube, more than you think you’ll need.

As a wise old bumper sticker says: Shit happens — especially in anal play. Don’t freak out — it’s what the anus is supposed to do. Clean up by running your hand, or toy if you’re using one, under hot, soapy water, or use baby wipes.

The anus and rectum are remarkably flexible — but they can be stretched a bit too far. Take it easy. With the initial finger, try feeling the lay of the land: the smooth sides, the firmness of the coccyx (the tailbone), the bladder. If one finger isn’t bad, try easing in another one — though many men find one finger just fine, thank you. Try gentle pressure as you explore. Some men can find the treasure of anal play, the prostate, very easily, while others have difficulty locating it or simply prefer to focus on the general feeling of anal stimulation. Just for reference, the prostate is in and forward of the anal sphincter, just below the bladder. Many men love to stroke or press on the prostate — it can feel wonderful.

Now then… toys. Without exception, you want something with a flange — a wide base. The anus has quite a skillful set of muscles and anything that doesn’t have some kind of lip around it (the bigger the better) can slip out of your hand and get swallowed up. Nothing with sharp or scratchy edges, either — the rectal tissues are very flexible, but also tear very easily. You want something smooth, soft, flexible, and with — natch — a flange.

Unlike shit, which always happens, a bit of blood can sometimes happen. If it’s just a little, it may be caused by a hemorrhoid, or there may be a small tear somewhere. Clean the outside of the anus as best you can and then leave it alone. You might want to check your stool for the next few days to make sure there’s no more blood, but more than likely it’s no big deal. However, if there’s a lot of blood — more than a few drops — you have to (no arguments) make an immediate trip to your doctor or the emergency room. To be fair, though, damage like that doesn’t happen very often during anal play.

More than anything, the point of this is to explore yourself. The human body is a wondrous thing, full of all kinds of potential for erotic or just plain sensual play. The anus is just one part of the body, but it’s a part that many men frequently ignore or deny. So take a little time to get to know it: your butt could reward you with a lot of pleasure, if you just give it a chance.

For further information:

Bend Over Boyfriend (video)
Bend Over Boyfriend 2 (video)
Anal Pleasure and Health (book)

While men certainly do have nipples — showing either evolution’s sloppy work or a very twisted sense of humor — and many guy’s are remarkably sensitive, women’s tits and nipples are usually much more active as erogenous zones. In my opinion, another excellent case for the natural superiority of the female sex (or the universe’s sense of humor): not only do theirs work, but they’re fun, too!

Even those who are open and enthusiastic about tits and nipples are still often at a loss at what to do with them. To be fair, however, more than any other part of a woman’s body, breasts and nipples seem to be particularly sensitive — though not just in a sexual way. After all, breasts are the number one target of all kinds of augmentations and enhancements, and the fact that they usually remain secondary in bed seems only to rub more salt in it. Some women see their breasts as more of a lure, a fashion accessory, than any serious part of their sexuality — it’s no wonder they might throw some cool water on any attention an admirer might show to them.

But I contend that nipples and breasts are only secondary if we let them become secondary. The first thing to realize is that not all nipples are created equal. Issues aside, some women’s nipples simply aren’t that sensitive or easily aroused — while others are on the WOW! end. In an extreme but poignant example, I saw a couple of lady friends get their nipples pierced: one had a shattering orgasm while the other simply gave that response all guys dread: “Is it in yet?” In terms of nipple sensitivity, some women got it, and others just don’t.

Even those that have low sensitivity can have a good time. The trick is to do with nipples what should be done with anything else in sexuality: communicate. A lot of time can be wasted between play partners if the one with the easily aroused nipples doesn’t articulate what it takes to play with them successfully. All it usually takes is a simple bit of guidance: “Harder, lighter, no teeth, more teeth, etc.” If words are too literal, some carefully articulated moans and groans can also do the trick — especially if the nibbler is giving the nibblee a bit too much.

Once you get a good range of what’s too hard, and what’s not hard enough, the next step is the best part — the play! Nature has not only given us tits, but also the perfect toys to use on them. While I think some of the more handy gizmos on the market can be a lot of fun, nothing beats using lips, tongue, fingers, hands and sometimes even teeth. Besides, a gizmo can’t give the control and deftness a human hand or mouth can.

Once you’ve got the basic ground rules down — and the communication lines open — a simple moment of admiration and lust is almost always in order. Okay, I have sexual orientation on my side, but in my opinion women’s breasts and nipples are simply lovely. There’s something about them that just rocks the human sexual boat — well, the ones that like women, at any rate.

Take a moment to touch them — smooth, heavy, light, full, slim — get to know your partner’s body. Don’t just grab them right off and start kneading them like you’re going to spread them on a cookie sheet. Be gentle: just trace their shape, explore them. Then you can start — slowly at first — to explore them with your hands. Some breasts are firm and solid, almost like muscle. Others are like satin pillows, and still others like duvets. Communication, again: some women like their breasts pretty firmly manhandled (or womanhandled) while others like theirs to be gently caressed.

I’m of the camp that sex is too often genitally focused — that we rush into the usual clit, cock, asshole, orgasm without really spending time anywhere else. Breasts are a prime example. Breast play can sometimes be much more than a way of getting someone’s knickers off. A good percentage of women, for instance, report that they can orgasm simply through breast or nipple play, and others say that having their nipples stimulated can really enhance their later genital orgasms. So don’t go leaping for the crotch when a lot of fun can be found just a bit higher up.

Now what would breasts be without nipples? Fun, certainly, but nipples can be wonderfully focused on pleasure. As stated, nipples run the gamut from “is it in yet” to WOW. As such, it’s important to take it a bit easy with nipples, and to keep those lines of communication open. Fingers are wonderful for nipples — though I try and encourage people not to allow the natural strength of the hands to get the better of them. Take it easy at first: gentle rolling, slight pulling, a rub of the thumb across the tip, or a caress around the aureole. If the breasts are big enough, lift them gently to better see (and feel) what you’re doing. If they are slimmer, then try gently kneading the soft tissues with the other hand.

After hands, the mouth is perhaps the best sex toy for tits. My advice is never to leap with the teeth: unlike the lips or the tongue, it’s very difficult to know exactly how much pressure is being applied. A friendly nip, or even a caress with the pearlies can feel like a bear trap if you’re not careful. I’m also an advocate of the dry kiss for nipples — a little moisture is okay, but you don’t want to drool on the girl. Careful pressure with the lips, a touch of gentle suction (you’re not trying to pull change out of a turnstile, remember), and a few flickers of a dry-ish tongue can work wonders. If the receiver likes rougher tit sex, you can always magnify any of these techniques — though reserve firm teeth for someone who definitely likes biting.

In addition to your natural endowments, there are a wide variety of mechanical devices for nipple play. The classic is the nipple clamp, which can be a lot of fun for even those of a non-S/M bent. I can’t emphasize enough, however, to be sure and get clamps that aren’t too tight. A simple test in the shop between the webbing of the thumb and index finger should be enough to see how much it grips. I also recommend adjustable clamps — that way if the toy is too tight or too loose you don’t have to invest in another pair. One quick piece of advice regarding any kind of tit clamp: do not just attach it in one quick pinch. Rather, place it on the nipple and then slowly, slowly, slowly release it; that way you can stop at any point rather than inflicting the full power of the clamp all at once.

I could go on with more elegant (or brutal, depending on your frame of reference) devices and techniques — clothespins, pinching, flicking, etc. — but the basics stay the same: breasts and nipples are often woefully ignored in sensual, sexual play. It’s time they were taken out, played with, and respected. After all, they’re out there — we might as well do something fun with them!