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Whisper #33 – The Walking Hormone

Author: Mags

I’ve just counted back on my calendar that it has been 9 months and 4 days since I last had sex.  If I’d known that this drought was going to last so long, I would’ve made more of an effort to enjoy myself back in September, rather than settling for the drunken fumble it ended up being.  Mark my words, people, live every shag as if it’s your last.

Whilst it feels like a hardship, I’m ok with it really – thank god for Literotica, and if I’m honest the rather spectacular weight gain I’ve managed since last year means I don’t want to get my kecks off in front of anyone, let alone someone I want to have sex with.

What’s worrying me however, is that I have to go for a trans-vaginal ultrasound next week: according to the letter I got from the hospital explaining it, and for those that don’t know, they are basically taking a great big dildo/camera, covering it a condom, squeezing a tube of KY over it, and then shoving it up my hoo-ha.  Sounds great, doesn’t it?

The problem is, it actually is sounding great.  I’m not saying I get off on medical procedures, far from it, but what if I get turned on by it? The last person I spoke to about vaginal ultrasounds said she was so horny afterwards that she went home and demanded sex from her husband.  I have no husband. I don’t even have my Rabbit anymore. I’ll probably get arrested for jumping on the man operating the camera and demanding he finish me off.

Which would be embarrassing.

And then -THEN! –  I’ll have to go to the doctors to discuss the results.  If I’m lucky, I’ll be able to talk to the lady doctor (Dr Payne …. I bet she has a sidekick called Nurse De’Ath).  If I’m less lucky, I’ll get one of the male junior doctors, none of whom look like they’ve started puberty yet, let alone know what a vagina is.  If I’m really unlucky, I’ll get the older male doctor: the one I have the most barnstorming crush on.  The day I had to talk to him about IBS was one of THE MOST humiliating days of my life – I really don’t want to go and talk to him about my lady bits. I might get the giggles again like I did when we were discussing my poo.

It’s a cliché, I know, but I can’t help having a thing for certain doctors: I think I watched too much Peak Practice as a student.  When I was growing up, my GP was the divine Dr Rob – both my sister and I adooooored him, as did every other female under the age of 70 in the village.  He’s still there now, I’m just hoping I never get sick when I’m visiting the parentals, because some teenage fantasies should never be shattered: in my head he’s still tall, faintly muscular and gorgeous; according to my mum, he’s lost most of his hair, and has spent the last 15 years enjoying the local ale a little too much.  Shame.

But back to the ultrasound next week.  I’m like a walking hormone at the moment, chances are they’re not going to need that tube of KY.  What’s the best way to approach these things?  Lie back and think of England? Chat away as if you have someone poking a camera up your chuffer everyday? Perhaps I’ll resort to the same tactics as when I’m getting a smear done – eyes shut and desperately wishing the person poking around in my fanny knew what they were doing.

Which is also what I used to do with one of my ex-boyfriends.

There’s no dignity at all when it comes to spreading your legs in the name of medicine. I can’t say I’m looking forward to finding out whether I’ve got polycystic ovaries, or whether I’m just a hairy lardarse with irregular periods, but I guess it’s better to know than not know. And if nothing else, at least the dildo camera will break through the hymen that appears to have regrown itself since last year.


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Whisper #32 – Oh Baby, Maybe

Author: And Then There Were Three

I think it’s fair to say The Boy and I have a pretty healthy sex life. He has a very high sex drive (3 times a day would probably just about keep him satisfied). Mine is not quite so high, plus there are just not enough hours in the day once we’ve factored in working, eating and a bit of sleep, but I’m hardly a once-a-week-is-plenty-thank-you-very-much girl either. We generally manage to reach a happy medium which keeps us both satisfied and far enough away from starvation or sleep deprivation.

However, I’m conscious I should probably be writing this in the past tense, as things stand at the moment.

Last night The Boy came back from a couple of nights away. Usually I would be falling into bed with him at the first opportunity. Last night I only had sex with him because if all goes well I will ovulate in a few days, and I don’t want to miss any chance we might get. I still love The Boy, and fancy him loads, but if his penis got broken and we couldn’t have sex for the next two weeks, I think I’d feel pretty happy. Not for his broken penis, obviously – apart from anything else he would never stop moaning about it – but just for the ‘no sex’ thing.

I’m really struggling to separate sex from trying to conceive at the moment. When we first started trying it was all exciting and new and naughty. We’d spent the whole of our adult lives being incredibly careful to avoid pregnancy; sex without contraception is like sampling the forbidden fruit. Was.

Back then, in those heady first few months of trying, I’d engineer particularly romantic and passionate scenarios, thinking that was the kind of sex that was sure to result in conception. Now it’s all charts and timetables and scans and what the consultant has told us to do and medication and horrible side-effects. It’s all about: when’s the best time? If we skip tonight and I don’t get pregnant, how will I feel? Last month we did it in this way, and this often, and I got pregnant, so we can’t risk not doing the same this month. What if, despite all this sex, I still don’t get pregnant? We absolutely must do it now. Should we be doing it more often? Less often? If I don’t orgasm will that make it less likely that I get pregnant? Oh, skip the foreplay and just come already.

Basically I feel so much pressure to do it even when I’m so not in the mood, I’ve talked myself out of being in the mood at all. Ever. Despite the fact I’ve always enjoyed sex for its own sake, I’m turning into one of those women who doesn’t see the point if I’m not ovulating. The Boy has noticed. He keeps buying me sexy underwear and propositioning me. Which just makes me feel less sexy than ever.

It all comes down to that ‘Men are from Mars’ conundrum (an engagement present from my in-laws, which I was quite offended by at the time. It’s actually saved rather a lot of arguments and misunderstandings in the ATTW3 household). Men need sex to feel loved, women need to feel loved to want to have sex. The Boy propositioning me whilst I (and he) knew I was miscarrying probably gets the top spot in the ‘not feeling very well loved or understood’ moments from our relationship, even though rationally I know that was him trying to show how much he cares about me. What’s wrong with flowers though, that’s what I want to know.

We’ve maintained the equilibrium pretty well up to this point, through thirteen long months of trying to conceive (TTC). Hopefully, once this horrible, desperate month is over, we can move on and back to the usual state of affairs. I really hope so, because I so want to want to have sex with my husband again without it always being about what may or may not occur nine months from now. I can’t help but wonder, with quite a lot of sadness, whether we’ll ever recapture the spontaneity of pre-TTC sex though. I do hope so.


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Whisper #31 – Know Yourself

Author: Korhomme, who blogs as The Empirical Reader

A phone call, out of nowhere: to tell me that my cousin was dead. And by his own hand; things began to unravel from there. A long, long forgotten memory stirred in my head.

We’d been close as kids, he would stay with us in N Ireland, we would stay with him and his parents in the south of England. I didn’t realise it then, but now I see that he was brought up in what his brother conceded was ‘genteel poverty’. Yet his parents were gentlefolk in the best English tradition. Over the years I’d grown very fond of them, though my cousin always seemed to have greater ambitions, a desire, a need, to escape from his origins.

“He was always flamboyant,” my sister said when I told her. And it was true. He was ambitious, determined somehow to escape from the circumstances of his childhood. He would smoke only the most extravagant cigarettes, the most unusual, Balkan Sobranie for example. Just to be different.

There was more, it all gradually unfolded. He had been missed by his lover, he hadn’t phoned, so his lover had called the police, they had been alerted and found him.

He’d married years before, and had a couple of boys; and had had a grandson, though out of wedlock. But he had divorced her some years ago, and taken a series of lovers. Men.

When he was married, they used to quarrel, frequently and seriously. And then he’d suffered from depression and had been treated for this — and still was being treated at the time of his death. And the migraines; he’d never had these before, but after his marriage they were frequent, debilitating.

All of this was revealed in pieces, in fragments. As if the family didn’t understand what was happening, how he could have taken his own life, as if they couldn’t accept what had happened.

It was difficult for me to take this all in; he’d seemed to be content, to have been a success. And he was, at least financially and socially. The foreign holidays, the cars. What had happened; how had he changed?

It came back to me a week or two after the first phone call; funerals arrangements can be delayed, and I’d time to think before going to meet the relatives. I remembered a scene from forty years before, when I stayed with him and his parents. We were on a station platform, his brother and I, he was going off to his summer job, and we were chatting, as lads do.

“You know,” he said, “it’s only after you’ve fucked a girl for the first time that you’ve proved yourself.” We’d all laughed at this, for it was true, a proof of manhood.

But it was a lie, he’d deceived us and himself for decades. He hadn’t proved that he was heterosexual, he’d pretended to be something that he wasn’t. It was illegal then; his parents would never have understood.

And he lived with this self-deception for decades, until it was too much.



If you’d like to write your own Whisper, we’d love to read it! The submission guidelines are here.


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Whisper #30 – Living Without Icing

Author: English Thorn, who blogs here.


Just under three years ago I stopped orgasming. I didn’t stop trying, I didn’t stop having sex or masturbating, but one way or another I just didn’t come. At first I tried not to stress about it, knowing that if I worried about coming then I’d make the problem worse, but as the months went on I went through several phases of getting down about my anorgasmic state.


A year ago I decided that I’d develop my kinky side; I’d been interested in elements of BDSM since my early teens but had pretty limited experience. I started my blog to document my misadventures and thoughts, which inevitably covered my orgasm problems.  Unexpectedly I found that D/s (Dominance and submission) could give me satisfaction to match an orgasm, and could also help me get closer to a climax.


A commenter on my blog responded that she’d seen an NHS sex therapist for her problems, which prompted me to consider putting more into overcoming my problems. I spoke to my doctor about getting a referral to the NHS psychosexual services; it’s been six months now and I’ve still heard nothing but I can wait. In the mean time my boyfriend has been very supportive. We balance big attempts with going-with-the-flow; he’s there to comfort me when I get emotional, we always talk things over when anything happens (or doesn’t happen) and thanks largely to him I have a much better understanding of what’s happening to stop me from coming. I seem to be riddled with strange anxieties that rational sensible me doesn’t have, but which creep out during sex.


The hardest thing about anorgasmia is choosing how to approach it – do I just shrug my shoulders and start seeing myself as someone who just doesn’t come, or do I see it as a problem that I want to fix? Either way sometimes are going to be difficult, but arguably it’s harder to try to fix things – every discussion of orgasms leaves me feeling a little deficient, a tiny bit of an outsider looking in, desperate to be a part of the club of which I used to be a regular member; every time I miss climax by a mile it feels like a step backwards.


So when I recently heard of a special technique which had a name that implied trouble-free orgasm I got very excited – maybe this would help with the breakthrough. Usually I’m fairly rational and skeptical, but in my enthusiasm I somewhat suspending disbelief. The instruction was in the form of a video which my boyfriend and I watched together; it was uneasy viewing but I put that down cultural differences between us and the target audience. My boyfriend, however, was deeply offended by the portrayal of men as inattentive and/or incompetent at pleasing women in even a basic, straightforward way; it didn’t take much discussion for me to agree.


Despite this I was still eager to give it all a go, my boyfriend less so. I discussed dropping the whole thing with him, but he reassured me he wanted to try it for me, but several weeks passed and nothing happened. At this point we watched the video again to remind ourselves of the technique details and it precipitated a pretty dramatic discovery. This time we became aware of the contradictions in the philosophy of the technique – being told to throw away all rules, and yet being given terrifyingly detailed instructions that must be followed for the technique was just all back to front, plus there were conflicting messages about the aim and likelihood of orgams. Further to this, some things just didn’t make sense; all the half-decent sex advice I’d seen so far in my life emphasised that individuals vary hugely in their erogenous zones and sexual preferences, yet the technique was very much one-size-fits-all, and that started to ring serious alarm bells.


In our deep unease we started to do a little research into the (for-profit) company that had formulated and marketed this technique – in my enthusiasm for finding a solution to my orgasm problems I’d ended up (very distantly) involved with a company that seems, on the evidence, to be a front for a cult! Like many cults they’re prone to litigation and what you might call forceful PR, so I am reluctant to name them. Suffice to say my boyfriend and I dropped any idea of attempting the technique, and any other possible “miracle cures” for my ongoing problems. It’s back to waiting for the NHS and occasionally having a go at working things out myself.


I did get one positive thing from my experience – the video reminded me of the importance of staying in the moment during sex, and that has helped when I’ve found my thoughts drifting in unhelpful directions. It’s a very common piece of advice for these kinds of problems, but something that can be hard to actually do. I’ve painted a somewhat gloomy picture of a life without orgasm, it’s not so bad really – I still get a lot of sexual pleasure and the lack of orgasm hasn’t hurt my self-esteem or relationships. As I said to one of my friends, I’m missing the icing but at least I still have the cake.


If you’d like to write your own Whisper, we’d love to read it! The submission guidelines are here.


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Whisper #29 – Celibate Halibut

Author: Anonymous



Not a word that appears on this blog very often, I’m thinking.

It’s a word that makes me think of halibut. Which in turn leads me to thoughts of Monty Python.

Not flattering… or sexy.

I can continue the haphazard word association if you like, moving on to baited, and then on further still to cell.


In case you hadn’t guessed, I am that word: celibate.

If you need – as most people do – to put me into a box, then for the purposes of this article, the most important and significant box is this: I am Christian.

As you may be aware, for the most part (theologies differ), Followers of the Way believe that sex outside of marriage is verboten. I believed this absolutely up to the age of around 20.

It might seem contradictory, but I like logic, you see. I like the weight of evidence. Not sleeping with boys age 16 provided freedom from the perils of emotional ties, heartache, teen pregnancy and a raft of unsavoury ‘diseases down there’, not to mention the fact that illegitimate offspring were a sure fire way to torpedo any future plans for a career.

In 1995 girl in my class at school was expelled for being pregnant.

Back then there seemed to be rather good arguments for being a good girl.

As I got older the reason and logic argument started to fade. Student life came and went, so did a couple of boyfriends and sex went into the bargain too.

Fast-forward 9 years. I have been single that many years, since a three-year live-in relationship ended. Now I’m staring the mid-thirties firmly in the eye and have not had sex for seven years, not even snogged anyone for four.

I am still a Christian. But I am no longer convinced that waiting and ‘staying pure’ is an absolute requirement. I blame Him (God) for these stupid rules that only fit perfectly and make sense for a healthy marriage in an ideal world. There do not appear to be any answers for those left out in the cold, high up and forgotten on a shelf somewhere.

I want to be wistful, and poetic about it. Full of tortured longing in a dramatic, French sort of way… but I am just a bag of blood and bones, held together by a slowly evaporating shrinking, wrinkling wrapper of skin.

Even though I no longer subscribe strictly to the doctrine of no sex outside marriage, I also know that no matter how much I want it I am not going to jump in the sack with just anyone.

It is such an up close and personal thing that despite the frustration I still want to be with someone who knows me, and with whom I have built up some sort of trust. I want a lasting and certain attraction to be in place, rather than a haze of blinding alcoholic lust.

My own hands know me so well now that I wonder if any man can satisfy me. But then I recall distant memories of salty flesh and tongues and heartbeats, and the rise and fall of a beloved breathing chest. And I know that I cannot pretend.

I know that two are better than one.

I know I would rather seek out lines on another body and slowly map out its territory than follow the old familiar relief/tension management system that currently functions as an inferior replacement.

Have I failed God, or has he failed me? I truly do not know, but I cannot help feeling that sticking to my principles and staying true to the path I have chosen has cost me a great deal.

I pay the price with bitter lonely tears and many long years of untouched cruelty.


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Whisper #28 – Oh My God

Author: Anonymous

Oh my god. Oh, my good god.

So having remained shag-free since October to lick my wounds after discovering that 9 years of booty calls and drunken sex do not a lasting relationship make, I finally decide that maybe I should climb back aboard the Dating Express before I actually forget what goes where.

I dabbled in internet dating about 5 years ago after too much wine with a married friend who wanted some vicarious thrills and persuaded me to sign up for Match, and the results weren’t pretty: there was Simon the Screenwriter (looked like a cross between Keith Harris AND Orville, no personality away from his keyboard); Colin the Policeman (stated within 5 minutes of meeting that he though broccoli was evil and I don’t think he was joking); the guy from Essex so awful I can’t even remember his name – I do remember him calling Basildon his ‘manor’ though and thinking he was a prick.

I even ended up seeing the flatmate of one date for a little while, but he had ADHD and it was too exhausting trying to keep up with all his conversational tangents.

It did my ego more harm than good – there’s nothing worse that someone looking you up and down in a ‘well you don’t look like your picture’ kind of way and I wasted a lot of time and effort on guys I wouldn’t normally touch with a bargepole: it’s amazing how absurdly flattered you can be by someone ‘winking’ at you. Internet dating was not for me.

Back in 2006 I was still convinced that Captain Booty Call was the man for me and it was only a matter of time before he realized this, so maybe in hindsight I was never fully committed to finding ‘The One’, because I thought I’d already found him. If only I’d spent all the money I shelled out on subscriptions and dodgy dates on a Mulberry handbag – now that would’ve been the start of a beautiful friendship.

A couple of years ago we moved into a shared office for work, and one of the guys who worked there was funny, smart, kind of cute… After a couple of days I realized that every time I spoke to him I’d giggle inanely, stutter a lot and ribbons of heat would move down my face in waves. Consultation with my Gay Best Friend confirmed what I thought: for the first time in 15 years, I had a crush on someone – unspeakably embarrassing, given that I started gibbering like a constipated monkey every time I got near him. Relief was close at hand though – discovering that he was married with a kid was the cold bucket of water I needed to sober up and start acting like a grown-up again. I think he was quite surprised when he found out that I could actually speak in complete sentences using words of more than one syllable.

We moved offices again recently. I was making coffee one afternoon when Ghastly came into the kitchen. Ghastly was so nicknamed because he always seems to be having a go at someone. After getting cornered by him for 20 minutes, he didn’t seem so bad. A few days later he even offered to make me a drink… Funny how someone just asking if you want a brew can cause the waves of heat to go running down your face and make you look like a beetroot: I really have to get a handle on these office crushes, dammit.

But back to my original point. Surely if I’ve been finding other men attractive then I’m ready to get back in the saddle? Dating new people would at least assure my friends and family that I’m not headed for a middle-age filled with numerous cats, purple berets and the unmistakeable aroma of wee.

With this thought in mind I decided to open myself up to new experiences, and so when a cheeky young buck from the bar down the road started sending me horny messages on Twitter, I thought, Why not go with the flow and see what happens?

The internet is a terrible thing, my friends. After a weekend of frenzied, filthy text flirting and a quick coffee this morning, I decided to do a little webstalking…. finding some lovely pictures on Facebook of him and his girlfriend. And when I told him he was busted his only question was ‘Does that mean you’re not up for a shag then?’. Outrageous, and I’m tempted to email his lady and tell her what a cock she’s dating.

There’s an old joke that men are like toilets – they’re either vacant or full of shit, and the good ones are always engaged. The more I stick my head above the dating parapet the more I think this could be true. Maybe I did something bad in a former life and I’m destined to only be attracted to married men for the rest of my days. Maybe the only people who’ll ever be attracted to me are fuckwits, although for sanity’s sake I’m not tempted to pursue this line of thought any further. Maybe my Grandma was right and there really is one someone for everyone out there.
I bet you a tenner mine’s a goatherder living halfway up a mountain in Tibet.


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Whisper #27 – It happened on an April night

Author: Gabriela

It was still early, but I was already thinking about him. That phrase had invaded my cell phone and my mind with the eternal dilemma between what I should do and what I want to do. I answered later, after giving it a lot of thought. Not about whether to do it or not; we had already done the deed in my room exactly one week before. The issue was what time we were going to do it. Remember I live at home with my mum.

We had little time. I asked him to leave, because between his anxiety and my (well hidden) fright we were not going to get very far. But he pinched my belly while walking in my room, and when I laid down on my bed he caressed my back. I loved the sight of us in the mirror, the contrast between his fair skin and mine. I asked him to leave again, twice. He held me across the staircase and we kissed desperately. It wasn’t going to end like that; not that night.

My bed held us while we kissed in silence. With him I’ve gone back to the basics, to those steamy autumnal nights where I learned what passion was for the first time. No shouting needed, no porn-star crap. It’s just him and me, and the coldness of the fog outside. My mum was about to come home any minute, so we didn’t take our clothes off. He took his glasses and placed them on my desk, making no sound. The sight of his gesture made me feel extremely comfortable.The touch of his hands made me feel alive.

The key turning in the grid alerted us; my bra back to its place, his belt underneath my bed, the DVD on, decent behaviour mode again. I introduced him to my mum and then closed my door again. He was anxious about what she would think of us; I reminded him I’m not a child anymore, and that what I decided to do in my room only concerns me. It took me some time to convince him, but he surrender to my mouth. I just wanted to make him cum in a way he would loose the slightest shred of a doubt that mum or not, we could have fun.

I asked him whether he liked it, and he said he loved it. I asked him how he wanted me to do it, and he said he loved it just the way I was doing it. The week before I had suggested him to cum in my mouth, and he had played the no-answer card. I had to make sure he begged for it this time. And trust me, I know how.

In silence he screamed, his mouth open in pleasure, his buttocks tight, his large cock stiff inside my mouth. I made him cum, almost as a little revenge for him not trusting me. The scenario was set, the film was already playing on my DVD. I was expecting him to leave, like he did before. The week earlier he had even said that wasn’t going back to his home; I was just the fuck-stop on his day. Yet he placed himself to watch the movie, and I placed myself against him. No expectations, no disappointments. Just letting it flow.

We talked about the movie, polite, circumscribed comments that progressively lead to larger dialogues. Silence filled the room, and it didn’t make me feel uncomfortable. My heart was beating clearly and I felt it through my bones. I put his hand on my chest for him to feel it. He said the rhythm was normal , and he copped a feel of my breast. I smiled, warmed by his sweet, shy move.

When he left he first explained he was going to his house, to a tea his parents had organized in honour of a couple of relatives that had come to town. As usual, I hadn’t asked any questions, so his explanations felt almost like he was trying to build a bridge between us. Only a week before he had stated that we the things we do are done just “as friends” to which I replied we’re not even friends, which is true. We kissed one more time and he gave me a little kiss on the forehead. I kissed his shoulder in reply.

I really liked him that night. I kept thinking about him till I fell asleep, smiling and tasting his flavour in my mouth. We were supposed to meet sometime this weekend, to set the record straight and do what we couldn’t do last time. But he read the text I sent too late, I had a party to go to, and the next day I was in the hospital till 10 at night. Yet I sometimes flashback to eight nights before tonight. It all seems surprisingly right.

If you’d like to write your own Whisper, we’d love to read it! The submission guidelines are here.

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