I need to begin this one with a little background information: I have gas; the internal, intestinal kind, the type that comes out both ends with startling regularity. I don’t know if it’s a male thing, windiness, or if some men get it more than others, but I do know that I have plenty. The reason for this is quite simple: I eat a truly diverse range of foods — often at the same time — and I drink plenty of carbonated liquids, like Coke. I mix my food types with reckless abandon, and my stomach and intestines rebel violently enough to generate gas — lots and lots of gas.

Being a full-time hermit, it’s not really a problem: I mean, does a hirsute British bear shit or fart in the woods? Does it really count as burping if there’s no one there to hear it? What’s the sound one one butt-cheek farting…?

The problem is thus: when I actually find myself around other people, I have very good manners. I don’t fart or burp, nor do I pick my nose. I hold in all of that gas until, by the end of the evening, I’m ready to burst. If you’ve ever held in farts for long enough (I don’t expect girls to admit to this, but the boys probably will), you’ll know just how rough it gets; everything starts to feel really… compacted. Holding in burps isn’t so bad, but it compresses the contents of your intestine from the other side! Finally, with enough swallowing and butt-clenching… something’s gotta give. And it’s always your ass. Always.

And so with that introduction… we move onto this week’s embarrassing, too-much-information tale. As always, if you want more of the same, hit up Lilu’s blog. This is a short one, with yet another Flash animation from my favourite site Sexinfo101. If you can’t see the (not work-safe) animation further down, you need to read this story on my blog.

This one’s so terrible that I’m not going to give you a location, nor shall I mention any names. It involves me and a girl. We might be in a hotel or at my house — or we might be in a cave in Turkey — it’s irrelevant, for the sake of this story.

All you need to know is that we’re having sex. Dirty, no-holds-barred sex. The kind of sex you might have with someone you may never meet again or alternatively, a lover that you know incredibly well: you either know exactly where to touch them, or you hit all the rights spots with a fumbled, scatter-all approach. It’s that kind of frantic, frenetic sex where your heart, arms and crotch feel like they might give out at any moment — but that’s OK, because you’re going at it as if tomorrow might never come. You’re there, in each other’s sweaty embrace, breathing heavily and giving it everything you’ve got.

‘Hey baby… how about a sixty-nine?’

I pause momentarily, wondering if calling her ‘baby’ might be spoiling the moment; I ruin the deep, wet rhythm we’ve so carefully nurtured too. I look at her slightly-parted lips and grin winningly as I kiss her closed eyes. Gradually, as she realises that I’m no longer plunging back and forth like a maniac, she opens her eyes to look at me. A gentle sigh escapes from her lips, the fleeting ghost of a moan that never quite made it. ‘Sure!’

Up she climbs into old-faithful sixty-nine. I guess it varies from girl to girl, but she certainly likes it. She’s one of those few delightful girls that actually derive a sense of power and pleasure from deep-throating a long, hard penis. Funnily, most men like it because it’s very dominating — but girls like it because they’re totally in control of the man’s pleasure. And with the 69, there is of course the tiny matter of the girl receiving oral sex too, which normally settles the deal. It’s safe to say that the position is, for almost all intents and purposes, awesome.

I’ll let the animation above do most of the talking as I don’t really want to make a name for myself as a softcore erotica writer (can’t see it? You have to read this story on my blog!) Perhaps, if one day I feel the urge, I’ll start another blog and write pseudonymous porn under my dress-up-at-weekends alter-ego ‘Debby’. But I digress…

She was quite thin, so I could easily see over her stomach and breasts to her head and mouth. Magically, mystifyingly bobbing up and down. She realises I’ve stopped to look and grunts in that I’m-not-using-my-teeth-but-I-could-if-I-wanted-to way. There was actually one girl, a few years back, that took my cock out of her mouth, looked down at me, staring up from between her legs and boldly stated: ‘Look Seb, get on with it. This position does my knees in and I ain’t got all day.’ This girl was more polite and I took the hint: I got back to work and the thrusting, sucking, whimpering and moaning continued.

It’s all going so well. I can hardly see — damnit, I need wipers attached to my forehead — but what I can see looks damn fine! My body starts to tingle, starting at my toes and quickly zipping up my thighs to my groin. I have a firm grip on her legs and back, and I can feel her squirming with the involuntary spasms of muscles all over her body as she orgasms yet again. Any second now I’ll join her. Her head, her mouth, still bobbing, still dipping, still sucking. My nails dig into her thighs as I start to climax; my back arches as my muscles tense and then shudder with a violent convulsion.

PPFFAAAAAAARRRP  PfffTTTTTttt  ppft    ffftt

The monster of all pent-up farts fired explosively into her face. As if the semen wasn’t enough, she’d swallowed her pride and sucked a fart straight up her nostrils.

Those of you that have farted in the bath will know the diabolical intensity of pure, undiluted farts.

We never did the sixty-nine again. And I now excuse myself from a girl’s bedroom for just a few moments before commencing with the foreplay.

The delectable delicacies of the wind-swept Faroe Islands
Ask Me Anything: Volume 4


I am a tall, hairy, British writer who blogs about technology, photography, travel, and whatever else catches my eye.