‘There are two types of the men in the world’ I said assuredly, as I picked up my martini glass.
‘And which might those be?’ K replied, sipping her mojito.
I took a long gulp. ‘Those who haven’t found the clitoris
; and those who have
K laughed and placed her glass back on the table. ‘Very true’.
‘Thankfully’, I continued, somewhat drunkenly, ‘the former is in the minority – it’s been quite rare in recent years, for me to meet a guy who just heads straight for penetration and then in-out rabbit-pumps me without even attempting some clitoral stimulation: as much as I enjoy a rampant quickie, there is something to be said for a little foreplay now and then.’
‘Thank god most men seem to know it takes more than that to get a woman going’, K agreed.
I nodded. ‘But I’m not sure whether those men that know about the clitoris are much better.’
K looked at me curiously. ‘Whatever do you mean?’
I leaned in to her conspiratorially and said, in a low voice, ‘just because they know where
it is, doesn’t mean they know what to do
K laughed loudly and slapped me on my arm playfully.
I continued. ‘Too many men seem to want a medal just because they know of the clitoris: “look darling, I’ve found it!” Well, no, I don’t think congratulations are in order – especially if they aggressively attack it as if they were trying to rub out a stain on an ornament.’
K roared and spat out her drink from laughing. ‘God, that’s so fucking true! What is it with them? Don’t they know about delicacy?’
‘Evidently not’ I replied. ‘They tug themselves so bloody hard, they probably think the same works for us.’
K shook her head. ‘No. Fuck no.’
‘It’s like once they’ve found the “magic button” all they can think to do, is press it, pull it, tap it and rub it – they don’t seem to realise that it is very
K nodded in agreement again and whispered to me. ‘Mine can’t be even be touched: it’s just too much for me’.
‘Me too’, I replied, whispering back. ‘Too much pounding and it goes numb: then there’s no hope in me coming.’
We both sighed and took swigs of our drinks. Then I perked up again. ‘It’s not all bad’ I said, ‘I think there’s a third type of bloke – even if he is few and far between.’
‘Yeah. I’ve been with a few men who not only know where the clitoris is, but know just how sensitive it is too: they never ever touched it, but still made me come all the time.’
K raised her eyebrow, quizzically. ‘What did they do?’
‘They teased me for ages; you know, touching or licking near it and around it, but never actually on
it. It drove me fucking crazy – made me want to stick their cock in me pronto.’
K laughed. ‘That’s definitely the way, god yes. I wish more men did that. Hey, maybe we should set up an information group – a way to educate men about getting a woman properly aroused?’
I sniggered. ‘What a good idea! We could teach them all about the benefits of indirect clitoral stimulation, and as a result, they’d have women soaking wet, begging to fuck them. Then men would get shagged rampantly and women would get lots of orgasms prior to penetration. Win/win: fantastic.’
K grinned and we both finished off the dregs of alcohol in our glasses.
I then thought about it some more. ‘This group sounds like a great idea: we should do it. I would suggest calling it The Third Way
, but it makes me think of New Labour
, and surely the whole point would be to get women more horny, rather than turning them off sex altogether?!’
We both laughed and I got up to buy us some more drinks. On the way, I eyed up a handsome man in a suit who was standing by the bar, and wondered how I might get him into a conversation about equality in bed without sounding like I wanted to shag him.
Even though, truth be told, given the opportunity, I would have gladly fucked his brains out. As long as he let me gently grind my crotch against him to get me all hot and bothered first, that is.