Still Another Dirty Dozen: Dirty Questions to Ask a Guy That Will Turn Him On

Still Another Dirty Dozen: Dirty Questions to Ask a Guy That Will Turn Him On

Today’s Dirty Dozen will be the final questions that come from a post titled: 100+ Dirty Questions to Ask Your Boyfriend That Will Turn Him On by Tatiana, on a site called Paired Life.

https://pairedlife.com/physical-intimacy/dirty-questions-to-ask-your-boyfriend

1/ Rough or sensual?

Why can’t it be both?

Sensual requires a type of intimacy.

I love rough sex, but if there isn’t an element of intimacy involved, then it just feels like physical abuse. It’s much more intense when there is some kind of connection, even one transient in nature. I think it’s in the eyes. And touch.

But, when it comes to ‘rough’ sex, take that shit too seriously and I’m gonna giggle, ruining whatever alpha bullshit scenario they have running in their heads.

No one wants to be treated like an object. And only the most perverse are into the kind of practiced psycho-sexual pleasure derived from treating one another coldly or clinically.

Now you could argue that twenty minutes is not enough time to develop any kind of intimacy. And I am going to tell you that you are wrong. Because treating one another well, with kindness and compassion, understanding and empathy… that should be a given and something we all bring to the table every time.

I believe that folks not automatically treating others well, is at the root of why so many hook-ups leave people feeling ‘empty’. I am talking about those of us who view sex as an activity and not some form of emotional communion. Those of you who have chained up your sex drive with religious delusions? You’ve got something complicated going on. Which is your choice. Brainwashing can be overcome. It takes a long time, but it is possible… and I am talking from experience.

I always laugh when people tell me that causal sex leaves them with an empty feeling. I’m like, well, you’re just not doing it right.  

In a best of both worlds outcome, sex should feel like winning a physical challenge and a satisfying emotional balm.   

2/ Have you ever been caught jerking off? By who?

I am a sneaky little guy. I have managed to escape detection except twice… and both times were in high school.

If you read this blog, then you know I used to have a bit of a problem keeping my DNA to myself. I would jerk off anywhere, at the drop of a hat. But I never got caught - completely. As in… when they walked into the room they would have to draw their own conclusion, never actually having set eyes on me ‘saluting the ambassador’.

Though my full body flush n’ blush was probably a dead giveaway.

The first time it happened, I was in 10th grade. My favorite whacking spot after school was a men’s room located next to the art room. It was tucked away and very few used it. I was at the urinal with my pants open working my way to St. Petersburg, when in walked that algebra teacher I had a crush on (I told you about him last week - head coach, tall, athletic, Polish, hefty dick, great fur, Harrison Ford handsome?).

Now, the entry door was just on the other side of this tiny wall, so I had a moment to somewhat recover before being seen. I simply stepped closer to the urinal and tried my best to point my engorged member downward, so it would appear that I was peeing. And might have gotten away with it, except, of course, I broke out in a hot sweat, blushing like a boy caught waxing his flute (Google it, it’s a thing).

The man paused once he rounded the little wall, assessing the situation, followed by a sharp, annoyed exhalation of air. Clearly, I was not the first student he’d caught playing the trombone (how I do like euphemisms). He stepped up to the urinal next to me, unzipped and began peeing. “So, what are you doing?” he asked. I think I rambled on about practicing for an upcoming speech contest or something, the entire time wishing my dick would shrivel up and disappear. But of course, it didn’t. At that age, the more you wished your erection would go away, the more prominent it became.

He clearly glanced at my dick. He clearly knew what was going on. He finished. Zipped up, went to the sink washed his hands and left.

And I don’t remember what happened next, but I am pretty sure it involved painting the interior of that urinal with my DNA.

The second time I sort of got caught was at my first job.

Don’t get grossed out.

So, I worked at this fast food restaurant. Local. Family-owned. My older sister - so dependable, so reliable, they loved her - vouched for me and they hired me as a fry cook. I wanted to work front of house, but nooooo. I was a boy. And we belonged in the back, dealing with grease fumes and raw meat. The woman who ran the place was the matriarch of the family. Her two daughters, both my age, worked the front of house with the help of my older sister. The mother was on me from day one… nit pick, nit pick, nit pick. I get it. This is your family’s livelihood, but rather than browbeat a sixteen year old boy, why not just do it yourself, by yourself? But no, she needed help. She also hired, for back of house, a guy in my grade, Gary… whom I sort of knew, but wasn’t super friendly with.

Gary was cool, in the sense that he was not uncool. He wasn’t linked to any after school activity, was not part of the band or choir. He had never attempted to be an athlete. Blonde and tall and not unattractive, Gary was cool because he was not a walking box of adolescent neurosis like, ummm… me.

People generally liked him. Me, included.

So, since we worked together and both got treated like shit by the owner, we had something in common and sort of bonded. At least while at work. At school? Yeah, no, he couldn’t acknowledge my existence. I was sooooo uncool.

Anyway, one day, the boss lady was not there. Gary and I were running the kitchen. And it was slow. Like… never did this happen. We were always moving 90 miles a minute to catch up… but, nope. Quiet. So one of the daughters told me to straighten up the supply room, a big windowless concrete room full of stacks of cardboard boxes… like a tiny labyrinth.

In other words, the perfect place for a perv like me to practice shooting Abe Lincoln (What? Too soon?) And after ten minutes of actually working, that is exactly what I proceeded to do. Now, anybody could have walked in and, of course Gary did… because we’d gotten busy again. Fortunately I heard him, so did a quick Friar Tuck (see what I did there?) and plastered a strained Don’t-Act-Like-You-Were-Doing-Anything-Wrong smile on my mug when I turned around.

Dude took one look at my face (and maybe the bulge behind my apron) and absolutely knew what I had been doing. But he didn’t actually see anything. He laughed. And told me I was needed on the grill. Blushing and breaking out into a sweat, I moved quickly past him to return to the grill.

Gee. I hope I washed my hands…     

3/ Have you ever gone skinny dipping?

Yes, twice.

Both times were with a group of people I was doing a show with. It was very late at night and we were very drunk. Nothing sexual took place and I learned quickly… there are some people you NEVER want to see naked.

And there are some people you never want to see YOU naked.

4/ Have you ever done it in the water?

Yes.

Once under a tiny waterfall hiking down from the old aqueduct system in Hawaii.

Can’t recommend it.

Amoeba. Slime. Rashes. Antibiotics.

Once in a hot tub.

Can’t recommend it.

Heart rate through the roof. Thought I was gonna pass out.

Once in bathtub.

Can’t recommend it.

Faucet. Hit my head. Poked my back. Scratched my shoulder.

Once in a swimming pool.

Can’t recommend it.

Chlorine. 

Your eyes aren’t the only thing it stings.

5/ Do you like men with long hair?

Black men with braids… fine.

But typically, no.

Why?

Probably Fabio?

Kenny G?

Steven Seagal?

I dunno. Somewhere along the line I came to associate long hair on men with - not sexy - but privileged, stuck up, vain, egotistical, self-centered, un-evolved trash. (Wow - uncovering something with this here question.)

Not that I consider Fabio and Kenny G to be any of that (well, privileged, certainly) but, I guess I simply don’t like long hair on men. Especially when it is all full of product and done up.

Hair metal bands really ruined it for me…

Oh! And whenever I see a ponytail on a man? I instantly transport back to a time when my best friend and I declared ourselves the enemy of all male ponytails and named ourselves the Scissor Sisters… (yeah, I know… but while we didn’t get there first, they got there after us, trust me).

And those fucking man buns. Ugh. I despise them. Snip snip.  

Long hair on hippies? Never found it sexy. Just annoying.

I can’t think of a single instance where I thought of a man with long hair as sexy.

Wait.

Does Jesus count?

6/ Beards?

I like beards. Especially those long hipster ones, although one sort of needs the hair to go with it. You know, that boy band hair thing that sweeps up and balances the whole look, so you end up looking like a quarter moon in profile?

Though certain bald men can pull it off, too. As long as they don’t drift into Rip Van Winkle or Old Father Time territory.  

But those beards need to be well-maintained; oiled and conditioned. Trimmed and shaped. Nothing worse than a hipster beard gone wild. Leaves you looking like a homeless mess.

Confession. I always want to pull on them. Just a touch. Especially when sucking their dick. Just reach up and touch… give it a little tug.  

Goatees, Van Dykes, etc? Oh, yeah. Facial hair, in general, is fine with me. But keep it clean and trimmed. I like sharp looking people. You never know what they’re really thinking or up to. Keeps me on my toes.

Lone exception? Flavor savers. Uh-huh. Rarely a good look and that terribly overweight chef who sweats and eats nothing but fast food? The one with the spiky hair? Yeah… he’s ruined that look for everyone forever. I also hated it when Sammy ‘Van’ Hager sported that look. Made him look cheap.

Note: Mustaches. Must be trimmed and should not hang over your upper lip. That whole walrus thing some men have going on? Ick. It just gets full of food and food odors. Which is true of all facial hair. You have to wash your stuff after every meal.

I don’t want to kiss that warmed up tuna casserole you had for lunch two hours earlier, just like I don’t wanna suck your wife’s pussy juice off your dick, no matter how pretty it is.

Your dick.

Not your wife’s pussy.

Like I said before… 

Men! You have to wash your stuff after every meal…

7/ Prince Alberts? Or other piercings?

Prince Alberts. No. I would never. Not on myself. Don’t understand the need, the desire - to do that to your poor little pee pee. What has he ever done to you to deserve such a fate?

And anytime someone has approached me and wanted to fuck me while wearing one? It’s been a hard no. I know, I know… It probably feels wonderful and there’s no chance of any harm. But I can’t wrap my head around that piece of metal going in my ass. Uh-Uh. Peddle that metal somewhere else.

I have given head to a guy wearing one. Damn thing just clacks and clanks away in my mouth and I keep waiting for that oh-oh moment when he chips one of my teeth or knocks one out. So I have stopped that, too.

And there have been some cute guys. I macked all over this short, tatted, ginger dude with a full hipster beard, getting all ready for him to climb Mt. Upton… but, nope. No way. Beautiful dick, too. But it was not to be mine.

He was very persuasive... but, even though I have great dental insurance, I do not need to help my dentist pay for his summer home in Miami.

Other piercings?

Nipples. Yes. But I get to play with them. None of that, “Oh, I am so sensitive” bullshit. You don’t buy a fancy car just to have it sit in the garage.

Ears. Fine, if you insist. Don’t get too cutesy with what you hang in those holes, though. The less you call attention to them, the better. Although black men can wear a diamond stud and, if they have the smile to back it up, I will simply melt.

Nose, lips, tongue, cheeks, naval, et al.

No.

I don’t want to kiss a hardware store.  

And it almost always looks like shit.

8/ Bald men?

Love them. Kiss kiss… right on the top of their beautiful chrome domes.

I am bald. Well, mostly. I buzz what’s left down to nothing everyday. Why? Because eagle’s nests belong in trees, not around your head.

The eagle’s nest. My least favorite look (although the comb-over is right up there).

The eagle’s nest. Nothing says ‘man in denial’ more (except, maybe those who still think voting for Trump is a good idea).

The eagle’s nest. Nothing says ‘Elvis has left the building, what the hell are you still doing here?’ more.

Hello. You with the eagle’s nest. That top hair? It’s not coming back. Give it up. Buzz the fuck out of it and get on with your life.

Oh, and no Hair Club for Men, honey. It’s a racket. And that stuff never looks right, no matter what that hair technician/witch you slip an extra fifty bucks to every two months tells you.

You need someone to tell you how great you look? Buzz off your eagle’s nest, climb in my car and I will show you how great you look… for free.

9/ What kind of music do you like to play while getting busy?

Why, Tuvan throat singing, of course.

You know? Seriously, it depends.

A walk in scene? I want some house music blending from one song to the next, non-stop. But none of that faceless, shapeless, generic noise. The crap they play at most bathhouses? Blech. I like a good melody with some adherence to musical form. Love old school stuff like Tiesto, kaskade, all those Ministry of Sound artists. Stuff goes great with poppers and a big dick pounding your hole.

Romantic? I would go with quiet storm… some Chante Moore. Sade. Toni Braxton, even.

I love music. So any music will do.

Well, almost any.

You start playing Toby Keith, Michael Jackson, R. Kelly, Hank Williams Jr.? I am going to wonder what the fuck is wrong with you and walk my fine ass self out the door.   

10/ Do you have a pet name for your dick? If not, what would you name it?

No.

Tilda Swinton.

11/ Do you give your phone number to tricks?

Fuck no.

In twenty minutes, you will be part of my past. I don’t need no scrawny ass motherfucker dialing me at two in the morning to ask, “What up?”

What up?

Me.

Now.

Thanks a lot, asshole.

12/ Give two “truths” and a lie. Then guess which is the lie.

Okay. I took a pass on this one before. Let’s do this…

A/ I broke my neck in two places and in a manner that has a less than five percent rate of survival.

B/ I had a blood transfusion during which I received 12 units of blood.

C/ Alone, in the city of angels, I received last rites in a hospital bed that Elizabeth Taylor had slept in the week before.

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Leave your answers in the comments section. Or, answer them all, post on your blog and then share a link. 

Long Haired Lover from Liverpool - Jimmy Osmand