erogenous zones

Request For Information: Comparative Male Anatomy

Tue, 2008-01-29 07:00

So I’ve got a question about cocks and sexual sensitivity.

One of the limitations of heterosexuality or, of course, homosexuality, is that however experienced one might be with the responsiveness of different individuals of one’s preferred gender one is necessarily going to have more limited experience with whichever gender isn’t the one you prefer. That means an opposite-side data point of one if you’re straight, or none if not.

In my case I’ve got pretty much a data point of me and for the question I’ve got that’s not enough so I’m going to ask those of you with more sexual experience with cocks other than mine.

So!

Pretty much every sex education book introduces the penis as functionally blah-blah this, and la-la that (usually without mentioning that whatever else it’s good for one of its functions is caressing one’s partner.) After the functional formalities there’s mention that the “head, or ‘glans’” has the most nerve endings and is most sensitive to touch.

So…

I gotta admit that the head, “or glans,” of my cock has the most nerve endings and is most sensitive to the touch. I also, however, gotta admit that all those sensitive nerve endings aren’t really very erotically sensitive. They’re extraordinarily good at, say, helping me locate just the right part of a partners vulva without me having to look, of being able to tell… quite a lot really… about how she’s feeling about penetration: how wet she is, how warm she is, how engorged and open her lips are, where the verge of her vagina is, and whether I should try to enter her at all or if I should first dip shallowly and slowly for lubrication or whether she’d be into me deepening my strokes. It’s even good (and, it seems to me, almost exactly the right shape) for telling when it’s touching her cervix so that, if I know she’s enjoying it (which some partners do) I can continue or if she doesn’t care for it at all (which some partners really don’t) then I can steer clear.

What all those sensitive nerve endings are not good for, however, is…

...pretty much anything to do with arousal or orgasm!

Anybody else have experience with that, either as a cock owner or as partners with cock owners?

Now that doesn’t mean my glans never feels erotic sensation, but if it does at all it only does so way, way, way far into extended arousal and even then it feels good only with the lightest sensations and tons of lubrication.

Instead what’s most sensitive to erotic touch for me is the skin an inch or two below the glans, the wrinkly, oak-y, tattered remnants of my foreskin, especially along the sides and underside (underside when if I’m standing up, anyway.) The surface there is instantly and erogenously sensitive to warmth, moisture, and touch. The lightest contact from tongue, or labia, or a slickened finger feels marvelous there, and somewhere below the surface, close to the slippery-hard core, especially near the spongy ridge along the bottom, there are deeper nerve endings that respond very nicely to firmer pressure from tongue or the roof of the mouth, from thumb or fingers, and from the slippery/hard corrugations right over the G-spot just inside and under the pubic bone.

Oh, where was I?

Oh yeah, textbooks and sex manuals. They tend to go on about nerve endings in the glans (as they do about the glans of the clitoris, by the way) as if raw numbers told the whole story. At least if you asked me but I could be mistaken so I’m instead asking you.

Vivid Memories, #2

Fri, 2007-08-17 23:00

On the other side of her carport, a little studio supporting the other side away from the house. Her mother’s old art space, I think, converted to a dayroom but till hung with all manner of 60’s-era regalia — incense, silks, scarves and shawls, beads and feather, wall hangings, cushions, embroidery, candles, feathers, and giant sable watercolor brushers…

Long conversation, just getting to know each other, talk of this and that, and reflections on sensations she and a friend practiced on each other there in the room. And this led to that, and that led to something else, and I took her hand and drew my forefinger across her palm, and then stroked her wrist and palm with open fingertips, and then stoked her forearm, wrist, and palm with my lips, exhaling warm breath and kissing her fingertips.

And taking up a soft, chocolate-dark sable brush I began to stroke her arms in earnest, the insides of her elbows, the curves between her knuckles, and rather than passively waiting my moves she rolled her hands this way, curved her arms that, so that we nearly danced together finding best places to brush. And when we, not she or I, found a good spot her eyes would close, sometimes whites rolling up under furrowing brows only to sparkle back open, sharp, alert, knowing, her grin alive and in the game.

She presented me with an even larger brush, and forearms turned to face, face to hairline and temples, temples to cheek and chin, chin to neck to throat to collarbone, and she pulled the sleeves of her peasant blouse off her shoulders pushing the collar down almost to crinkle-hard nipples before turning her back and arching her neck. And then shoulders became neck and neck became hairline and her goosebumps and shivers shook not just her frame but my composure.

And I reversed the brush, drawing spirals and curlicues with the lacquer-smooth but squared off tip, leaving faint, almost invisible white lines on her flesh that moments later turned pale pink and her back arched and curved and she said “left” and “lower” as the point found itches here and there. And with a shrug she pushed her blouse down to her waist and off her arms, and her arms came up to lift her hair and she conducted me from itch to scratch, and brush became fingernails, and fingers became feathers, and she lay face down and feathers became dusty mittens turned palm up and fur down.

And when at last she rolled over and mittens had lost their charm she pointed to a small curtain of strung glass beads, big as peas and autumn chilled, and I led them and rolled them across her torso, over her belly, over her ribs, swooping and swirling across her breasts and nipples, and all the while she’d keep my eye, and nod, and close her lids for a stroke before smiling them back at me again, encouraging me, challenging me…

And beads became lanyard with an old silver charm, and lanyard became sable again, dry-washing the curved sides of her breasts, her armpits, her bumpy areola, her full nipple and her other, smaller, creased one, and back up to her chin and across her lips, and across her eyelids, and up to her hairline…

And then and only then lips followed brush, touching her skin with mine for the first time since that first kiss…

We didn’t have intercourse, and we didn’t have orgasms, and we didn’t even take our pants off, but we certainly had sex.

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