It’s my analysis that men don’t like being told what to do. So how can you ensure that you’re satisfied in the bedroom with damaging your mate’s fragile ego? Here are four tips that I think will help.

I've finally written down my carrot cake recipe! I hope you enjoy! Cheers!

Years ago, I heard a story about a group of publishers asked to recommend books for translation. The criteria were that they should be well-written, have literary merit, be commercially viable and have been recently published. One book divided the judges: a novel written from the point of view of a sex-abuse victim who enjoyed her abuse. The women thought it badly written and disgusting. The men thought it ground-breaking and provocative: its explicit content and taboo-breaking perspective were enough to give it "literary cachet". When it comes to sex, the usual rules for judging good literature need not apply.

I recalled the story while reading German author Charlotte Roche's much-hyped Wetlands, a novel that has been hailed by Granta as the modern equivalent of J D Salinger's The Catcher In The Rye, J G Ballard's Crash and Germaine Greer's The Female Eunuch. Wetlands (translated by Tom Mohr; Fourth Estate, £12.99) tells the story of Helen Memel, 18, who is recovering from invasive surgery on her piles. She regales readers with intimate details about her anal sphincter (you will never look at a cauliflower in the same way again), bodily fluids, shaving and general sex life.

Every orifice is explored, every fluid tasted, leaked or smeared. Her fingers seem rarely out of her knickers. Dirty toilet seats are rubbed against, avocado seeds pumped out of her vagina like Thai ping-pong balls and her labia (or "ladyfingers" as Helen tweely calls them) stretched in a way guaranteed to make women want to cross their legs. More The Story of Ugh than The Story of O, Helen's dirt-dodging explains why she has few friends, though no such easy explanation is given for her obsession with sex and fetishisation of filth. Roche feebly indicates that Helen is sex-obsessed because she is lonely, her parents divorced and her mother fixated on hygiene. Even ground-breaking feminists cannot escape the cliché of blaming mummy.

To read more please click the link below....

Wake me up at the crack of dawn looking for sex, and I’m likely to ignore you, or yell at you—and not in a dominatrix type of way. To put it mildly, I’m not a morning person—or, rather, I’m up for “morning sex,” if 11:59 a.m. counts as “morning.” But others have different ideas on the matter, so I asked my friends what time of the day equals sexytime for them.

Photographer The Lovely Brenda says she’ll do it anytime, but the morning is her favorite: “I love to wake up next to Aaron and his raging c***, as the warm sunlight pours through the wooden blinds. To climb on top, feel him between my legs, and stick my nose between his beard, ear, and pillow, so that I can smell and hear him in my left ear drives me wild. It leaves me with thoughts that I can jerk off to for the rest of the day when I’m alone at home, working at my computer while he’s away.”

Searah Deysach, owner of Chicago sex toy store Early to Bed, prefers the middle of the day. “Sex in the late afternoon is always my first choice. In the morning I just need to get out of the house as soon as possible and at night I’m often too tired. In the afternoon you don’t have to worry about waking the neighbors, and you don’t have to turn on any lights but can still see all you need and want to. Plus, I always get a burst of energy after, so it’s good to have time to make use of that.” Graphic designer Sinclair likes to get it on at night. “Getting off is such a nightcap for me, for some reason. Something about the ritual of getting undressed and getting in bed anyway makes it a perfect excuse. And I sleep better after an orgasm or two.”

To read the entire article click the link below....