Is this our first ever book review? I think it might be. And no, we’re not trying to sell you something…well, not something we sell ourselves anyway. What an odd post this is going to be.
Chances are if you move within adult industry circles you’ll have heard of Girl On The Net and her stunning blog (girlonthenet.com) already but if not you should know that she’s one of our favourite sex writers; filthy, sexy and ALWAYS brutally honest. Without fanwanking too much and embarrassing ourselves we should mention that she’s been on the ‘must read’ lists of a huge swathe of the Bondara office for many moons…if that’s not a recommendation then I don’t know what is.
Well now she’s only gone and written a whole book of her sexy (and not so sexy) exploits detailing in graphic and hilarious detail her sexual awakening through various partners all with the underlying message that she’s a big pervert and loves it. As should we all if that’s our bag.
So is ‘My Not So Shameful Sex Secrets’ our bag? Definitely. Unequivocally. It’s probably not a surprise to anyone to learn that a lot of us here are also massive perverts and deviants so we loved it. This isn’t just a blow-by-blow (pun intended) account of GOTN’s sex life but a funny and often heartbreaking story of a real woman not so different to a lot of us. She’s just more honest about what she wants. And she wants sex. A lot of it. With different people. On her terms. I felt empowered by the end.
Even if you’ve been reading GOTN’s blog for a long time there’s plenty here to keep you reading in her signature gloriously humorous and chatty style of writing that kept me reading late into the night without even realising the time.
I could go on, but it might stop you from buying it right now from Amazon. If you don’t have a kindle or want to see other reviews head to http://www.girlonthenet.com/girl-on-the-net-book-erotic-memoir/
If you’re still not sure…here’s a little extract to whet your whistles courtesy of the lady herself:
1. I didn’t listen to the lyrics of ‘Teenage Kicks’ because I was far too busy masturbating
If you’d asked thirteen-year-old me what I wanted to be when I grew up, hovering somewhere near the top of the list alongside ‘astronaut’ and ‘writer’ would have been ‘wanker’. When I was thirteen, I wanted to be a wanker.
I suspect the same could be said of many teenagers—that moment when you discover that touching yourself like that can make everything else in the world seem dull, shallow and unimportant, is a moment that many of us spend the rest of our lives trying to recreate.
Since then I’ve been chasing that feeling—that desperate, horny kick you get when something strikes you in just the right way. When a guy says ‘come here and bend over’, when he puts one arm tightly around my waist and uses the other to pull my knickers down, when he leans over and whispers in my ear, ‘I can see your nipples getting hard through that top.’ Every single time my cunt twitches and I feel that stinging lust in the pit of my stomach—they’re all descendants of that initial spark.
The first thing I ever wanked to was a book.
Not a book with any particularly saucy images on the cover, or, as a surprising number of my male friends have confessed, a hardback compilation of ‘arty’ Pirelli calendar shots. To my utter adult horror, my first teenage wank came about via a sadomasochistic novel that belonged to my dad.
Allow me to explain:
My parents were divorced. Not in an ‘oh God, why must they tear the family apart?’ way, but in a ‘well, that seems to have calmed them both down’ way. No doubt it was agony for eight-year-old me, but I’m sure she’d forgive twenty-eight-year-old me for being a bit blasé about it, given that both of my parents subsequently settled down with lovely partners, neither of whom hit me or made me sweep out cinders from the fireplace.
It’s well documented that post-divorce many children cash in, and benefit from having two of everything: two Christmases, two birthdays, two trips to the special cake shop to be congratulated on not fucking up your GCSEs. And it’s also well documented that this isn’t a great idea, and can leave your children well and truly spoiled. Luckily for me my parents read the documentation thoroughly and did their absolute best not to fawn over, bribe, or otherwise pander to any of their children. This means that my brother, sister and I have all grown up relatively balanced, if a little light on presents.
I did get one special treat when I visited my dad, though: my own bedroom. Initially this meant peace and quiet, personal space and the ability to lie in on Saturday and read book after book after book. Eventually, though, as I grew up and discovered the brilliant things I could do to myself given enough ‘alone time’, I started to look on weekends at my dad’s house as simply forty-eight hours in which I could wank to my heart’s content.
During the week I’d share a bedroom with my sister, which was split according to the rule that says ‘she with the loudest voice gets the biggest space’, so I got the crappy space.
Late at night my sister and I would have feisty rows over why I’d borrowed her good hairbrush, then settle into our respective beds to recharge our energy for tomorrow’s big fight. She, I imagine, would fall instantly into a deep and unshakeable slumber, while I would focus on learning to wank without moving the bedsheets.
It’s trickier than you think.
First you have to manoeuvre your body into a position that befits wanking yet also looks like a plausible way for a human to sleep. If, like me, you sleep lying on your front, this means bunching the duvet up around you so you can ever so slightly raise your arse from the bed to make enough space for one hand to fit between your legs.
Don’t jump the gun, though, my hand is not between my legs yet. First, I have to lick my fingers. I have to coat them in spit in a way that makes absolutely no sound whatsoever. Try it at home. In a silent room, in the dead darkness of night, coat your fingers in spit without making any lip-smacking, finger-sucking sounds. Tricky, no?