Jan 222012
 
Yesterday, I wrote about what turns me on.  And I could go on forever on that subject.

But intellectually, I am more interested in how what turns most people (or more people) on doesn’t resonate for me, and how what turns me on is unusual.

In my previous life, I went to strip clubs occasionally, and they’re like shrines to some sort of notion of what’s appealing to men that is almost completely unappealing to me.  The only two things that turn me on in a strip club are the availability (or hinted, teased, denied availability) and the possibility that one of the dancers might rub my cock in a sustained way.  The things that apparently we men like (I say “apparently” because I assume the folks who run strip clubs know what they’re doing, know what appeals to us) are big, fake breasts and instant nudity.  A strip club that was a silicone-free zone?  One where the dancers wore clothes?  Bona fide outfits – like their street clothes?  And perhaps where they got naked, but only very rarely?  Now that would turn me on.

Invariably, it’s the dancers arriving off the street, still wearing jeans, not yet wearing makeup, who get me hard.

Hairless cunts don’t turn me on.  They make me think of pre-pubescence.  (Though they can be depicted beautifully, in ways that do turn me on.)

Other men don’t turn me on.  I wish they did.  I’m open to sex with them.  But they don’t.  In fact, I’m 1000 times more likely to fail to launch with another man in the room.

Makeup – other than minimally, tastefully applied makeup – doesn’t turn me on.  I want to see your face.  I really do.

Moaning doesn’t turn me on.  Unless it’s really really real.  Theatrical moaning?  Ick.

Talking dirty doesn’t turn me on.  I’m trying to get better at it – and think I’m succeeding, both in the art of talking and of being turned on when you do it to me.  But in and of itself?  Not so much.

Degradation doesn’t turn me on.  I don’t want to call you bitch, or slut, or whore.  Except playfully – if you’re mean, or sleep with another guy, or receive a gift from someone you’re fucking.  And then, not to degrade you – to laugh with you.

Pain doesn’t turn me on.  I’ll hurt you if you want, and if it turns you on, that will turn me on.  But hurting you, or being hurt, does nothing for me.

Money shots don’t turn me on.  That’s not how I want to cum in, on, or near you; it’s not what I want to see.

Writing about what doesn’t turn me on, oddly enough, seems to turn me on….

I think I’ll go deal with that.

  2 Responses to “What doesn’t turn me on”

  1. […] her, and she eases onto me, moaning.  It’s not the theatrical moaning I’ve said I loathe elsewhere – it sounds, it feels, authentic, as if I’m doing her […]

  2. […] about my type elsewhere on this blog (hint: I like petite, natural women – as I’ve written, I often have the same reaction to height as I describe here to […]

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