That’s not to say that women don’t fantasise as much as us men because they do. What they seemed to love though, generally speaking, was the dirty stories. Women have better imaginations than men and it’s this they seemed to need stimulating more than their eyes. What was it Marilyn Monroe replied when some reporter asked her what she thought the sexiest part of her body was? ‘My Mind,’ she told him. Personally, I would’ve said it was her tits, but then, that just goes to prove what I’m talking about. Yeah, yeah, yeah, I know, blokes like to use their imaginations too, but where we’re lying back wondering how many tennis bats we can fit up a bird’s arse, they’re fleshing out their fantasies and creating all sorts of sexy scenarios in their minds that result in a night of passion.
Which brings us neatly around to our last category: the sex confession. Now, I’ve probably set you all off in the wrong direction talking about women and what they like because that’s not really my business. Bling and Froth and the like were aimed at blokes and hence catered for their tastes. Sometimes there was an overlap and sometimes there wasn’t. A lot of women bought our dirty mags, surprisingly enough, but again it seemed more for the confessions than anything else. Blokes liked reading the confessions too but primarily they got off on the pictures.
‘Yeah but are they real or do you just make them all up?’
Bling genuinely got dozens of confessions through the post every week but before they got anywhere near the page they almost always had to be heavily rewritten because they were such a load of old unbelievable bollocks.
An example:
‘Dear Bling,
The train home from work is usually a dull affair for me, until the other week when I had to work late. On this occasion my carriage was empty apart from a stunning brunette in typical office gear. Not usually shy I sat opposite her and we exchanged smiles. A few minutes later the woman leant over to me and said “want to make the journey more interesting?” whilst resting her hand on my knee. Looking down her loose blouse to see her bronzed cleavage I was quick to say yes. Instantly she thrust her hand onto my cock, rubbing it feverishly until it was hard. We snogged briefly before she grabbed my hand and a bag full of shopping and heading towards the toilet. “What’s that for?” I asked. “You’ll see,” she said, with a gleaming, yet dirty smile. As soon as I’d locked the door I pinned her to the wall, lifted her skirt and yanked down her tights and black knickers. My hand felt amongst her soaking black bush and caressed her pink lips. With the other I ripped open her blouse and lifted her bra, revealing pert tits with massive dark nipples. I sucked on these as she pulled my cock out of my trousers and wanked it mercilessly. “Let’s fuck,” I said, sweating in anticipation. “My way,” she replied, reaching for her shopping. She pulled out a small cucumber and poured some shampoo onto my hand. “You’re going to be needing this,” she said and that’s when I knew she wanted it up the arse. I turned her to face the wall and began to lather up her with shampoo. I couldn’t resist her plump bum-hole much longer, and threaded my meat all the way up inside her, which was met with a groan of contentment. As I began to stroke in and out of her arse, she inserted the cucumber up her cunt, stretching it as wide as I’ve ever seen a cunt open. As my excitement grew, I pummelled her faster and faster, gripping onto her curvy hips. Soon my motions matched the rhythm of the train rattling along the rails. At the same time the woman thrust the cucumber up her cunt quicker and quicker, and her slurping becoming as loud as the train. We both got closer and closer to cumming until, as she let out a squeal of orgasm, her arse clenched tight around my swollen cock forcing me to shoot wads of cum up her arse and I groaned with delight. I quickly realised that my stop was approaching, so I pulled my cock out of the now rosy-cheeked girl, kissed her on the lips and dashed off, trying to make myself look presentable. I’ve not seen the girl since, but if I see her again I hope she will have done her shopping.
Signed etc etc
This is a perfect example of the ‘genuine’ sex confessions we received. At least in the stories that appeared in the mag there was usually an element of ‘Well, it could’ve happened’ but with something like this we know for a fact – and that’s a fact – that this never took place. How? Oh come on, in the history of sex, do you really think any woman, never mind a stunning brunette, has ever turned around to a total stranger on a train and asked him to stick his cock and half a bottle of Head & Shoulders up her arse without so much as a ‘nice day isn’t it’? Sure strangers have sex all the time, but never bang bang bang like that, out of the blue with no prompting and for no reason. Women just don’t work this way. I wish the fuck they did, but they don’t.
Okay, it’s a story, and that’s all it is, but knowing it’s just a story, doesn’t that lessen its appeal? Wouldn’t it be sexier to read a confession that you could actually believe in? Wouldn’t it be nice to think that there really was a rampant brunette running around screwing guys at will? And this is why we ended up rewriting most of them. Just to make them a little bit plausible and therefore more interesting.
Yeah sure, nobody wants to have to plough through six chapters of ‘How are you? I like your hat’ before someone’s getting pummelled against a cistern but still, a few sentences just to set up the story, that’s all it takes, but people are lazy. What’s the common phrase? Oh yeah, ‘To cut a long story short.’
‘Dear Bling,
I was walking in this pub with my mates when the tall, absolutely stunning blonde walks in with a couple of her friends. Anyway, to cut a long story short, we were soon getting undressed in the back of a cab on the way back to her place while her friend was down between my legs with my balls on her face... etc’
You see what I’m getting at? Lazy. Set the scene a little and it makes it so much more interesting. Take our mate on the train, for example. Now the way I ended up rewriting this one was I made him a ticket inspector and her a fare dodger with a string of convictions behind her. One more time and it’s the Big House for you, darling. See? It gives it a little bit of edge and makes it a little bit more exciting already. At least, it did in my mind.
‘There I was, standing over her with my notebook in my hand when suddenly she starts hitching up her skirt. “Please,” she said, pleading with me. “I’m really sorry. Don’t put my name in the book. I’ll do anything.” I looked down at her shopping. “Anything? Is that a bottle of Wash & Go?” I asked, and a thought suddenly occurred to me.’
So, I ended up rewriting the ones I could and binning the ones I couldn’t.
After a while, I started to realise that writing letters from scratch was actually a lot quicker and easier than typing in the genuine ones. Also, confessions sent in by women were at a bit of a premium so quite often I had to write these ones myself. And this was a bit of a shame really because these were the ones that most of us blokes wanted to read. Maybe it’s the natural homophobe in me coming out but most blokes I know would rather listen to a bird talking dirty than another bloke. Think about it, really. It’s like those 0898 sex-lines you get advertised in the back of our mags, you don’t go phoning up them at £1.49 a minute to listen to some geezer banging on about how he pulled a nice bit of stuff on the train last night, do you? No, you want to listen to a good old dirty bird and hear about what she’s been up to with the plumber while her old man’s been at work. And then, after 25 minutes you can put down the phone, pull up your trousers, go downstairs and thank your Gran for letting you use the phone.