Rough Pounding
⚡ ALL INFORMATION CLICK HERE 👈🏻👈🏻👈🏻
Rough Pounding
10 Ways To Make Love When You Want It Rough
Hooking Up
By Ginelle Testa
Stay Social
Facebook
Instagram
Pinterest
Sometimes normal love-making just isn’t cutting it and you really want to spice up your sex life . Or, maybe you’re a total freak and already have rough intimacy on a regular basis. Whatever the case, I’ve compiled 10 ways to make love when you’re looking to have it rough. Remember to always have a safe word and communicate a ton with your partner before and during the act. Roughness is great, but we don’t want anyone to get hurt beyond what they want.
Remember that everyone’s comfort level is different and while you might be open to some of these, your partner might not be so keen. Clear communication is the key to all parts of a relationship, but especially when it comes to sex.
Hard Head This one’s for when you’re giving your guy some ecstasy with your mouth. You can go crazy yourself by moving very quickly (in a controlled way), going up and down while using your hands and a little saliva. You can also have your guy guide you by pulling your hair and pushing your head down. Hey, we said it was going to be rough!
Avante-Garde Doggy Everyone knows what the regular version of this looks like, but there are things you can do to make it more intense. For starters, hair pulling is always a fantastic go-to . The partner behind can grab a nice handful and pull to their heart’s desire—within what’s safe for the other person, of course. Another option is to do it in front of a mirror, enjoying watching each other in the act. Lastly, backside slapping is always a good choice.
Choking Missionary This position switches up your average vanilla missionary position. To do it, get going with normal missionary, then have your partner wrap their hand or hands around your neck. They should give it a good squeeze, choking you. They can go ahead and go crazy with jamming themselves into you. Just be sure to have a safe gesture as you likely won’t be able to speak.
Wristed There are a few options here, but the goal is to grab your partner’s wrists. It doesn’t matter what gender is on top. You hold down their wrists and go at making love. You press down hard so they aren’t able to escape. Another option is to hold down their wrists with one hand and to slap them with the other. A safeword is cool here because their mouth is free.
Reverse Cowgirl You’ve heard of reverse cowgirl. This is when the woman is on top and she’s facing the opposite direction or her partner. So, her backside and back are facing them. You can really go bananas with this one. You can go up and down and you can even throw in some scratching of your partner if you’d like. Rules can also be made that they aren’t allowed to touch you because you’re in charge.
Miss New Backside In this position, your hands are on the floor and your bottom half is resting on your partner. You’re facing the floor and your legs are lengthened on the sides of your guy. In this position, your partner can get frisky with all the thrusting. They can even throw some slapping and grabbing of your backside into the mix.
Lady Lovely This one’s all power to the ladies. You’re on top in the normal way except you have your partner’s arms pinned down underneath you. You’re taking control and the other person can’t do a thing. Go ahead and move up and down, doing whatever you want (within reason). You can slap your partner or scratch them for example.
Cuddles Galore Your partner should be sitting at the edge of the bed and you can crawl onto them. You’re going to sit on their lap with your back facing them. In this position, you’re all wrapped up in one another. It’s very intimate, but with most positions, it’s possible to make it rough .
Female O Just as it sounds, this one is a way for women to experience ecstasy . Stick a pillow under your backside to raise yourself up in order for your partner to have better access. From here, your partner can go wild with their mouth on your lady parts. Obviously, within reason, they can use their hands and tongue in a way that’s rough, but hot. You can either just lie back and enjoy what’s happening or you can even grab your partner by the hair while they’re going at it.
Play Time For this position, your legs are up over your partner’s shoulders. The special part about this one, though, is the roleplay. You can do teacher-student roleplay or whatever suits your mood. You’re going to talk to each other in your roles and make love accordingly. I assume it’ll include some of the things we’ve talked about so far like hair pulling or scratching.
There are plenty of different ways to make love if you want to try something different with your partner. After a while, the same old encounters become a bit boring and routine, so being open to trying different things together can really take your intimacy to a whole new level and heighten your pleasure to boot.
Of all the ways to make love, deciding to get rough, either casually or trying something more formal like BDSM, requires the most understanding and trust between partners. If you decide together that you’d like to spice things up in this way, it’s important that you stay on the same page to ensure you both experience pleasure and are comfortable with what’s happening at all times.
Here are some guidelines you should follow.
Communicate, communicate, communicate. Good communication is vital for relationships as a whole, but this is especially the case if you’re going to try out one of the rougher ways to make love. You and your partner should feel comfortable telling each other what feels good, what you like and what you don’t, and what’s one step too far for you. Not only that, but the other person must listen to and respect that feedback 100%.
Make sure to stock up on lube. If you’re going to get rough with one another, you must make sure to keep everything nice and slippy to ensure no one gets hurt. As Lili Hornyai, expert at Sextoys.co.uk , told Cosmopolitan : “You can minimize the chance of vaginal bruising and penile fractures by making sure that you lubricate,” Lili tells me. “Spit can be a hot, and fitting way to make things slide more effortlessly, but if you want to add some extra cushion to your pushin’ and ensure a fulfilling session for both of you, you should seek out a lubricant that offers some extra padding.”
Make sure you’re in the right frame of mind. It should go without saying that regardless of which ways you make love with your partner, you should be fully on board with it and not doing it because you’ve been guilted, manipulated, or coerced. Assuming that’s the case and you’re going into things willingly, make sure your first time is when you’re feeling really relaxed and comfortable. When you’re under a lot of stress, not really in the mood, or not feeling up for it, you run the risk of having a really negative experience that could ruin rough sex for you moving forward. Take a rain check and come back to it when you’re in the right headspace.
Take your time. Thinking that you might be into rough sex doesn’t mean you should rush right in full steam ahead. Like all new things, it’s important to pace yourself to get an idea of what you like, what you’re comfortable with, and how it all feels. You have all the time in the world to heighten the experience and try new things, so baby steps are the way to go. Start with a little spanking or slapping or some extra hard squeezing or something and then you can move on from there. Going too far too fast is totally avoidable.
Make sure you’re looking after yourself and your partner. Once the deed is done, keep the communication going by talking about what just happened and how you both felt about it. Cuddle, show some loving affection, and make sure you and your partner both feel safe and cared for, which will make it much more appealing to do it all again in the future. On the physical side, make sure you’re nurturing any dry/chapped areas with moisturizer, staying hydrated, and generally taking it easy, especially if things got extra intense.
Rough sex isn’t for everyone, and if you decide to give it a try and discover that it’s not your cup of tea, there are plenty of other ways to make love that are just as satisfying and intimate. The key is to talk to your partner about how you’re feeling and discuss the things you’re curious about. Together, you can discover many different forms of pleasure that you never really new existed.
Sponsored: A quiz that tells you what’s holding you back in love Check out Sweetn , the first self-care company focused on your love life . Take their fun and scientific quiz to get personalized insights, recommendations, and proven tools to help you make sense of your love life, find the right partner, and create the relationship you deserve. Just click here !
A quiz that will revolutionize your love life Check out Sweetn , the first self-care company focused on your love life . Take their fun and scientific quiz to get personalized insights, recommendations, and proven tools to help you make sense of your love life, find the right partner, and create the relationship you deserve. Just click here !
Ginelle Testa
Ginelle Testa's an avid wordsmith. She's a queer gal whose passions include recovery/sobriety, social justice, body positivity, and intersectional feminism. In the rare moments she isn't writing, you can find her holding her own in a recreational street hockey league, thrifting eclectic attire, and imperfectly practicing Buddhism. Follow her on Insta!
Your browser isn’t supported anymore. Update it to get the best YouTube experience and our latest features. Learn more
One woman's story on using sex as a coping mechanism
By Tracy Clark-Flory Published: Jun 18, 2013
Advertisement - Continue Reading Below
Advertisement - Continue Reading Below
Every item on this page was chosen by an ELLE editor. We may earn commission on some of the items you choose to buy.
I vividly remember the patch of sidewalk that I was looking at when my dad said, "I'm afraid it's bad news, honey." I clutched my cell phone to my ear as he explained that a CT scan of my mom's lungs had revealed a tumor wrapped around her esophagus and metastasis in her bones. I can still see the small dots in the cement—shades of gray in this decidedly black-and-white situation—as he explained that her prognosis was bleak: She had six months to a year. I also recall the green chain-link fence that I thought I might have to grab onto as a sense of vertigo took over, as though I might pass out from this too-sudden shift in reality.
Everything else in the moments and even months after that is a blur—everything except for the sex.
It started with "Sam," a 38-year-old waiter with leprechaunish looks. I wasn't attracted to him, exactly, but he had an intriguingly dangerous, if corny, edge—what with his conspicuous flash of chest hair and wolf-tooth necklace. Already a few drinks deep, I met him in a local bar, and it took two more beers before I was straddling him in a shadowy pleather booth and he was shoving his hands down my pants.
At my place, he took the lead, gripping my face, wrists, or hair with his hands—I somehow just knew this was how he'd be. The harder he squeezed, pressed, or pulled, the louder I moaned. He got the message. Before long, Sam was flipping me over, repositioning my limbs, and dragging me across the carpet, as if I were a RealDoll. He seemed awed by my enthusiasm for being manhandled: "Are you kidding me? You've got to be kidding me," he said breathlessly, as though he'd just won the kinky lottery.
I was in awe too: While I'd certainly seen far more extreme porn, and even had reported on BDSM as a journalist covering sex for an online magazine, I'd never so much as used fuzzy handcuffs before. My fantasies were sometimes off-color, but the most aggression I'd encountered in real life was a couple of de rigueur slaps on the rear. I vaguely knew my new desires were connected to my mom's illness; I'd also chopped my long hair into an Aeon Flux —style bob—a superheroine, ready to fight evil—and started talking about getting a tattoo, an idea I'd always sneered at. It was as if I were casting off all the markers of myself, because who was I without my mother? Or rather, who was I to exist without her?
Sam left me with rug burns on my elbows and knees that scabbed over and months later became scars, but these were nothing compared to the grapefruit-size bruise on my butt. It was such a spectacular purple that I had to show it to one of my best friends: "Look at this," I said, carefully pulling down my pants, trying to reveal only the mark. "Look at this." It seemed a marvel of the human body, this firework of pigment right under my skin. She looked less impressed than concerned—and that was increasingly becoming the case with my friends. They just don't get it, I thought: This isn't self-annihilation, it's affirmation.
I'd become fascinated with my body, in fact. After spending hours clicking through a digital copy of my mother's CT scan, which revealed in startling detail all the precious organs that kept her alive, I'd stare at the veins in my own hands, imagining the blood passing through them, or I'd notice the thump of my heart and wonder that it hadn't stopped yet.
My wounds were with me when I visited my mom in the hospital a few days after my session with Sam. She'd been rushed in for surgery because of a blood clot near her aorta, a complication of the cancer. She looked at me with wild, pleading eyes and in a stage whisper explained that doctors had secretly moved her from the original hospital to a locked psychiatric ward. I was terrified too—not because I believed her conspiracy theory, but because she sounded like she'd lost her mind. At that moment, I wasn't sure if it was just the drugs she was on—what if the cancer had spread to her brain? What if my mom was already gone?
I turned to her and repeated the words she'd said to me so many times as I was growing up, after any embarrassment or disappointment: "It's going to be okay. Everything's going to be okay."
Shortly thereafter, I met "Mike," a smart and charismatic man with a drinking problem and a self-declared hero complex. I was drawn to him instantly. Grief is isolating, but with him I didn't feel so alone. He seemed always to reek of whiskey—it was the smell of poison, or medicine, a sign that there was something in him that needed to be numbed. We'd met through a mutual friend and first hooked up while talking about my mom's illness. "You must be having a hard time," he said, stroking my hands, and then gestured for me to sit on his lap.
From the beginning he was forceful in bed, but in a way that seems to have become standard among guys of my millennial generation: jackhammer pounding with a little hair pulling. Just as with Sam, I urged him further. Soon he was taking me from behind while covering my mouth with his hand. He'd tug at my jaw or throat, using it for leverage, pulling my head up, up, up, like we were doing a pornographic yoga move. Although we never explicitly linked my mother's condition to my appetite for pain, he must have known it played a role, yet he'd make confident proclamations like, "Girls love to be roughed up."
When we were apart, it was as if he were still with me. I'd send him text-message updates, things like, "still purple" and "ribs are bruised." Mike would apologize, but I wasn't complaining, and he knew it. My sorrow was uncontainable, but bruises and scabs have clear edges and a short timetable for healing. I started to recognize that rough sex, which I was pursuing with other men during the same period, was a means of physically manifesting my interior pain, releasing it in a way that my tears couldn't. It was a sexual version of cutting. So much of my grief was abstract—horror at an inevitable but still only imagined world without my mom—but there was nothing theoretical about the marks on my body. I looked as beat-up as I felt. It relieved my feelings and validated them, all at once.
At one point, I visited my parents' house with a large scarf wrapped around a hand-shape bruise, and while part of me wanted my mom to catch a glimpse of the evidence of my pain, I mostly felt ashamed. Her arms were covered with sores from weekly poking and prodding at the cancer clinic, her belly a collection of bruises from daily injections in her stomach, and my body was scored because of what? Because of my inability to bear emotional pain, because of a frivolous overidentification with my mother's suffering, because I was furious at how little control we have over life and death and was turning my rage inward.
Manhattan sex therapist and author Ian Kerner tells me that just as with eating, drinking, or shopping, "sex can quickly escalate into a way of self-medicating to deal with emotional unrest, whether it's to avoid those emotions or, conversely, to confront them in a deeper, fuller way." Defining what is healthy when it comes to such coping is complicated and often depends on "the duration of the behavior and to what extent it was situational or in danger of becoming chronic," he says, and, crucially, whether it's causing "personal or relationship distress."
Undoubtedly unhealthy was the binge drinking I'd been doing, which typically accompanied the sex. I hit points that should've been rock bottom—such as when I woke up next to my own vomit, with only the fuzziest recollection of having drunkenly thrown up in my bed—but I managed to keep sinking lower.
Looking back at the time with my mom immediately after her diagnosis is almost like trying to see the sun: I can only catch a partial glimpse of what it was like. Even then, it felt like a surreal, out-of-body experience.
Not long after she was discharged from the hospital, I can remember curling up next to her in bed. She was asleep, moaning and mumbling. I wanted to wake her from what seemed to be a nightmare, but was reality any better? Awake, in her morphine haze, she formed sentences that were coherent but made no sense. "Harold is coming over for dinner," she told me nonchalantly, referring to a family friend who'd died months before.
Later, when she got up to sort through the medicine bottles on her bedside table, I saw just how decimated she was. The flesh of her thighs appeared to hang from the bone, as though there were no muscle left. Without thinking about it, I sat up in bed and readied my arms in case she started to teeter, much like she must have done for me during the first years of my life. I'd never before felt the need to protect my mom.
I'm an only child, and my parents and I used to have a game when I was little: At the end of a dinner out, I'd whisper a code word to my dad that was the cue for us to leave the restaurant ahead of my mother. Then I'd hide nearby, and when she came out, he'd pretend he'd lost me. "What do you mean you lost her?" my mom would plead. "Oh no! Where's my bunny?" At that, I'd emerge from the shadows with a leap, and she'd wrap me in a big hug: "There you are!" I adored this routine; though I didn't grasp it then, of course, it was a game about the dangers of the world that served as reassurance that my mom would always look out for me.
She took care of other children, too. Our place was home base for my friends, some with absent or abusive parents, and my mom was always stocking the kitchen with snacks and inviting everyone to stay for dinner. She went so far as to take in a boyfriend of mine who'd dropped out of high school and was sleeping in his car amid serious family unrest; she helped him get his GED and enroll in college. My mother was never the cuddly type (her own strict upbringing had discouraged that), but her capacity for nurturing was huge.
It wasn't just that the wor
Samueta Sex Cam
Lesbians Doctors Fuck Girls
Xxx Mature Stockings