once

We pause, to move. Me kneeling at the edge of the bed and you behind me. I can't remember why, something must not have been comfortable. Spontaneously, finally, you put your hands over me. One covers and holds my right breast, the other reaches between my legs and cups my pussy, seals me tight. For a moment in the darkness, I am held and owned. I am balanced and your hands on me feel just exactly right. It's perfect. It's surprising.

Later on I tell you that. The way I'm supposed to do, to communicate about sex. You sound surprised in return, as if you don't understand what you did or why I care. You don't understand that I've waited years for that one little moment.

And you still don't do it again.

Hot Fuck Sunday

I do quite like this picture. Because of her skirt. And the water. But really, mostly because it reminds me of a modern version of this one

This is one of my favourite paintings. When my daughter was small, she asked if it was me.

My father once bought me a book of wall pictures including this one, and then years later, a nice Rembrant book. I flipped to this pictue (in order to demonstrate my enthusiasm for the present) and said I loved it. His girlfriend piped up, in her TheQueen-like accent, 'She has horrible legs.'

Sigh.

a pet peeve, a personal bugbear, if you will

Say I was going to make a spanking video. Chances are I'd put on my best lacy pants (or panties, U.S types) for it. Maybe even a nice skirt, you know? I mean, a girl would rather look her best, even if she's up-ended, red cheeked and wriggling. I would imagine. Wouldn't you agree?


So, if that is the case, wouldn't you think the same would apply to the spanko boyfriend, or he who awards himself the capitalised 'Master'? It seems the answer is no.


Instead, more often than not, he's wearing ... shorts. Shorts don't command respect. They don't shout steely authority. They kinda shout nerdy teen, to me. Especially on older men. With bellies...


Worse again is the saggy tracksuit bottom. I mean, come on. That's not even trying a little bit. They're not even leather tracksuit bottoms, like this one:





Ok, that wouldn't command respect either, tee hee.

But yes, the sagginess. The old, wrinkly, round the house when no one can see you tracky pants the lads all seem to favour. I don't understand it. It puts me off, I tell you.

As does one other thing, while we're at it: If I was going to make a spanking video, I'd turn the fucking telly off first. I mean, come on! That's just rude and tasteless. I saw one the other day with a tracksuit AND a tv blaring and glowing in the background. Too much! And don't tell me it's spontanaety. They set the camera up!

Alright, I have vented, and now everyone knows I've been watching Spanking Tube. Oh well.

I leave you with this gem, which illustrates again the way tracksuits fail to strike fear into the heart of a spankee:

I once had a conversation with a writer of bdsm stories about how the idea of leather trousers with a 'panel' that opened in front was a bit silly, and found this to be a far scarier vision. Yes. Meheheheheh. Snigger.

I mean, even if somone let this AliG-alike anywhere near their ass, wearing a baby blue velour tracksuit will never say 'you is my bitch' to a girl. Don't kid yourself, gangstas.

Note to anyone whose erotica sensibilites were offended by the porny blow job picture - turns out it's even harder to find an appropriate lollipop picture than a blow job one (and I spent a lot of time loking for both!) So after extensive searching, I've given up on trying to be tasteful for now.

My friend was telling me yesterday, that her friend asked her what semen tasted like. Because, she'd never given anyone a blow job. She'd got married to the man she met when she was 16. He'd recently left her, with a debilitating disease and low confidence.

But she'd never gone down on anyone. Sounds like no one had ever gone down on her either.

I find it hard to fathom. In some respects. I mean, I'm not queen of orgasms, it's true. But still... I remember refusing a friend who asked me to go a little further, and suck on it, please. And I said, er, no! But even then, at 14 or thereabouts, I'd read Cynthia Heimel's Sex Tips for Girls and countless Cosmo articles on the best ways to please your man and so on. And it wasn't long before I'd found someone I was comfortable practising on. And because I'd never been taught that sex, or pleasure, or genitalia were disgusting or repugnant or evil, or whatever the fuck hangup you have to have to banish oral sex completely from your repertoire, I loved it, I loved being good at it. Back then it was great to be in control of someone's pleasure, to give something. To be too hot with an aching jaw under an airless duvet working on their pretty cock while they gasped and panted hoarsely above me. Asking if it was ok, to hear,

'Are you serious? Didn't you hear my breathing? And I didn't even come!'

Ah, yes, to be mistress of that.

But don't we expend such energy, being disgusted by things? Don't get me wrong, I'm as fond of laughing or ew-ing at random weird fetishes as the next girl, as I think the humour potential is strong in some cases. But dismissing blow jobs? Aw. So sad.

Plus, you know the fact she's asking about them means she's curious... I just pray that if she does decide to go down on someone that he doesn't have lumpy semen. Because that would be so ironic, Alanah might be tempted to write a sequel.

a validating thought

A message from our hero, Janine Ashbless, that I found in her interview with Nikki Magennis, that cheered me, and made me feel like cheering:

“Sex is important. ” I think that’s what pretty much all of my stories express. The establishment would have us believe that sex is trivial and a bit silly, a footnote to anyone’s life story. This is bollocks. People pour time and money into sex, they destroy their relationships and their careers for sex. And – on the positive side – in the loneliest and bleakest times of our lives sex is a gift of solace and pleasure. Fictional sex might be as important as the real thing, because let’s face it the stuff that really matters is what goes on in your head, not the bumping together of hairy bits. It’s what’s going on in your head that makes sex not just a trivial genital spasm but a place in which to find something more: escape from the self or connection to the human race, punishment or redemption, love, responsibility, surrender, empowerment, validation, intimacy, even transformation. So I write about those things. Sex in my stories isn’t always happy but it always matters. And I try and make it hot as hell too, of course!

Nikki's got an interesting question going on her blog today as well. Worth a click*