tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-21575233376579027392024-03-13T04:02:55.517-07:00Suffused with HeatVida BaileyVidahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00351906347307887201noreply@blogger.comBlogger207125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2157523337657902739.post-65352914655421831082020-03-15T05:06:00.002-07:002020-03-15T05:06:16.939-07:00More - a treat for those in self-isolationHello there, twitterers.<br />
<br />
This blog is full of cobwebs, but I had a little blast from the past last night, when I opened my dusty box of collected erotica anthologies, and revisited my story from Alison Tyler's<a href="https://www.amazon.co.uk/Morning-Night-Edited-Alison-Tyler/dp/1573448214/ref=sr_1_1?dchild=1&keywords=morning+noon+and+night+alison+tyler&qid=1584273331&sr=8-1"> Morning, Noon and Night</a>.<br />
<br />
Full disclosure, this is my favourite of my own stories, a little wish fulfilment tale of being wanted after all.<br />
<br />
If anyone would like to read, you're welcome to. But please - in return, follow the proper self-isolation protocols. Let's not have a thousand dead loved ones and nowhere to put them. Dublin's pubs are full, and kids are thronging the playgrounds. Stop. Stay home, if you can, don't socialise. It's not for long, but it will be longer and longer, if we don't do it, with added tragedy.<br />
<br />
<br />
Stay in and enjoy this story, a little humour, a little sweetness, a little wetness, and little sentiment.<br />
<br />
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<b>More</b></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I swing around, pint glass in hand, and there he is. Rob.
The broad shoulders and shoulder length hair are unmistakeable. He’s dancing
with some girl, and the eye contact he’s making looks convincing from her
vantage point, but most of the time he’s scanning the crowd under the cover of
the strobe lights. Under cover of the strobe lights, I try to pretend I don’t
know he’s catching my eye. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Last time I saw him, he’d been tiptoeing out of my apartment
in his socks, collecting his scattered belongings and sneaking out the door.
That’s why I decided. No more flirty eyes across the bar at kicking out time,
no more grinding on the dance floor. No more shot-for-shot games sitting either
side of a bottle on the floor. No more rum and sweat soaked orgasms in the small
hours, followed by a two day hangover and a three day comedown where I cursed
my luck with men and whatever perky breasted bitchslut he was surely sniffing
after now. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Nope. Not good for the mental health. I grasped my resolve
in my silver ringed fist and set my sights on surer things. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Tonight, though, those surer things weren’t exactly lighting
up my crosshairs. If I’m honest, I’ve been the one tiptoeing barefoot away from
yet another snoring disappointment the last few Saturday mornings. Those
lacklustre encounters haven’t been as good for the psyche as I’d anticipated. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
So I’d been planning to just go dance with my girls. Thick
soled, lace up boots with leggings and a clinging cotton shift dress. I’m
grunging tonight, though the dress does have low back. Still, if I had the
tits, I’d wear a bra with it anyway, brazen, but it’s one of those nights I
feel blessed with my perky little boobs that push against the cotton without
any need for support. I’ve got boots and skin<span class="msoIns"><ins cite="mailto:murphy" datetime="2012-02-02T16:32"> </ins></span>and a necklace
hanging the wrong way - my jet beads tight at my throat and hanging down my
spine, pointing like an arrow towards my ass. I tip my head back, and hold my
arms out, slopping beer through my fingertips caging the rim of my pint glass,
balancing myself with its weight. No cocktails tonight, no handbags, just
lovely, dirty, sweaty, nostalgic music in the humid, beer tainted air. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
It’s dark, but he sees me. I can feel his eyes on me. But
I’m not going to look. He can flaunt all the floozies he likes, I’m gonna get
my dance on and walk home alone. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
12.30 am and I’m sitting on the wall outside his flat.
Lights on. I’m a stalker, sitting here, waiting for two silhouettes to cross
the window.<span class="msoIns"><ins cite="mailto:murphy" datetime="2012-02-02T16:20"> </ins></span>It’s cold and my ass is going numb on
this wall. I’m fighting the Shoulds pouring through my brain – shouldn’t have
severed contact with him, no, should never have slept with him in the first
place, should really be home in bed with a book and woolly socks, and at this
stage, possibly hot cocoa. I stand up and look at the window one more time. As I
move to leave, my phone beeps. I don’t recognise the number at first, because I
so virtuously deleted him from my address book. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>Were you planning to come in, or
are you just going to sit there all night? <o:p></o:p></i></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I look up. The window still seems empty. I text back,
desperate for a one liner that will somehow excuse my undignified behaviour. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span><i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Do you want me to? <o:p></o:p></i></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Facepalm. Not so suave. A second ticks by, and his door
swings open, his familiar shape backlit. I jog across the street and then drag
my heels up to his door. I stop in front of him and he reaches out and runs a
finger up the zip of my scruffy black parka. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“This is
nice,” he says. “Retro.” I smile. I know from his record collection that we
shared<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>similar tastes in the past.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“I’m in
fancy dress.” He raises an eyebrow, fingers still lingering on the black
canvas. ‘I’m dressed as my fifteen year old self tonight. Out for a pint and a
dance, it’s nice to have a warm coat for the walk home.’ <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>‘Or for
stalking?’ <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>‘I
wasn’t stalking!’ Lying indignantly is the best defence. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>‘Tea?’<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
So tea will be the stream we float on, until we arrive at a
place that’s comfortable again. I sit on the sofa, knees pulled up, hands
clasping a hot mug, and breath in the steam. I glance at him while taking a
sip. He’s looking at me, openly, and<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>he
looks amused. I can feel myself blushing – this is far harder without the
blanket of drunkenness we usually operate under. I’m not sure what he’s waiting
for and I look around the room to buy some time. I’ve only been here once before,
late at night. The next morning was a sort of stagger-round-in-sunglasses
affair, I didn’t remember much about the decor. But it’s nice. Not what I
expected. I thought it would be cheap flatpack furniture and student squalor,
to be honest. But it’s a lot more tasteful than that. Rich neutral colours and
reclaimed boards. Art on the walls. The place must be his, and he’s done some
work on it. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“Your
place is lovely, Rob.” I gesture at the heavy wooden coffee table and bookcase.
He nods at me in acknowledgement. He cocks his head to one side and studies me
and I squirm under his gaze a little. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“Thanks.”
<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
There’s no, ‘do you want a tour?’ or suggestions about the
bedroom. He just keeps watching. “I like your place too.” I frown at my tea. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 36.0pt;">
“You’re always in such a hurry to
leave it, though.”<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Crap. That was meant to come out like jaunty banter, but
instead it falls flat, and sits in a sad little puddle between us. I smile too
brightly and wish he’d offer me a splash of something in my tea to give me a
little Dutch courage. He leans his head on his fist and his blue eyes burn
bright.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“Would
you like to stay with me tonight?” <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I clear my throat and nod, tongue tied. It’s the first time
he’s ever asked. Usually there is grinding and groping and tacit agreement, and
we stagger home and fall into bed. I have no idea why tonight is going so
differently, but then I suppose I initiated a different protocol, with the
stalking and all. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“Stand
up.” His voice is soft, low and firm. I lean over to put my cup on the table
and uncurl my legs. I pull myself to my feet and look down at him. “What is it
you want, tonight, Cally?” The question paralyses me. I’ve no smart answer,
because for once it doesn’t really seem to be a smart question. I wrestle with
the fear that I shouldn’t be there, with that conviction I’d had that I was
chasing my tail. I open my mouth, and close it again. He sighs, but it’s not
irritated. “There’s something I’ve been wanting to do all night.” <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>He stands
up and walks over to me. Putting his hands under the shoulder straps of my
dress, he slips it down to my waist, and inches it around and replaces it, so
the high front is at the back, and my front is... backless. My nipples pebble
under the air and exposure and self consciousness. He’s framed my breasts like
they’re a painting, and sat back down to look at it. “Will you take your boots
off, Cal?” I nod. My voice is gone. I bend and unlace my right boot, fumbling
with the knot, the eyelets seem endless. I stand and balance myself to shuck
it, kick it under the table and this time prop my left foot on the table. With
my leggings on I’m still quite modest, or would be if my chest wasn’t naked. I
get the other boot off more quickly and drop it with a clunk. The noise makes
me giggle, there’s no question these are fuck-you boots not the other, but Rob
doesn’t seem to mind, judging by the look in his eye. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>He
gestures, and I slide the leggings and underwear off myself and toss them onto
the sofa. “What do you want, pretty girl in my living room?” I resist the urge
to um and blush and I walk over to his chair.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“I want
to be closer to you.” <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
He holds a hand out to me, and I climb onto his lap. As I
do, he reaches up and palms my breast, and pulls me in. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“Well?” <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“You
usually... you don’t usually ask, you just take,” I whisper, leaning into his
hands, arranging myself so I’m straddling his thigh, shivering with the chill
on my bare skin and the contrasting heat of his hands. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“Well,
you’ve never shown up at my door before.”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
He lets me tip his face towards me,
and find his mouth with mine. His lips are firm and full and I can feel his
sandy beard scratching at my face. He tastes familiar when I flick my tongue
across his. Little shivers fill me at the connection. He hooks a finger into
the strand of beads at my necks and starts to pull. Caught in my dress, they
come slowly, snaggingly over my shoulders, then faster as there’s more slack.
They fall between my breasts and he fists them loosely in one hand and rubs the
sliding mass of them over my exposed and eager tits. The beads are cool on my
nipples. I close my eyes and breathe deeply. Rob pulls me forward by the
necklace and loops tight around my throat. It’s so long, he still has a lot to
hold on to. The strand around my neck is taught, but I can still breathe, and I
suck in air sharply when he catches my nipple in the fistful of beads he’s
holding and closes his hand. The beads crush together around it with tiny
shrill noises and I feel a multitude of little points of pain light up on my
tender flesh. I squeak and try to pull away, but the choke chain he’s made of
my necklace doesn’t make that any more comfortable. He pulls me back in and
does the same thing to the other nipple, reaching up to kiss me again as he
pinches my delicate skin. The beads are light, but they have a multitude of
edges that pinch and grind. I moan in protest but I don’t move again. “What do
you want?” he whispers into my ear.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“You?” I
try, mashing my crotch against his jean clad leg. He trails his fingers down my
thigh and strokes my bare pussy. I tilt to let his fingers in and even at this
awkward angle they fill me. I thrust onto them but he slides them out of me,
trails them up through the beads, which tinkle and whisper as he goes, and
pushes them into my mouth. This. I want this. The taste of him in my mouth,
tart with a slick of my cream, this is exactly what I want. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“Ass on
the table.” Rob moves forward with ease, pushing me back until my legs hit the
table, and I sit, more abruptly than I would like to. He slips to his knees,
and puts his mouth to the nipples he’s just finished abusing. Lightening darts
of pleasure zing around my body as he eases me backwards, and pushes the skirt
of my dress out of the way. He nuzzles my inner thigh all soft lips and
prickling beard, then his lips move slowly up to my cunt. I open for him and
whimper when he tongue delves deep into me before licking up to my clit. His
mouth feels so firm, so wet, his moustache and stubble press into my soft flesh
and the burn drives the pleasure upward. My hand settles on the back of his
head, winding tight into his thick hair as he starts a steady rhythm, building
pressure, sucking on my aching, swelling, throbbing flesh until my abdomen
begins to tighten and contract. And then he stops. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“What!
What? Rob!” <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“What do
you want, Cally?” He rests his head on my thigh and begins to play with my
cunt, just lightly, running his fingers up and down my lips, spreading the
wetness of his spit and my juice around. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“I..! I
want to come! Rob, please!” I try to grind against him, but to no avail. He
moves away and lifts my hips, flipping me over onto my front. The smooth wood
of the table is cold against my breasts and belly and I shiver. Rob hunkers
down beside me and whispers in my ear. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“Not
until you give me what I’m looking for, baby. Now, remember that time we played
with the hairbrush?” I gulp. I do indeed. I not only remember it, it has played
a starring role in plenty of my fantasies since that night. “Hmm?” He smoothes
my hair off my face so he can see me, and I nod. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“Yes.”
It comes out as a whisper. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“And you
remember we agreed on a word you’d use if you needed things to stop or slow
down?” I nod again, caught in the bright blue of his eyes. My face flushes but
my pussy is flooding with the excitement and fear of anticipation too. “Do I
need to tie you down, Cal?” I really don’t know if he does or not. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“No?” <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
He pats me on the head. I try to feel indignant, but it
doesn’t work. His fingertip trails all the way down my spine and taps three
times. A beat, and his hand cracks onto my ass cheek, it sparks and burns and I
moan and put my head down, and wait for the next one. He smacks me and waits,
timing each pause just long enough to make me fear the next one, make me long
for it. My pussy throbs and flames along with my ass, I want his face back
there, even better, I want him to fuck me now. But he doesn’t. He stops his
punishment, and strokes my hot cheeks. I groan, and writhe and try to press
myself back against him but he just smacks me once more. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“Up. Bedroom.” </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I scramble, slither off the table, melted and liquid and eager. He leads me
into his room. It’s white, mostly. The floor is stained dark, and the bed is
dark wood, but everything else seems white in the dim light. I clamber onto the
bed and as I make to turn around he catches my wrists and stretches them in
front of me. Beneath the pillows are straps! I didn’t notice them the time I
was here. Velcro straps he fastens me into. My arms are spread wide and my head
is low to the bed. He pushes my ass up high and checks my pussy. His fingers
stroke, then enter again, he pushes against my g spot. “What do you want, Cal?”
I groan in frustration. Isn’t it obvious? <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“I want
you to fuck me, Rob, please.” It’s a good enough position to beg from, being
tipped up onto my face and spread open like this always undoes me. I can’t
think of much else but his cock at this point. But he’s having none of it. He
pulls his fingers out of me, leaving me gasping at the cold absence of his
hand. He crawls to sit beside me and pushes my hair out of the way, touches my
lips again. All of a sudden he smacks my face, not so hard, but I startle and
try to jerk away. The straps mean I’m not going anywhere, and he does it again,
a little harder. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“What do
you want, Cal?”<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“Ow!”
I’m not used to this, and I’m shocked. I feel completely helpless, and small.
He smacks me again and the side of my face stings. Before I can even analyse my
reaction, I start to cry. Wet, lonely tears run from my eyes and he wipes them
away – and smacks my face again, lazily. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“What?” <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I’m spread open, and within a few minutes, he’s put me in a
place I could never access by myself. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“More.”
It comes out as a hoarse whisper. I press my face into the pillow as best I
can. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“Oh,
honey. It’s ok, we’ve just begun. I can do this all night.” I sob and shake my
head. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“No, <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">more</i>. I want more. Than this. I want <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">you</i>.” <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“Ohhh.”
He moves his hand over my breasts, spreads it on my stomach. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 36.0pt;">
“I want breakfast with you.
Television. I don’t want to have to go home.” I start to babble. His hips press
against my thighs and I can feel him lean to the side. I hear a condom packet
rip and his hands leave me for a second and manoeuvre the rubber on. His cock
presses against my open, wanting cunt and for a second I’m worried he didn’t
understand. But as he pushes into me he leans over and kisses my back, touches
his forehead to my skin. His cock feels so good inside me that I almost don’t
care if that’s all he’s offering, but he leans over me and reaches for the
straps, pulls my hands free. He pulls me up to his chest while he thrusts into
me and wraps long arms round my torso, crossing my breasts and stomach. I am
penetrated and held, it feels like flying, like floating. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“Is that
what you want?” he whispers in my ear, licking the curves of my ear between
sentences. I try to answer, but now the tip of his tongue is running electric
shivers between every tiny hair inside my ear, hot as he exhales, cool as he
pulls his breath away. His pubic hair bristles against my sore ass, He’s pounding
against that swelling wall inside and one big hand is pressing on my clit,
rubbing as he fucks me. I’m trapped and there’s no escape from the waves of
pleasure that burst through me. He pinches my tender nipple and I reach back to
hold onto his arm as I come, the heat and hurt and tightness of it shaking me. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
We
collapse to the bed, and he pulls me to his chest, arms around me. “It’s what I
want too,” he says, deep voice in my ear as I start to float away. “Sleep<span class="msoIns"><ins cite="mailto:murphy" datetime="2012-02-02T16:31">.</ins></span>
And in there morning, there will be more.” <span class="msoIns"><ins cite="mailto:AMH" datetime="2012-02-02T10:02"><o:p></o:p></ins></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span><o:p></o:p></div>
<br />Vidahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00351906347307887201noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2157523337657902739.post-25738399663349532272016-11-25T15:15:00.001-08:002016-11-25T15:15:03.778-08:00Sinful Press Flash Competition<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
<div style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<span style="background-color: rgba(255, 255, 255, 0.8); color: #111111; font-family: inherit; font-style: inherit; font-weight: inherit;"><span style="font-size: xx-small;">Photograph courtesy of http://mollysdailykiss.com</span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Twilight</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
‘I’m hungry.’ <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
‘Well, there’s any number of wannabe victims out there
lusting after your sensitive brand of murderousness.'<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Two figures sat high on an office window ledge looking down
on a concrete underpass. You could have seen them if you looked up, sitting
side by side, in faded rock star denim and leather. No one ever looks up. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
The first vampire sniffed in distain, tucking a strand of dirty
blond hair behind his ear with delicate fingers. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
‘I’ve had enough of swooning waifs flinging themselves at
me. To be honest I could do with something meatier.’ <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
His friend sniggered. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
‘I’m sure all their mummies would be happy to oblige too.’ <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
‘I was thinking more along the lines of a bit of a
challenge. Someone with a little spirit. Maybe someone like her.’ He nodded
towards a woman far below, dressed in scant summer clothing and Converse,
busily graffitiing the underpass wall. Her adrenaline and excitement blew
towards them on the summer air and both creatures shifted on their perch. She
wasn’t young, this woman, not the average scruffy teen they were used to seeing
spraying tags around like territorial cats. They watched the bulge of her
muscles in her arm as it swept over the wall, the tiny clang as she dropped her
cans in the backpack at her feet. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
‘I don’t think you want any of that.’ He
nodded towards a figure who stood watching her.’ C’mon.’ <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
They hadn’t seen the
woman kiss her boyfriend as he left for work, and scamper inside to change her
clothes and pack her bag before heading out purposefully, bare legs striding
into the summer evening. She didn’t see him pull out of a side road and follow,
keeping a careful distance so as to remain undiscovered. Now he watched from
behind her, dark uniform blending with the shadows. She stood back to assess
her artwork, stretching to rub her lower spine. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
As she did so, he stepped up behind her, reaching through her
arms to pin them behind her. One large hand closed on her throat. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
‘You’re nicked, sweetheart.’<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
The woman froze, the started to struggle wildly. At the hint
of movement, the policeman stepped forward, pushing her up against the wall
with a thud. Wet paint smeared on her chest and cheek. He moved his hand around
to tug at the choker she wore around her neck. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
‘Really? You wear this to break a promise?’ She started to
speak. ‘Shut up.’ <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
He reached between her and the rough wall and jerked her
stretchy white top down over her breasts, baring them to the cold, paint-dampened
wall. He pulled his nightstick out and pressed it to the back of her neck,
holding her in place with the cold metal while he drew her skimpy skirt up,
trailing his fingers between her thighs and through the plump divide of her
cunt and ass as he went. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
‘Up against the wall. Spread,’ he leaned in and sneered in
her ear. She complied. The watchers high above moved in the distance, one briefly
placing a hand on the chest of his friend as the pump of the woman’s heart
reached them, the sound entwining with the fresh musk of her cunt. <o:p></o:p></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal">
‘You think you’re so clever,’ bit out the policeman, as he
ran the baton down her back and pushed its tip between her exposed cheeks. ‘You
thought you wouldn’t get caught? Or you’d get what you wanted?’ He pressed
harder and her breath poured out in a grunt. ‘Like being on your knees on the
concrete with my cock down your throat isn’t your favourite thing. But it’s
going to be a long night.’ He moved in closer and her cry carried to the two
figures moving away at speed, moved to start their own hunt. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
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<a href="https://sinfulpress.co.uk/eroticon-competition/"><img border="0" src="https://i1.wp.com/sinfulpress.co.uk/wp-content/uploads/2016/10/Sinful-presscomp.png?w=200&ssl=1" /></a></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
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Vidahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00351906347307887201noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2157523337657902739.post-28775490682378622852015-11-29T03:59:00.000-08:002015-11-29T03:59:05.613-08:00Another rape post<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
I live in a country where child abuse was rife, alive and well in a church that had enormous social control, and which was protected by the Vatican. Police turned a blind eye. Church officials turned a blind eye and moved the abusers to new parishes, fresh pastures of innocents. Parents met accusations of abuse with physical violence. We're terrified our children might get abducted; stranger danger! but the horrible truth is, with this legacy of abuse, children are far, far more likely to be abused in their homes, by family members or friends, than by any dangerous stranger with a car and a bag of sweets. Statistically.<br />
<br />
I also live in a country where marital rape didn't exists as a crime until 1990. <i>Nineteen ninety</i>. My friend who is now in her eighties told me a story of being in hospital after the birth of her first child, and hearing the woman in the next bed being visited by her husband - for a <i>conjugal </i>visit. He came into maternity hospital days after she'd had a baby, to fuck her. Ever had a baby? Can you imagine?<br />
<br />
I think Stoya's terrible revelation on twitter last night, that James Deen raped her while they were still together, is profoundly unsettling. It calls into question everything I believed about kink. I've never been naive enough to think that there aren't abusers out there calling themselves dominant. It's all too clear. But James Deen stood for something, and was this daddy-figure for all sorts of adoring teenage girls who think they want what he's offering.<br />
<br />
And, shit... what's he really offering, if he can rape a woman he loves, a beautiful, intelligent, articulate, important woman like this... one slip of the facade, one decision to let go the responsibility for your sadism that must be so tightly reigned in...<br />
<br />
I have sympathy for people who feel these urges, not just the urge to play, but the real, vicious need to delight in pain you cause others, reagardless of their wants and needs. But we can't validate it if you're going to let go control and fuck it all up for everyone. Especially when your whole career and brand depends on presenting it as safe, sane, consentual. The mask slips and ... it's all called into question. Our support of kink; of porn, too. Much as I want to watch that stuff, no way do I want to get off on it if it's <i>real</i>.<br />
<br />
It's a fine line, yes, and maybe an unfair one. But still, it's the one you have to tread if you want to be respected. And so many people do, right? It's hard, but they do it? Because they're good human beings who are horrified at the idea of putting their own base desires above their partners' physical and emotional safety. A safeword should be an instant cause for alarm, concern, de-bonification. It shouldn't be a turn on to override it. Because if it is, you're not kinky, you're just criminal. You're just a shit person who indulges their sadism at the expense of others without a care.<br />
<br />
I think every learning Dom will make mistakes. People talk about how hard it is to be submissive, but I'm not sure. Personally, as someone with fuck all control over any aspect of her life or self, the level of control and organisation it takes to be a real dom amazes me - I can't imagine it. So... I wouldn't do it. But there's mistakes, and there's rape. There's a huge, yawning gulf between the two.<br />
<br />
There will always be much 'let him defend himself/did you report it then?, innocent til proven' etc. etc. bleating in these cases. Certainly, false accusations can be life ruining. It's the playground of the mysoginist though, to decide to dismiss a rape claim because it can't be proven. I feel genuinely afraid of what's to come for Stoya, and absolutely understanding of why she hasn't come out with this before now. And I understand absolutely why people (everyday people, let alone porn stars who like rough sex) are reluctant to go to the police. Because it's a gauntlet of cruelty and misery they may face when they do. BDSM and misunderstanding of it cloud your right to protest against rape. There ain't that much understanding of the difference out there. And there's a whole heap of victim blaming bullshit - not to mention that post listing endless names of police officers convicted of rape in the US - the people you're reporting to are the abusers too. It's terrifying.<br />
<br />
It may suck, but to me, the vulnerability of a rape or child abuse victim is far more fragile than the vulnerability of a man wrongly accused of rape. Foremost, because that's actually so rare. I'm appalled at the idea of false accusations, but I think the people who rant about them are blind to the misery of what it takes to accuse. They have no idea. And they also have a vision of women (and often children) as malign and manipulative in a way that harks back to fairy tales of old. They want wicked witch queens, it's easier than facing what our world is.<br />
<br />
But tough... there's a hell of a lot more rape out there daily than there are false accusations. We desperately need to frame a different response. And how should Doms respond? The ones who get turned on by rape scenes, by tears... I'm not sure, because I feel the ground shaking too. I agree with <a href="https://t.co/blvT3EKL5T">Stu</a>, that James Deen needs to man up, admit, accept consequences, and above all, apologise unreservedly, if he wants to make this right. He's being very silent on the matter - I assume he's lawyering up, I dunno.<br />
<br />
I do feel naive and disillusioned, as a supporter of good porn, and kink, as someone with alternative sex-wiring... it does make you wonder if all the positivity is real, is possible. Whether the whole leather tower will come crashing down in an explosion of human foibles at some point. We're weak and imperfect. We fuck up. And we're all so vulnerable.<br />
<br />
Communication is key. After-talk. Humility. A stripping away of barriers and borders and self-protection. Be honest, be ready to listen, be keen to fix. With this, mistakes don't become dire things that hurt the people you love forever. They are containable, and enable change and development. This is the only way to frame it for yourself, I think, if you are a Dom who's feeling doubts about the validity you've built around your needs. At the end of the day, if you're reacting to this news with alarm, with disquiet, with disappointment, you're doing ok.<br />
<br />
<br />
<br /></div>
Vidahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00351906347307887201noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2157523337657902739.post-86237007812674921142015-10-27T14:30:00.000-07:002015-10-27T14:30:24.564-07:00Speaking of rage... <div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
So I have an elementary student from a foreign clime who asked me about treatment for thrush, saying she felt too ashamed to go to the doctor. I told her she didn't have to, and how to fix it, and that it wasn't neecssarily an STD, and said there was no need to feel ashamed at all. <div>
<br /></div>
<div>
She told me the shame was from sexual abuse earlier in her life and mentioned it in one other context too. </div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
She's depressive, and is missing swimming and surfing like she does at home, which is her outlet and mental health guard. Her other teacher invited her to go away for the weekend surfing, an she was really delighted - a chance to have fun and get back to her passion that keeps her grounded. </div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
Instead, she messaged me on Sunday to say that she got drunk on Saturday night when she shouldn't drink as it doesn't agree with her. And that she woke up naked next to her class mate that she's been being friends with, who's Brazilian about hugs but who she's not interested in romantically. She was horrified and ashamed and put her clothes on and ran away. She WhatsApped him to check that he'd used a condom (she couldn't remember anything at all, but could tell she'd had sex), he said he had, but she couldn't be sure. </div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
Even though she's blaming herself for drinking when she's not used to it, she was able to tell me that she'd explained to him that she didn't sleep with men because of her past experience. Which seems pretty clear cut to me. Yet when she was so drunk she'd blacked out, he took her to bed and had sex with her. </div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
I know it's complex, she doesn't know what she said or did or agreed to. But the fact remains that whatever it looked like, she was in no state to go back on her initial statement that she wouldn't have sex with him, because she doesn't sleep with men. She's 26, it's been 12 years since her original abuse happened, whatever it may have consisted of - but that means she was 14 then, and she's probably never had a consentual adult sexual relationship with a man ... but he took it upon himself to decide that he was that guy. While she was black out drunk. </div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
So her beautiful gift of a weekend away gets turned into a re-experiencing of her earlier trauma, and she gets to try and process the fact that she's been raped, again, while so very far from home and having nowhere near enough English to talk to anyone about it. </div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
I've found her a nice counsellor with 'some' Portuguese, I've brought her to get the morning after pill, just in case, and sent her home alone to deal with the ensuing sickness. I've had the guy moved to another class so she doesn't have to sit there looking at him. And I feel frustrated and impotent and full of rage. </div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
If I had a superpower, it would honestly be to extract all her feelings of shame and panic and violation and dump them right on him. All the memories of what happened when she was a girl, all the guilt and regret and nausea and humiliation from the weekend and the way it must feel reawakened all over again - and the way her time away studying English has been soured and made into something traumatic and difficult and awkward and full of grief and fear. I would take all that, and fuck it, her depression and family difficulty too, and I would drop it on him from a height, and let him feel it instead of her. </div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
And then maybe he'd get some perspective about what exactly having a fuck at someone else's great expense is worth. And maybe he'd listen harder next time, to the girl who's told him something that should have been respected, instead of listening to his cock. </div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
I get that we through rationale out the window when we're horny and drunk. We throw caution to the wind and we think fuck it, and we do things like cheat, or fuck strangers, we do things we know we'll regret. </div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
But we shouldn't do things we know the other person will regret. If someone tells you they don't want to sleep with you and gives you a very good reason, you don't bulldoze over that just because they're drunk and they've stopped saying no. Even if you want to have sex with them. Even if it looks like they want to have sex with you. This guy, he's not 16. He's a grown man, with a small daughter. And right now, I'd love him to understand, in technicolour pain, what he's done.<br /><div>
<br /></div>
<div>
<br /></div>
</div>
</div>
Vidahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00351906347307887201noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2157523337657902739.post-64380978978157063962015-10-26T09:21:00.001-07:002015-10-26T09:21:06.167-07:00Beards and funny<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
I have yet to kick my tube porn habit, despite Stoya's eloquent laying out of the obvious problems with them. I'll confess this as penance at the start of this little story because it comes from something I saw thereon. I suppose I shouldn't post it and encourage anyone with similar habits.<br />
<br />
Here's a pic of the Mr Pretty instead<br />
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="http://www.manhuntdaily.com/wp-content/blogs.dir/uploads/2015/03/Dominic-Santos-bottoms-bareback-for-Jordan-Levine-in-the-first-gay-raw-sex-scene-for-porn-site-Randy-Blue-2.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="http://www.manhuntdaily.com/wp-content/blogs.dir/uploads/2015/03/Dominic-Santos-bottoms-bareback-for-Jordan-Levine-in-the-first-gay-raw-sex-scene-for-porn-site-Randy-Blue-2.jpg" height="320" width="238" /></a></div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<br /></div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
Jordan Levine</div>
<br />
The other day I watched a vid of two gay guys having quite a sweet, kissy time with each other. I've been rekindling my Logan McCree-inspired love of gay porn stars of late - beards and cool haircuts and tattoos and smooth tastiness. I hope gay guys don't mind being fancied from afar by women approaching middle age. Do you think they do?<br />
<br />
Anyhow, at the end of the vid, the guys are being asked post-scene questions. He's lying there comfortably, basking in post orgasmic calm with his own spunk still on his rippling belly, and his partner's asked what he likes about him - he says his tats, and his beard (yes indeed, me too) and Jordan smiles and says sheepishly, 'It grew back' and goes on to tell a story about the same director asking him to shorten it for the last scene he did. He says his scene partner wanted to trim it for him, 'but he had the clip down too low, and buzzed it all off... so I <span style="font-size: large;">rage-fucked</span> him.' And all three of them crack up laughing, and his white teeth are all shiny and perfect. I wish I had a little clip, It sounds alarming out of context, but it's just really funny. And his voice is so deep and cute. It had me laughing out loud. </div>
Vidahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00351906347307887201noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2157523337657902739.post-71178624120787477632015-10-11T02:39:00.000-07:002015-10-11T02:39:17.313-07:00Cosmo<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
<a href="http://sexblogofsorts.com/2015/09/27/competition-lippie/">@seblogofsorts lippy competition</a> - what an evocative and powerful word this is, conjuring up memories of formative years. The only contact I've had with the famed magazine in decades is reading irate or hilarious posts and complaints on its dangerous anti-feminist messages and terrible, horrible sex education. There was a time, though...<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
When I was a girl, it was not quite the nineties. I started secondary school in 88, and finished in 94 (after a repeat year where I met my husband had more sex than I'd ever had before - or since, incidentally). It seems like such a short stretch of time. How did I fit all those growing up experiences into 88-94?<br />
<br />
Back at the start of that period, things were different. American Pie hadn't come out yet, there was no tantalising Magical Book of How to Get Girls Off and the boys I knew at 15 didn't know what clitorises were. Boyfriend: where do you liked to be touched? Me: er, here? Him: that's a funny place!<br />
Unpleasant, arrogant other 15 year old to me and best friend: do you frig yourself? Me: (inner sigh, debates round of anatomical education for group pf boys in garden at party: ...Yes. Best friend, uncomfortable: No. Me: inner sigh again.<br />
<br />
But it was different for girls. Long before I'd ever had a cock in my mouth, I'd read up on Best Blow Job Techniques for Girls in the form of Cynthia Heimel's Sex Tips for Girls and the ubiquitous Cosmo. While the idea might have still made me uncomfortable, I had studied, oh yes. No one knew how to make me come, but once I'd got used to touching penises (which was scary at first - strangely, my 13 year old best frenemy had no issue touching them, but wouldn't let anyone finger her, while I was all good with that but was scared of releasing the trouser snake. I don't know why. Performance anxiety brought on by reading too many sex tips? Who knows.)<br />
<br />
It's a further inequality between the sexes that I think has largely changed (no small thanks to American Pie, perhaps, and as far as I know, Men's mags like FHM etc, are thronging with articles on the Secrets of the Clit (though now women are irate about men's 'I'll sort you out, little lady' attitudes towards their own prowess. It is, I know, hard to win).<br />
<br />
Fifteen... we've talked a lot about teenagers' sexual agency and how age laws in erotica do them such a disservice, essentially cancelling out young people's experiences and desire at a time when their engines run ten times hotter than yours, or yours, or yours. Do you remember? The burning, flaming, distracting desire? We could power the world on teenage horniness, if we harnessed it instead of suppressing it and jeering at it.<br />
<br />
I had fumbling, secure, utterly non-orgasmic sex with a very beautiful, hazel eyed, read headed boy when I was 15. He had a gorgeous cock, too, larger than anyone else's I've seen, the first time I knew that quintessential velvet-hardness, in my hands, on my tongue. He was the first person I went down on too, and I loved oral sex, embraced it, was pathetically grateful for it. He boasted about it to friends in the supermarket one day and everyone wondered 'Did She Really??' which was odd, as weren't we all at that stage? Not quite. But I'd grown out of squeamishness by then, and god, oh yes, I did.<br />
<br />
One day I wandered under the duvet, traced my tongue over his soft, white, boy's belly, impossible distances of smoothness, before finding his curling red hair (we all had pubes then, and we didn't worry about them - it was great) and happy, heavy cock, waiting for me. I don't know what happened that day, but there was some sort of magic coming-together of skill and experimentation. I slid him into my mouth and sucked and stroked and moved up and down on him, in that cave of warmth and skin on skin; it was the first time we'd taken all our clothes off. I was lost in no-time, dark and the smell of him and the feeling of him in my mouth - his hardness and my concentration - the <i>work</i>. And the freedom of our tentative nakedness. It was beautiful.<br />
<br />
I didn't have TMJ problems then, but my jaw finally tired and I birthed myself back out of the duvet and into the light to find him lying, light headed, stunned, dizzy with arousal and surprise at the heights of sensation he'd reached. I asked him if it was good, and he said,<br />
'Good?? Didn't you hear my <i>breathing</i>? And I didn't even come!'<br />
<br />
I didn't used to be down with face fucking. I thought it was unfeminist. I thought blow jobs were all about being in control, back then. And, sometimes they are. Beautifully so. The power and pleasure of being able to make someone writhe and their breath rasp in astonished ecstasy is a deep and special one. I was proud of myself. I loved his cock. The study had paid off. I gave good head.<br />
<br />
<br /></div>
Vidahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00351906347307887201noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2157523337657902739.post-88711094401980118192015-07-20T16:32:00.001-07:002015-07-20T16:32:09.181-07:00random words<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
Often as I'm drifting off to sleep, my head writes things. Sometimes they're coherent and I like the language, so I struggle out of my comfy half sleep and write them down.<br />
<br />
I just one I filed away the other week. I do remember writing it, but I have no idea what the larger idea was, or what earthly use it will ever be to me.<br />
<br />
So I'll just stick it here as written.<br />
<br />
This is why I don't write long form work...<br />
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal">
<i>I lay in my little bed in the cottage and listened to the
arythmic bump and scrape and shuffle of the boat bobbing against the dock.
Gradually the impact grew more rhythmic, and when it was accompanied by a soft
groan I realised it had been assimilated into the sound of my sister having sex
in the room next door. <o:p></o:p></i></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<i>I listened dispassionately. Really, I thought, I’m too young
to be exposed to this sort of thing.<o:p></o:p></i></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<i>That wasn’t actually true. I was of an age to start finding
out. My friend Cally had recently thrown herself into sex with an exuberant
energy, her enthusiasm and willingness to learn making up for her inexperience.
She shared her newfound knowledge with me in whispered snatches and I reacted
appropriately, smiled and filed it away in some later to be opened box in my
mind. <o:p></o:p></i></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal">
<i>I couldn’t imagine being bothered. Not with Cally’s smoke
and cider scented Darren or the grimy construction workers who filed into the
pub on Thursday and Friday evenings, cement dust greying the rough lines on
their fingers.</i><o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<i><br /></i></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Who might this ingenue teen find to explore her desire with? A billionaire dom? A vampire? Some class of lesbian? I've a horrible feeling it might have been her sister's boyfriend, now that I think about it, but I can't remember why. Hmm. </div>
</div>
Vidahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00351906347307887201noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2157523337657902739.post-62059595099265071212015-07-16T15:00:00.000-07:002015-07-16T17:02:27.507-07:00An Open Letter To George Hook<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
<div style="background-color: white; color: #141823; font-family: helvetica, arial, sans-serif; font-size: 14px; line-height: 19.3199996948242px; margin-bottom: 6px;">
Dear George Hook,</div>
<div style="background-color: white; color: #141823; font-family: helvetica, arial, sans-serif; font-size: 14px; line-height: 19.3199996948242px; margin-bottom: 6px; margin-top: 6px;">
So in<a href="http://www.independent.ie/irish-news/courts/radio-interview-wasnt-meant-to-hurt-rape-victim-hook-tells-his-listeners-31380834.html"> this article</a>, you seem to be saying you didn't say what Nuala Nic Dhomhnaill thought you said about implied consent in a relationship. Instead ... this is what you meant... </div>
<div style="background-color: white; color: #141823; font-family: helvetica, arial, sans-serif; font-size: 14px; line-height: 19.3199996948242px; margin-bottom: 6px; margin-top: 6px;">
<br /></div>
<div style="background-color: white; color: #141823; font-family: helvetica, arial, sans-serif; font-size: 14px; line-height: 19.3199996948242px; margin-bottom: 6px; margin-top: 6px;">
<span style="color: #111111; font-family: Georgia, serif; font-size: 16px; line-height: 22px;"><i>So now you are sharing a bed with someone and obviously a sexual congress takes place on a regular basis, because you're living with somebody. Now is there not an implied consent therefore that you consent to sexual congress?" he asked.</i></span><br />
<span style="color: #111111; font-family: Georgia, serif; font-size: 16px; line-height: 22px;"><i><br /></i></span>
<span style="color: #111111; font-family: Georgia, serif; font-size: 16px; line-height: 22px;"><i><br /></i></span>
Yeah, the difference isn't very clear to me. But why is it so hard to fathom the idea of consent? Why would being in a relationship imply consent at all times? Didn't we make marital rape a crime (finally, in 1991 - seems that before that they thought it might get in the way of '<a href="http://www.irishtimes.com/%E2%80%A6/marital-rape-law-rejected-due-t">reconcilliation</a>'<a href="http://www.irishtimes.com/news/marital-rape-law-rejected-due-to-family-concerns-1.17055" rel="nofollow" style="color: #3b5998; cursor: pointer; text-decoration: none;" target="_blank">…</a>)? Not that it's made much difference, as we've still got shit like the case you've been pontificating on, or<a href="http://www.irishtimes.com/news/marital-rape-law-rejected-due-to-family-concerns-1.17055"> this one</a> that popped up when I went to sear<span class="text_exposed_show" style="display: inline;">ch for the criminalisation date, because I couldn't *imagine* it could have been as late as 1991.</span></div>
<div style="background-color: white; color: #141823; font-family: helvetica, arial, sans-serif; font-size: 14px; line-height: 19.3199996948242px; margin-bottom: 6px; margin-top: 6px;">
<span class="text_exposed_show" style="display: inline;">You're not alone in this either, George. Possibly because men of your age and attitude are still the influential voice of the coutnry. </span></div>
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But back to the complexity of the issue, George... if you're in a relationship, consent is implied, eh? What if they're having a poo, George, is consent implied then? Or if they're sick with a fever, or they've just hit their head. Or maybe if their parent's died, and they're too sad to say no clearly... would implied consent still work then, because you're living with them?</div>
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What if you're living with them but you're not actually in a relationship but you had sex once before? Is consent implied then, if you never officially withdrew it?</div>
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Yes, George. You need consent Every Single Time. And you don't fuck anyone when they're asleep unless they've specifically asked you to and you've agreed the terms. It's scary to me that people have trouble with that idea. Have a wee look at <a href="http://www.liberalamerica.org/2015/07/10/pay-attention-cartoon-gets-messages-consent-exactly-right/">this handy cartoon</a> if you're still confused. Please.</div>
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Vidahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00351906347307887201noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2157523337657902739.post-53755138328248129702015-06-21T03:31:00.001-07:002015-06-21T03:31:33.926-07:00Handsy<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
When it comes to kink, I know exactly which side of the sub/dom line my inclinations fall. Control is something I'm lacking, not that I revel in. Tie me up. Tell me what to do. Take that cake away from me.<br />
<br />
But... but... what does appeal about switching, I realise, is the opportunity for <i>access</i>. To have an open invitation to <i>touch</i>. Call it neediness, call it a Taurean desire for tactile contact, call it dyspraxic impropriety, explain it however you will, but oh, to be able to hold your hand, to squeeze your butt, to slide my hand between your legs whenever I want. To run my fingers through your hair, stroke your cheek, put my mouth on you, put my tongue in your ear, slap you, pinch you, penetrate you, knead you, need you... this is the appeal. Oo, gimme.<br />
<br />
Yes. I would love an open invitation to be grabby. To own you. Not 24/7, but just to be able to revel in you, and not sit on my hands all the time, wondering if it's ok to touch. To stop worrying about sensibilities and boundaries and propriety and whether or not my affection or my desire will upset or intrude or discomfit.<br />
<br />
The more I think about it, I realise how intensely personal this post is. I was going to make it writery, but I'm not sure I can. There are too many things bound up in it - too much stymied need that Freud would have a field day with it (yes, I just need to <i>suck </i>something, ok?). Perhaps it has to do with lack of love in childhood, or the experience of growing up less than attractive, feeling like the consolation prize. Fat girls are so grateful for the crumbs of attention you throw their way, isn't that how it goes? And then choosing a life partner who wasn't that into physical contact or PDAs...<br />
<br />
And anyway, while I may not be great at self control and routine, I do revel in being bossy. So god, yes, strip and get face down on that bed, please, and grant me a pass, open up, let me play.</div>
Vidahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00351906347307887201noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2157523337657902739.post-74691424534736342932015-05-04T02:43:00.004-07:002015-05-04T02:43:49.181-07:00Thoughts on beards and... <div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
A silly thing crossed my mind this morning.<br />
<br />
So, beards are good, right?* We like beards. While a stubborn few cling to the idea that to be clean shaven is to be neater and more formal, more socially acceptable, the hipster men of our present generation (not to mention all those adventurous non-hipster masses who came before) have reclaimed The Beard that is their birthright, and have embraced the joy of being fancy once more. And most of the women of the world share in their hirsute delight.<br />
<br />
There's a thing, though, that I just thought of. Would you agree, that there's a particular stubborn pungency to the smell of cunt juice that clings to one's fingers as it dries? It's tenacious; not unpleasant, but strongly lingering. If not washed off straight away, it tends to hang around through the day, subtle, yet evident.<br />
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<a href="http://i.dailymail.co.uk/i/pix/2014/07/18/article-2697596-1FBAE3BE00000578-469_634x871.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="http://i.dailymail.co.uk/i/pix/2014/07/18/article-2697596-1FBAE3BE00000578-469_634x871.jpg" height="320" width="232" /></a></div>
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<br />
Perhaps you see where I'm going with this? One of the things we beard-appreciating ladies appreciate is the added sensation of stubble or hair on our tenderest parts when our men go down on us. Yes? That extra tactility (it's a word, I just checked) of a hundred wiry hairs biting just a little into our sensitive, pinkest skin. It's a delicious cruelty that makes us writhe against your face that little bit more.<br />
<br />
But oh! How hard the aroma of us must cling to those face-forests thereafter! And how tantalising, disturbing, alarmingly evocative it must be to walk around with a constant reminder of the services you performed earlier wafting into your nose, embued as your beard is with tiny beads of love-cream. It must be difficult to get anything done.<br />
<br />
There's something wonderfully animal about it all. <i>N'est-pas</i>?<br />
<br />
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I'm sorry, I couldn't resist. </div>
<br /><br />*I am choosing to ignore that disturbing article doing the rounds about the dubious bacterial <i>load </i>that beards carry, but would implore all beard wearers to <i>wash their hands carefully</i> as often as necessary. </div>
Vidahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00351906347307887201noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2157523337657902739.post-65184397843733250002015-04-27T13:22:00.000-07:002015-06-21T14:08:11.499-07:00Matthew 7:3-5<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
I'm a horrible reader. I need to find my inner Zen when it comes to reading things.<br />
I trip over one word that wrankles for some reason, and I'm out of the game, it's like I'm wearing a hair shirt, metaphorically, writhing around in discomfort, my brain firing out alternatives and reasons why the word's wrong. And often it's a word that everyone is using - but I can't enjoy the writing anymore. Typos, word misuse, personal pet peeve words... ugh. I'm awful.<br />
<br />
In the last few days, I've come across the phrase, 'I let out a whelp', which was meant to be meant as a yelping sound, but as far as I know only means a newborn pup. I know 'whelp' is an exclamation sometimes, but 'a whelp', no - so what I had was an image of a woman tied to a bed in the middle of a gang bang giving birth to a puppy spontaneously, and that was it, it was all over for me.<br />
<br />
I have similar reactions to to commonly used words. One is 'want' in place of 'desire' - when did that start happening? You're overcome with want? Want is a noun now? I thought it meant a lack, as in 'for want of a nail, the shoe was lost'. Now it suddenly means desire. And every time I see it I get shaken out of the story and think, grr! Same for 'hit'. For me, hit is a verb, and as a noun it means a chart topper. But it's used in place of smack, or stroke, or blow now, thirty hits to my butt... nooo, please no. It sounds so clumsy.<br />
<br />
Anyway, yes, see how my train of thought works, in the middle of nice stories? And the worse thing is, I am also tormented by my own petty pernicketiness. It's not fun to feel like this. It's not fun to jolt over extraneous apostrophes as if they were tripwires. It's pants. And I don't know what to do about it. How do I put down the red pen? </div>
Vidahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00351906347307887201noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2157523337657902739.post-74098716205225737242015-04-21T10:12:00.001-07:002015-04-21T10:12:52.657-07:00fat jokes<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
I have this very attractive colleague, he's 42, if I remember correctly, he mountain bikes competitively and is in great shape. He's very funny, good at being overly familiar in a nice way, very kind, full of teasing. He brightens the day, really, I appreciate his presence.<br />
<br />
Yesterday, though, I think he horrified himself by saying something out loud I suspect he meant to say in his head.<br />
<br />
I was lamenting the lack of a blind in my classroom, as no one can see the board. There were just himself and another young colleague in our tiny staffroom after work. I wondered if there was anything I could bring in to hang in the window that would do to block the shine, as I don't think a blind will be particularly forthcoming.<br />
<br />
He instantly piped up, 'A pair of your knickers?'<br />
<br />
Now, generally in my workplace, which is female-dominated, we don't do fat jokes. Generally, here, it's impossible to lament your fatness, even as an obese person, because someone rushes in to tell you you're fine. Actually, I'm not sure that goes for me any more, as I've clearly crossed the line at this stage, but still. There tends to be an elephant in the room during these conversation, still, these days, and yes, that elephant is me.<br />
<br />
So... though Dan's joke was gasp-worthy, slightly shocking, funny in its utter meanie rudeness (you're not supposed to mention the gigantic nature of my ass!) it was also refreshing, and a little comforting in its honesty and chilled outedness. I really don't think he meant to say it, but I'm glad he did. And I also kicked him, as really, if manners maketh the man, telling a lady she has a huge arse get you kicked in your own one. </div>
Vidahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00351906347307887201noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2157523337657902739.post-46147753936578322882015-04-21T10:05:00.000-07:002015-04-21T10:05:24.698-07:00weirdness<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
I am so very white-skinned that my boobs are kinda see-through in bright sunshine.<br />
<br />
I'm trying not to be grossed out by that. </div>
Vidahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00351906347307887201noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2157523337657902739.post-41280531322495504072015-04-01T15:50:00.000-07:002015-04-01T15:50:15.336-07:00<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
<div style="border: 0px; color: #515151; font-family: Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 15px; line-height: 28px; margin-top: 10px; padding: 0px;">
<span style="background-color: white;">I usually avoid these things like the plague, because I am truly, deeply boring. And this is a disappointment to the nominator and all the poor people who might read, expecting scintillation. But I like little random questions. So feck it. </span></div>
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<span style="background-color: white;">The award comes with rules, so if you are nominated, you are required to do the following:</span></div>
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<span style="background-color: white;"> *Usually I take delight in ignoring the rules, cos fuck you, I won't do what the internet tells me, but here they are. I might not provide <i>eleven </i>facts.</span></div>
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<span style="background-color: white;"><br /></span></div>
<ol style="border: 0px; color: #515151; font-family: Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 15px; line-height: 28px; list-style-position: inside; margin: 0px 0px 0px 1.7rem; padding: 0px;">
<li style="border-image-outset: initial; border-image-repeat: initial; border-image-slice: initial; border-image-source: initial; border-image-width: initial; border: 0px; margin: 0px; padding: 0px;"><span style="background-color: white;">Thank the person who nominated you and link to their blog.</span></li>
<li style="border-image-outset: initial; border-image-repeat: initial; border-image-slice: initial; border-image-source: initial; border-image-width: initial; border: 0px; margin: 0px; padding: 0px;"><span style="background-color: white;">Answer the questions provided by the person who nominated you.</span></li>
<li style="border-image-outset: initial; border-image-repeat: initial; border-image-slice: initial; border-image-source: initial; border-image-width: initial; border: 0px; margin: 0px; padding: 0px;"><span style="background-color: white;">Provide eleven random facts about yourself.</span></li>
<li style="border-image-outset: initial; border-image-repeat: initial; border-image-slice: initial; border-image-source: initial; border-image-width: initial; border: 0px; margin: 0px; padding: 0px;"><span style="background-color: white;">Nominate 5-11 blogs that you feel deserve the award and have less than one thousand followers.</span></li>
<li style="border-image-outset: initial; border-image-repeat: initial; border-image-slice: initial; border-image-source: initial; border-image-width: initial; border: 0px; margin: 0px; padding: 0px;"><span style="background-color: white;">Create a new list of questions for the bloggers to answer.</span></li>
</ol>
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<span style="color: #515151; font-family: Arial, sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: 15px; line-height: 28px;"><br /></span></span></div>
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<span style="color: #515151; font-family: Arial, sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: 15px; line-height: 28px;">Here are Abi Rode's questions: </span></span></div>
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<span style="background-color: white; color: #515151; font-family: Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 15px; line-height: 28px;"><br /></span></div>
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<span style="background-color: white; color: #515151; font-family: Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 15px; line-height: 28px;"><b>Bacon or sausages? You can only have one…</b></span></div>
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<span style="color: #515151; font-family: Arial, sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: 15px; line-height: 28px;">Well, as a vegetarian, I want neither, but if we're talking protein substitutes, I'll go for some Fakin' over the ubiquitous veggie sausage. Why do they try to recreate gristle? That's why I gave up meat in the first place... </span></span></div>
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<b style="color: #515151; font-family: Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 15px; line-height: 28px;">When a plane lands is it ever acceptable to clap?</b></div>
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<span style="background-color: white; color: #515151; font-family: Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 15px; line-height: 28px;">Eh, yeah? If there's Weather, and the pilot lands smoothly, or with difficulty, maybe?</span></div>
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<span style="background-color: white; color: #515151; font-family: Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 15px; line-height: 28px;"><b>What do you crave when you’re hungover?</b></span></div>
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<span style="background-color: white; color: #515151; font-family: Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 15px; line-height: 28px;">Grease. Horribly, sometimes McDonalds, but not really. Fried food, though.</span></div>
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<span style="background-color: white; color: #515151; font-family: Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 15px; line-height: 28px;"><b>What is the sexiest accent for you?</b></span></div>
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<span style="background-color: white; color: #515151; font-family: Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 15px; line-height: 28px;">Sexiest? Hard to say. Scottish, maybe, I love hearing Douglas Henshall saying 'Darlin''. I'm also quite fond of posh English accents, though they amuse me too. Oh, and once a Czech IT guy helped get my computer back online, he was in my computer, and was telling me to do allsorts, I might have turned clockwise three times waving a rowan branch over my head for all I knew what was going on. Suddenly I was connected again, and I said, 'Oh, it's back! Did that just happen or did you do that?' and he replied, 'Ve did it togezzer' in an extremely sexy, deadpan voice, it was like IT phone sex. So I've a soft spot for Eastern European accents too. </span></div>
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<span style="background-color: white; color: #515151; font-family: Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 15px; line-height: 28px;"><b>Where have you been, that would surprise me that you have no interest in returning to? And why? (i.e. somewhere that’s universally thought of as great)</b></span></div>
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<span style="background-color: white; color: #515151; font-family: Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 15px; line-height: 28px;">I'm not sure I've been enough places. Armagh, but I don't think anyone really thinks that's great. I hope they don't. God. No, I'd go back everywhere I've been, but I would go other places before I'd go back to Paris, I have to confess. </span></div>
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<span style="background-color: white; color: #515151; font-family: Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 15px; line-height: 28px;"><b><br /></b></span></div>
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<span style="background-color: white; color: #515151; font-family: Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 15px; line-height: 28px;"><b> If I made you a cup of tea/cup of coffee/sandwich and it wasn’t to your liking, would you tell me?</b></span></div>
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<span style="background-color: white; color: #515151; font-family: Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 15px; line-height: 28px;">Ah, such an Irish thing. As I'd an American mother, my filter isn't great, I probably would. I tell everyone everything. </span></div>
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<span style="background-color: white; color: #515151; font-family: Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 15px; line-height: 28px;"><b>If someone had some food on their face, something in their teeth, would you tell them?</b></span></div>
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<span style="background-color: white; color: #515151; font-family: Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 15px; line-height: 28px;">See above.</span></div>
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<span style="background-color: white; color: #515151; font-family: Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 15px; line-height: 28px;"><b>Do you have any strong feelings about your name, first or surname – or if you’re a girl, giving it up?</b></span></div>
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<span style="background-color: white; color: #515151; font-family: Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 15px; line-height: 28px;">I did give mine up. This name's a pen name, and as such, fanciful and indulgent. I'm obsessive about my first name because everyone gets the full version wrong, and misspells the short version. SIGH. This bothers me. I bristle. I was happy to give away my father's name, as after all, it's only his abusive father's name as handed down to him. The chance to become someone else appealed to me. And I think I'm more comfortable with my married name, though I don't quite feel I deserve to lay claim to it, somehow<b style="font-style: italic;">. </b></span></div>
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<b style="color: #515151; font-family: Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 15px; line-height: 28px;">Do you leave voicemails, or just hang up and send a text?</b></div>
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<span style="background-color: white; color: #515151; font-family: Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 15px; line-height: 28px;">Heh, usually the latter, because I hate listening to voicemails and I don't want to inflict them on anyone else, and I don't trust that they listen to them either. </span></div>
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<b style="color: #515151; font-family: Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 15px; line-height: 28px;">What is an unacceptable item of clothing that would have you struggling to forgive?</b></div>
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<span style="color: #515151; font-family: Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 15px; line-height: 28px;">Eh... in what sense? Like, fur? Or some fashion crime? Fur would be a hard one, and in the latter sense, em... I dunno. Shiny tracksuit? Those uni-ball sack swim suits? Jumpsuits and play suits are deeply dubious, imho.</span></div>
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<b style="color: #515151; font-family: Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 15px; line-height: 28px;">If you left your country for a year what would be the thing that you would miss the most (we’re assuming you’d miss your family, partner, friends and pets)</b></div>
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<span style="color: #515151; font-family: Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 15px; line-height: 28px;">Irish humour. Soft rain. Once upon a time, Guinness would have been up there. </span></div>
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<span style="color: #515151; font-family: Arial, sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: 15px; line-height: 28px;"><b>11 Random facts</b></span></span></div>
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<span style="color: #515151; font-family: Arial, sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: 15px; line-height: 28px;">Ugh, I don't want to do random facts. I struggle not to just put myself down. Erm... that's one. </span></span></div>
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<span style="color: #515151; font-family: Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 15px; line-height: 28px;">I can't turn off my inner proof reader any more, and just read blithely. Misplaced apostrophes scream at me in neon. It wrecks my day every day. I wish I could stop. </span></div>
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<span style="color: #515151; font-family: Arial, sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: 15px; line-height: 28px;">I'm starting to grow white hair now. It's coming.</span></span></div>
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<span style="color: #515151; font-family: Arial, sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: 15px; line-height: 28px;"> I'm 39 this month. </span></span></div>
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<span style="color: #515151; font-family: Arial, sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: 15px; line-height: 28px;">I have studied philosophy, but I've forgotten what little I managed to understand of it at this stage. </span></span></div>
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<span style="color: #515151; font-family: Arial, sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: 15px; line-height: 28px;">I think Bagheera was the first fictional character I was ever in love with. </span></span></div>
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<span style="color: #515151; font-family: Arial, sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: 15px; line-height: 28px;">I've suffered from Trichotillomania for twenty years. It's shit. </span></span></div>
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<span style="color: #515151; font-family: Arial, sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: 15px; line-height: 28px;">I wish there had been local swimming pools and swim teams when I was in school, because then I could have been good at a sport. </span></span></div>
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<span style="color: #515151; font-family: Arial, sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: 15px; line-height: 28px;">I think I'm dyspraxic. (It's also shit).</span></span></div>
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<span style="color: #515151; font-family: Arial, sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: 15px; line-height: 28px;">I bake exceedingly good cakes. It's all in the butter and vanilla.</span></span></div>
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<span style="color: #515151; font-family: Arial, sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: 15px; line-height: 28px;"><br /></span></span></div>
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<span style="color: #515151; font-family: Arial, sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: 15px; line-height: 28px;"> <b>Questions</b></span></span></div>
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<ol style="text-align: left;">
<li><span style="color: #515151; font-family: Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 15px; line-height: 28px;">Favourite tv programme du jour? The one you'd stay in bed with toast for 48 hours for. </span></li>
<li><span style="color: #515151; font-family: Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 15px; line-height: 28px;">Item of clothing that makes you feel sexiest/most confident/most like yourself or all of the above. Em, beside. Whatever. </span></li>
<li><span style="color: #515151; font-family: Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 15px; line-height: 28px;">What can you forgive easily? </span></li>
<li><span style="color: #515151; font-family: Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 15px; line-height: 28px;">Pet peeve (apart from that phrase)?</span></li>
<li><span style="color: #515151; font-family: Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 15px; line-height: 28px;">Tell me a beautiful place you've been that stays with you. </span></li>
<li><span style="color: #515151; font-family: Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 15px; line-height: 28px;">Have you got an internet friendship that you think will endure? Have you met IRL? </span></li>
<li><span style="color: #515151; font-family: Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 15px; line-height: 28px;">What's your speciality? </span></li>
<li><span style="color: #515151; font-family: Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 15px; line-height: 28px;">What's the worst thing your parents have bequeathed to you? And the best? </span></li>
<li><span style="color: #515151; font-family: Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 15px; line-height: 28px;">If you could choose one talent to excel at, what would it be? </span></li>
<li><span style="color: #515151; font-family: Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 15px; line-height: 28px;">Tell us a horribly embarrassing experience you've had. Go on. </span></li>
</ol>
<span style="color: #515151; font-family: Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 15px; line-height: 28px;">NOMinations.</span></div>
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<span style="color: #515151; font-family: Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 15px; line-height: 28px;">Ms Rayne, off you go. </span></div>
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<span style="color: #515151; font-family: Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 15px; line-height: 28px;">Exhibit A, plz. </span></div>
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<span style="color: #515151; font-family: Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 15px; line-height: 28px;">F.Leonora Solomon</span></div>
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<span style="color: #515151; font-family: Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 15px; line-height: 28px;">Ms Elyot</span></div>
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<span style="color: #515151; font-family: Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 15px; line-height: 28px;">Jeannette Gray. </span></div>
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<span style="color: #515151; font-family: Arial, sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: 15px; line-height: 28px;"><br /></span></span></div>
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Vidahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00351906347307887201noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2157523337657902739.post-38064001102191115322015-03-31T11:07:00.001-07:002015-03-31T11:07:58.242-07:00to the blog, Batgirl. Kinksters, psychopaths and feminism.<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
I've just nearly left a comment on various posts/articles today, but maybe in the long run we should all be having our say on this one. I'm completely open to discussion on this because I no longer seem to have the ability to order the thoughts I have as instinctive gut reactions when I read something into a coherent and cohesive response. So maybe this makes no sense at all.<br />
<br />
I've been following the <a href="http://www.irishtimes.com/news/crime-and-law/graham-dwyer-and-elaine-o-hara-the-master-slave-relationship-1.2156173">Dwyer O Hara murder case</a>, as any Irish person has been, but I look at the photos of Elaine O Hara and I see someone who could be me. I know her body type and her lack of self worth and her depression and her longing for love and a Sir, but thankfully not her institutionalisations or the conviction of her suicidal urges. I've no urge to flirt with someone who wants to stab me to death, or stab me at all, thank fuck. Knife play... it's not for me. I'm grateful. I'm not that strong. But if I were into it, I would hope that it wouldn't be driven by a death urge or an inability to see what the person I was playing with was. A murderous shit in wolf's clothing, in this case.<br />
<br />
My heart goes out to that poor, tortured woman, and the fact that the only person she could find to give her attention was a twisted sociopathic fucker who saw her as nothing more than a means to his own homicidal gratification.<br />
<br />
No, this is not what BDSM is. Kink is not about wanting to kill women, or anyone. It's not about wanting to be killed. But people are allowed play with the metaphors. And that means they should keep their eyes open about why.<br />
<br />
<a href="http://www.theguardian.com/commentisfree/2015/mar/31/murder-ireland-rethink-sexual-practices?CMP=share_btn_tw">Emer O'Toole wrote a piece today </a>suggesting that in the midst of kink positivity, we do still have a responsibility to look at the cultural morées that our play has grown out of. It's no longer de rigeur to dismiss BDSM as misogynist. Men like submission too! And yes. Choice and consent count for a lot. But that doesn't mean you shouldn't look at where this urge to be on your knees, or have someone kneel before you comes from. Especially if you think 50 Shades represents what BDSM is.<br />
<br />
To be honest, my personal impulse is to analyse the emotional, psychological why of the impulse over the cultural and historical one. I'm a little more interested in what's in my head and how it was shaped by my own experiences and relationships and exposures than by the sociopolitical culture I live in. I don't think that means it's any less important, though. And I agree that the lines between those two things are extremely blurred - I'm the scared daughter of an unquestionably dominant, aggressive, verbally abusive Virgo father who I also have to recognise as a pretty misogynist person. There is nature, yes, but sometimes nurture waves a brightly painted flag too. And this is why I look at Elaine O Hara, and I can understand, and I can see her intense vulnerability with such searing night vision.<br />
<br />
I've watched and read enough crap porn to recognise sexist tropes when I see them. 'My stable of women are just holes for my use' doesn't stop being sexist just because it turns us on. Sorry. Doesn't mean we shouldn't play with it; if it speaks to your erect and swollen bits, go for it, but don't pretend it's above a rigorous feminist inspection. To think otherwise would be a little incurious.<br />
<br />
Ahem. Back to the sainted glory of BDSM. Accepting that BDSM isn't influenced by cultural power imbalance just doesn't make sense to me. I agree with others that BDSM practitioners are not psychopaths or murderers. I'm as ready to jump on stupid statements about why should we teach our children 50 Shades is good and Graham O Dwyer is evil as the next girl. Ok, 50 Shades is massively problematic, and that asshat commenter doesn't understand anything about why it doesn't represent BDSM etc., but <i>he </i>doesn't know that.<br />
<br />
I think BDSM can be beautiful, brave and freeing. I don't think Emer O'Toole is unintelligent enough to suggest that Dwyer's impulses are BDSM gone awry, as <a href="http://www.girlonthenet.com/2015/03/31/bdsm-made-me-do-it/">GirlontheNet suggests in her angered response</a>. I won't speak for Emer, but I don't think her assertion that we should ask why BDSM is becoming so popular is anti-kink. She seems to be asking questions about our culture that is so rife with violence against women, which sees women as expendable, is also so keen to roleplay on such a fine line. Half the lines that turn us on were once (and in all honesty, still are) spoken with utter seriousness by some asshole who subscribes to every patriarchal, sexist belief you've ever rejected. I don't think that means we should do away with whatever 'suck my cock, whore' line we've ever loved, but it does mean we should think about it.<br />
<i><span style="font-size: x-small;"><br /></span></i>
<span style="background-color: white; color: #333333; font-family: 'Helvetica Neue', Helvetica, Arial, sans-serif; line-height: 22.8571434020996px;"><i><span style="font-size: x-small;"> In this case, we have a columnist questioning her own fantasies about BDSM sex because a woman was manipulated and violently murdered. BDSM is not about this – it’s not. It’s about mutual, consensual exploration of fantasy with willing participants.</span></i></span><br />
<br />
Now, I know Emer a little, and I think this is a massive reduction of her point about underlying sexism in our culture and and insult to her own sexual awareness. She's neither that headshy or that stupid. What she is is extremely aware of how insidious misogyny is. I'm looking for a quote to back me up, but there's too much. Just... read the article again, please. It's the ideology she wants to look at. The acceptance of, or influence of social conditioning behind the consent.<br />
<br />
<span style="font-size: x-small;"><span style="background-color: white; color: #333333; font-family: 'Helvetica Neue', Helvetica, Arial, sans-serif; line-height: 22.8571434020996px;">What’s more, to use this as a reason to question one’s own BDSM fantasies is to legitimise the excuses of the perpetrator. To say ‘hey well you know BDSM </span><em style="background-color: white; box-sizing: border-box; color: #333333; font-family: 'Helvetica Neue', Helvetica, Arial, sans-serif; line-height: 22.8571434020996px;">does</em><span style="background-color: white; color: #333333; font-family: 'Helvetica Neue', Helvetica, Arial, sans-serif; line-height: 22.8571434020996px;"> make us do fucked up stuff’ is to utterly ignore the impact of context, consent, and all the other things that matter when you’re doing something like this.</span></span><br />
<span style="font-size: x-small;"><span style="background-color: white; color: #333333; font-family: 'Helvetica Neue', Helvetica, Arial, sans-serif; line-height: 22.8571434020996px;"><br /></span></span>
Do you see Emer's article as doing this? I don't see her as demonising BDSM, but recognising that its action is influenced by a common normalising of violence against and subjugation of women. It seems oddly blind to assert that it does not contain those elements, however it deals with them. If you slap your sub in the face and then push her head back onto your cock again, where does that action come from and why does it turn you both on? Shouldn't we ... ask that? Does it mean that we can't enjoy it if we do? She's not ignoring context or consent. She's saying, do not be blind as to where this thing that turns you on originated. Why do you now claim it as your own ?<br />
<br />
<span style="background-color: white; color: #333333; font-family: 'Guardian Text Egyptian Web', Georgia, serif; line-height: 24px;"> </span><span style="background-color: white; color: #333333; font-family: 'Guardian Text Egyptian Web', Georgia, serif; line-height: 24px;"><span style="font-size: x-small;">I’m making this critique not as a kink-shamer, but as a challenge to myself: what are my reasons and justifications for inviting or accepting male sexual violence? And, at this point in history, when kink is becoming ubiquitous, I’m calling on all responsible, egalitarian kinksters to take a step back from personal desire and pleasure and ask similar questions.</span></span><br />
<br />
I don't think this paints her as a kinkster who's lost her nerve because of a nasty story. I think it paints her as the feminist academic she is who questions the providence of sexual customs in a problematic society. I certainly agree that asking questions and exploring our submissive and dominant impulses and what they're born out of is a good idea. I couldn't operate any other way, personally. You may want to mould your sub into all that they can be, in altruistic fashion, but if you're someone with an inborn need to hit another person, I don't think you should do so without a certain amount of introspection. There's nothing wrong with looking, or requesting that we look before we welcome the act with wholesale acceptance. Asking questions does not mean denying your kink, or suppressing it.<br />
<br />
Tumblr is full of littles (who are genuinely still little) who want Daddies to discipline them. Of teenagers who find the idea of living in a 1940s relationship where the man has control of the woman as if he were her parent a massive turn on. Sexism is sexy! they were all clamouring, before I unfollowed because I couldn't take any more. Why is he turned on by that control? Why are these not-quite-yet women so seduced by the idea of having their every choice, from spending their own money to the colour of their underwear made for them? Shouldn't we ask? Listen, I would love to have someone spank me for not observing bedtime and being too tired to function well the next day. But I also try to be quite aware of my own struggles with self-discipline (as well as all the rest) and I'm not content to explain it all away with 'because it would turn me on'.<br />
<br />
I certainly think that had he realised his phones and deleted videos and records would be found, Dwyer would have pleaded a consentual sex game gone wrong. I'm sure he would have loved to have painted himself as the victim in some way. Instead, the evidence made painfully clear that he had about as much regard for O'Hara and her broken self as a meat eater tucking into a burger does for the animal it came from. In his arrogance, he thought his trail would stay hidden, so he pleaded not guilty. If he'd known, I think he would have argued all the way that theirs was a relationship of consent. Yes he's a shit, a sociopath, and manipulative, murderous abuser, without empathy for the woman he was tormenting so cruelly. Yes, most Doms want to treat their subs with infinite responsibility and care.<br />
<br />
But then there are stories like <a href="http://pervocracy.blogspot.ie/search/label/rape%20culture">this</a>, by Cliff at the Pervocracy, who is pretty much a consent warden (as you can see from her extremely <a href="http://pervocracy.blogspot.ie/p/fifty-shades-of-grey-index.html">detailed breakdown of what's wrong with 50 Shades</a>). This link details an assault she was subjected to within a scene, and why she didn't report it - much of the why says depressing things about the kink community. She later goes on to write a post about how her rapist was giving consent lectures, something that's deeply alarming.<br />
<br />
In sanctifying kink, I fear we take our fingers off the button, for want of a better phrase. Our eye off the ball (for god's sake, help me). Yes, this man is a psycopath. Yes, Remittancegirl's point that there are far more psychopaths who've used religion as an excuse to kill than there are Doms Gone Mad is absolutely right. Sadism exists outside the beautiful bubble that is the mutual need and response of BDSM. But I don't think that means we shouldn't police and investigate ourselves and our desires.<br />
<br />
No, sexual psychopaths' existence should not deny us our kink. No, you are not Graham O'Dwyer. Or Elaine O'Hara. But I bet you thought quite a lot between the burgeoning fantasy of slapping someone in the face and how it made you hard or wet, or being slapped in the face and how it made you hard or wet, and the act of slapping or being slapped for real. And if you didn't, do you not think maybe it would have been a good idea to do so?<br />
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Vidahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00351906347307887201noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2157523337657902739.post-14592648843989710942015-02-04T05:08:00.001-08:002015-02-04T05:08:29.342-08:00challenges, stumbling blocks, call them what you will<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
Oh my god. I am trying to write/edit/finish something off. My husband has chosen today to borrow a petrol hedge strimmer from our neighbour and is right.outside.the.door using it on our monster hedge. It's very loud.<br />
<br />
My school refusing daughter is upstairs on her computer, having had a screaming tantrum because I asked her to do some schoolowork. It's 1.04. It's time for her dad to bring her to school to collect more work.<br />
<br />
The motor and the screaming tantrum are unsettling. They block the creative flow, readers, the discerning, decision making, critical faculty needed to pull a story together. I need that faculty, and I need five hundred odd more words that fit.<br />
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<span style="font-size: x-large;">*Aughghgh!*</span><br />
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Vidahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00351906347307887201noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2157523337657902739.post-26367251222238064782014-12-23T17:21:00.000-08:002014-12-23T17:21:50.075-08:00Bound for Trouble, bound for you? <div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
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<a href="http://a5.mzstatic.com/us/r30/Publication4/v4/f0/35/d0/f035d009-fe67-d909-0035-35e54dba7f6b/9781627780445-frontcover.225x225-75.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="http://a5.mzstatic.com/us/r30/Publication4/v4/f0/35/d0/f035d009-fe67-d909-0035-35e54dba7f6b/9781627780445-frontcover.225x225-75.jpg" /></a></div>
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A Christmas giveaway!
I've got a story in here called <i>Monthly</i>, semi inspired by that cool werewolf film about the sexy woman who locks herself in her basement once a month and turns into a wolf. She might well have been French. Sort of set the bar for me for lycanthropy as a metaphor for female sexuality.<br />
<br />
Anyway, that's an aside (though if you can remember what the film is called, please tell me). This woman isn't a wolf, she just likes being locked in the basement every month or so. This is a story in which she Gets Caught and wrestles with her oh no, is kink wrong!? demon.<br />
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I think about this a lot. I have a friend who considers herself modern and accepting, but she's routinely scathing and scoffing about anything kinky. One of these days I'll ask her what she'd do if she'd never been able to come to anything but the kinks she dismisses so readily. Would she go to therapy? Aversion therapy? Like people who try not to be gay? Or would she find ways to accept herself and her needs. Ponder ponder.
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I also wonder about the way we laud athletes and the agony they put themselves through, for the sake of a challenge, of endorphins, of a win. What would you rather do, have a severe spanking, or run a marathon? Which would be more damaging to your body, I wonder. Which would make you cry more.
I tell you this, I'd have another unmedicated labour in a flash before I ever attempted to run a marathon. And as for the spanking...<br />
<br />
But back to the comp. Leave a comment, think of something that's not illegal but that's tougher than a spanking, and I will pick a name after Christmas.
And if it's only Charlie J Forrest, it's all good! :) </div>
Vidahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00351906347307887201noreply@blogger.com5tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2157523337657902739.post-84584367268706056062014-12-01T12:33:00.000-08:002014-12-01T12:34:33.053-08:00Editing<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
I got a very complimentary comment today on my story in Kristina Wright's Steamlust.<br />
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I agonised over that story. Mostly because it needed to be romance, and I was struggling with that a bit. But Nikki Magennis helped me get it right by making excellent suggestions, and I was able to do what was needed. I think a lot of the things that I was complimented on were down to Nikki's salient points.<br />
<br />
It's tough, the editing process. I can't recommend getting someone to help you with it enough. Others will see things, ask questions, suggest things and pick at holes - when left to my own devices I tend to just change words to other words and dither over commas. With this one, as with others, I tied myself in knots trying to do what Nikki suggested - at first, my reaction to the notes tends to be, 'What? How?? <i>YOU </i>change it!' I wrestled with this one, and arghed a lot, and nearly didn't do it. I'm glad I did, though, I love the book, and I love the story, and if I'd any gumption I'd have written a prequel novel by now, but ... oh well.<br />
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So - I think that editing help allows you to write stories you are really proud of. Nikki helped me, yes, and I'm delighted at her input, but at the end of the day, it's me who decided how to act on those suggestions and adjust the story... I don't feel like it's any less my story. I think it's a skill in itself, being able to rework something, decide what advice is right and what you don't need, take out bits, write endings... it's what we do with edits that makes us writers, as well as what we write in the first place. It may be a painful process... but it's a good one!<br />
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I don't want it to be forgotten, so here's a little nostalgic view of Nikki's beautiful trailer for Steamlust. Joy!
<iframe width="420" height="315" src="//www.youtube.com/embed/t73s_DwbWGU" frameborder="0" allowfullscreen></iframe>Vidahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00351906347307887201noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2157523337657902739.post-49552603797387864372014-11-29T08:20:00.001-08:002014-11-29T08:20:27.086-08:00wolves and silicon boyfriends<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
I love my friend Cassie. Last night we were watching <a href="http://www.imdb.com/title/tt1403241/">Wolves </a>, a film I had mixed responses to, and afterwards I showed her the <a href="http://imgur.com/a/XiSFI#7tcMOYv">male sex dolls</a> that are hitting the market for $7,600 at the moment.<br />
<br />
A semi-serious, semi hilarious conversation ensued, including her gems suggesting that if there was a Jason Momoa-shaped one, the credit union would sign off on that loan in a heart beat and also that she would imagine there'd have to be an intervention (Alright, Vida, it's time to get off him now... No! Noooo!).<br />
<br />
I suggested my two issues after the cost would be where to keep it and how to hide it from my kids - she gestured darkly towards the large wooden chest in the corner. But I don't want a va<i>m</i>pire plastic lover, really I don't.<br />
<br />
I love my friend, I really do. We laughed and coughed a lot. And ate Indian dinner, and drank wine.<br />
<br />
Wolves had so much potential but the question about why special effects and costumes still default to the 'Mr.Badger' style wolfman/woman endures. Sigh. Also, reports of the porny sex scene where the characters start changing as they get it on were <i>grossly </i>(and disappointingly) exaggerated. A film I really wish I could steam in and rewrite.<br />
<br />
In other news, I told Cassie about <b>CAKESHIFTER </b>and she begged me to write it for her for Christmas. I just might. Might even put it on Amazon, too! </div>
Vidahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00351906347307887201noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2157523337657902739.post-62325891519528463282014-11-17T13:12:00.002-08:002014-11-17T13:12:40.999-08:00A long-winded post about fat-shaming and sexuality<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
A while back a colleague's post from his timeline came up - a share of a picture from a website called 'The LAD Bible'. One of these cheap, aimed-at-young-men sites that shares the best and worst of the web at any given time. They call out some stuff like men's shit texts from dating sites and share videos of cute dogs from around the net - nothing new or remarkable, really.<br />
<br />
But in this case, my colleage, whose post came up on my work-facebook timeline, was sharing his disgust at a picture of a young woman from the LAD Bible facebook page. She was in her late teens, most likely, maybe early twenties, and she was plump-ish. I wouldn't go much further than that. She had long, thick, brown hair, a nice face, if wearing a slightly aggressive expression, and she was wearing a Wonder Woman leotard that was a bit too tight for her. She had one foot on a coffee table, and was leaning forward slightly, I think, in a vaguely aggressive pose. The leotard was wedgie-ing her, and one of her ass cheeks was hanging out. It wasn't massively flattering, but then it wasn't the worst thing in the world either.<br />
<br />
My colleague was full of disgust for this woman. He and his friends were revolted. Appalled. Angry that this photo was there for them to look at. How dare she. They were full of ire and outrage and revulsion, oh yes. It was great fun for them.<br />
<br />
I felt shit. On various levels. Because it was sexist. Because it was mean. Because it was so 'the Internet'. Because it was so body-negative. So unevolved. Such misdirected rage. And because I'm so fat, too. I'd love to look like that girl. Ok, I might not be tempted to put myself about in a too-tight leotard even if I did... but who knows what I might play around with in the privacy of my own home? It made me feel horrible.<br />
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The next time I saw said colleague, I brought it up, in the staffroom. At first he thought I was joining in, and warmed to the discussion of how disgusting it was. Said colleague is a shortish, plumpish guy. Young still, kind of cute in a boyish way. Not bursting with self confidence - wears jumpers in all weather, for example.<br />
<br />
Then he realised I was saying it was awful how nasty he and his friends had been. He protested that she'd submitted it - forced it on him for his comment, I guess. I thought that was possible but not necessarily true, it being where it was. I wondered when he was going to post his leotard pic. As I popped out of the room to get something next door I said something I shouldn't have - I said 'You're not as nice as I thought you were.' I only meant it a little bit jokily, but the more I think about it, the more I think it's true. When I came back in, he said to me quite defensively that the topic 'wasn't relevant to anything' and I realised I shouldn't have brought it up in the staffroom with others around. I'm a little surprised by that, to be honest, but I get this social stuff wrong so often - so I apologised for that. Later I went to fb and sent him a message apologising again and explaining that his post had made me feel really bad and I was going to unfollow so as to avoid seeing others like it, and also so I wouldn't intrude on it in that way. I also said I'd rather save my disgust for worthier subjects like war, or racism, or sexism, etc.<br />
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He's blanked me since, today he was in to cover the class I share and barely talked to me when I said something about it. This guy is training to be a primary school teacher.<br />
<br />
Here's the thing. I'm sensitive about this because I spend my life in fear that I'll disgust someone. I listen to my fit, handsome, sweet colleague talking about how fat girls in leggings are disgusting, how they shouldn't wear them. How hard it is to look at women who look like that. And I sit there terrified of the space I'm taking up, whether my ass is adequately camouflaged, mortified that people are looking at my fat fingers as I hand them something. I'm terrified of revolting people. I'm ashamed I haven't fixed myself. <span style="font-size: large;">At the same time my shame is challenged by the idea of body positivity, and of not being defined by what you look like. The Internet, despite trolling and Photoshop and all, has been helpful. Showing larger, older bodies that are beautiful, because of, not despite. People who love themselves and are loved despite looking 'normal' instead of modelesque. Other people cheering that on. People calling others out, supporting each other. This!</span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_-AQa73BIBuM/Ro6GDqPaLpI/AAAAAAAAAmU/sc0CtZzUXQk/s320/bhbbw_900.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_-AQa73BIBuM/Ro6GDqPaLpI/AAAAAAAAAmU/sc0CtZzUXQk/s320/bhbbw_900.jpg" height="200" width="143" /></a></div>
<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span>
<br />
But this normal little Irish guy, who's going to be teaching chubby pre-pubescent girls, maybe, is out there with his attitude. It scares me. It shames him, I think, in my eyes at least, but it still manages to shame me too.<br />
<br />
Someone posted a search term to their blog they'd read today about removing socks seductively - a niche fetish, I thought. Socks... just not so sexy. I was going to say something in return about whether the original searcher would find the pressure rings around my ankles sexy. But then I looked at them and was confronted with such an unappealing sight, red grooves cut into my water-retaining legs that look more in need of support tights than socks at all... and I felt full of shame and revulsion and realised that it wouldn't even be funny, just gross, to make that comment. Fat isn't sexy. Sometimes it <i>really </i>isn't, despite all the body-positivity the Internet has to offer. It's ageing, it's defeminising, oh, how could anyone love a cankle? Not me, in truth.<br />
<br />
And seeing yer man and his attitude today makes me feel shit all over again. For his judgement. For my own self-hatred. For all of it. Oh, it's not right yet.<br />
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="http://media-cache-ak0.pinimg.com/236x/f6/ea/85/f6ea852eb8228acb338a68ec6a4450f4.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="http://media-cache-ak0.pinimg.com/236x/f6/ea/85/f6ea852eb8228acb338a68ec6a4450f4.jpg" height="320" width="233" /></a></div>
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Vidahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00351906347307887201noreply@blogger.com5tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2157523337657902739.post-76915634445629048662014-11-10T15:04:00.002-08:002014-11-10T15:04:56.680-08:00this week's ridiculousness<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
Last week I came up with the idea of writing a Romance series called CAKESHIFTER about a man who can transform into any sort of cake, and regenerate endlessly, so you can comfort-munch on him while he holds you in his muscular, cakey arms. And his massive Romance-sized cock squirts vanilla creme.<br />
<br />
I thought that was hilarious, in my own special way, but nobody really agreed with me. Perhaps you can't throw a pebble on Twitter without hitting someone who writes shifter romance these days, and I offended everyone. Don't get me wrong, I like a good bit of animal magnetism as much as the next girl<br />
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="http://media-cache-ec0.pinimg.com/736x/50/33/40/50334074070bbbda7d2f47c627548233.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="http://media-cache-ec0.pinimg.com/736x/50/33/40/50334074070bbbda7d2f47c627548233.jpg" height="254" width="320" /></a></div>
<br />
<div style="text-align: center;">
oh yes I fucking do</div>
<br />
but there's a lot of it about, in varying degrees of brilliance. We all like cock and cake, I thought, so... but nope. Not a giggle. Ah well.<br />
<br />
This week's silly innovation came to me courtesy of my Lelo Ina, as was loved hard in my last post.<br />
Masturbation's all well and good while it's happening, but I would like someone around to marvel at my afterglow. I'd also quite like to learn where the stop button is, so said afterglow isn't marred by excessive vibration in newly sensitive places while I writhe around in comedy alarm, pulsing through the different settings as I try to turn it off and down, all of which are unwelcomingly high-volume once you've come. Ooch. Such dignity.<br />
<br />
So yeah, here's what I want. I want a human shaped <a href="http://www.lelo.com/index.php?collectionName=insignia-luxe&groupName=SORAYA">Soraya</a>. Made of that same smooth, warm, velvety silicon, but manshaped, with posable bendy arms and a padded chest. And a posable cock and clit-vibe! And his nipples can be the controls! This is such a good idea! A life sized vibe that cuddles you after! Yeah, I know it's weird, and it would probably cost five squillion euro (maybe I can have a complementary proto-type?) but damn. I'd just have to work out how to hide it from my kids.<br />
<br />
Ok, so I suppose this isn't that different from a sex doll. I'm a bit scared to google what they're looking like these days. Sophisticated, no doubt. I still really like my idea, though.<br />
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="http://i.dailymail.co.uk/i/pix/2012/11/19/article-2235100-161CB57C000005DC-104_634x461.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="http://i.dailymail.co.uk/i/pix/2012/11/19/article-2235100-161CB57C000005DC-104_634x461.jpg" height="232" width="320" /></a></div>
<br />
<br />
I know we can do better than this!<br />
<br />
And now, having sown the seeds of the manvibe, I shall whoosh away, to look at the picture of Jason Momoa some more... </div>
Vidahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00351906347307887201noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2157523337657902739.post-36745428301087454792014-10-12T14:37:00.000-07:002014-10-12T15:37:43.379-07:00For the love of Lelo<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
I'd lusted after a <a href="http://www.lelo.com/index.php?collectionName=femme-homme&groupName=INA-2">Lelo Ina</a> for ever so long. Since I saw its smooth flowing design and watched a couple video reviews, I was left feeling avaricious and yearning, a Cinderella figure unable to afford the attentions of Prince Charming.<br />
<br />
I've had a couple vibrators, though not a rabbit style one, and I have to confess, the vibrating aspect has never really done that much for my clit. My g-spot's more appreciative of a bit of vigorous vibrating attention, but my clit's always been a bit meh about it. Still, though, I felt like the Ina might be the missionary to change its, er, mind.<br />
<br />
I visited a friend recently, and when I spoke of my wishes, fairygodmother-like, she pulled one out of her box of toys. She said it never did it for her, despite Lelo's assertion that it fits the 'curves and contours of all women', the ear bit, or 'external pleasure point' was too stiff, and just hurt her vulva, pressing in too sharply against it and her clit. Me being the unsqueamish girl that I am, was all alacrity to accept the offer of a hand-me-down.<br />
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="http://i1.adis.ws/i/wehkamp/402512_eb_03?$pdp616x616$" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="http://i1.adis.ws/i/wehkamp/402512_eb_03?$pdp616x616$" height="320" width="319" /></a></div>
<br />
But, when I used it, I was disappointed to find the same thing. The smooth silicon surface is so tempting, the vibrations so powerful and convincing, but when I fully inserted the body (shaft?) of the toy, the clit attachment just hurts. Not in a fun way. The gap between shaft and rabbit ears is too small (you can see in the pic that it'll bend outwards, but it doesn't really do that comfortably when you've got it inside you, it presses back in very firmly) and the pain and vibration together felt a bit alarming, and I was left saddened. All my years of longing come to nought? The magic slipper fails to fit...<br />
<br />
Today, though, I took it out to play with it again. <i>There has to be a way</i>! I thought. And I found it. So simple - just a slide and a dip of the shaft of the toy over and into my vagina and held at an angle lets the external part push up and down against my clit without the pressure that hurts down the shaft of it when the toy's inserted all the way. And the vibrations carry just fine where they need to go. As someone who's used to needing to work up to things quite a bit, and can find orgasm elusive, I was taken aback by how fast the on, around and up and down clit stimulation zapped a fast and fairly furious orgasm through me, leaving my clitoris literally vibrating with buzzy aftershock and me laughing out loud in disbelief at the shattering of my naivety. My vibrator virginity is dispatched.<br />
<br />
I know this doesn't seem like a big deal to you vibe veterans out there but - if I may overshare a second - one, while I can make myself come ok, I tend not to be able to relax enough to let anyone else make it happen. So the feeling of something taking over my clit and popping an orgasm out of it so quickly and easily was quite revelatory. And also two, I've been on a low dose of an SSRI for some time now and while it stops me crying all the time, it also dismisses my libido summarily and makes it really hard to come sometimes. I'm taking a little break from it, thinking maybe I can welcome the tears for an interval and maybe enjoy the release they might bring - and also welcome the feeling of my body working like it's meant to and, god knows enjoying the release of some convincing orgasms at the same time - so I think that helped.**<br />
<br />
Many thanks to Lelo, and many thanks to my kind benefactor, to whom I somewhat inappropriately dedicate this morning's orgasm.<br />
<br />
**Not only is this <i>not </i>medical advice, or <i>advice</i> at all, I've no aspersions as to the fact that if it were, it would be extremely <i>bad </i>advice. Talk to your doctor before changing your dose or coming off meds, etc. Obviously.<br />
<br />
<br /></div>
Vidahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00351906347307887201noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2157523337657902739.post-53634976008011336062014-10-02T00:13:00.000-07:002014-10-02T00:15:14.299-07:00smooch monster<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="http://pickcute.com/upload/img/kiss-me-cute-monster-2105.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="http://pickcute.com/upload/img/kiss-me-cute-monster-2105.jpg" height="265" width="400" /></a></div>
<br /></div>
Vidahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00351906347307887201noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2157523337657902739.post-22303845406373912732014-09-29T12:58:00.001-07:002014-09-29T12:58:11.302-07:00sexy ass cookie withholding smooth talking mother fucker<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
Ok, so, if Tom Hiddleston was my Dom, and I was Cookie Monster, things would go <i>exactly </i>this way. Sex, cookies, it's kind of all the same.<br />
<br />
THIS SO HARD FOR MONSTER! PLEEEEASE! TAKE PITY ON MONSTER!<br />
<br />
I'm sure none of you wanted to know this, but <b>now you do</b>.<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<br /></div>
<iframe allowfullscreen="" frameborder="0" height="315" src="//www.youtube.com/embed/b_ubVVnWglk" width="560"></iframe></div>
Vidahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00351906347307887201noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2157523337657902739.post-50175220353030018902014-09-15T06:36:00.002-07:002014-09-15T06:36:40.582-07:00It's Kristina! <div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
Everyone, Kristina is here, hot on the heels of Snoggy Sunday. She's going to tell us about the style of her new release, Undone, which I thought worked perfectly, and allows her to lead us around by the nose as she likes (at least, that was my experience). Don't you love this cover? Unf.<br />
<br />
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-rStnwwP0tbk/VBbqtS9NMCI/AAAAAAAAANM/bPUlCEvw674/s1600/undone.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-rStnwwP0tbk/VBbqtS9NMCI/AAAAAAAAANM/bPUlCEvw674/s1600/undone.jpg" height="400" width="257" /></a></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal">
<b><span lang="EN-US">Undone:
writing about writing<span style="text-transform: uppercase;"><o:p></o:p></span></span></b></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<i><span lang="EN-US">Undone</span></i><span lang="EN-US"> is told from Lana Greenwood’s perspective in the format of a diary
or journal narrative. I tend to write female characters given to introspection
and analysis, and this choice of narrative allowed me to foreground that
without, I hope, detracting from the hot, sexy action.<span style="text-transform: uppercase;"><o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US">Lana starts committing her thoughts to
paper after a man is found dead following a threesome with herself and guy
she’s recently met, Sol Miller. Eager to protect their privacy, Lana and Sol
agree to keep the kinky encounter secret from the police. soon, Lana suspects
sol may be implicated in the death but even so, she can’t tear herself away
from their developing relationship. Her journal is a bid to retain control as
her emotions threaten her stability, and to keep a record of events to help if
she’s called in for questioning. <span style="text-transform: uppercase;"><o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US">In one sense, Lana’s writings form a diary:
entries are dated and the point is to note the day’s events. but they are
partly a journal too because the point is not merely to record events but also
feelings.<span style="text-transform: uppercase;"><o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US">Using this format presented some
interesting challenges and opportunities for me as a writer. Relating events
via diary entries meant I didn’t need to close off or continue scenes as I
might do with a more conventional chapter structure. I could have small
sections focusing on Lana’s troubled mind along with diary entries which
resembled more typical scenes. Diary entries sometimes stop or start with Lana fretting
about the past or the future, or about Sol or her own behavior. The content of the entries doesn’t always
correspond to the date of the entry, as Lana struggles to find time to keep
track. At times I remind readers this is a diary they’re reading while at
others, I hope the story takes over and its method of presentation recedes into
the background.<span style="text-transform: uppercase;"><o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US">I used a similar framing device in my third
novel, <i>Split</i>, told from the point of
view of Kate Carter. The whole novel is effectively Kate explaining to her
boyfriend, via a journal, why she’s fled their life in London to take up a job
in a remote puppet museum on the Yorkshire moors. For the most part, the story
takes precedence and readers soon forget Kate’s initial motivations for
relaying her tale. By contrast, in <i>Undone</i>,
Idon’t allow my readers to forget for too long that Lana is writing her story. The
dated diary entry format helps but also, Lana, particularly in the early part
of the novel, is quite conscious of the act of writing and story-telling.<span style="text-transform: uppercase;"><o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US">Below is a snip where one entry ends and
another begins. The action here starts with Lana, having detailed the intense,
troubling sex she had with sol in the woods on the morning the body is
discovered, recalls their post-coital tranquility.<span style="text-transform: uppercase;"><o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US">“We edged together and he wrapped his arm
behind me, pulling me close. I lay sideways, my head on his chest, and draped a
leg across his. he twisted a finger in my hair. I listened to his heartbeat
pumping in his ribcage. The filtered sunlight was strengthening, dabbing my
skin with warmth. Leaves stirred around us while birdsong fluted and fluttered.
After a few minutes, sol’s breathing slowed. His legs twitched as he drifted
towards sleep. He stopped toying with my hair. We dozed for twenty minutes or
so. I slipped in and out of consciousness, tired but too uncomfortable to relax
fully.<span style="text-transform: uppercase;"><o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US">I’m remembering the scene as I write this,
and it’s as if I’m gazing down on a couple of time-travellers who’ve pitched up
in another era, naked and lost. The woodland looks so restful, the sleepers so
at peace. She’s pale, blonde and slender. He’s dark, broad and powerful,
holding her close, even while he sleeps.<span style="text-transform: uppercase;"><o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US">The woman lying there seems a different person to the woman writing
this journal. It’s late. I need to stop and try to get some sleep. I swam
thirty-six lengths today. It doesn’t seem to have tired me as much as I’d
hoped.<span style="text-transform: uppercase;"><o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<b><span lang="EN-US">Friday
4th July<span style="text-transform: uppercase;"><o:p></o:p></span></span></b></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US">I’ve made some good decisions in recent
years. Today, I feel the need to remind myself of these as self-recriminations
pile up in the wake of too many bad decisions. I swear I can feel Sol on me
after Wednesday, still holding me down. It’s been two days since he visited me.
He’s become a constant presence in my psyche. Everything I do, even this now,
writing my journal in an empty bar, feels like an act of resistance against
him, a fight to be free.<span style="text-transform: uppercase;"><o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US">I do not want to be consumed by a man, to
be lost in the chaos of lust and love. And yet the pull to abandon myself to
such disruption is enormous and terrifying.”<span style="text-transform: uppercase;"><o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<span lang="EN-US">If you’d like to know more, please hop over to my blog for <span style="text-transform: uppercase;"><a href="http://kristinalloyd.wordpress.com/2014/08/21/undone-the-beginning/"><span style="text-transform: none;">an excerpt</span></a></span> from <i>Undone</i>, and check out the other stops on
<span style="text-transform: uppercase;"><a href="http://kristinalloyd.wordpress.com/undone-blog-tour-september-2014/"><span style="text-transform: none;">my sexy September blog tour</span></a></span>.<span style="text-transform: uppercase;"><o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<b><span lang="EN-US" style="text-transform: uppercase;"><a href="http://kristinalloyd.co.uk/"><span style="text-transform: none;">Kristina Lloyd</span></a></span></b><span lang="EN-US"> writes erotic fiction about sexually submissive women who like it
on the dark, dirty and dangerous side. her novels are published by black lace
and her short stories have appeared in dozens of anthologies, including several
‘best of’ collection, in both the UK and US. she lives in Brighton, England.<span style="text-transform: uppercase;"><o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<b><span lang="EN-US">About<i> Undone</i> <span style="text-transform: uppercase;"><o:p></o:p></span></span></b></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US">When Lana Greenwood attends a glamorous
house party she finds herself tempted into a ménage à trois. But the morning
after brings more than just regrets over fulfilling a fantasy one night stand. One
of the men she's spent the night with is discovered dead in the swimming pool. Accident,
suicide or murder, no one is sure and Lana doesn't know where to turn. Can she
trust Sol, the other man, an ex-New Yorker with a dirty smile and a deep desire
to continue their kinky game? </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US"><br /></span></div>
<br />
<div style="line-height: 14.25pt;">
<span lang="EN-US" style="color: #333333; font-family: "Calibri","sans-serif"; font-size: 11.0pt; text-transform: uppercase;"><a href="http://amzn.to/1pXmiPC"><span style="text-transform: none;">amazon uk
paperback</span></a></span><span class="apple-converted-space"><span lang="EN-US" style="color: #333333; font-family: "Calibri","sans-serif"; font-size: 11.0pt;"> </span></span><span lang="EN-US" style="color: #333333; font-family: "Calibri","sans-serif"; font-size: 11.0pt;">::<span class="apple-converted-space"> </span><span style="text-transform: uppercase;"><a href="http://amzn.to/1yTHV5k"><span style="text-transform: none;">amazon uk kindle</span></a></span> :: <span style="text-transform: uppercase;"><a href="http://amzn.to/VBAyTc"><span style="text-transform: none;">amazon us kindle</span></a></span> :: <span style="text-transform: uppercase;"><a href="http://amzn.to/1oWaFV5"><span style="text-transform: none;">amazon ca paperback</span></a></span><span class="apple-converted-space"> </span>::<span class="apple-converted-space"> </span><span style="text-transform: uppercase;"><span style="text-transform: none;"><a href="http://amzn.to/1pGUkZC">amazon ca kindle</a></span></span></span><b><span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "Calibri","sans-serif"; font-size: 11.0pt; text-transform: uppercase;"><o:p></o:p></span></b></div>
<div style="line-height: 14.25pt;">
<span lang="EN-US" style="color: #333333; font-family: "Calibri","sans-serif"; font-size: 11.0pt;"><span style="text-transform: uppercase;"><br /></span></span></div>
<div style="line-height: 14.25pt;">
<span style="line-height: normal;">I'm just going to add one little thing to this, a song that goes awfully, awfully well :) Vida xx</span></div>
<div style="line-height: 14.25pt;">
<span style="line-height: normal;"><br /></span></div>
<div style="line-height: 14.25pt;">
<span style="line-height: normal;"><br /></span></div>
</div>
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Vidahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00351906347307887201noreply@blogger.com0