From the Vaults

The nutters who contact me on Facebook are getting weirder.

Now, I wholly accept that if you put half-decent pictures of yourself up and allow people to contact you then they will. It is also fair enough that English is not everyone's first language, and I never mind anyone introducing themselves. I should point out, though, that there is no mention on my page of a BDSM lifestyle and whilst there are some pictures of me in PVC and plenty of black, there's no direct kink, no whips or bondage, nothing to outwardly infer specific preferences.

These have just baffled me.

“im submissive miss and i wanted to ask if youd consider having a slave boy of your own to pamper and spoil yopu and do everything you say ?x”

If I were you I’d consider English lessons. This one, again, IS a native speaker.

“hai name, spelt wrong what u lesbian girls ? If U Lesbian girls I am Like and Love U Please connect me or add me oke Thanks”

That’s just really, really funny. In so many ways.

“Hi ***** how are you hope your well, i have to say that you look stunning in your picture, i hope u had a lovely christmas and i wish u a happy new year.

I would love to massage your feet for you, please note that am really good at massageing feet as i have done massage course and i know how to take away stress from feet, neck and shoulders.

i hope u dont mind me messageing you and hope u contact me for a chat, take care byexx”

This is very polite and a much better approach, but is anyone else a little creeped out by the idea of a foot-perv doing a massage course?

Here I have one that just says “hi” and three kisses…, there’s another further down the page that just says ‘hi’, no message subject, no signature and the profile picture is a shot of a car.

“how are u im sure ive seen u b4 x” – This is… interesting somehow? If most of the people on my facebook messaged me every time they’d seen me, the site would overload. Why, just…what?

“hi miss, thanks for your accept.
im an obedient and good looking guy, 24 years old and i would love to be dominated by a strickt women as lifestyle.. i would love to feel my life owned by another dominante women and i live as per instructions. if your interested in making me your doggy slave please let me know, i would do my best to please you miss.
thanks”

I’ll be the judge of whether you’re good looking or not.

“Hi **** how are you hope your well
i have to say that you look stunning in your pic
i hope u dont mind me messageing you

i would love to massage your feet for you, please note am really good at massageing feet as i have done reflexology course. i hope u contact me for a chat byexx”

Foot fetish reflexology? Wait a sec, is this the same guy?!

“Hello ms *****: when are you going to post more magnificent pix?”

When I do. And messages like this make me check the privacy box…

“Hi!! Nice to meet you I'm from spain and i usually go to London. you're pictures are awesome! hi!!!! First of all you have a really nice blue eyes!! when i come back, possibly this summer, i would like to meet you and have a beer(it's a good way to improve my english hahaha ;-)
are you from london?
do you have a band?
really nice your pictures!!”

Holy enthusiasm Batman! And drinking with me will not do your English any favours: it doesn’t mine, anyway.

This is my favourite, though. Let it be noted that this guy was added because he’s a friend of a friend of a friend, although I’m not sure he knows I actually know who he is. He’s also a native English speaker, so mocking the delivery isn’t quite so cheap. Strange enough, he contacted me out of the blue a while ago and after a brief introduction proceeded to inform me that he was a virgin, wished no to be so and asked for advice. Well, for a start, how about not telling random girls on the internet?

He then proceeded to contact me for advice on a series of two and three day relationships, repeatedly ask me to put him in touch with various people (to which I occasionally obliged and they found it HILARIOUS. I’m sorry, I’m cruel, haven’t we established that?) and continue to bemoan the aforementioned virginity and wanting to ‘lose it’. Then came this.

“you know these pictures of in shiny if i can lose it to you i let you put then high heals anywhere you like :P xxx”

ARE. YOU. SERIOUS.

If I’ve translated this correctly - and your guess is as good as mine there – I think he’s referring to some recent pictures I posted of me in some extremely high fetish heels, to an album labeled ‘shiny’.

What I’m gathering then, is this… this thing, boy, whatever it is, is offering me its virginity and in return for my time will allow me to do whatever I like with my second-favourite stilettos.

Firstly, what kind of offer is that when I have volunteers for the same without the compromise of sex? Do you think you’re being daring and novel? Jog on, sunshine.

Secondly, hold on a moment, do you have ANY idea what you’re suggesting? Do you know who you’re talking to? I’m guessing not, I’m supposing it’s outside the imagination of anyone who can’t spell heels. In a world with no such thing as a safeword I’d be half tempted to take him up on that and leave him too traumatised to proposition anyone else he doesn’t know.

What hurts my brain is this fine specimen will undoubtedly eventually find someone to rid him of this pesky virginity and is clearly too stupid to properly understand contraception… That’s right, unless fluke and fate intervene, this will breed.

There you have it people – the future of the human race.

PRIDE - Even the Internalised Sort

I fancied you when I met you - oh, didn’t we all? Six-foot-something, heavily tattooed and pierced, one of those ridiculous to-die-for bodies, you quickly became the heart throb of our large cluster of misfits. I knew of at least five girls who had fallen head over heels for the tough guy looks and gorgeous smile, so I stuck to being your mate instead. Like I had a chance.

Maybe it felt once or twice like there was chemistry... I put it down to wishful thinking. At eighteen, you in your mid twenties seemed far too sophisticated. You had a girlfriend (have had ever since, for that matter) and too many girls after you, most of whom saw me as the safe platonic friend to ask “do you think he likes me?” and it was a stab wound, every time, to know you’d fancy them over me.

Only... I was completely, utterly wrong, and weren’t they all. Because under that hardcore exterior and behind closed doors you are THE single sissiest boywhore I have ever had the pleasure of, and my god have I had the pleasure of you in every way I can think of.

So next summer, whilst they are swooning over you in your vest top and cut-offs, I will be grinning at the memory of you in stockings and ribbons and frilled lace; in rubber; in cuffs and soaked underwear with the word ‘slut’ scrawled across that lovely washboard stomach. You ARE a slut, my slut, and a brilliantly imaginative and enthusiastic one at that. When they finish fishing for compliments and come to tell me that you’ve said they’ve got nice eyes, or you like their hair, I will smile and “oh really, wow”. I’ll be dying to tell them the things you’ve said to me, about me, about yourself, offered to do or in fact done in my name, but I’ll content myself with remembering how you sound whimpering, praying, begging not even for anything specific but purely groveling because I am your Goddess and you adore me.

And whilst I’m attached now and you should probably sort yourself out, I will forever take delight in remembering that you were my bitch.

GLUTTONY - The Other Pleasure

I am sick of food spoilsports. I love my food, I have a brain in my head and live a reasonably healthy life - I do not need to be told how many calories in all my food, or how many grams of salt or fat, those patronising little red yellow and green markers going “should you really be eating this?”

My weight stays pretty constant, and I’m happy with it. I can gain or lose it if I try; I sometimes lose or put on a few pounds without noticing and either work to correct it or straighten my routine out until it fixes itself. I’m ‘fortunate;’ if you consider size ten a goal, to have a fairly high metabolism and a taste for healthy (ish) food. I rarely balloon unless on medication, but if I did I wouldn’t be that bothered.

Friends of mine who have been or are overweight, by their own admission, choose to eat unhealthily. They do not eat three mars bars on the trot (I swear someone told me they did this although I can’t remember who) because they’re unaware that it is bad for them: they do it because they want to, and I say good for them to an extent. As such, printing calorie values in big bubbles on the front of packaging does nothing. No one has been sitting there presuming a Toffee Crisp is a healthy option and then goes “256 calories? Really? I had no idea, better have an apple instead.”

It’s not people wanting to be healthy I have a problem with - it’s the nannying. I happen to think big is beautiful... not more beautiful than small, not less, just itself - but if people want to diet, they should have support. What gets to me is the constant haranguing of “have you had your five a day? Have you had eight glasses of water? Are you sure caffeine, after lunch? Holy god girl, carbs after midday, are you mad? Crisps?! I don’t think so. THAT’s not wholegrain, is it now. Well, you can put salt on that if you like...after all, it’s your cellulite, not mine...”

Yes, it is my cellulite. And I love it, and I love everyone else’s too. Every time I see a celebrity circled in a magazine for having put on a roll or two, I think good for you, maybe you’re actually happy and not living on cayenne pepper and lemon juice. In any case, I would rather see your lovehandles than your collarbones.

The bottom line is the people plastering ‘only 305 calories’ on my cous cous have no idea about the rest of my diet. If they did, it would not be “look, green light, only 305 calories!”, it would be “this is only 305 calories, so make sure you grab a banana or a biscuit or something because you haven’t had any breakfast and won’t eat til seven.” Not everyone needs to eat less, and it’s not for the Government to get in the face of those who do.

Ditto to the ‘daily health tips’ I seem to have accidentally signed up for. “We know it’s cold, but why not swap that large hot chocolate and cupcake for a skinny latte and a bran muffin?” Because I wanted hot chocolate. Plus I can’t have the cake or the muffin, so I’m going to have my hot chocolate with whipped cream, marshmallows, a flake and a shortbread on the side, and you can fuck off.

FOR GOD'S SAKE

REALLY?!

"inhaling Your gorgeous fuck juice"

It's not even the same guy. I have a new tag: fucknoun. Please now, boys and girls, don't make me use it ever again.

Truly Perverse.

NB: This post refers to roleplay, I am not being incestuously abused thank you Mr/Ms blog-trawling-concerned-authorities.

I went through a stage of having very niche-fetish phonesex with a friend, and this one came up.

"How's my little girl?"

"Sleepy."

"Do you want a bedtime story?"

"Yes please."

"You know what I want to hear."

I drop out of the breathy lisp that makes me sound half my age. "I can't, Tom*, it's weird."

"I think we went past weird a long time ago," he laughs."Come on, princess."

Somehow, it's not quite right that this is the only context in which I have ever said these words. "I love you, daddy."

"Good girl."


*Names changed to protect the god-honestly wrong in the head.

St. Kink

I credit much of my current self confidence and my current attitude to one man. Before him, I was a wallflower slowly peeling from the brickwork and beginning to lean into the open air. After a few mere months of him (in real terms, ten days or so in his company) I had blossomed into... well, a raving pervert. Not so sure blossomed was the word I was looking for, now!

I’m not for a second saying he corrupted me. More that he, in gently revealing his own...tendencies, gave me a forum to reveal my darkest desires and showed me that it was alright to want things. Alright to experiment. Alright for things to go horribly wrong and if you ended up having to cringe/laugh hysterically/burn the evidence/call the paramedics you chalked it up to experience. As such, I tried more things for the first time with him than I can possibly put number to (although one day I might try)and know I won’t hold back on things I want to do in the future.

And my my, he was into some weird stuff. I say was, I presume I haven’t put him off any of it. And when I say weird, I mean... there are fetishes, and there are the fetishes that are taboo even amongst the fairly open minded, and he is off the end of that scale. And slightly to the side: there were things he came out with which were just baffling. Not even disgusting, just plain obscure, like he was making them up to find out if I’d say yes to everything.

I did.

And I did because I trusted him. Not to look after my heart, not to turn down hot local girls determined to sleep their way up the scene, but to be honest about it and not put me at risk. To stop when I said stop, to be open to my own little quirks and fantasies, to be patient whilst I learned and to laugh when it went horrendously wrong.

It was like a great big BDSM/Fetish checklist. We did pretty much everything I’ve every heard of, and a few things I’m convinced he made up. One or two maybe I did. At one point he genuinely had an Excel spreadsheet written up, because we knew our time was limited and you have to be organised to fit all this nonsense into a couple of hotel weekends a month. Sadly we left it with a few boxes yet to tick, although the rate we added to it, I don’t think we’d have run out of ideas in a lifetime of room service and individual Molton Brown hair and bodywash bottles.

This was how I went from having done virtually nothing to virtually everything in half a year. And I must say, I enjoyed all of it. The sex was fantastic, both in terms of technique/results and the balance of tenderness and humour with which it was conducted making it completely okay that I wasn’t loved, committed, or a ‘girlfriend’... it was fun, I was having a fantastic time and accepted that there was nothing to be ashamed of.

That’s not to say he was perfect: he was, after all, doing all this in spite of being in love with another woman; he was consumingly pretentious, vain to the point of parody; once we genuinely thought he’d given me herpes and on more than one occasion we had blazing rows that lasted days. But rare to find a man who could flatter me without being smarmy, teach without being patronising, idolise me without being lecherous... Given the volatile nature of the concepts we played with it could have gone so horribly wrong, but he took my fragile self esteem and handled it with such care that our twisted pastiche of a love life became the most enjoyable and fulfilling thing I had ever had.

I thanked him a while ago, sincerely, for giving me the safe learning environment which has opened my mind and, dare I say it, enriched my life. And for doing so without once letting me feel used, dirty, hurt or anything on that spectrum. What he considers common decency has been above many of the people I’ve encountered, and I truly appreciate it.

“I’ll be alright when you go to write your autobiography then? Like a madman, obviously, but a decent one?”

“Oh yeah,” I replied. “When I write my biography, you’re going to come across as the Patron Saint of Perverts.”

Black and Blue

Just has a skim read back through this blog. Ahh dear, what's happened to me in a short year or so? From the boy-shy wall flower who presumed she wasn't interested in anything on the kink spectrum to... this? My, what interesting parts of myself I've uncovered. Very publicly, for the most part (but that was one thing we DID know I liked).

So what have I been up to? Partially this...


Although I feel I must point out that was entirely asked for, consensual and I dare say enjoyed. I'm probably convening all sorts of things by posting that and will probably be ganked for it but... I'll deal with it, I'm sure!

Dealbreakers

Now, my limits aren't where some girls' might be, and my standards may be a bit odd, but I am NOT sleeping with anyone who says things like this, and this is PASTED from IM, for god's sake:

shot deep inside one of your hungry fuckholes

..Let's take a look at that phrasing. "...shot deep inside one of your hungry fuckholes..."

...Shot?
..hungry?!
...FUCKHOLES?! "one of"; indiscriminate?

...Hunrgy fuckholes? No, sorry, just no.

When I didn't go to dance

It’s one or two in the morning, we’re watching girl be very elaborately tied up and suspended from what looks to my uneducated but willing eyes a lot like the frames children’s’ swing and slide sets are attached to, or a giant version of the rails I hung clothes on at Matalan. We watch, and talk about it, his hands subtly circling my wrists, my collarbones, the places his fingers suggest ropes should be. I turn to put my hands on the stair rail and watch more intently, him kissing my neck, my ears, the side of my face, my lips when I turn my head, and grinding the jut of his hipbones, his hard cock, into my pvc skirted ass. They see us watching, no one has a problem with this. We’re at the side of a dance floor, in the path of one of the main doors with friends and voyeurs and the people who DID come to dance, and we touch and kiss and sweat and I do not care.

Hours of dancing, talking, standing outside watching others smoke and chatting, him holding my hand, taking it back from men who kiss it in greeting defensively, comfortably half my owner and half my pet - one last time, another entirely the time before - and I am yet to learn his second name. I watch them presume we are a couple with the feeling I am more bothered by this than he is. Hours later we retire to the couples’s room, surprisingly clean leather sofas and enough space to sit down, this time. I sit in his lap and we kiss. He unpins my hair and the grip gets lost under the sofa, the will to care lost in quickly bruising bites and nail scratches. For the first few seconds his fingers are too rough but I slow him down with retaliation and then I can accept him. It’s peaceful, slow but urgent, the DJ plays Bauhaus and we grind.

Kisses on my collar and he slides to kneel on the floor. I go to stop him, he shouldn’t... why shouldn’t he, why shouldn’t I allow myself that? So I take a deep breath and I do, heedless of the thoughts, the place, and the other people who could be watching if they wanted. Its dark enough that I don’t have to notice but I choose to know they’re there, I know they can see his lips press against me, his tongue reach out to touch me. Perhaps they see me shiver; perhaps no one notices us. The warmth of pleasure I was expecting to need to imagine, the shock as he hooks his teeth into the piercing and pulls. Licks again. stops to bite the skin and i know i shouldn’t enjoy that pain but i do. I know i shouldn’t want people to see but i do, and it would be senseless to pretend I don’t. How long did I spend pretending to enjoy things I didn’t..?It doesn’t matter now, here with him and when I’ve had enough I’m up on that sofa with him, persuading myself to put his cock in my mouth. I can’t kneel, that’s crucial, and I doesn’t bother him in the slightest. He arches his back and sighs ,that smile of pure bliss which says this is good enough. I am good enough, and I can do this.

Told You So

Done, done and done, but wasn't it fun?

I'm not ecstatic, I must say, but chin up, some good memories and get back out there. There are many many things to do and no doubt people to do them with. Plenty of things to write up retrospectively too, so nothing's quiet on the blogging front.

Things I Like Being Hit With

Hands - as spanking, obviously, not someone taking a swing at me. A
good slap on the arse or the thighs isn't going to do you any harm,
and there's something beautifully degrading about it.

Riding crop - gently gently, but I do enjoy the sensation, the noise,
and the look of my partner of choice holding one of these.

Tailed whip/flogger - my tolerance for these is surprisingly high, and
I find used softly or striking with further up the body rather than
the tails, the 'thud' rather than the sting is quite pleasing. Can
also be safely used on the back/shoulders - a good place for me.

Improvised items - If you're being particularly cheeky and your master
has to grab the nearest book/hairbrush/ruler/whatever to give you a
smack with, you had that coming.

and

Paddle - I actually genuinely don't like this feeling, which is why
it's great. There's no 'mmm' to the 'ouch': it just hurts. So if I've
really been bad and you want me to scream, cry, beg you to stop,
there's your weapon.

This is all very "oh please, don't throw me into the briar patch," isn't it? Is that why I liked Bra'er Rabbit so much?!

The Berlin Incindent

Wow, it's been a while. Sorry about that - much more doing, much less writing about, but truth be told I prefer it that way so I'm not THAT sorry. Still, I've peen promising this story so here it is, in all the detail I remember. Every word the truth.

Berlin was weird.


I always felt that, not drinking, I'd missed the whole 'mad night out in a foreign city' thing. Hand on heart, I planned the Berlin weekend for entirely different reasons, but there was a boy there I had unfinished business with. That is to say, for huge amounts of kink, experimentation and general messing about, I'd never had actual sex with him. In fact, I was still in the rather uncomfortable situation of only ever having had sex with one guy (sort of, that serves for argument's sake) and felt an immediate need to break the claim my ex of six years had over my sexual experience.

So, yes, I'd wanted to have sex with him. I'd dithered and delayed and missed my chance - so I thought - when he moved back to Berlin in the summer and had met other people, moved on, dismissed all of it to dream-like memory

But I was going to Berlin, for just one night. Could I say no to one more night of dancing, laughing, and whatever the night brought, with him? Like so many happy memories from London? not a chance. so despite a migraine, a post-migraine panic attack and having been awake for 38 hours, I bade my mother goodnight and meandered off to get the u-bahn, dressed to the nines. (For the record, my mother doesn't let me walk to the shops in my hometown alone, Christ only knows what was going on in her head to let me 'meet a guy I know, back in time for breakfast!' in Berlin...)

Not sure why I was surprised when he turned up, on time as always. Tall, skinny, femininely gorgeous as always, strutting down the platform in jeans tucked into knee-high boots, gloves, belted-coat and scarf, all black, laying starkly against his pale skin, the sweep of blonde hair, the bright blue eyes lined with kohl and mascara. for the same record, my own black coat covered a floor length but thigh-slit PVC skirt and a red vinyl corset top, and for a while we just stood there, in the tube station ,drinking in the strangely effortless attraction that had always crackled between us, however unlikely we were. All the pleasantries and small talk were somewhere between breathy and entirely breathless, just context for the tone of voice to tell each other what we actually wanted to say

We took a walk by the river, chatted in a way we hadn't managed since a weird London weekend when a mutual friend had ended up dead and everyone else hugely shaken. Time was a healer, and the distance even moreso. He was home, and I was there to enjoy just one night of the city he loved.

It was just us, too, which made it all so easy. None of the bitchy hangers-on he'd acquired in the London clubs, no drugs, no one particular friend who runs around licking people.

We started at Boheme Noir, a notorious yearly fetish event with some of the most bizarre cabaret I've ever encountered. Flashes that spring to mind now include a guy doing hula hoop with glowing things inside a giant bubble, a weird live-sex thing about faeries, fire and a woman in a business suit sitting on an actual stuffed alligator

We danced, we drank red bull, we laughed at a montage about boobs in horror movies and sang johnny cash songs and acquired a friend who was wearing a judge's wig. To say the night had taken on a hallucinatory feel doesn't even nearly cut it.

From there we moved to KitKat, still where the original was and apparently famous for being the most hedonistic club in Europe. It's unmarked, a doorway behind a gate down the side of a building, with a bell I was too scared to push. We arrived at three or so, when entry cover should have been the unfriendly side of thirty Euros but we were young and beautiful - we smiled at them and they signed us in, checked our coats and waved us on. Apparently the dress code is fetish or naked, enforced to the extent that if you turn up in street or club clothes they hand you a sort of tie dyed sarong thing and make you strip. You then get the German equivalent of "towel skirt!" shouted at you by the regulars.

KitKat was all sorts of crazy, neon and swirly with sculptures and sex gear and too many levels and side rooms. Without a firm arm around my waist I'd have been lost in seconds, and I'm not sure I'd have wanted to be found. suddenly I have a sweet drink and a lollipop, I'm dancing happily to music which is far more pulse than tune amidst the naked and the bizarre, everyone as at home as everyone else, people talking and meeting, dancing and kissing, a timeless freedom within which i feel that the norms of outside... of my outside, not theirs, from what I've seen of this city... are truly forgotten.

We get tired, retire to the chill out room to roll about on inflatable furniture, beneath an angel statue which is missing its genitalia ("It's hole-y! see? Holy?" laughs a cheerful German guy who looks like a musketeer).

We meet, make friends with and both alternately make out with a truly breathtaking boy of about our age who's wearing startling bright blue contact lenses, and it takes me an hour or so to work out that's not something which usually happens. Nor, I suppose, was laying intertwined with them both, although favouring the company I'd arrived with, absently talking to an Italian guy and translating because he spoke English but no German, whilst watching someone on the other side of the chill out area being fisted by a procession of people, none of whom I'm convinced she knew. I don't call that chilling out, really.

Suddenly, or maybe over hours, who knows? the mood changed. At once I'm alone with my... date? Is that the word? and wordlessly, the decision is made. On what could be - but isn't - our last meet up, I'm giving that voice that chimed up in my head the first time I ever set eyes on him the answer it's always wanted. Hand in hand, we shun a number of more logically appropriate places because they're overcrowded, too cold, too noisy. We spot a caged seating area, twelve feet or so above the dancefloor and awkwardly scramble up the narrow blocks that lead to it, all decision making and forethought required already over with.

So, what I've spent arguably a couple of hours or a couple of years trying to second guess happens there and then, behind bars and with an audience of a packed, sweating dancefloor of hundreds and a working bar, if i look one way, and throbbing total darkness if I look the other, underneath black-lit neon swirls and glowing ethereally violet under blacklights. He reads my hesitation but I push the nerves away: now is right, this is all so right in its utter wrongness.

It hurts. It hurts so fucking much, and even if my mind is totally ready for the actual milestone, my body is nowhere near ready for the physical necessities but all I can think, with a determined smiles as the pain slices as high as it's going to, is 'there. I am myself again now.I can do this because I want to.' And I do want to, and soon it becomes enjoyable for both of us. I still wouldn't by any stretch describe it as fundamentally good sex: he is held back by nerves and I am kept in check by discomfort and inexperience, but we soon regain our old dynamic of roughness, nails and teeth and I hope, if any of those watching from the level below (and they ARE watching) commit an image to memory, it is of me astride him, head back half because I'd thrown it there in abandon, half because he's yanked it there with his hand in my hair, his teeth sunk firmly into my neck and our chests pressed together.

We waited a while, after, in case we got heckled or applauded or something, I'm not sure, and then mostly fell down the padded step-blocks we'd used to ascend to wander off and get drinks. We laughed and chatted again, back to our easy company, until I realised that it was light outside and that, being November, this meant I had likely missed breakfast and had half an hour's journey across central Berlin for an earful from my mother and a day of sightseeing. we said our goodbyes, I think he called out 'see you in London'; I didn't turn round.

Winter morning sunshine is a funny sort of light to be delirious in, it doesn't help the lucidity when you've been awake for forty something hours. It was all in danger of becoming one of those things I merely imagined I'd done: after all, it played back in my head like something I'd read about, not something that happened to real people, least of all me. I quickly text one or two safe people, confessing the brief details, subconsciously pleading for absolution. I was cold, dizzy, tired and hungry. The sex had left me bleeding, i was conspicuously hiding a plastic outfit under a coat. it wasn't a nice time to be trudging around a strange city on my own. Still, i made it to the hotel in time for a shower (at which point I found feathers and glitter down my bra, always signs of a good night) and immediately took back to the street in jeans, t-shirt, a hoodie and a clean face.


Weirdly, at something like 11 am, I was blatantly propositioned by a middle aged guy, just randomly in the street. I had a moment of sheer mortification - the word 'slut' seemed to be lipstick-ed onto my forehead, or he could still smell the night on me through the hotel soap and the Chanel No. 5. Maybe he'd been there, maybe I wasn't as anonymous as I felt in the country I consider my home-from-home. Maybe it was just like every other time that's happened to me, magnified by the perceived enormity of what I'd done.

So... so what? I drank hot chocolate, stayed awake for another fifteen hours before a brief sleep and going back to work. I analysed, and was baffled, and recount the story occasionally to those who are easily shocked by my less-scandalous behaviour, purely to amuse myself.

I've never regretted it for a second.

True Mascochism

I spend my entire life bemoaning being people's second choice, being second best, being second priority etc etc, because it hurts too much. Someone suggests an actual stance as a secondary partner...

...and I consider it. If that's not real masochism, I don't know what is.

Not Cut Out for This

I love my body.

Okay, no, I don't because it doesn't work and I'd like not to be in pain for five minutes, but I love my body in the way most people don't like their own.

I'm a decent height and reasonable weight without much effort. I've got disproportionate, child-sized hands and feet, an almost unnaturally narrow waist for my size. My boobs are small but perfectly formed (and probably not as small as I joke them to be. In a decent push up bra, they're adequately distracting). I have a little soft curve of pudge under my navel, curved hips, stocky but muscular thighs and the best arse you'll see all week. None of it's perfect, but it's a nice woman-shape and onlookers can like it or fuck off.

The hinderances, then, if you want to call them that: I'm very much the shape for corsets. So much so that I have to buy them very very small or they just don't do anything, I already have that extreme shoulders:waist:hips ratio.

Any restraints which would use the hands or feet are not going to work on me. They don't account for such tiny hands and feet and I will slip right out of them.

Any shoes with a fetish bent, or even a decent heel, need to be custom made. Now, I'm not arguing they should make platform stilettos for kids, but it gets expensive!

I have to wear gloves at fetish clubs, or I get the hand-pervs. As it is, I get an immense amount of aristocratic kisses on the hand. I daren't ever dance in bare feet when I get tired, I made that mistake once. Bare, high arched, size two feet are a little too much of a temptation for people that way inclined, it seems.

That said, I'm never short a human foot stool, a shoe shine, or a massage, so really - why complain?

Flingers

I have had the great pleasure in my life to encounter more than one flinger.

Know what I mean? Are you one yourself? The type of lover who will pull an item of clothing, normally your underwear, off and fling it haphazardly into the middle distance. Sometimes they don't even know they're doing it, something's in the way and they are removing the obstacle. Others, it's a very deliberate "you won't be needing these..." In either case, it's fun and the noise as such items hit the floor (usually) a metre or so away is delicious. Flingers, never stop, you are truly fantastic.

This, however, is why my flatmate remarks when doing the washing that I seem to get through twice as much underwear as I reasonably should. The logic behind this is that I never put the same underwear back on after sex:
A) It feels a bit weird, and
B) I normally can't find it.

Also, come laundry day, I have normally found at least one tangled lace item on top of my wardrobe, behind my radiator or bunched up in a bit of my curtain. Sorry, grim but true. At least you now know they were relatively clean.

On a final point, just don't fling condoms. I mean, I know there's used as in rolled on and taken off and used as in used, but even the former... come on, that was dry-clean only.

On Being a Dodgy Perv in an Overcoat

I bring you this blog from an exhibition, where I'm very well dressed, handing out business cards and causing designer handbag envy. Makes it all the more delicious, I feel.

Ahhh, there's nothing like a proper knee length belted mac for making you feel and look like a grade A pervert. Particularly when what's visible below said mac is freshly-shined black moulded rubber stockings and seven and a half inch stiletto heels, as it was when I deigned to horrify a perfectly respectable woman in a hotel lobby.

I'd like you to picture the scene, because I find it incomparably amusing. Dressed thusly -


I held my head high and took three brave steps out of the lifts into the hotel lobby… where we were faced by an average middle aged couple. The bloke, bless him, gave us a cursory glance and walked on. The woman gave us a genuine triple take.

The first look was barely registering our obstruction of the path to the lift.

the second was a gawp of enthralled disgust. A thinly veied 'people like you really exist?' Indeed. And the fact neither of us are the fat, balding loner men associated with such stereotypes but in fact, may I say it myself, relatively attractive examples of the species probably did nothing for her confusion.

She made herself look away, of course, and then couldn't resist a look back. The last one was definitely fascinated contempt, for some reason aimed far more squarely at me than my actually more rubbery date, and then when she attempted to avert her eyes, they went to the floor, got stuck on my shoes and I almost tripped over it as I continued to saunter along, suppressing a lot of giggles.

Was all that really called for? Other than the overtly sexual connotations, there was nothing obscene or visually offensive about it - so the thought process is then 'what am I missing out on, here? What pleasures do they know of that I don't?'
A fair few, if that face was anything to go by, you miserable trout.

It's half eleven, madam, we're consenting adults. Let's face it: what you don't like about this picture is that I am having more fun than you. Does my composure in such hip tilting shoes threaten you? Does my comfort in attire that speaks such filthy volumes about my proclivities unnerve you? Does it make you uncomfortable? Good. Does it maybe turn you on a bit? i do hope so.

So here's to you, Ms. Face like a slapped arse - not only were you the source of much immediate amusement which i'm still having a chuckle at several days later, but I thought about you. Oh yes. However many hours later, drowned in pounding music, surrounded by darkness, enjoying the admiring stares of strangers whilst being thoroughly fucked, what remained intact of my outfit still on, apart from where it counted, I thought of you. I thought how absolutely horrified you'd be by the entire scene, let alone my inadvertently involving you in it. I knew you'd be entirely appalled and just maybe the tiniest bit jealous, and nothing turns me on quite like that. If only you knew.


Other hilarity includes being bumped to a suite bigger than my entire flat because they'd originally allocated us a room with two single beds pushed together. The temptation, had they not been cooperative, to spill the contents of two suitcases of kink onto the reception desk and inform them that really, a double room would be better would have been overwhelming. And it might have sidestepped the moment when room service knocked a bottle of latex polish off the table. Or we once again spectacularly failed to notice something conspicuously dodgy in full view before ordering food. And actually, it's just occurred to me that I may have been upside down on the sofa reading in none too conservative underwear and a duran duran t-shirt when they came in, and that on the scale of the weekend's weirdness, this was normal enough to have escaped my attention until reflecting several days later.

My turn

Fetish clubbing tonight, which should be fairly brilliant, followed by a weekend in the city making the most of hotel facilities and as much pervery as you can fit into two reasonably sized suitcases. I sat on mine to get it done up and, on triumphantly padlocking the two halves of the zip together, realised I hasn't actually got proper clothes with me. Probably irrelevant, I doubt I'll need more than what I'm travelling in.

A chance, tonight, to dredge up and tick off a few of my long term fantasies. Not that things so far have been by any means one-sided, but we've mostly gone for things he's suggested and I've thought were a great idea, or decided were worth a try and ended up loving. I think all of tonight's set up was my idea first, and this is pleasingly new to me. I'm excited.

What's not as new to me as he thinks is the club sex. I'm not hiding much, it's just that when playmate du jour was first warned of my relative inexperience, his reaction was interesting, and I may have been laying it on a little thick since then. You know, the "why, no... I've never done that..." which I might possibly have lead him to the impression covers sex with an audience. White lies, white lies, I figured I'd be best off not telling the Berlin Story, particularly as aforementioned playmate and I were already seeing each other when I had that little interlude.

I haven't even posted any club sex stories yet, have I? Shame on me, bad girl, etc. My very next post, promise.

Payment in Kind

Actually, my handmade custom rubber outfits (enthusiastically donated by playmates who would enjoy my wearing them as much as I do) are worth a damn sight more than the Louis Vuitton purse your fiance bought you. And I'm not making dinner.

Arse: Knowing my elbow from, etc.

It takes a lot to confuse me about my sexuality.

I like men. I like women. I like all shades of everything in between. I seem to be able to top and bottom and D and s, I'll try everything else that's going and if I like it, I'll do it again. That's about the size and shape of it. No confusion there.

He and I are supposed to be all about kink. My pure-sex attraction is supposed to be about kink. So when we wake up in the early hours and the odd brush of skin turns into a warm hand, the press of bodies, soft lips but no teeth and we screw like that, gentle and slow and electrifying, and then lay there kissing and stroking hair and cuddling close, intertwining bodies until we fall asleep or can't survive any longer without coffee...

...and I like it...

...this confuses me.

Some People have One People..

I was having a bit of an internal whinge (which became an external one, for one person, sorry about that) today about how I never seem to be able to find what I want and, in the process of explaining, realised I already have it.

I want love. I want sex, and orgasms (not one or the other, as so easily becomes the case). I want companionship, and conversation; hugs; friendship; company, love of the deserved and spontaneous AND unconditional varieties. I want lust and warmth and happiness and, whilst I see and argue for polyamory as a completely valid lifestyle choice, I seem to think I need to find all of this in one person.

How daft would that be? You risk becoming a recluse, alienating/ignoring everyone else. If it goes wrong, you've lost it all. Talk about having all your eggs in one basket.

I have all those kinds of love, I have company and peole to do things with, I have the sex (sporadically, and hey, if you want a good job done, do it yourself),I have people I can talk to about different areas of my life. Ok, I have to remember who knows what andI can't always do the bits I want with the people I would like to do it with but it's all there, right when I want it. If I fall out with someone, or the relationship changes... that's one or two spacesto fill, not all of them.

I have everything I want. I just need to remember what that is.