I hate talking on the phone. The ubiquity of twitter and WhatsApp has made communicating without speaking so much easier and means often you don’t…
It’s not for everybody, I know. Some people just don’t need or want to see your bits and pieces other than when you’re getting down to business, and some people don’t want their junk committed to the memory of their Samsung Galaxy.
Some girls like to be sent photos of your cock – and they will always let you know if this is the case.
This isn’t a cry to start taking arty shots if either person in a sex-based situation isn’t entirely up for it. You do you.
There is a belief amongst some people that if a woman expresses a positive interest in sex (even if that sex explicitly does not involve a penis), there are men who are sure that what these women really want is cock; they remember that they have a cock, and they pass on badly-taken photographs of that cock, patting themselves on the back because they have ‘cracked what women want’.
These men are incredulous when we are disgusted, when we ask them what the fuck they’re playing at.
Conversely you can be the quietest, modestest, bible-studying femme on Twitter and still some arsehole will show you his junk because…. Oh I dunno, they think their penis is the one true cock to turn you into the rampant erotomachine you were born to be?
In the last week, whilst I have been trying to increase/streamline/provide evidence of my web presence as a writer, I started worrying. Yes, the book we do not speak of has made erotica – and specifically BDSM flavoured erotica – more culturally acceptable as a genre, up to a point. We read these books in public and no one bats an eyelid, even though most of them know someone is getting something eye-smartingly painful done to them within those pages at any given time. And yet, when I link my extracts of works in progress, I feel resistance within myself. For this is dirty work, in anyone’s language. This is wet and sticky and I am very proud of my words, but there is still that kernel of doubt that I am going too far.
My body in winter is so much more than the sum of its summer parts. In winter, the exposure of my body is not a…
I It might have been our second date (my place, light bondage, showing off, Chinese food). I was straddling his waist. He might have said…
Four weeks ago my world imploded as my M decided he could not continue to be with me, after some familial intrusion into our personal lives that some of you will be aware of.
Ten days later, nursing my poor, shredded heart, I wrote this letter to myself.
I have since reread it twice, and though it still makes me weep, it also calms me enough to press on.
Some minor things have been changed, names omitted (the copy I have in my file uses my real name), but other than that, it’s as it was then.
Let me tell you about my muse, unintentional fueller of my fantasies. I do not think of him and feel my mind begin to wander…
I have a lovely and caring boyfriend who often brings thoughtful and charming gifts – a bunch of flowers in my favourite colour, chocolates that bear an uncanny resemblence to his chosen pet name for me, every brand of throat sweet when I came down with tonsillitis two months into our relationship…. He’s pretty wonderful.
Not long after we’d started seeing each other, he was going away on a business trip, involving an internal flight.