Saturday, 18 December 2010

Nurse Harlot

I felt much better yesterday but Virgil got ill.

He texted: I'm on my way home in a minute. Please make sure it's warm!!

Then: I'm outside in the freezing cold in flipping G__...

Half an hour later there was a knock. It was Virgil, too poorly to get his keys out of his pocket. Shaking with cold, he staggered to the sofa. I helped him with his duffle coat and laptop bag and he burrowed, speechless, under the duvet I brought him. I brought hot Ribena with honey and Lemsip in the special mug I am not allowed to drink coffee from.

He cheered up as he thawed. Eventually he felt well enough to eat a pizza and watch BMX Bandits, although he sweated and shivered through the night.

Virgil has a theatrical side. Why am I so hot and cold? he moans. I tell him to stop being a drama queen. Then I get annoyed with him when he tinkers with an email I've asked for his help with. I discard the draft he has changed only to find I've lost a very carefully composed message and am furious. Never discard a draft in Gmail!

Virgil must have reinfected me because today I'm getting worse. At least our timing means we are both almost certain to be well for Christmas. There may even be sex.
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Thursday, 16 December 2010

Post-party cold

I am in bed with a cold. I could get up but then I'd feel rotten. I don't have any work so this doesn't even count as a sickie. Better to stay here, listening with half an ear to something about Confucianism and scanning blogs and websites. I look at a discussion about poly relationships on Informed Consent, check in to Quiet Riot Girl to find that she likes Joni Mitchell too. I feel so out of touch with my kink when I visit IC.

Our sex parties have come and gone, too much work to write about. They really were a splendid success, although we were too ambitious and worked so hard that we were too tired to properly enjoy them. Beds were broken, igloos and sleighs were made and fucked in, clothes and glitter went absolutely everywhere. I feel an inner glow of satisfaction and pride at having created something memorable and good. Now it's someone else's turn. I want to be entertained, to arrive as a guest and leave at the end, not worrying about clearing up and who's going to take the sheets to the laundrette.
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Monday, 6 December 2010

The No Sex Diaries

I am too busy organising a sex party for thoughts of sex.

Can that be right?

I'm thinking instead about snowflake decorations, Turkish Delight and whether we have enough safe sex supplies. None of these things are intrinsically sexy and nor is the very onerous admin that is the hidden 9/10 of the iceberg.
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Sunday, 5 December 2010

Facebook Envy

I can't stay away from Facebook but it mostly serves to make me feel bad about myself. It's like picking a hangnail or worrying away at a mouth ulcer, painful but you can't help yourself.

If honesty and candour were permissible - and they're not - my Fb update would be: Your life looks better than mine.

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Sunday, 28 November 2010

2Sexy4Us II

Nobody should fuck in a Holiday Inn unless they're exploring their dark side. The small room was dingy: badly lit and the mattress lumpy and soft. There was no soap in the bathroom. I showered and put on underwear that was only there for being taken off again. I considered putting my clothes back on, turning left out of the bathroom door and leaving. Instead I turned right and went into the bedroom.

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Thursday, 25 November 2010


There is no direct relationship between promiscuity and sexual expertise. Some people really do just blunder from encounter to encounter, learning nothing on the way. In an ideal world membership of contact sites would be limited to those who can pass a basic practical exam in technique. Masturbation, oral, penetration, anal techniques (optional) and sexual health (mandatory).  In the real world you chance it every time.

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Oh! That's our neighbour...

I say: Oh! That's our neighbour...

I am looking at the Coco de Mer website. There are pictures of leather bondage harnesses. A few years ago they were at the top of my wishlist. Today I am sighing over a pair of underbust knickers. They are exactly what I have been looking for but now that I have found them I cannot afford them.

I have been trying to tell you that for about a year, says Virgil. Your profound lack of interest in other people will be your undoing.

Virgil and the designer are Facebook friends already so we spend a few minutes looking at pictures of him and his flat. That's exactly like our ceiling, says Virgil.

I am secretly relieved that I was quite friendly and nice about the neighbour's total cooption of our bike room to make his exhibition stands in these last few days. If I'd known what he made I might even have offered to help.

What a lickspittle.
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Saturday, 20 November 2010

Lest We Remember

Without some serious wondering I couldn't tell you how many people I've had sex with. I'm old enough not to have to. I'm old enough not to have to tell you how old I am either.

Half the reason is that most of these experiences were mediocre. I don't remember most of the dinners I've had either. I remember the best and the worst. The rest are forgotten. I like the thought of sex that may for me have been a memorable experience being unremarkable for someone else. I hope that my memory forms a significant moment in at least one forgotten stranger's sexual history.

However, when I say that I remember the worst, it usually takes a trigger. I don't carry bad sex memories around like a miasma of negative sexual energy. Reading Quiet Riot Girl's memoir of an awful dinner date that led with crashing, horrified inevitability to excruciating sex, however, brought up some real horrors.

I had talked to Charles at the pub and at a party or two. I was hanging around with a couple of mates, both nannies from the north of England and older than me. I was a bit lost, back from college after only one term, living at home and waiting for my Dad to die. Charles and his friends were what you would call young professionals. One of my friends had a big crush on one of them, although it didn't look like turning into anything. On some level I knew that they didn't think much of us.

Charles was handsome in a pretty, fussy way. He wore pink, stripy shirts with the collars turned up. His blond hair was pushed straight back and he went to the pub in his work suit. He was a young corporate lawyer. I don't think I liked him much. He was just there and I decided in a rather adolescent way that I would fuck him, not because there was any strong desire to fuck him but because it was something to do. I think I was numb at the time. My first love had been unrequited. My dad was dying. My friends were not my friends anymore.

There was no seduction, just a pretense that I had missed the last bus and would stay rather than take a cab. I would sleep in his bed. He made a point of saying that he had to work in the morning. Oh that's ok, I said. In an effort to deter me he then smeared an obscene amount of moisturiser on his face. We lay in the dark in his bed. I remember the smell.

Well why not? I asked, after a while. I think he answered that he didn't particularly want to and that it wouldn't mean anything. I said Does that matter? and I suppose he agreed because we fumbled around for a bit, he put on a condom, fucked me passionlessly for a few minutes and came. I hadn't expected anything so I wasn't disappointed.

I woke up in the middle of the night to find Charles's arm around my waist and pulling me against him. He fucked me hard from behind. It was hard enough to be sore but I didn't stop him. We slept again. I don't remember anything after that. No more memories of Charles.

This is the closest to nonconsensual sex I've ever had. Technically I think one could call it mutually nonconsensual. I won't trivialise rape by saying that I raped him or that he raped me but I'm not proud.

That was probably the worst sex of my life. Not the worst sex physically, and there were no consequences, but I was at a low point and probably shouldn't have been having sex at all. Celibacy was another tactic I tried later on in a bid to avoid soul-destroying sexual experiences. More on that another time maybe. I really need to go and do something cheerful now.
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Won't Someone Shave Me From Myself?

Facial hair is a vexing subject. With age comes facial hair. The whole subject annoys me on so many levels.

Virgil often misses a few hairs when he shaves. He explains that the electric shaver won't get the soft ones at the top of his cheeks but he can't be bothered to use a razor. Then he tells me that I usually have a few stray hairs like that on my face too.

It's true. Whiskers sprout relentlessly. I think of the Little Prince and his daily searches for the baobab seedlings that would overgrow his home planet if they could. 

But I cannot see the underside of my chin very well and the light in my rented bathroom is - of course - inadequate. Even at the bedroom window with a magnifying mirror and tweezers, the insipidness of London daylight often fails to disclose the hairs. It is usually in the mirror of a lift, car or restaurant loo that I realise I have grown half a moustache or am sporting an incipient mutton chop.

How does it make me feel? I don't know - a weird woman, a bit grubby and inept, as though I'd been walking around with blood on my trousers or laughing with food between my teeth. When I see old women with soft, hairy chins I feel protective.

Femininity is a facade, an impossibility. It's like painting the Forth Bridge.

This morning Virgil comes to talk to me in the bath and notes with some amusement that my legs are currently hairier than his. It's true. I don't feel like doing anything about it. My armpit hairs are a good inch long but that's on purpose. Shaved armpits look wrong to me, like something blind winking.

And my pussy: noted for its hirsuteness by some folk. I think, 'What the fuck?' I have had laser therapy to permanently remove my bikini line and a good inch or two off the top of my bush. It's a neat triangle when trimmed. In the last year or two, liking the feeling, I have started to epilate around my arsehole and as far forward along my labia as I can stand it. (Epilators, for the uninitiated, are quite hardcore.)

I fantasize sometimes about having a hairless pussy and once called Olga Mitova to book a full wax. She's renowned in London for her depilatory skills. Unfortunately another woman answered and explained that Olga was on holiday so she was standing in for her. I made my excuses and didn't call back. I also remember the ingrown hairs I suffered from before I discovered the Turkish ladies with their laser machine. What's sexy about a hairless mons that's covered in spots?

Hair is personal and political. When I try to analyze it I just confound myself.
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Saturday, 6 November 2010


I can't get full and I can't cheer up. Periods.

At breakfast Virgil asks, "Isn't there anything you would like to do? Anything at all? Don't you have any ambitions, any ideas or projects you would like to get started?"

I read love, concern and frustration in his expression.

"I would help you, you know," he adds. "Even if it was just something small."

I fill my mouth with the last of my food so that I don't have to answer immediately. Then I say thickly through sausage, "I can't answer that question right now. It's complicated."

I chew a bit more, swallow through the lump in my throat, and say: "I'm not entrepreneurial like you." I cannot meet his eye.

There was a time when I was really inspired by what I was doing. It was in the last year of my first degree. That was 13 years ago. Then I think further back to being 19, in the final year of my dad's illness, when I wasn't able to think of starting anything that would finish after he died. That he was going to die was a certainty and the awareness of it was a curtain across the future. I think "I'd like to have a family," but I don't say it because I don't know if it's true.

I am tired of doing nothing. I am tired of doing the wrong thing.
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Thursday, 4 November 2010

e[Lust] 21 is here!

Welcome to e[lust] - Your source for sexual intelligence and inspirations of lust from the smartest & sexiest bloggers! Whether you’re looking for hot steamy smut, thought-provoking opinions or expert information, you’re going to find it here. Want to be included in e[lust] #22? Start with the rules, check out the schedule and subscribe to the RSS feed for updates!

Important e[lust] update: e[lust] will be going on hiatus for the holidays. The editions for November and December would both occur around the holidays and I know I'll be short on both submissions and judges as well as personal time. e[lust] #22 will return in January, with ample advance warning, so please make sure you're subscribed for updates!

~ Featured Post (Lilly’s Pick) ~

D/s Without the D/s? - This is one of those situations in a real time D/s relationship where much of the “fun” aspects of the D/s needs to be stuffed in the closet for a bit. And for us, it’s not a great time to be either a masochist or a sadist. We can deal with that.

~ e[lust] Editress ~

Yes, Jelly Sex Toys Can be Dangerous - Even if a jelly rubber toy says “phthalate-free”, it still can contain toxic chemicals that can cause skin reactions in some people. These toys are still non-porous and can harbor dirt and bacteria because they cannot be sanitized.

~ This Week’s Top Three Posts ~

Unfortunately, this edition has no Top Three picks as I didn't have enough volunteer judges. If you'd like to volunteer to help, visit this page to find out more info and ensure that the Top Three picks continue.

See also: Pleasurists #101 and #100 for all your sex toy review needs.

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The Electronic Eye

Virgil and I stay in bed all day on Monday. It is our sex anniversary and we are celebrating. The drugs are out, the toys are out. We are loving and fucking each other. I have cane marks on my thighs and bum.

We're in bed looking at porn on my laptop (straight porn) having previously been aroused and inspired by an intense whipping on The Training Of O. Mainstream porn rarely does anything for me. It's not that it's offensive: it's dull. Is anyone having a good time? Not the well-hung porn actors trying to push their semi-flaccid cocks into the holes of cooing porn actresses. 

All I can see is the process. I hope for the occasional porn blooper - an unguarded facial expression or something that suggests some kind of thought process, emotion or feeling between the participants.

Virgil suggests we look at the webcams. There are couples who will perform on demand. We peep at a dozen of them. We look at couples sitting on their beds, sometimes talking to each other, fiddling with their webcams, smoking cigarettes or just staring off, waiting for someone to come online for a 'live' encounter. 

Finally we see one we like the look of. They're young, pierced and tattooed. Good hair. We click the link and then we're on and they can see us too.

"Hi," she says. They're American. They smile and ask, "What would you like us to do?" 

I have no idea what I want them to do. I feel shy and wish I'd made a plan. 

Virgil says, "Play with him," and she starts to stroke her partner's cock and balls. He kneels and she bends her mouth to him. He starts to get hard. They're looking back at us and say, "Why don't you do it too? Let's see you." But we're juggling a laptop on a bed in a dimly lit room and that's not really going to work so we say, "Thanks, but we're going now," and break the link.  

And in case you're wondering (I would be) four minutes of live webcam cost $20. This is the first time I've paid for sexual services.

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My sister-in-law's right-on Mom and her wife came to stay, bringing a large bag of Lifestyles lubricated condoms. Jane's Mom came out when she split up with Jane's Dad when Jane was a teenager. I wonder where she got them. They're not in boxes so maybe they were being handed out somewhere

"I'm not sure why she brought them all the way from America,"  says Jane. "We don't use them. Would you?"

Virgil and I look at each other.

"Not if they're latex," I say. "But I know someone who would. Let me take them off your hands."

So that's one less thing to buy for our sex party.

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Saturday, 30 October 2010

Sperm Sandwich

It was book club last night.

I may have had some influence in the selection of Emmanuelle. At the last meeting I related how Emmanuelle 2 had played a significant part in my adolescent sex life. I cannot remember how I came by the book but it became a key text in my small library of erotic fiction. Its lavish descriptions of glittering, exotic orgies and fantastical fucking machines were spun out in my teenage fantasies. The pages became well-thumbed. I kept it under my mattress close to hand.

Dylan has brought the copy he inherited from his uncle. It's falling to bits!

However, the original Emmanuelle book begins as an erotic novel (one in which not a lot of fucking actually goes on) and ends with a interminable rant in which one character expounds his philosophy of eroticism. Mario is the older Italian count who in the second half of the book becomes the luscious ingenue's guide. The second book takes up with Emmanuelle as Mario's protegee. There is a potential orgasm for the reader with every chapter, which is to say that it is more pornographic and more fun.  

We start with a discussion of typefaces, noting the bland sans serif of the new edition and lamenting the loss of the curvaceous Goudy typeface and the apple motif of the original paperbacks. I have a feeling that this is a sign of changing times and that squidgy, bubbly serif fonts are going to be making a comeback.

Somebody intellectual suggests Emmanuelle is more a work of philosophy wrapped in erotica than vice versa, that it is rather badly written and that the philosophy in it is incoherent and not the work of someone who really knows about philosophy (a true academic). I think: "It is what it is. I've read worse." I think about dull sex bloggers who can't help it but they just can't write a paragraph that doesn't have the words "problematise", "articulate" and "multiplicity" in it. 

There is a nodding consensus that the overt philosophising is because it is a French book and that is what the French are like, and that unerotic words like 'mucous membrane', 'sperm' (instead of semen) and 'ejaculate' are probably the fault of the translator. To this day I like to call come sperm instead of semen. I wonder if I picked up the habit reading Emmanuelle 2.
A small silence when I express my satisfaction with the descriptions of Emmanuelle's lush pubic hair and lack of bra.

There is a discussion about paedophile moments in the story. In the first chapter Emmanuelle has sex in front of an adolescent brother and sister who share her first class cabin. In another scene she fellates a 13-year-old Thai boy. One person disapproves strongly. (He doesn't like the exoticism of the book either or the idea that eroticism must be escapist and not everyday.) Virgil suggests that a fantasy location in a book is a safe place for subjects on the edge of acceptability. I say "But Emmanuelle is only 19 herself" and Edward  says that at 13 it would have been the best thing ever to get sucked by Emmanuelle. I think of myself at 13, wanking like fury over her adventures.

One thing on which we all agree: probably the best line in the book comes from Mario, who states that the woman who is truly erotic is the one who at lunchtime tells her son to prepare a sperm sandwich for his little sister. Not even Monsieur Bourgeouis Morality has a rejoinder to that.

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Saturday, 23 October 2010

Knicker Shame

When I was little my mum bought my underwear. That arrangement came to an end after a humiliating incident on a school trip. After breakfast on the last day of the holiday, my teacher waved a pair of my grimy (they'd lain forgotten on the dormitory floor all week) white polyester bellybutton huggers over her head and said "Now whose are these 'orrible undies?!" while the entire year fell about laughing.

I was too ashamed to admit that they were mine and, with my new clothes allowance, I started buying my own knickers, but not very often. I favoured brightly coloured bikini multipacks from M&S. They were cheap and didn't hold together very well, or maybe I just wore them hard. There were always many more interesting things to spend my modest clothes allowance on. Knickers came last. My underwear was generally in an execrable state throughout my teens, full of stains and holes.

"RH, I think your period's started," said a friend who had just watched me run around the track during a PE class, my useless gym skirt hiding nothing. But when I went off to the toilets I found that what had been taken for a blood stain was just a rather large hole in my green knickers which my pubic hair poked through.

Worse was when my French exchange's mum offered to mend my ragged underwear. Not having bothered to check, I had underestimated the length of my stay and run out of knickers. Anyway, it's a French custom (apparently) to launder the clothes of house guests so that they leave with clean clothes. I was forced to give up my dirty knickers to be washed but I did not allow her to mend them.

Nowadays my knicker draw is like this: three or four pairs of rather nice, expensive silk and lace knickers and the rest utilitarian black (and a few white) cotton. These knickers cost about 20p from Primark. They're practically disposable. I just throw them away before they get too baggy and awful.

The trouble is that anything that is not a natural fibre - so 99 per cent of underwear these days - makes me itch. Even a few percent of lycra disagrees with my pudenda. It's terribly unfair and annoying and also just quite wrong in other ways that I don't have time to write about now. To be continued.
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Friday, 22 October 2010


Like neighboring planets on different orbits, Virgil and I have been out of alignment for at least a week.

Virgil usually wakes with a nice stiff hard-on. He presses up against my arse, enjoying the feeling of his flesh between my thighs. Theoretically all he would have to do is push a little bit harder and he'd be inside me. I wake up feeling fretful. Recently I am never horny in the morning. We curl up in a loving ball but but my response is friendly, not inviting.

No new work has come in for weeks, only torpor-inducing graveyard shifts at the offices in which I accumulate money by my mere presence. It's like moss growing on a stone. At least I blog while I'm here.

At the moment I really don't know what I'm doing with my life. My libido is flagging. I talk to myself about it. I say: "My cunt feels like a very small animal that doesn't want to be disturbed. It is hibernating. It just wants to be left alone. It feels uncommunicative" Then I feel silly for talking to my body in this way.

I get there later. There's no physical springboard like a morning erection; I need a mental trigger. Once I start thinking about sex my body usually follows. I'm reading a history of the sex trade in London and a few tales of Georgian whoring are usually enough.

Or a gander at one of the teasers keeps sending me. I once had a subscription to The Training Of O. Now they know I'm a pervert and are waiting for me to succumb to my desire to see young women bound and tazed with industrial vibrators.

But Virgil is very hard to catch later in the day. He gets preoccupied with the many strands of his work life. His sexual energy is higher in the mornings. This week it is a joke that we never want sex at the same time.

Finally today at 2pm, after lunch and before I have to go to work, we coincide.
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Wednesday, 13 October 2010

Does Liking Helmut Newton Equal A Fetish?

Last time I saw Obi was at a kinky party a couple of weeks ago. It was towards the end of the night. The room was half full of people chatting. On a double bed at the side, some people were playing. Here and there, a few spankings were being administered. Obi is a photographer and hangs out with a lot of fetish folk, who he photographs. By all accounts a womaniser, Obi claims not to have any fetishes. I ask him in that case what is he doing hanging out with all these freaks?

He grins and says well, maybe he does have a bit of a fetish. He can't say what it is exactly, but he likes Helmut Newton.

Actually, so do I, but does liking Helmut Newton equal a fetish?

I think not, unless it is the thought of Helmut Newton specifically that makes your heart beat faster.

I think that if you have a fetish you know exactly what it is. I have one, and it's this.

And I think of my fetish for spanking as more than a liking or a taste because I can look at almost any image of spanking and, like one of Pavlov's dogs, I will get wet.

Except for this one:

While I was once prepared to go to considerable lengths for a spanking, now I haven't had one for far too long.

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A Total Fucking Slut For A Spanking

(I wrote this after an encounter with a German businessman in a hotel room in 2008)

I saw myself in the mirror, bent naked over the dressing table of a hotel room off Brick Lane. A panoramic view of a sunny late afternoon sky and the City to my left. Two threads of mucus stretched like fairy lights from my upper thigh to where my inner lips poke out. I was stupidly turned on. I had had my trousers and knickers pulled down and been up-ended without ceremony across the knee of a German businessman to have my bum spanked hard and my arse and pussy probed.

I met Hans at the bar in his hotel. I wasn't attracted to him and thought he was provincial and conservative. He was wearing a really awful leather jacket. However, I was horny and in enough need of a spanking to agree to play with him. He was in to role play. The story was that I had opened a special bottle of his wine and spent the day idly drinking it instead of cleaning the room. Very naughty, and unrepentent, I was to be taught a lesson. Actually the scenario worked well because I was able to struggle and protest. It can be a bit of a cop-out, being spanked, when both parties know that you fucking love and get off on it. 

"Ein, danke mein Herr... (thwack) Ah!... Zwei, danke mein Herr..." and so on.

Unfortunately the intensity of the initial scene wore off long before we were finished. By the end I didn't like it. I just wanted to go. 

Hans was concerned that his cock might not be big enough (did I care?), and was it as big as the cock of the other Dom I had recently played with (no)? And would I put my finger up his arse (no)? Was I still in touch with my exgirlfriend so that she could join us (no)? I must come back tomorrow and be given an enema (no!)... 

I left with the foul, perfumed taste of body lotion in my mouth (he had asked for a massage, which I used as an excuse to come out of role), transferred from my fingers to his cock to my slightly unwilling mouth. I stood at the bus stop spitting, then took a cab.

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Monday, 11 October 2010

All Things Come

I was turned on all day yesterday. Under the desk my cunt's pulse beat. I kept feeling myself get wet. This desire had built all week. I thought about Sunday morning and slow, sweet fucking. I imagined lying spread open, aching and waiting for his mouth and hands, my expectant skin become hypersensitive. 

Usually Virgil is sleeping when I get home from a late shift. I undress in the bathroom and creep into bed, trying not to disturb him but glad that he is a light sleeper. He almost always wakes and wraps himself dreamily around me. 

But last night for a change he was in a bar around the corner with friends and I joined them. It was late when we got into bed and started to kiss but we couldn't wait for the morning. We kissed deeply in the dark and his fingers found out how wet I was. We touched and touched. He laid his cock in the entrance to my cunt and we lay there and felt what that was like.

"I want to go down on you," he said, and put a pillow under me, lifting up my cunt and spreading my legs. I looked down at him in the dark and relaxed into the pleasure of his mouth and hands. "A few minutes more," he said when I told him how I wanted his cock. "I haven't finished here yet." So I lay back and let Virgil take me closer and closer to coming until it seemed very close and I floated on the edge of it.

"I want you now so badly," I said. "Please fuck me."

He just moved up my body and pushed straight into me.* My cunt enclosed him and we moved together. I thought of water and boats moored together at night, rocking on the swell. 

"Oh, you're so wet," whispered Virgil. "Yes, I'm fucking you, fucking your little hole. I'm fucking you, my little whore, and I'm not going to stop fucking you."

The feeling grew up in my cunt and all around my clit until I came with no effort. Soon after we curled up together and slept. This morning there were cramps and my period had come. 

It's past midnight and I'm on another late shift. I wonder if he's awake and thinking about me coming home in an hour and wanting to fuck again.

*This is a true story, so we were indeed having unprotected sex last night.

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Saturday, 9 October 2010

Has anyone seen my period?

My body is waiting.

The breast tenderness has been and gone, as has the low mood. My belly is swollen, but that could be from eating too much.

'How late is your period?' asks Virgil in bed this morning when I get back from the bathroom. I consult Periodtracker on my phone.

"Only four days - I'm not worried," I say.

We agree that four days is nothing.

I have a pregnancy test stick in my sock drawer. I wonder if other people do. The other stick was used a year ago when I got my dates wrong and for several hours was struck by the conviction that I was pregnant. I wasn't and I doubt I am now.

Virgil and I have almost-safe sex. After two years we still use condoms but he sometimes allows himself the luxury of an early thrust or two. Liking the feeling of his skin too much, I don't stop him. It's only for a few seconds. (I think of going on the pill so that we can enjoy what other couples mostly take for granted but I don't like the idea of taking hormones.)

Of course everyone knows that's not safe. There are outrider sperm swimming around in pre-come. It would be so rich to get pregnant doing something my teenage self would not have countenanced.

The annoying thing is that we have a much-awaited date with Beatrix on Monday. If it comes now I'll be in full flood.

I hope it doesn't come yet.
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Wednesday, 6 October 2010

A letter and a swift response

We talked at length about what to do and eventually, last night, we wrote to Miles and Anna.

Virgil did almost all of the writing. Although he was insistent that I sat next to him while he typed, he can be excessively particularly about communications and sometimes simply cannot bear to let anyone else get a word in edgewise. Eventually I got impatient and went to read a book, but I was more than satisfied with what he wrote.

The letter was topped with a whole paragraph of compliments, some self-deprecating humour and a sarcastic joke, but the meat in the sandwich was this:

"After Friday night we both went away with the intuition that something didn’t perfectly gel. Of course intuitions can be wrong, so please do tell us if we’re off the mark. But if there happens to have been some unmet objective or some overstepped boundary, the door is open to mention or talk about it should you feel comfortable.

We acknowledge that it’s pretty déclassé for people in group encounters to discuss their experiences, so forgive us for a bit of Californian psychobabble, but as ethical sluts we prefer to communicate rather than leave things hanging."

This morning we had a reply from Miles, reassuring us that they think we're amazing too and that they were both tired, Anna had her period (we knew this) and Miles was nervous, which I think is the one word that whole carefully crafted fishing expedition had been designed to elicit.

They say a problem shared is a problem halved. Hopefully this will be the case when we next meet.
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Tuesday, 5 October 2010

Three's company, four is complicated

Finding the right chemistry between four people eludes us.

Miles and Anna came over last night. We played with them a month ago in a hotel room and knew we liked them. Virgil said that he had not wanted to fuck Anna that time. By preference Virgil rarely does fuck on the first encounter. I would have, but for some reason Miles's cock had not gotten very hard, which we didn't dwell on. They're both funny, clever, charming and sexy. They made an effort and brought good wine, which we pretended to drink. I made risotto and a plate of fruit: plums, figs, grapes and nectarines.

After dinner and on the sofa, Virgil started things off with Anna. I wanted to savour the moment and watch them. I asked Miles if he had any voyeuristic tendencies. He said he was more of an exhibitionist. Virgil and Anna asked why we weren't kissing and, obediently, we started to kiss and touch. He was being a bit heavy handed around my throat, which I remembered from last time. Aside from stroking over his jeans, which indicated a certain swelling although not a raging hard on, I tried not to pay too much attention to the state of Miles's erection. On the advice of Virgil, I didn't want him to feel self-conscious about it.

In the bedroom we undressed Anna first. She liked being held down by the three of us. Virgil slapped her face a few times. He and Miles took turns at going down on her. I joined in variously wherever it felt right. I don't enjoy pairing off as much as I enjoy the sexual configurations that three or four can make. While Miles licked Anna his cock felt harder, and I took his cock in my mouth and held his balls. He seemed to like that.

I lay on my back. Miles went down on me. His tongue was insistent and fast and before long he started pushing his finger in and out quite hard. I was looking at Virgil and Anna beside us. They weren't fucking but were kissing deeply and rubbing against each other. I gave in to the orgasm that Miles was insisting I had, aware of Virgil and Anna briefly stopping what they were doing to watch me. As I sat up I saw that Miles's cock was totally limp between his legs.

I confess, that put me off. Virgil says that some men simply don't get very hard but you'd think it would have had at least a bit of blood in it. If Miles and I had been alone I would simply have asked him. Instead I chose the coward's way and said nothing - and did nothing either, because it's rather embarrassing to not be able to make someone hard. And with that impasse the evening soon came to an end. There was a little conversation and then Anna remembered that she had to get up early the next day. Our goodbyes were cheery rather than intimate.

Poor Virgil, who was really enjoying himself and really wanted to fuck Anna, who really wanted to fuck him. I almost suggested that he should meet up with her on his own but that's probably impossible. We're not sure what to do now. We're thinking of writing to them to see if we can work it out, although it's going to be a tricky letter to draft. Other people's relationships are a mystery. The answer could simply be that Miles is not interested and Anna is. It's hard to imagine another encounter with them though - nothing ventured nothing gained.
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Saturday, 2 October 2010

A date with Beatrix

Drinks and food with Beatrix on Wednesday. I am delayed, although I still stop to put on mascara and lipstick, and turn up late in pouring rain. She is sheltering in a very small doorway with an umbrella that is actually a sunshade and doesn't keep out water.

In the bar we share a chaise longue. I've always associated them with sex. As a teenager I had a series of fantasies about being seduced by an older couple which were inspired by an older friend's chaise longue. This one has been covered in leatherette. It's overstuffed and bouncy, like perching on a taxi seat. It's not possible to lounge against each other, or even to touch.

Maybe this is why our conversation feels flat and superficial. We have a getting to know more about you talk, in which we swap many details of our lives but nothing important. I admire the little wings of liquid eyeliner that Beatrix always has. I tell her that I can't get the hang of it. Beatrix says that she just does it automatically now and doesn't care that she always gets them a bit uneven but feels better for wearing it.

I don't need to bond in this dry, companiable way. What I want to say is how it is part of Beatrix's mystique for me that she wears liquid eyeliner. That it was one of the first things I noticed about her look and that those tiny angled wings symbolise a particular type of femininity that she embodies and I do not.

We finish the evening at home. Virgil is away working. Earlier he made a point of asking me not to reveal to Beatrix that he is staying in a Travelodge.

"I have some pride," he says.

Beatrix tells me that when she goes away on work she often stays in such places, and even in people's spare rooms, but I don't tell.

We kiss on the sofa. I love the feeling of her body and her small waist, but I'm tired and anyway I know that I am not going to take her to bed tonight. From her kiss she seems to be holding back and waiting. Virgil has said I can. Beatrix has said she would like it. I would too, but not yet. Instead I tell Beatrix that we must have her over really soon. I hope that is enough for her and that she won't change her mind.

It's still raining outside. I call her a cab.
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Tuesday, 28 September 2010

Sadly There Is No Such Thing As A Safe Adventure

I'm thinking about the contradiction between my desire for novelty, adventures and growth and my fear of losing Virgil and being lonely and sad. Risk versus safety. There's nothing original in here and it's not particularly clever either, but I am talking through my own hat and not someone else's.

Take extreme sport: occasionally someone gets unlucky but nobody expects to die white water rafting. Would you knowingly risk your life to bounce at the end of a rubber band over a car park? I never have, but not because of the perceived risk. Actually, take TOURISM. Tourists like to feel as though they're having a lovely adventure, exploring and doing exciting things - like going on a trek and exploring exotic locales - but most so-called independent travellers don't want to be in real danger. Off the beaten track? Only with a guide and someone to carry their bags.

I have never asked Virgil whether he needs security. I don't know what his answer would be. I believe he is fearless in that regard, or at least philosophical. He has always described falling in love as a risk one takes. I have had moments of insecurity in this relationship and at times I question whether our relationship will last. Maybe we will pull in different directions and not be able to be happy together. It is more likely to be that than a lack of love.

There is no beaten track to stick to in a relationship, just the certain knowledge that by not taking a few risks you have only a stultifying, claustrophobic deadlock to look forward to. Who wants that?

The truth is that I really love the idea of spending the rest of my life with Virgil (or A.N. individual). As long as we were happy what could be nicer? I love being in love. My first love was unrequited and sad. It took 20 years to properly fall in love again. How many true loves can a person have in their life?

My parents loved each other. I don't think there was ever a question of them splitting up and, if my dad had not died I believe with certainty that they would be together now. My mum did tell me once that there were occasions when she thought she'd made an awful mistake. Then she said that all relationships go through times when you could split up. The relationships that endure do so because the people in them have committed to sorting out their differences.

I'm not advocating people staying together in misery, mutual incomprehension and dissatisfaction. It just bothers me in a really childish way that so many relationships - probably most of the people I know - seem to end after a few years.
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Saturday, 25 September 2010

I Don't Believe In The Gaze (neither does the Office For National Statistics)

I'm really enjoying Quiet Riot Girl's blog but I wish she'd tone down some of the academicism (is that a word?). Well, to be honest, she makes me feel ignorant and lazy. Her blog is immeasurably better than mine.

Part of me wishes I'd stayed on at college after my first (cultural studies) degree. Maybe then, like QRG, I would be able to bandy around words like hyper-objectification and post lengthy deconstructions of Armani adverts . Where does she find time to write such tracts?

The other part of me finds academics who write about sex boring and annoying. I object to the application of academic or specialist words to something that we should be able to talk or write about in everyday language. What you end up with are a few essentially like-minded academics quibbling over definitions and nuances, while everyone else goes about their business hooking up and getting off (or not).

I have to remind myself that there are probably vast tracts of knowledge of which QRG knows nothing. She probably couldn't even point with a finger to where her ascending colon is.

I'm also struggling with the result of research by the ONS which says that only 1.5% of the population is gay, lesbian or bisexual (or willing to identify themselves as such in their survey). It seems unbelievably low, even if they did ask 238,000 people. They only talk about gays, lesbians and bisexuals, mind. I don't know if they've included anyone who's ever had a brush with the same sex or all those straight political girls who like to call themselves queer.

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Friday, 24 September 2010

Sleeping alone

I am sleeping alone tonight between newly washed sheets. The window is wide open the way I like it.

My body is hotter than Virgil's. I say it is because I move around more in the day. I am mammalian; he is a reptile. He cuddles me to get warm in the night and we argue about windows and covers. Soon it will be time to disagree about central heating.

I am tired but unwilling to sleep. Virgil is often annoyed at how easily I move between awake and asleep. He says he suffers many hours of insomnia while I snore and mumble away beside him. However, I think I must rely on him to actually get me into bed and to turn off the light. I just cannot do it tonight.
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Wednesday, 22 September 2010

Self-Induced Inner Turmoil

When I do something it's ok. When someone else does the same thing it is not ok. The problem is that while I understand my own motivations entirely, I don't understand the motivations of others. Instead I assign to them passions and agendas of my own concoction.

Feeling in need of something pretty to wear, I went shopping for a dress today but instead bought a bottle-green scarf for Beatrix whose birthday it is. I am thinking about Beatrix's request to see me without Virgil. I owe her a letter but haven't had the chance to really think it through. Virgil and I discussed it last night and with that conversation I gleaned a few more details of what had previously passed between them.

I sit in a coffee shop with my laptop to think and write about it. It's the first shop of its kind on our street. A couple in the corner smile at me and in my misery I give them a blank look back. Twenty minutes later I realise that I know them from somewhere but it's too late.

Yes I would like to see Beatrix alone. More specifically, I would like to have sex with her, just the two of us. The obvious consequence of this is that if I see Beatrix alone then so can Virgil. He hasn't expressed much of a desire to do so although they often do things on weekends when I'm at work. He told Beatrix recently that it would be better if we saw her together from now on. The next day she asked me to go for a drink. I am thinking: maybe we could see her together and both see her alone at times when circumstance made that desirable or necessary.

I feel slightly tearful when I think of Virgil and Beatrix going to a hotel, whenever that one time was, to have sex. It doesn't matter that they had to do this because Beatrix lives in a tiny room filled with clothes and antiques and has only a single bed to lie down in at night. The need for a hotel on Virgil's part was due to the preference I had expressed to not know when and whether he slept with other people and for him not to bring them home. He'd rather tell me what he was doing. He'd have no problem with me seeing Beatrix alone.

Beatrix says she's mostly interested in girls. Apart from Virgil, she only played with other women at our sex party on Saturday. I find the idea of beautiful, feminine Beatrix, who is a dancer, being gay or at least mostly gay wildly appealing in a way that has nothing to do with Virgil. She also has dandruff and dirty fingernails, by the way. I wonder at the significance of my buying her a woolly scarf. It seems it is possible to feel simultaneously intrigued, attracted, protective and suspicious of someone.

Virgil comes into the shop looking for me. He thinks I am upset because he wouldn't come outside when I told him how nice the weather was. Today feels like the last day of summer. I tell him that I came out to drink coffee and write because I needed some space. We start to talk it through and then we walk out into the sunshine, discussing as we go, and take our open relationship to the park.
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Friday, 17 September 2010


Our party is tomorrow!

We are rushing around buying last-minute items: flowers for the toilet; sock suspenders for Virgil; fairylights; a hosepipe. It's all in a big pile on the living room floor.

I went for a drink with Beatrix a few days ago. We drank red wine and talked a mixture of chat and telling each other about ourselves. It's been a long time since I've been so physically attracted to another woman. I find myself having random thoughts about the beauty of her cunt. I think I get a bit more of an idea of her now. She is attracted to us as individuals but also as a couple. Beatrix could be perfect, or dangerous.
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Saturday, 11 September 2010

Rio's 2

As I said, years passed. I knew about Rio's. I met the occasional person who went there. I even met Suzanne Portnoy.

Then at a sex party organising committee meeting we were thinking of sociable things we could do between parties and a trip to Rio's was suggested - a Fleshmob!

There were twenty of us. We filed into and filled completely the small entrance hall, where we paid at a glass-fronted kiosk and were handed scratchy, grey towels. Some last-minute confusion as random people paired up for the benefit of the men. As a single woman B paid £5. As a couple T and I had to pay £10 each.

In the women's changing rooms we put on our outfits. Amused glances from other patrons. In the spirit of the kind of hen nights I don't get invited to, and for ease of identification between those who didn't know each other, we had decided to distinguish ourselves as a group by wearing water-themed accessories. Swimsuits were optional. My own attire: a captain's hat and a parrot perched on my wrist. Beatrix wore a sailor hat. Towels.

After some nervous hanging around in the corridor, a lot of giggling and Virgil being sent back to take off the underpants that he had kept on underneath his raffia Hawaiian skirt (he also wore a lei and a flower hairclip), we passed through the beige and brown lounge area. People in towels were watching a football match on widescreen TV and eating chicken and chips. At the beige bar we deposited our bottles of cheap cava with a Tahitian-looking woman in a sarong.

Rio's isn't large. As a group we were taking up a lot of space at the bar and attracting attention from the regulars. I clocked some women around, and a few couples, but there were a lot of single men scoping us with interest. We moved, en masse, to the largest of the jacuzzis, only to find we had acquired some new followers.

The pool was waist deep and full of bubbles. Jets of bubbles against the skin felt tingly and numb at the same time. At times it was had to tell whether bubbles or arms and legs were brushing past. We were crowded by the new friends who wanted to hang out with us. The foaming water hid what was underneath, but fixed facial expressions and twitching biceps made it clear. I started to think about zombies.

Beatrix, Virgil and I hung together. Virgil was mortified to have a hard on and we teased him about it. I told him how lucky he was to have two women with him. The pool got too full and began to flood so we moved again, sampling in turn the sauna, the steam room and the small jacuzzi, in which we made the acquaintance of Arnold. Arnold is an elderly gentleman with a spinal problem. He walks with difficulty on crutches. He has been coming to the spa for many years for relaxation and illustrates perfectly the varieties of use people make of its facilities.

We decided to check out the private rooms.  We drank toxic cava out of plastic cups and compared notes. Then we took turns. With Virgil's fingers inside me, Beatrix's tongue felt warm and rough. Her saliva ran down my buttock onto the tan leatherette. Occasionally some rude person would knock on the door. It was against the rules posted on the wall and we ignored them. Virgil went down on Beatrix while I stroked her body, then I sucked his cock and she licked his balls.

Tube lighting, foam pads, brown paintwork and a panic button make private room number one at Rio's without doubt the least sexy place I have ever played in. We didn't linger - but it had to be done.
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Trust And The Other Woman

An update on my post 'Fucking Awful':

My iPhone recovered.

I didn't get thrush.

The someone Virgil was having dinner with was Beatrix, with whom we have recently been enjoying threesomes and sauna sex. Virgil also had sex with her once before. It was early this year I think. He only told me because I asked him about it after we had had the threesome.

I already knew that Virgil and Beatrix had been lovers at some point. I had asked them just as we had all started to kiss and talk of leaving the club we were in. I was not surprised. I had suspected but had preferred not to ask. However, as we were all about to go to bed together it seemed better to be open. I did once have a threesome with a couple, having illicitly fucked the man first, and I would not do so again.

There had been some slight hesitation in Virgil's voice or expression whenever he referred to Beatrix for as long as I can remember. I remember a bus ride the three of us took home from an evening out (it was the first time Beatrix and I met) and being aware of an atmosphere.

I hadn't realised it was while he and I were living together.

Virgil told me that sex with Beatrix had been disappointing. He said he had ended the evening feeling sad and wishing he was with me. He had not intended to repeat the experience, except that we all ended up in bed together and that really was good. They do see each other socially as friends but Virgil is slightly ambivalent about Beatrix's charms. She is a complex creature when you get to know her, he says. Winsome and needful of friends who will pay court to her, which is not his style at all.

When he told me about the dinner invitation, I couldn't resist asking him whether he was planning to have sex. He said no, but he shaved, cleaned his teeth and put on aftershave anyway. I could smell it when I came home to the flat he had already left. But he came back too early to have fucked Beatrix, and his erection in bed suggested the same. We didn't talk about her or what had or had not happened, and the next day Beatrix texted to ask me out so next week I have a date with her. Virgil laughed when I told him and wondered aloud what she is up to.
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Thursday, 9 September 2010

Rio's Naturist Spa

I satisfied a long-held curiosity about this place last week.

Rio's was on two major bus routes I used to take as a teenager. I passed it often. The windows filled with cut outs of palm trees shut out the world but hinted at exoticism and - somehow - long-haul travel. Its perspex facade showed tropical palms and setting suns. Red brush-font lettering read: Relaxation Spa - jacuzzi, sauna, steam, plunge pool. It didn't look like a health or beauty spa. What could be so secret and so fun?

My mad friend Prem in our early twenties told me: it was full of dirty old men and you could have sex but (for women) if you went during the day it was free. You could take in food and use all the facilities. Prem visited regularly. I don't know if she had sex there. She said not but I have my doubts.

The next time I thought about Rio's was when I picked up Suzanne Portnoy's first book, The Butcher, The Baker, The Candlestick Maker, a memoir of how she became a swinger. It begins with a lengthy description of Rio's frontage and, more interestingly, what the author got up to therein. I read the whole book in a day and learned about the etiquette of the place, the best times to go to hook up, and the private rooms in the back with locks on the doors and wipe-clean leatherette mats.

Years passed.
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Wednesday, 8 September 2010

Fucking Awful

Having expended a year's worth of anger in the past four days, I am handling the situation with unnatural calm.

1. My iPhone got wet in my pocket when I got caught in a heavy rainstorm earlier and now the screen is dim and flickery (I have no insurance)
2. I think I am getting thrush (again)
3. Virgil is having dinner with someone (in inverted commas)

There is no solution. I must simply find a way of painlessly passing the next few hours until things become clearer or better.


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Anger Is Like A Bubble

This misty morning the mummies and daddies have stayed away from the lido. It is lovely and quiet. I bump into an old acquaintance as I go in. With a few words spoken the anger bubble I have inhabited for the last week bursts and I am on the outside of it again. It seems disproportionate. I welcome the boredom of swimming. I do my lengths and go home to apologise to Virgil, who I was nasty to again this morning (I slept badly on the sofa). After the anger I feel like a rag doll, light and passive.
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What I Dislike About Sex Parties

1. Feeling that you have to play with someone out of courtesy or because it would be awkward not to
2. Zombies who move inexorably in without having asked. Do they think that by advancing slowly enough they circumvent the need to do so? Surely unless you are positively invited 'in' you should not impose?
3. The weird attractiveness/coolness hierarchy by which some people do not bother to talk to other people
4. Heteronormacy
5. Girl-on-girl
6. Stubble
7. Shaved men
8. Outrageous commutes

Why do I do this?

The sex parties I help to organise are considerably lighter on the above, but right now I can't really answer my own question.
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Tuesday, 7 September 2010

This Week Has Been Hell

I think there's something wrong with my hormones. I am hot and cross. My premenstrual tension this month was unreal and even though my period started today I still feel outrageously dark and nasty. Tonight I am sleeping on the sofa, having called Virgil a wanker and stormed out. Yesterday I lost my temper with him at least half a dozen times.

Now the white noise of the electronics we keep in the living room is keeping me awake and I am thinking evil thoughts, too cross to sleep.

Almost as a gesture I want to leave the flat and skulk through the dark streets. I want to scream and shout. Fucker! I will stay up late on my own and fume and stew.

We are working together on a sex party. The closer it comes, the more there is to do and the more Virgil and I find to disagree about. It is a constant battle. He says I am shit at collaborating and offensive. This could be true. The thing is that I would really like to be able to work together with Virgil but I don't seem to be able to. His ideas and schemes are often so impractical-sounding to me that they make me panic or feel exhausted from the effort I imagine they will require. On the other hand, he seems quite unnecessarily picky and critical about my ideas.

I hate being on the sofa, but when I went to him in bed when he had turned off the light and we lay, silent, as far away as we could be, and tried to make up, he just said that I was welcome to apologise any time I liked. At that point I called him a name and took my leave, slamming the door for the second night running. I won't go back.
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Monday, 6 September 2010

eLust Issue 19

Welcome to e[lust] - Your source for sexual intelligence and inspirations of lust from the smartest & sexiest bloggers! Whether you’re looking for hot steamy smut, thought-provoking opinions or expert information, you’re going to find it here. Want to be included in e[lust] #20? Start with the rules, check out the schedule and subscribe to the RSS feed for updates!
~ This Week’s Top Three Posts ~
The Rules - She squirmed in her chair as if impaled there by my finger slowly pushing in and out. “But I can tell you that on our third date, I want something a lot bigger than your finger in me.”
Consensual Nonconsent - He told me he was going to do whatever he wanted to me, and he wanted me to not give consent. He wanted to take it from me. He wanted me to say no, and the less l liked something the harder it would make him.
Love and light - So I move on, not as a submissive, but as the smart mature strong woman that I know that I am.  I will credit him with changing me.  Changing the way I see myself.
~ e[lust] Editress ~
Confessional: Annual Reminder - In the dark, in the car, in the parking lot of a somewhat posh store, he got a fantastic blowjob as uptight conservatives drove past us.

~ Featured Post (Lilly’s Pick) ~

What's Been Eating Emmy - A yearly test is good for most, but if you find you are playing with a larger than usual number of people, go get retested.  Put yourself and your future partners mind at ease.

See also: Pleasurists #92 and #93 for all your sex toy review needs.

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Friday, 3 September 2010

Settler Stories

Recently Virgil and I have had:

One sex party
One foursome
One threesome in a naturist sauna

Of course this means that I have been too busy to write about it.
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Tuesday, 24 August 2010

Spontaneity Rules

So much for plotting and lurking around on internet contact sites, arranging dates with strangers that take weeks and months to materialize and inevitably disappoint. Sometimes what is needed is a little spontaneity and an ex. So it was that Virgil, me, and Beatrix, a sometime lover of his, ended up in bed together on Saturday night and most of Sunday.

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Sunday, 22 August 2010

Solo Date

My date with the toy soldiers was disappointing. My suspicions were right: they were pleasant but pedestrian. Our conversation did not lag but it didn't fly either. We never managed to get beyond the tangible and material. Somehow we lacked ideas, poetry, filth or romance. I could hear Virgil scolding me in the back of my head: "Don't talk about normal things! Don't talk about jobs!"

Sex with the toy soldiers might be a good shag but it would not be an erotic adventure. I have to write and thank them but, four days later, they have still not written to me. In a characteristic failure of good manners, saying goodbye at the end of the date I think I hesitated slightly when they said that we should meet up again soon. Oops.
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Bataille Again

Here's a theory: the difference between porn and erotica is that you come while consuming porn but with erotica the kick comes after. I have joined a sexy book club. This month's choice is The Story of the Eye by Georges Bataille. Oh, piss and eyeballs! I found my old copy which has survived countless book culls and several moves.

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Monday, 16 August 2010

Clever Slut

I have been examining my oeuvre. 

What a satisfying word that is to say. Let it elongate and roll off the tongue, with a roll of the eyes that both acknowledges and relishes its pretensions.

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Sunday, 15 August 2010

The Ostrich's Dilemma

At the prospect of sexual encounters without Virgil I feel apprehensive, excited and curious. Unfortunately I feel quite shit about Virgil seeing other people in a measure that is out of all proportion and quite unreasonable and unjustifiable. Jealousy, insecurity, avarice and fear are all there.

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Friday, 13 August 2010


I confess, until last week I did not know it was a word. Then someone sent me this piece by Laurie Penny. It's a thoughtful article about the word 'sexualisation' and how it is being bandied about my proponents of today's moral panic about girl's and young women's sexuality. Slut-shaming comes in in the last paragraph and some newspaper sub has seen fit to make it the subject of the headline: Stop this slut-shaming. I don't know why, but I had expected better journalism from the Guardian (or less prurience at any rate).

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Tuesday, 10 August 2010

Thinking about children

Virgil is eight years younger than me. His thirties are beginning and mine are ending. Different things make us cry.

Recently he sobbed uncontrollably in Toy Story 3 with its themes of friendship, loyalty and growing away from childhood companions. On Sunday I was made into a watery mess by Little Green, the song Joni Mitchell wrote about giving up her daughter for adoption when she was young.

I'm not broody but the question is there.

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Monday, 9 August 2010


This month my PMT has been all about anger, an almost constant grumpiness. I've been on the verge of shouting for days and the mystery itch I've had for the past 3 weeks makes my skin crawl.

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Sunday, 8 August 2010


I got home from work last night at 1.30am. Virgil wanted me to see a message from a girl who has contacted us through a contact site. Her pictures are good. She says she has come from a sexless relationship and is trying to get her confidence back but she finds the online thing daunting. I write back: 

Dear *,

Regaining sexual confidence after a sexless relationship is what brought me onto online contact sites several years ago. As a single bi female you punch well above your weight, so take heart. 

If you're going to be a successful internet dater, you'll have to start talking to people on the phone. And the sooner the better! Why don't the three of us have a conversation in the next few days? We're available tomorrow in the afternoon until five or six if you like, or suggest a time that suits.
My phone number: ***


The thought of another threesome turns us both on. Virgil rests on me as I lie on my belly typing, and I feel his cock getting hard. Suddenly in the middle of the night there is passion.  

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Saturday, 7 August 2010

My Clit Is In Hiding

Tickets to our sex party sold out in a week, catching us all by surprise. The event is more than a month away. Amateur statistics suggested that in future some form of positive discrimination at least will be necessary to keep the gender split roughly equal. We're not sure how to do this while staying fair. Do we have to be fair? Obviously we have to be seen to be fair but I don't think anyone would thank us for putting on a party with too many straight men lurking around.

Why do more single men sign up? Is it just that they are more motivated by the idea of getting sex? Are women more dubious about going to a sex party? Our party rules state that everyone must come with a friend or lover who will vouch for their behaviour. If one person behaves badly then both are in trouble. A small group of ticket buyers (mostly single men, conveniently) did not arrange this and will now probably lose their tickets, although we will allow them to hold them over to the next party.

I have spent half the week organising a volunteer rota and fielding enquiries, my own sex life neglected. It doesn't matter. My libido is low. This morning instead of lying in and making love Virgil and I cleared out our (inadequate) storage cupboard. Apparently I've fought off nocturnal advances several times and on two mornings have been too sleepy to fuck.

A voice in my head, which I hear mostly when I cycle around, is saying that my clitoris feels small and dormant. If it were a cock it would be shrinking back inside me. I've had one or two moments of arousal at inappropriate times, but mostly I don't feel sexy. I worry about having bad sex while I feel like this in case it exacerbates the mood.

Contrast this to times in my life when sex has not been readily available. I have simmered with frustration, written passionately and masturbated like crazy, fantasizing about people encountered online but not in the flesh.
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Wednesday, 4 August 2010

Ooh, it's e[Lust] 18

Welcome to e[lust] - Your source for sexual intelligence and inspirations of lust from the smartest & sexiest bloggers! Whether you’re looking for hot steamy smut, thought-provoking opinions or expert information, you’re going to find it here. Want to be included in e[lust] #19? Start with the rules, check out the schedule and subscribe to the RSS feed for updates!
~ This Week’s Top Three Posts ~
Off Limits for 30 Days - "You don't listen very well," I heard her hiss. "That's off limits, damn you." And there was a crack and fiery agony clawed into my back.
The Joy of Sucking Cock - I wonder at times if that is why I am such a “good little cocksucker” as W calls me. When I am deeply into it, I almost enter this place where I am both the sucker and suckee, and it is as though it is MY cock being sucked on.
This intensity gets me riled when I am tied up (photo story) -  James picked up that evil strap again. I watched helplessly as he positioned himself to use it on my pussy... Ever so lightly he started. Flick, flick, flick.
~ e[lust] Editress ~
Ask Lilly: How do I know if a sex toy has phthalates in it? - The studies going around are saying that phthalate exposure can damage all sorts of organs, and can possibly cause cancer. There are a lot of harmful things in our world these days that we can't avoid - so when we CAN avoid something like toxins in our sex toys, we should.
~ Featured Post (Lilly’s Pick) ~
Portal. Confession #493 - It truly is a spiritual give and take, these sexual relationships I form. I can cross the threshold and see however much of someone that I choose to see, with whomever it is that I am involved with.
See also: Pleasurists #88 and #89 for all your sex toy review needs.

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Sunday, 1 August 2010


More sex party organisation and admin. Today the question crosses my mind: had I known what a mentalist T is about spreadsheets would I have fallen in love with him in quite the same way?
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Saturday, 31 July 2010

Alcohol, Teenage Crushes and I Am Morose

I'm at work so it's usually a day for writing but I don't feel sexy. I'm hungover instead. It's unusual. I drink very little and I hate being hungover. I feel pathetic and morose. Even a small amount of work today feels onerous.

Alcohol and sex for me are associated only because the chance of one happening may be boosted by the presence of the other. I've never had good drunk sex. I've had chaotic drunken sex, where you grapple and trampoline off each other. As you sober up second thoughts creep in. You feel physically and spiritually seedy.

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Thursday, 29 July 2010

Sex Diary Gold

This is a series of sex diaries from New Yorkers published weekly online.

What a find!
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Wednesday, 28 July 2010

A New Fantasy Creation

I had a brand new wank fantasy last night and it got me thinking how my fantasy themes and scenarios have changed over time.

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Sunday, 25 July 2010

Second Thoughts and Dutch Caps

I'm having second thoughts about the new vibrator but I haven't told Virgil yet. After all, it cost £100.

The issue is this: once the bigger end of Ina is inside my cunt and the little end over my clit, the pressure between the two is considerable. My pubic bone is in a vice and my clit is squashed flat. I have to use my other hand to keep the two prongs apart. I explore the mechanism, pushing the prongs as far apart as they will go. I hope that by doing this repeatedly it will loosen up. I wonder if I have an unusually large pubic bone.

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Monday, 19 July 2010

A Joint Purchase

"I believe the man should open doors, the woman should ejaculate first, and they should split the drinks," wrote Virgil in his profile on the sex site through which we met.

As that quotation suggests, Virgil is chivalrous and generous but he's no one's wallet. From the first date we have been egalitarian in our financial arrangements. We even share the cost of contraception, which as I am allergic to latex is considerable.

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Friday, 16 July 2010

Sex On Drugs

I can't have an orgasm when I've taken MDMA. Neither can Virgil but, unlike many men (he tells me), he can stay hard.

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eLust Issue 17

 Photo courtesy of Elle from Kink Unleashed

Welcome to e[lust] - Your source for sexual intelligence and inspirations of lust from the smartest & sexiest bloggers! Whether you’re looking for hot steamy smut, thought-provoking opinions or expert information, you’re going to find it here. Want to be included in e[lust] #18? Start with the rules, check out the schedule and subscribe to the RSS feed for updates!

Editor's Note:  A little change in how things are done for this edition -  you'll notice there are no "Top 3" picks - due in part to the holiday I ended up being extremely short on judges and I didn't have enough for fair voting. So instead, I expanded my "Featured Post". (If you'd like to volunteer to be an occasional judge for e[lust], just email me, Lilly, at questions.e.lust @ Also, please be sure to check out the new summer schedule in effect until the 20th edition.

~ Featured Posts (Lilly’s Pick) ~

Why Pride is Still Important - When someone tells me that they don’t think Pride is necessary, I can’t help but believe that they go through life with tunnel vision. I live in New York where for the most part I can walk around being a big ol’ queen and I’ll make it home alive, but there are people who live in places where they can’t. Even here in New York you’ll get called a faggot from time to time by passing cars or groups of punks, and even here in New York I hear stories of people getting the shit kicked out of them just because they were gay.

Fantasies and Condoms - Our culture has created a narrative in which sex only feels good and looks sexy if no one is protected. We’re all suffering from this narrative, but sex workers are probably suffering the most.
~ e[lust] Editress ~

Some days we need a little hope - I encourage you to practice random acts of kindness that could be worthy of inclusion on the site ( Be nice, be caring, let your heart open up just for the sake of bringing someone some happiness or comfort. Do you know how good it feels to just give?

See also: Pleasurists #83 and #84 for all your sex toy review needs.

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Saturday, 3 July 2010

Flying The Red Flag

If you cut your finger right now, what would you do? You'd put it in your mouth, wouldn't you?

Naive London Girl is unsure about oral sex during menstruation. She is both turned on and repulsed by the idea. I wouldn't let a period spoil good sex, mine or someone else's. Then again, if someone was literally passing clots I would think twice. A bit of blood is sexy in a feral sort of way but it's not a fetish or a sacred experience for me.

I've had sex with a wide variety of people but I've never kept records and I'd like a few statistics at this point. Unfortunately I'm not much of a Googler. I turn up a couple of general sex surveys online but they don't even mention it. That's bizarre. If I were writing a survey about sexual mores I'd say that attitudes to period sex and cunnilingus were worth asking about, wouldn't you?

But I did find a lovely site explaining how to earn your Red Wings and wear them with pride. 

In spite of my failure as a sex researcher, I can say with some certainty that any man's attitude to period sex and cunnilingus is quite unpredictable. One cannnot assume anything. It's not that alternative types do and straights don't. Sartorial taste, eating habits and personal politics are not reliable indicators. You just have to ask - and preferably well before the point at which a refusal would offend.

The issue came up recently with a couple we played with. Ava's period arrived unexpectedly so she wrote privately to me before our date to ask if we should postpone. She didn't mind but Marcus wasn't keen on period sex. Virgil, who was reading over my shoulder, was exasperated. He had already gone down on her before when she had her period, so it was academic, surely? Marcus sank in Virgil's estimation. In hindsight I think he might have put her up to it.

Virgil is scornful of men who are fastidious about menstrual blood. It's not just that he has a feral streak, I think he likes making love to me when I'm achey and vulnerable. He finds crying women sexy. I'm going to ask him about this tomorrow. We have some of our best sex during my period and if it gets messy we simply boil the sheets.

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Wednesday, 30 June 2010

The Pushmepullyou Of Sex

Virgil and I have a date with another couple tonight. We played with Marcus and Ava at the sex party we organised and now we're going to their place.

He curls up against me in bed this morning, laying kisses on the back of my neck and pressing his erection against my bum. When I reach behind and start to touch him, he slips his fingers into me. It feels good but my throat is sore and I'm only awake because my brother texted at 7.30. I'm struggling out of a dream in which I'm failing at my job in a fantasy land of surf and big waves. 

I think: Virgil should have an orgasm this morning because it will help him with not coming later. I shouldn't, so that I'm fresh and sexually on edge. (There's an ache and a throb in my pussy right now, so that worked.) 

"What? Can't I make love to my girlfriend?" he says. "Are you saving your pussy for another man?"

So he closes his eyes and masturbates instead. I stroke his thighs and balls and kiss him. After a minute he tenses and sighs and I think that he must be getting into it, but I look down and see the semen on his belly.

Then I sleep for three hours.

One of life's great unfairnesses is that it is so much easier for men to come than women. Another is that women have better orgasms than men.

I have always struggled to come from penetrative sex alone. Some of my defining (and earliest) sexual memories are of being left hanging painfully on the edge of an orgasm with an embarrassed apology. Isn't it a drag when you reach a place in sex where he's mostly just trying not to and you are probably just trying too hard? Coke can help, to a point and on occasion. I don't know the answer. If you have any suggestions feel free to comment.

I've met several men with almost endless stamina. Their trick is that they almost never allow themselves to come. But I enjoy making people come. Witnessing another person's pleasure turns me on. There is also the matter of pride in my technical ability, and I like to feel that I'm keeping up my end of the bargain. It's great to be ravished but I'm mistrusting of people who only want to give.

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Sunday, 27 June 2010

Sleepovers, Part 2

By the time Ruby had claimed her orgasm it was 3am. I had work the next day. While she went to the bathroom we talked about what to do. We hadn't actually planned for this and it felt awkward. I don't know whether Ruby had expected to stay but the date felt over.

Virgil and I differ on the question of sleepovers and it is an ongoing thread of our discussions about etiquette in open relationships. I would neither want or expect to stay the night with people I had had sex or played with for the first time (and maybe not ever). I'm not uncaring but I need to know people better for that kind of intimacy.

We offered Ruby the sofabed but she refused and she didn't want us to call a cab. Ruby said she would walk home half an hour through the back streets. We were unable to dissuade her and she left, although she did send a text to say she was safe at home and had seen a huge fox on the way.

Today Virgil was feeling guilty but I wasn't. As a man he has a more developed sense of chivalry. I'm about 6 inches taller than Ruby but I've done my share of walking alone late at night. Sometimes you can't afford a taxi but sometimes you just don't want to pay for one.

Although we both have a sense of Ruby as an adventuress, her vulnerability is more appealing to Virgil than it is to me. He's feeling quite protective about Ruby, more so than if she was someone he was seeing as a single. I think Virgil has romanticised her slightly and I suspect that he will do this with future playmates. Why should she be hurt by us? I like Ruby, although I don't yet know what she wants from our relationship.

Seeing Virgil seduce Ruby gave me a great deal of pleasure. He was charming and gentle with her. He says that in normal circumstances he would want to hold someone and cuddle them for at least an hour after they had come so I suppose we'll have to make her come earlier next time. I was wrecked the next day.
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