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

Coinciding

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 kink.com 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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