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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