The Stunt Cock

Kiss the lips to see who else is being kinky this fortnight!

I think as soon as I became comfortable with anal sex, the idea of being doubly penetrated was on the table. I can’t remember though quite when or how that happened. (However, since I tend to do my own photos, I’m going to throw in I’ve not got comfortable enough to have photos on this post!)

It seems strange now, with easy access to every possible type of sex through the internet, that there was a time when anal sex was not part of a mainstream (plausibly) hetero teenager’s sexual lexicon. Not included in the possibilities of sex in a steamy romance novel.

Some of the girls in my secondary school were selling sex, and I remember becoming aware of anal as a way to have sex that couldn’t get you pregnant, which, in a Catholic school where rubbers were seen as akin to abortion, was important. Looking back, there is a type of nostalgia in remembering how I collected all these little pieces of knowledge and tried to put them together, trying to work out my own sexual identity.

From the age of 13, I would babysit with my sister for a number of families. One couple we regularly sat for would come home with a friend. Over time, we began to realize this friend was someone who shared their bed. There were no obviously unsettling after effects of this revelation to the core relationship, which seemed to function for parenting and other “normal” purposes, just that they were … well words like threesome, non-monogamous, kinky, adventurous even didn’t really trip off the tongue then. They were a little anthropology experiment I observed and thought about without talking about.

That exposure meant when opportunities for a threesome arose, I took them without fear, but as I was happily exploring the descriptor bisexual at this point, these were limited to fleeting f/f/m combinations. Not that there aren’t variations of DP available in this combo, but whether sexual inexperience or my preference for relationships that last more than an hour or two, I didn’t explore.

I’ve been with the lovely Mr Hunt for 17 years. So where does that leave me when it comes to DP?

The night we met, we were two thirds of a threesome. This is not the story we rolled out at our engagement party! It was everyone involved’s first opportunity for a m/f/m threesome and we took full advantage. It speaks to the sexual experience of the men involved though that certain parts were more awkward than others. They had seen porn of m/f/m sex, but the reality of where legs go and accidental contact were a limiting factor. I don’t really know if it helped that they were friends before and remained friends after, but it makes for some entertainingly semi-awkward moments at this point in our lives.

I enjoy being penetrated. The giving over of myself. And penetrative sex is not always about chasing an orgasm. Not all sex is for the same purpose, and, depending on where we are in our relationship and communication, I can be far more satisfied by being used than I am by being given or taking my own pleasure.

This is what appeals to me about DP.

We have many ways of achieving this with stunt double cocks that can be brought into play without adding a third into the mix, although we are not adverse to this in the correct circumstances.

The double penetration toys we have are all about the added sensation for the female partner, with the aim that missionary sex can become more interesting. They work best for us if we are feeling energetic and bendy, with my feet on his shoulders to allow for a rolling thrust, or with me on top. This is fun, but it doesn’t give me everything I want from a DP experience.

Everything moves at once based on whatever penetrative action you’re using, leaving little room for fantasizing there are three people involved. Also, the parts designed for anal stimulation tend to be a little dainty if you really like being fucked anally. (Finally, I have found something that makes me blush!)

Using a seperate dildo/plug gives me a better experience if we are going for a fantasy threesome. Again, just like a threesome, getting bodies into the correct placements can be a bit of an issue, especially if Mr Hunt is going to be driving the toys rather than leaving them passively in place. If I were a skinny slip of a girl then this might be easier, but built for comfort, not speed, means everything is a bit more of a reach and legs don’t fold out of the way as easily now as they did twenty years ago.

These are sexual experiences I would put into the mutual pleasure/chasing orgasms type of sex and sometimes that is exactly what we both want. The toys tend to signify that we are putting extra effort into the occasion, as opposed to a sleepy parental fuck at the end of a long evening. Silent of course, so we don’t disturb the kids.

Sometimes though, being used (or from his point of view, using me) is much more where we are.

With separate toys I like that we can go for double vaginal penetration. I like the stretch and feeling completely filled. Mr Hunt favours this as well, generally going for a toy with texture that he can really feel as he rubs along inside me. My inner submissive wants him to take what he wants, to get to orgasm using me as he might a masturbator. Being stuffed like this fulfills that need.

My favourite form of non-threesome DP doesn’t need toys, just good lube. His hand in my cunt and his cock in my arse. The control, and conversely the complete lack of control, needed to relax enough to take him like that. DP is a way for me to be completely surrendered to Him, but also to what we need from each other.

It’s taken a little while to get used to admitting that anywhere other than in my head.

In fantasy, there is still room for more. Room for Mr Hunt to take control of a DP situation with a living, breathing third, rather than a silicone friend, but that would need the freedom we had when we met, combined with the trust and experience we have now.

That is a story for next time…

Shame

What has everyone else been throwing into Room 101

Dear Food for Thought Friday…

I would like to send shame to Room 101.

Specifically roots of shame… the Biblical version … that make us cover our bodies and act as though no generation before us (or coming after us) has ever had or should ever have sexual pleasure and a self identity where we feel loved for who we are.

Is shame really a fear? I guess sort of and not at the same time. I fear being shamed, or people trying to shame me. Having made the decision to not feel shamed internally by my sexual preferences, I fear being made to defend them in courts bound by different rules and frameworks. I fear the societal acceptance that I should feel shamed and the impact that could have on my family. I fear changing my behavior, not because I want to based on a reasoned decision, but because I feel shame.

I’m a Christian and I’m not prepared to feel ashamed of that either. This is not me criticising or defending any people of faith or people with none. But I am astounded by the ignorance, within my community and beyond, of social and cultural values surrounding the writing of the Bible and how these may have influenced what was written. How the language used in translation distorts meaning. And even if these could be excused by the reader’s inability to access appropriate history or linguistic teaching, there is a pick and choose nature to what things are labelled Christian or Jewish values and even which rituals are followed by certain areas of Christianity and Judaism and not others, means that to pick one or two sentences and try to enforce them in the 21st century without context and understanding of ritual and the thinking of the time is appalling.

There are no philosophers or teachers appearing in the mainstream narrative whether in churches or the press, willing to take a 21st Century view at how this document was potentially biased by the people who recorded it. No edits or revisions. No leadership from denominational hierarchy.

I don’t want to be associated with extremists within my religion (or even sometimes the mainstream of it!) anymore than all football fans want to be considered rioters. And there was a time, when to be a fan but not a rioter made you an extremist in itself. If I am that type of extremist, I am happy.

The church I attend is made of mix of denominations and is a broad mix people and variations of belief. We have active members of the church in LBGTQ relationships. We do not pay into central systems of wealth accumulation for the church, beyond paying ministers and their pensions and other legal aspects of looking after them as is the right of an employee. We share our building, gifted by a group of denominations, with other churches who lack a home and a myriad of community groups and our rental charges cover the costs of the building upkeep, but do not make a profit beyond a small contingency. Last week when a minister came and talked about about buying families out of bonded slavery in Pakistan and setting up a bank in their local church, so they could access money for medical treatment etc without selling themselves back into slavery, our congregation, full of people with limited incomes, found the money needed to buy a family out. We support the local night shelter, Womens’ Aid and Foodbank with what we can and this includes time and effort and care as well as money. Where practical we open our homes ad share our resources. We have outreach for families with caring responsibilities and additional needs support way beyond adding ramps to the building to increase accessibility, including access to non gender specific bathrooms and visual aids for those needing language support. Our safeguarding policies are robust and proactive to the point of being a daily nuisance.

None of this comes with the bargain you can only access it if you believe what we do.

We certainly have our faults and prejudices however we try to interrogate them. It is just a reminder for those people who might not have met this type of Christianity that it does exist

I will not be shamed by a misreading or misinterpretation of the will or misunderstanding of a man writing a document over two thousand years ago into being framed as Eve. I will not feel ashamed and need to cover myself. I will enjoy sex on a holy day with no ability for that sex to lead to procreation. I will enjoy it everyday. Sex for enjoyment is part of being human and humanity in all its complex ways is a gift. Whoever or wherever you think that gift came from.

And if you believe that God made all of the wonders of creation and you think the prostate and clitoris (and all the other wonderful bits of our bodies that can be delightful under the right circumstances) were not specifically made with joy in mind alongside any practical purposes they serve, then I wonder which other gifts you might be missing out on.

Just think, with this teaching gone we wouldn’t be discussing abortion rules in the States in terms of patriarchal ownership of women’s reproductive rights, or whether same sex couples should be able to marry in Ireland. People wouldn’t be stoned to death for their sexual orientation. Just like Brexit, whatever you think of it, has sucked the political energy and time out of the system and stopped us talking about things that matter, like the collapse of social care and priorities in medical needs, sexual and gender rules creating shame suck away from the positive and kind approach to our world we could be focusing on.

I am not declaring I would like some type of free for all. I just think that some of the narrative clouds the story, and a bit of editing wouldn’t come amiss. I’d rather narrow it down to “Be kind and considerate to yourself and others” and “Love one another”.

so yes… throw biblically based sexual and identity shame in the bin and start with something new.

Date night

Kiss the lips to see who else is being Sinful this Sunday

I’ve been gone from my blog for 10 days, so although this post is all about the picture there are some words alongside.

I started writing in 2017, after my lovely husband sent me to Eroticon. I managed to sustain content for a little while until the first parenting crisis derailed me. My confidence knocked, I pulled myself together and started again in Spring 2018. I lasted until June and more parenting. I’m going to work hard to not be derailed this year, even if sometimes I need to step away to deal with life.

Mr Hunt and I have three children with a variety of additional needs. Parenting crises come with more regularity than the local bus service. We are called to be advocates for activities able people take as right, access to education, to social groups, to sport. For the right to have appropriate support that feels safely staffed in both the individuals we can afford to pay and the appropriate ratios. And then we do all the things normal parents do…

The stress of this on our relationship is immeasurable. We both work from home and yet to communicate we send each other emails. Meeting invitations direct from our calendars to find time when we can speak to each other face to face.

We fight hard to remember the promises we have made each other through the midst of everything. Spoken and unspoken. To love, honour, cherish and obey. In every context.

This week we went to court for the right for our eldest to have an appropriate education. I was away from my blog preparing answers to the 500 pages of evidence the local authority put in place to say why we couldn’t have the placement we wanted. Why he wasn’t that special. I couldn’t afford professional support so we had no new professional evidence of need or a paid solicitor to combat the one the local authority paid to oppose us.

We won. The LA conceeded on everything, which really goes to show we should never have had to fight for it in the first place. We go back to court next month to legally tie down everything agreed and to force health and social work to contribute to planned long term support.

There has been no exuberance. No celebration meal. The result of winning was complete and utter exhaustion.

But last night…

…it takes planning to have an night together. One child at Scout camp, one to a sleep over with another autism mummy, one to the grandparents.

Getting “in the mood” on queue is hard, but these opportunities so rare we can’t waste them either. And what would wasting it look like? Lying on the sofa watching a movie? Falling asleep at 8pm because we can? Failing yet again to give what we perceive we owe our partner?

We plan. It’s not that spontaneous is gone for good, but for now having a plan works best for both of us. So last night was “Staples” for Kink of the Week. Something we’d played with a little before, knew we enjoyed, but really has to be saved for a night like this.

Still, we were tense. Trying to clear the physical space for some play meant picking up a thousand pieces of lego. We snapped at each other trying to get organised. He couldn’t find the ribbon. I wanted to relax into it, but tried to fuss over the details like finding scissors, then gave up, then was cross when he’d forgotten them.

There was no meeting of minds. No way to access the dynamic we both wanted. But he can’t control me like that and I can’t control him.

I can only get to grips with myself and make the offer. Push things from my mind and let the openness to him become the central pillar of thought. Remember, cognitively, that I trust him.

Hope he is going through the same thought process.

Stretched out on the duvet I was closer, but not there. He went through the mechanics of getting ready, some of which I could feel but we didn’t communicate. I really didn’t want those staples. Instead of the beautiful quietness I get from a scene, my head was asking all sorts of logical questions about pain and damage.

This isn’t a matter of responsibility. I could have said nothing and gone with whatever happened. He could have read that I wasn’t feeling it. Perhaps he did. But he knows me. I ideally prefer to push through, rely on discipline. Because the underlying anchor in our lives is that I trust him in all things.

I am frustrated that tonight when I want to demonstrate that trust, I can’t. I have to remind myself it is not a failure to need to stop and talk more. I never feel he’s failed me when he the need is reversed.

His palm cracks down on my backside. Hard. Unexpected. Needed. Again and again. Loud and sharp like a bunch of balloons popping.

His jeans clad thigh pushed roughly between mine, his weight on me.

The harder it is, the more we need to communicate.

I run out of writing here… because the stuff in my head about what happened next can not be tied up in words.

Suffice it to say we found our flow. Our dynamic.

Love, honour, cherish and obey…in all things, always.

A little footnote here is when we were gathering supplies on Saturday evening, the failure to plan hit home. Although we’d known this was coming, neither of us had checked the width of ribbon we needed for the staples, and the only decent lengths we had to hand were left over from the making of our wedding invitations years ago. My dress and veil were stored in the same box…so getting them out for photos just seemed to be the thing to do! But having come to write this piece, it seems an important emphasis on how we focus on each other, how we picture our dynamic and how we operate day to day, whether parenting or playing.

If staples are of interest, please check out my to companion pieces, a fictionalized account Fierce, and A Staple of my Life which has a little more detail. 😉

Take me dancing naked in the rain…

Kiss the lips to meet other kinksters in the great outdoors

Let me go back to 1993…

I would love to tell you it was a long, hot summer, but I suspect it was grey and drizzly. It was the summer I took my GCSE exams, and as they were over by mid June, it was the awakening summer of young adult novels.

It wasn’t that I led a sheltered life. I defy anyone to go to Catholic co-ed secondary school and come out without at least observing a very wide range of experience. At the same time, my then undiagnosed autism made me feel like I was in a bubble, not really part of world I walked through. I was very fortunate to be part of a group of friends. I think at the time I thought they were all friends with each other and I was the hanger on, but now I realise just how much they really looked out for me and included me without realising why I was always the one asleep in doorways at parties.

I was weeks shy of turning 16, and never been kissed, which was why my friends fixed me up with a guy at a local music festival. I’m not sure I’d ever met him before, and probably not since, but he was someone’s much older cousin and I’d had enough cider this seemed like a good idea, so off we went into the woods.

A very few minutes later, I was naked to the waist, exposed on my back in the leaf litter, feet from the public footpath. I remember the sky through the trees, how hot and wet his mouth seemed on chilled skin and the scent and feel of leaf mould beneath and around us. The rustle of other people finding their way into the woods for the same experience. Skin wet with rain. Feeling the strangeness of his hard dick pressing against me, rutting against my thigh.

I don’t think I realised at the time that so much later in my life I would still think of that experience. How much it would filter through everything I’ve grown to enjoy.

It didn’t matter who he was. That was something I learnt about myself that day. Books had been a great source of information and I now knew life was far more Jilly Cooper than Mills and Boon. I wanted the experience, the sensations, more than I wanted a grand romance. I wanted those hard fingers pushing beneath my clothes. Wanted him to use me to get off.

I wanted Lysander’s moment dancing to Blue Pearl in the garden. I was prepared to be that unashamed.

I wanted the risk of discovery.

For an otherwise “good girl”, this was a strange juxtaposition.

Being scientific, I repeated the experiment to try to work out why. As often as I could.

It’s easy to see this through this light of adulthood and think maybe this is how I choose to see it now, but in a box beneath my bed are my diaries and writing from the time in beautifully teenage handwriting. In words I didn’t know I tried to explain things I didn’t understand. I rolled the problem round in crap poetry trying to work out whether I was making powerful decisions or doing things to fit in with what I thought I should be doing.

As a teenager living at home, you don’t have a bed to take people to… but living caught between countryside and coast there were plenty of places to be alone enough. My favourites were open spaces. The beaches, just over the tidal lip from the car parks. The sheep runs in the bracken on the moor tops. The Victorian Park in the sodium orange night.

At Uni I had my own room, but that was my space. Being somewhere untraceable was a type of emotional safety and security of its own, even when it went wrong. And it did go wrong. It was still that strange mix of taking control and risking it all to fate. Of the freedom to roam as a wild animal in the urban jungle as both predator and prey.

The scratches and bruises from being pressed into rough walls were the first marks that made me feel proud.

I’ve been with my husband for a long time now, and we are settled and domestic and middle class. I’m am still the same good girl I was at 15. Which is why, after the kids are safely tucked in bed most evenings, when the temperature is bareable, we can be found naked in the garden.

It feels right to be an animal in its natural environment. We are cautious and polite to our neighbours, carefully cultivating a wall of trees for privacy and a well draped gazebo, but the house is full of commitments and obligations and the garden is quiet of those.

I am a sensory led being and outside there is so much stimulation. Temperature, air movement and scent fill my mind, pushing away domestic worry. A different quality of quiet than inside the home, full of creatures and people making their own way through time and space. People who need nothing from me.

I feel free.

We can just be us. Human animals. Skin on skin, if we want.

We can be exhibitionist whilst not, silently fucking feet away from a busy footpath, safely tucked behind a brick wall. Hidden from overlooking windows by the soft blanket of night.

We can be creative. Whilst heavy duty fixing points would look odd in the house, outside they are just overly cautious fixing points for hanging baskets and washing lines.

Or this.

Kiss the lips to meet other sinners this Sunday

…for everyone

A little thing happened Eroticon weekend in Camden that left me feeling upset… Not at the conference I hasten to add, which is brilliant and lovely, but as a sort of side effect.

I am someone who struggles to be confident with my body. It doesn’t conform to media portrayals of femininity.

When I was 12 I reached my full height of 180cm, (6ft) and my feet were a 42 (size 8). All the cute boys came to my elbows if I was lucky. I was straight hipped and broad shouldered and although I didn’t really understand it at the time, gender and sexuality confused.

And flat chested… relatively. A cups easily flattened under a vest, far more pecs than boobs. And this continued for years.

No, I’m not posting someone else’s pictures… 4 babies later and I have the other problems.

The thing that happened wasn’t lingerie related. It was shoes. Round the corner from the hotel I stayed at was the Doc Martens’ store. And I really wanted a pair. The front of shop was full of beautiful boots, from holographic finishes and velvet to plain black with rainbow stitching. But I now wear a UK 10 or 11. First, I was ignored in favour of the cuter, hipster customers, which normally would have been my cue to leave. the universal sign of “you don’t fit here”. But I had Eroticon confidence running through my veins, so I toughed it out and eventually asked how would I know which shoes I could get in my size.

I was directed down a set of stairs to the clearly labelled men’s department.

There was a choice of black, burgundy or vegan.

I walked out.

How does this relate to lingerie? My chest has done the opposite. From masculine to maternal. But I still can’t buy bras. I walk into shops and ask for my size and get askance looks.

I had stopped asking. The bra that I dug out from the back of the draw for last week’s photo was last worn between babies two and three, had lost wires and yet, I hadn’t thrown it away because I knew I couldn’t replace it. I had the grand total of 3 serviceable bras, one nude, two black, left in the world, and like shoe shopping I had lost the nerve to go looking for something more pretty than serviceable.

Twelve websites later, and I found somewhere that had my size, in a choice of styles and at a price I could afford.

I hate to be made to feel less because of my size and my height. I hate the assumptions made about what I might be like based on things over which I have no control. I didn’t ask for the F cup chest I have now, any more than I wanted the A cups I wore through my teenage years anymore than I want size 10 feet.

I ordered a new bra… and it fit.

I can’t begin to express how that feels.

Playtime

I’m a stickler for matching sets…some things are just meant to go together: bra and knickers, sheets and duvet covers… and in this case I loved it when I was presented with new rope to match my bedding set…

Kiss the lips to find out who else has been Sinful this Sunday

New rope just catches the light and photographs so well.

A Hard Day’s Night

Today was hard.

This evening I needed to go harder.

I needed to be out of my head. Away from the noise. Simplicity.

He takes me into the garden as day gives way to twilight. Over the wall, there is gentle babble of people enjoying a warm evening. Walking dogs. Playing football. The opening layer of bondage. Any words, any sounds, would carry the short few steps to the footpath, over the fence and fruit trees to the neighboring garden. I am bound into silence.

He strips me and leads me to kneel, air soft on naked skin, decking hard beneath my knees. I hear the rope swishing through his hands before he touches me. He makes me wait. Anticipate.

The bite and hold of rope. The pull of muscles held still. Rough fingers trailing proprietorially over portions left exposed. Each sensation layered upon the one before. Knots hanks of rope into bindings that say I am cared for. I am his.

Time has fallen silent. In my head. Between us.

Just the swish of the rope. The catch in my breath as he fucks into me. The stutter of his as he comes.

Kiss the lips to see who is playing out this Sunday

Lucky Me

Exactly thirteen years ago, I was standing in the church I grew up in, making promises to God and my man, getting married.

So for week 13 of #LingerieIsForEveryone and this week’s #WickedWednesday, you get three pictures of my lovely husband.

Last weekend, we had a rare child free night. To get round the inevitable performance anxiety – oh fuck, just the sheer joy of not having to have a silent orgasm or being able to play without locking the bedroom door tempered by the “I must be in the mood tonight” nerves- we scheduled a photo shoot.

This is isn’t his kink, but that he trusts me and loves me enough to both play dress up and let me post photos overwhelms me with just how lucky I am to have someone who supports me, experiments with me and who allows me to push his boundaries as much as he pushes mine. I wanted an image for a story, and he is a very good sport. His jeans clad bum features in Tantrum, and for this story, it was supposed to be tights… but stockings were available… and sexier.

And just in case this seems a bit one sided… he took the misery stick to my backside in the loving room… because we could… and then chose the Sinful Sunday image he felt best displayed his handiwork.

There are more photos to come! But first, the story that sparked them.

Fabric, so fine it was barely there at all, made me aware of every inch of my legs. Caressed. Held. Warmed.

“How do they feel?” she asked.

“Nice.” The weak word slipped through my tight throat.

I flexed my foot and subtly the material moved against skin and hair. Ripples of new awareness from flesh I thought I knew.

“Comfortable?”

Her hand slipped between the constraining layer of stretch and the satin briefs, stroking the lace trim to lie smooth before letting the waistband snap back with satisfying sound. Shivers chased over my skin and even gooseflesh felt magnified.

I wondered how she ever got anything done. Every inch of my attention lay beneath the lightly sheened lycra.

Nodding at herself, and not waiting for my reply, she crouched before me lifting my foot and smoothing the seam over my toes.

I want her to keep touching me and I want her to stop. Equally. Imperatively. My dick twitches beneath my panties and drags with more emphasis against the silkiness. Like the first time. Like I’m held by gentle hands.

She notices the hitch in my breath and smirks as she stands before turning away to finish dressing as though this was no biggie.

She’s good like that. Frustrating in equal measure.

“My red dress ok?”

She turns, as though she knows I’m struck dumb and I nod. Watch her wiggle and curse as she hauls a tight tube of something slinky and black over her hips and midrift. Like a hundred times before, I move behind her and help the last few inches up her back and sides while she slips her arms through the straps. Like always, I wonder what it would feel like, but now, with tights still sparking every nerve from toe to waist, I think I want it more.

She bends to reach for her bra, and I pull her hips back against mine. Spandex against nylon against satin against me. Layers of sensation, more not less for the loss of our nakedness. Squealing she slaps my hip. “We’ll be late!”

“We won’t. Reservation is 8pm.” My voice is raspy from my silence. Sounding like myself feels right and wrong all in the same bundle.

My hands slide up her cool, smooth and unnaturally firm flanks until I reach the living softness above. Cup her, take her weight. She arches, pushing into my hands and dick. Stretching for long seconds until she snaps back tall and pulls free.

“8? I’m starving now.”

She pulls on her bra and I slip my leg into the chinos I’d chosen. To not feel the roughness of the fabric as I pull them up is wonderfully strange. The slide of leather dress shoe far more pronounced against tights than even fine dress socks. And yet, as I button my shirt and smooth it into my trousers, fasten them in the mirror, I look the same as always.

She moves behind me now, watching me examining my reflection. Smooths her hand over my hip and groin. Trails over my thigh.

“Stockings would have shown here. Just a tiny bit.”

She moves slightly to the side and takes my hand over the same height of her leg, smoothing the draping fabric until the indentation and protrusions of her stockings and clips show clearly through the fabric.

“You, of course, have the thighs for hold ups. So just a slight crease where they take bite.” She continues, moving her hand back and drawing a firm line just below the depth of my pocket.

The heel of her hand ghosts across my fly, the constraining grip of lycra adding something I think I’d miss in stockings.

“Would you like that?”

Ask me that a few years ago, when I would wander like a ghost through the high street hiding behind the excuse of a girlfriend’s birthday to covetously prowl through racks of impractical lingerie, furious with myself for feeling ashamed. For wanting. Eaten with confusion.

She makes my chest tighten with emotion. She already knows the answer.

“I think I would.”

Take me home… what I brought with me from Eroticon 18

This morning I sat at the gingham covered table of my best
friend, K, and tried to explain what I loved about Eroticon. We’re friends
through church and she is one of the very few who know of my alternative identity
and she is cautiously interested by it and how it intersects with the me with
whom she attends choir and autism coffee mornings. So, I told her all about my weekend.
Attended… for now. Looking forward to next year 😉

The company: 

As experienced first-hand last year and written
about in blogs from Girl on the Net to Mrs Dutch Veronique, the company is
wonderful and relaxed and friendly. Positive, not just sex positive. Trying to
explain to K beforehand that my virtue was not in danger (unless I really
wanted it to be) from a conference full of sex bloggers seemed tricky, because she walks most frequently in a world where if you talk about sex you are “other”…pick your least
favourite derogatory word… but again Eroticon proved to be a wonderful blend of
people being themselves, being comfortable in themselves, and extending this to
those around them. All within the well supported framework provided by Molly, Michael and GOTN, which meant you could feel safe in your chosen persona, even if that was anonymous and needed to stay that way. I met up immediately with Rose, a friend met last year, and Marie (with GrandMaster T), a new friend from her generous words when I’d written to her Wicked Wednesday theme this year,  to share a meal, and then off to the evening meet and greet. Which leads me
neatly to my next joy…

“You don’t have to post pictures of your boobs” said Victoria Blisse in her “Shy Creatures” talk…

Increased body confidence:

I am neither youthful nor slender…
euphemisms aside I missed the gang-bang on my 40th (Kendra’s fault that now reads “missed” and not “never considered”) and require
enough M&S undies to feel like I am already in a Vac bed most of the time.
Actually, I quite like feeling the constraint, but anyhow… I come to London and
leave aside my normal school-run life and strut in unfamiliar heels into the life
of a blogger. This year I left my darker clothes behind and boldly stepped out
in scarlet. On the Saturday, in case I was brave enough to join in with the
final afternoon free-play, I came in comfortable  dressed down clothes.  Zoe caught my shoes that day for her #footwearoferoticon! Didn’t matter.
None of it mattered. I love that age and size feel irrelevant in this company,
not just because someone has said it doesn’t matter, but because it shows
through every last bit of action. Bruises and marks are admired no matter the
flesh on which they’re drawn. Rope wound around a person is sexy because it is: because of
how it feels to be bound, because of how it feels to bind.  Watching Rose and Charlie and sex blog (of sorts) be spattered in wax from the safe hands of Volcanic Sparks (“Now, there
is an interesting use of the word ‘safe’”, said K, given she’d read the bio’s
in the programme) was fascinating not just because of the sensuality of the wax,
but the freedom of those receiving it.

The quality of the speakers:

I want to go back to
University. Especially if that means thought-provoking lectures of the quality
of the wonderful speakers at Eroticon. My particular favourites were MadelineMorris and Dr Jamie Lawson, because of their academic approach to their subjects,
and Meg- John Barker and Justin Hancock, Anna Sky, Cressida Dowling and Victoria Blisse for
their very practical approach. In fact from the moment Molly opened and handed
over to Girl on the Net I just sat back and mopped up information and ideas. As
ever the talks were so good, making choices about who to see was difficult, but
the sharing of slides and information is so generous there is lots to follow up
on now I’m home. And those that read their work on the Sunday afternoon. You
could have heard a pin drop. Brilliant and brave.
(and if you missed them… try the anthology)

The generosity of skill-sharing:

Working out how to blog well is
a marketable skill set, editors and legal advice even more so and yet here are
professionals and amateurs (only in that it is not their main source of income)
sharing their knowledge and experience in lectures yes, but also in the
corridors, over lunch and in the pub. Handing out their emails and saying come
and talk to me. The sharing of everything from your most successful moment to
the bad advice you wished you’d never given. And then you come to…
Just a little something I made at our crafting circle… thank you Kinkcraft, I will never see paracord the same way again
Playtime:

Lovely, lovely sponsors. Personal favourite toys
included Electrastim Wartenburg wheels and the Zumio, (last year’s demos meant I
already had a Doxy and Ruby Glow for my birthday) but everything on the stalls
was beautiful and inviting. The knowledge and practicality of the demonstrators
was a massive selling point. Loved the variety of couples’ toys this year
which, as I explained to K, was totally compatible with married life. She
looked surprised, so I left her info to peruse when she didn’t have to hide
looking more intrigued than embarrassed. Kinkcraft is an enigma. Making inventive
and beautiful things in the calm circle of your favourite knitting group! Beyond
what I felt was suitable to share with K, the idea of playtime is not unknown
territory for me, but never in public. So, from the purposes of informing my writing,
I loved watching people experiment with the Vacbed and Cube (see MPB’s post Eroticon posts for photos) and spread out on
the beautiful Sheets of San Francisco bed.  And then… back to generosity, Michael and Molly
and their toy bag. The way the room dropped to silence at the thwack of toy
against willing victim. Not being afraid to say “I want to try…” was
liberating. And the medical stapler that arrived courtesy of my quickest online
retailer is also not something for sharing with my best friend… but I am hoping
it might make a good Sinful Sunday shot soon (not such a shy creature after
all!).

So, it’s not 10 things. Individually, it is hundreds of
sights, sounds, ideas and friendships made… and there were still talks I didn’t
make, people I missed connecting with and a nagging regret I didn’t try the wax
play, since it’s something I like and would have been an interesting thing to
do in public… 

Coming Home

I feel like apologizing. But it’s the prompt. Post- Eroticon euphoria will follow… but this needed to be posted first. 
Sadness is the quiet friend you don’t remember making. While grief and anger rant and rage, sadness creeps in through the back door and makes itself at home. 
Sadness is not the death of a child. It is the piece of clothing hanging in the back of the cupboard that they will never grow out of. 
It is not the diagnosis of a life changing condition. It’s the toy hidden under the bed that they’ll never grow into. 
It’s not the decision to throw away your toys and never play again. It’s the understanding that intent to play is not always the same as having the time and the energy. 
The light was bright and white, bouncing off snow covered
roofs before burning through her reluctant eyes. The alarm was chiming,
cheerfully advising it was 6.05 in a voice so devoid of sympathy, it was nearly
thrown at the wall in anger. But she didn’t. Sleeping in her own bed was like
being bathed in apathy, so she swiped it closed and swung her legs out from the
choking heat of the duvet. Cold. That was better. More in keeping.

It was her second morning home, yesterday hidden behind
exuberant welcomes and cries of “Mummy”. Behind exhaustion and aching muscles
and a backside scorched by a proprietorial hand. Yesterday had started with a
cock bruised cunt and sticky thighs. Tuesday began with the alarm.

Celebratory meals welcoming the prodigal were scorched into
saucepans and stacked in haphazard piles over unsorted recycling and remains of
junk food. Twitter hashtags replaced by an ongoing argument over consent in the
classroom. In every blink, the beautiful wax-spattered skin, the pristine white
bed, the patterns of rope flashed and then were replaced with this. This needy
beast of life.

Routine. Morning coffee at 11.15 was served by washing-chapped hands and tawdry, chipped nails. The nails she nearly cried over. With a
promise of two weeks life, they were the gentle slope back to normality, the dirty
secret in plain sight.  This second
morning, they were gone, no match for the encrusted oven shelves.

She wanted to kneel, but the office was too small and the
call too important to disturb. She needed fucking, to be used that way too.
Instead, she sorted washing and repeated the mantra “I do this because I love
you” as every t-shirt was peeled from its jumper, each sock retrieved and
pocket emptied.

When lunchtime came, they exchanged 11 words. Yesterday, he’d
murmured demands of lunchtime service thwarted by hungry children. Today, he
barely looked up from the keyboard as he typed with shaking hands. She was not
the only one exhausted by the weekend.

The computer open. Inviting blank document and the photographs of the weekend,
bright and exciting. Her own. Others. Images of flesh and sex. Beautiful
knickers and arses slapped red. Of the desire filled eyes, soft and black as
they described their own fantasies. Their own worlds. Words wouldn’t come, the void between then and now too stark and painful. 

“I endure. That’s what I want. I want to endure for him.”
The words, spoken so casually that the speaker would never know they’d been
imprinted on the listener’s brain. The timid whisper in her own head, answering
yes, that was what she wanted too. And that was what she had. Just, not wrapped
in flesh stinging from his paddle or scratched by his nails. Not today anyway.  He made her a cup of tea when she wanted him
to feed her his dick.

As days crept forwards, she learnt again not to rely on a
heart on twitter for her feelings of self-worth. Tried to write without remembering
the feeling of being one of them, those beautiful fucking creatives who fed her
soul. Remembered that service was a gift that he valued.

Sadness was his quiet sigh as he wanked under the sheets to her photographs, hand in her hair while she slept.