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. 



Wave Hello

This week I’ve dusted off my blog and twitter feed and have been saying hi again to people I met at Eroticon last year. And being a bit more public facing, one or two friends I have known for a little bit longer have noticed me and got in touch for the first time in ages. 

Three things happened. 

First, I deliberately made some time, with the altruistic support of my lovely man, to think dirty thoughts. That hasn’t happened in a “making time for myself” way in a little while. Pretty sure I’ll blush at our meeting later in the week when the social worker asks me if I’ve been making some “me time” this month. 

Next, the wonderful Wicked Wednesday theme is games… and the prompt picture had me thinking more board games than mind-fuck games, although I am sure there will be wonderful stories about both types submitted and I look forward to reading them all. 

WickedWednesday

Then a friend waved. 

It started last
Tuesday when you waved to me on Messenger.

I waved back.

Sam waved back.

Home for the
weekend with Lilly and the kids, we meet at the Harvester so they can run off
some steam. Eight years since we could be in the same place at the same
time.  Lilly looks great. The kids have
grown. Your parents are still well.

Even here, a place not
even built then, I am 20 years ago and taking you with me. Sam and Lilly talk
about something they watch on the TV. My skin is prickling with your nearness and your eyes are black with memories.

A news program crawls
across a 60 inch screen above our table but all I am aware of are your nails scoring down my back as I lie across your hard bed in the Uni dorms. First man
to mark me. I am so glad you shared that with me.

Sam knows and his
hand creeps to my thigh beneath the table. Something small. My tell.  But he carries on talking as though nothing
important is happening.

You know too and
turn the conversation back to an innocent remembrance. A birthday playing card
games. But it is not innocent, is it? We are both thinking about what happened
an hour later when your friends asked me to be your birthday present. When they
begged me to blow you in your parent’s sitting room. Plied me with vodka-cokes
as though I would need them and forgetting I could drink you all under the
table.

We played Baccarat,
the game we taught ourselves to play so we could be cool like James Bond. Our
friends made excuses to leave and I turned the flirt on them. Asked them to
stay. Dealt another hand of cards. Loosened more clothing. Eyes widening and chests
tightening as I played the role they thought they’d chosen. I was so fucking
ready for you to use me. For them to watch.

They thought I was
a vamp. Thought I was seducing you. Didn’t know we were both more than aware of
the other. That even as innocent as we were, I knew you.

My skin is
prickling against my bra. I don’t see them anymore, our friends from Physics class.
Just you. When you are home. Or when I am.

I want to show you
my new piercings, hiding, shifting behind the lace. But my body belongs to Sam, reclaimed for him post children. This isn’t the body we shared.

You drift into the
conversation with the others and I stay on my knees on the crimson Wilton in
your mother’s best sitting room. Feel your cock choking me, balls hairy against
my chin as I pushed myself to swallow your length. The glorious freedom of four
pairs of eyes watching me as heady as knowing I could get you off. The slick
wet sound as one of them pumped their own dick and I matched their pace with my
mouth, streams of spit dribbling from lips stretched wide and tight as I struggled
to breathe and swallow and suck. The wonder as you gave in and fucked my face,
holding my hair tightly as you bucked and took my mouth.

Messy and innocent
and raw. Pumping bitter and thick into my throat as I tried to swallow like
Cosmo said I should. The ache in my jaw. The damp cloth someone brought me so I
could mop up my drool. Redoing my make up in the tiny loo under the stairs and
wondering why I seemed so wet. Down there.

I am wet now. In
the noisy pub with the scalding lasagne and our seven children running wild. You
are shifting in your seat. Who we are with Sam and with Lilly began with those
games.

Sam’s fingers dig
knowingly into my inner thigh. He has been looking forward to this meal all
week. Lilly smiles and kisses you softly.

The kids pile back to the table and we eat ice cream sundaes
and talk about their upcoming exams. Watch as your eldest and mine dance with
words and glances as we did at their age.

We are not now what we were then. I can’t call you my best
friend and you can’t just ring me up for a game or to test a theory in a lab or a bed of
our choice.  

But I love you. For who you are and who you were.

I know Lilly reads my blog. Sam wonders if she plays cards? 

Meet and greet me

In less than one week’s time I will be on the threshold of Eroticon 2018. My hairdresser is booked, I’ve finally found some boots that fit and a friend of mine who finds it very funny that she’s worked out the buttons to my submissive side told me I should wear more red… spot me and see if I’ve resisted the programming. 

Eroticon
 
Last year was my first time out in public as being me. All of me, not just the “nice and acceptable for the school run” parts. I thought I would dissolve like a vampire in the daylight, or that, worse still, I might be called out for not being a blogger or writer as I only had a handful of scribblings under my belt. Instead, I ended up chatting to Rose and Fred among others, and feeling like a might just be in the right place. I still ended up talking about my kids over lunch with other people who equally alternated their conversation between their kids and the sex toy raffle prizes… as though this was the most natural thing in the world. It just felt great to be in like-minded company. 
 
Name (and Twitter if you have one)
Alethea Hunt…. Allie in person,  @aletheaalone on twitter.
 
What are you most looking forward to about Eroticon 2018?
Being with the tribe. It will be a bit daunting walking in on the Friday night, because I’m naturally anxious, but after last year I know you are a safe space and plausibly the most accepting group of people I’ve met. There is not a lot of time for the me that plays out at Eroticon in the rest of my life, this last six months virtually none at all, so I am looking forward to a reawakening. Not to mention meeting up with people I met last year…and having the nerve to start conversations with new people.
The talks look great. Free playtime at the end of Saturday a little terrifying. Hopefully by then I will have relaxed a little… if not, someone grab me and make me join in. 
 
We are creating a play list of songs for the Friday Night Meet and Greet. Nominate one song that you would like us to add to the play list and tell us why you picked that song
Some really good songs are already there… Bad things that @sexwithrose has picked is a favourite, Nick Cave’s voice strokes my skin into goose bumps and @_Masterseyehas picked The Ship Song, which has me happily burning bridges…both lovely growling voices… Shit. This is a hard one. Music was how I realised perhaps the whole boys and girls story I’d grown up with was missing some of the potential. From Nights in White Satin (Moody Blues) (Ina Morata got that one) via Lay Lady Lay (Dylan) through to seeing Brian Molko (Placebo) in a dress and eyeliner and thinking “wow”… mainly because “fuck me” wasn’t in my vocabulary yet. Still thinking…
 
…the entire soundtrack of my 1980s would have pounded through the speakers at Heaven… not that I had any idea of the themes behind the songs…just the energy and excitement.
 
…Ballad of Barry and Freda by Victoria Wood? First time I remember it being acknowledged that women had an interest in sex beyond finding a man and having children with him. And that sex could be fun. 
 
What’s the first career you dreamed of having as a kid?
Don’t think I ever really dreamed like that. Maybe my ambition was never to go to work? I think I realised I liked making people happy, so generally I went along with what people suggested for me. However, my mum quotes my first infant school teacher as saying word to the effect of “If you want something doing, ask someone else. If you want a book writing about it, ask Allie,” I guess writing about stuff might always have been on the cards. I think I wanted to make the world a better place but was never sure how to do it.
 
Weirdest place you’ve ever gotten up to mischief (define ‘mischief’ however you like…)
My first kiss was topless in the woods at a local music festival…various escapades in muddy fields followed as I was a scout and so a muddy field was the usual parent free venue. A camper van… loved that as then we could have a cup of tea afterwards…loads of occasions in the open air, but nothing really weird in terms of places… my sister’s bedroom on a visit to her at Uni… but that was only weird the next morning when mum brought up cups of tea and there were three of us in the bed. It was ok though… she went back down and got one for Ed…
When I was young I didn’t consider myself adventurous… but when I look back, I didn’t do too badly. Then the kids came along and the biggest game for myself and the lovely Mr is trying to have sex in silence. Or without falling asleep.
 
Tell us two truths and a lie about yourself
Bloody Hell, this is hard…
I have three cats, Dow, Fritz and Mouse.
I am autistic and lying freaks me out.
I’ve eaten chips and cheese with Jay Kay from Jamiroquai
 
Complete the sentence: I want…
 
…my kids to grow up in a society where we don’t define people by things we shouldn’t be and can’t be but by an acceptance that, whilst respecting others’ bodies and freedoms, we should be free to shape our own story without guilt or shame about our roots, our sexualities, our gender(s) or our desires. 
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It’s been a while

It’s been a while.
Things came up and made me forget that I liked to hang out here. 
That it made me feel like me.
Going to Eroticon 2018 in a week or so. So I went back to places I felt safe to have a little explore. Now I’ve missed the deadline for this week, but this is a Wicked Wednesday prompt…because that has always felt like a good place to start. 
WickedWednesday

Peruvian Mocha Limu. Dark and dirty with a hidden sweetness.
Just bitter enough to be challenging, smooth enough to drink more than one cup.

An expresso quickie to set you off with a bang. A long latte
with caramel syrup wrapping me up like a feather duvet.

I do have moments of coffee infidelity.

Sometimes I crave a good hard Javan hand roast.  

It’s all about finding the right coffee for you and more
than that, its mixing it the right way. Taking care and time over the preparation
and not just accepting what someone else thought you might want to drink. Asking
for what you want.

Good coffee though, takes effort. I’d stopped requesting
coffee. Stopped making it for myself. There was never really time and you don’t
die from a lack of coffee.

The cafetiere had gone back in the cupboard. The special cups
were put away out of reach. I didn’t bother. And I didn’t miss it. After all I
had tea.

I’m not knocking tea. Socially, I feel it’s easier just to
go along with it when it’s offered. It’s warm and wet and will do.

But it’s not something I love.

I don’t wake up in the morning craving a cup of tea. And I’d
forgotten how good coffee could be.

Until today.

I checked twitter for the first time in months and there was
Rebel, daring me to think about coffee.

And I remembered the smoky power charging through my veins,
making my heart beat that little bit faster, my mouth water for the taste.

The matt glory of the beans. The fullness of the aroma as
they are ground, changing with an exciting moist earthiness through brewing. I
can smell the bitter cocoa promise hidden in the depths. Chase it.

I want to drink it raw. Black. Powerful. Scalding. Want to
drown in a cream filled mug topped with foam and crunchy brown sugar.

All of it.

Now.

It’s scary. Suddenly remembering means I had forgotten. De-prioritised.

I don’t want that.

I create a space for the cafetiere on the counter top. Move
the cups down a shelf so I can see them.

Let the scent tease through the house.

In case anyone else needs reminding they like coffee too.