Happiness Stan

Everyone knows Stan in our town. 30 odd years ago he played for our local football team. A real character who always had a pint in the bar before the game and still gave his all for 90 minutes on the pitch And then, after the game, well he was rarely home before midnight. When you look back you wonder what his wife made of it all, and, lovely man that he was, she let him in the end. What else was she to do?

But even as his personal life was falling apart he was a hero for us kids. I can remember well his little tricks, the dummies and shimmies, that goal at Brentford the one and only time we got to the FA Cup First Round. I am not exaggerating believe me, high ball into the box and there was Stan, took it on his right, back onto his left, a swivel and back into hs right and bang! A crisp volley into Brentford’s net to put us one up. Brentford’s defenders had been completely mesmerised by Stan’s genius. We lost 6-1 in the end but Stan’s status as a local hero was sealed. This had been the biggest day out in our club’s history and Stan’s goal had made it special.
And then he packed up playing, probably a year or two early because of the drink. Not knowing what to do with himself, he did the only other thing he knew. He drank.

He still does. Stan spends his days on a bench in a secluded corner of our local park drinking beer from cans. I never knew what he did for food so I used to take him a sandwich, a pork pie, sometimes a take away coffee. And I would sit and chat. His eyes always lit up at the mention of the Brentford game, some 40 years ago now but still the highlight of his life. And how many if us with our steady jobs and mortgages and so on, have ever, in one moment of inspiration, sent 4,000 of oir fellow human beings into rapture? Stan had and the knowledge of that clearly gave him the feeling that his life had been worth living.

One day as we chatted Stan said he had a favour to ask. It was years since he had had sex and well as he didn’t feel right approaching a woman and while he wasn’t gay would I mind? Well I would probably have done anything for Stan. He unzipped his flies and pulled out a still impressive cock. I dropped to my knees on the gravel path, took his cock in my hand, pulled back the foreskin and took him into my mouth. I had always thought of myself as a straight guy and this was a really new experience to me. But I found myself enjoying the sensation of a cock hardening and swelling in my mouth, enjoying the groans of pleasure that Stan was making. When he came into my mouth I knew what to do. I swallowed a bit , I had never known it was salty, and kept a bit in my mouth. I moved my mouth towards his. I kissed him and transferred the remaining come into his mouth.  He smiled.

I stood up, brushed the gravel from my knees, and walked off without giving Stan a second glance.

I never saw him again. Whether he had left our town for good, or whether something bad had happened I will probably never know. But when I think of the happiness he brought me or even the fleeting happiness I brought him he will forever be Happiness Stan.

Sharing Our Shit 8th June 2019

Thoughts on a few thing I have read recently.

I have been thinking a lot about crushes recently, and am working on a post on this very subject,  so I found this by Meg John and Justin interesting thought provoking.

I have crushes on people I know (although no one I now particularly well) but I guess I am not the only one to fantasise about strangers. Indeed it is not unknown for people seen on buses and trains to appear in my stories. I can still remember some of the people I fantasised about 40 years ago,  the woman on the bus to Birmingham with the short blonde hair and brown leather coat who seemed  to sit next to me on the cramped five person back seat more often than could be put down to chance? Or so I fantasised.  And there will be a story set in 1978 some time. The least I can do for her is use my pen to make her 30 again and let her have amazing sex. Yes, and maybe I will have that fantasy date to see The Motors at Barbarellas. So I enjoyed this little reflection by Kayla Lords.

In my kink persona I enjoy humiliating and degrading submissives although it has taken me a while to get to this point, to understanding the emotional needs of my submissives for this kind of play, the often treacherous ground to be negotiated, to find the kinds of play that bring release and catharsis and learning about that will cause pain and trauma.  And there are kinds of degradation play that, I think, will always remain hard limits. I do, however, get a real buzz out of bathroom and toilet humiliation, although I have met people on the scene who really don’t get MKINYKBYKIOK. Once I was asked, with my sub, to demonstrate bathroom play at a private house party,  only  for one of our hosts (the one who asked us for the demo!)  to tell us it was gross and disgusting and that we wouldn’t be welcome at their parties again. Victoria Blisse does, however, get degradation and I enjoyed this.

When this blog started nearly 7 years ago,I wrote a lot about sex work. And I keep having to come back to it.This piece in The Guardian says  it really. There can be no true feminism that does not embrace ALL women and feminism that excludes women because of disapproval of the way they use their bodies is not feminism. And on this note, please do not vote for the Women’s Equality Party which not only backs the discredited Nordic Model but had been complicit in the harassment ad outing of sex workers

Well that has to be a bit of car porn too doesn’t there? This week enjoy the E30 BMW 325i . Yes, I know they had a terrible reputation as Yuppiemobiles back in the heyday of Thatcherism  and if you buy one now you have to cope with the traumatic thought that the first owner may well have been a dickhead in red braces but, believe me, they were, and are, brilliant cars.

And finally a little music. This always reminds me of my fantasy lover of 1978.Enjoy.


The Hair Cut

A little story for Masturbation Monday

Heels, jeans and a tight fitting t shirt. I looked at myself in the mirror. I felt my hair , pulled it down, twisted it into plaits. Most of it would soon be gone.

I walked into the barbers and sat down, my heels having alerted everyone to the presence of a woman. The shop went silent. Everyone looked at me. I picked up a newspaper, The Sun if you really want to know. I peered out from behind the newspaper, feeling conspicuous and more than a little uncomfortable.

Two men paid and left, then a father hoisted a screaming toddler onto a little seat that rested on the arms of the barbers chair. I watched as a tattooed  bearded young man went to work. I returned to the sports pages of The Sun. My reading was interrupted by a woman’s voice,

“It’s you next isn’t it lovely?

My barber was a woman. She had a red bob and, like the men was dressed in black, t shirt, and leather trousers tucked into knee high boots.

I stood up and walked over to the chair, a little unsure what came next. I sat down in the chair and stuttered out

“A short back and sides?”

“Shall I leave a bit more on the top so that it lies, you know, rather than sticking up?”

“Oh that would be good.”

“Cut square at the back?”.

I nodded. Still, l I thought, it was good to have a woman to guide me, if necessary, through this strange new world I had stepped into.

“I’m Ali by the way” she said and began her work of cutting and shaving. I watched as the long brown hair dropped in folds over the cape and flopped onto landed onto the floor. I felt myself getting wet as I watched. Under cover of the cape I slipped a hand into my jeans and began to massage my clit.

It was warm in the shop, I was enjoying the music, the falling hair was making me wet and I liked Ali, She didn’t say much but that was maybe because I was drifting off into my own little genderqueer world.

Then she said

“Right all done”.

She showed me her handiwork in the mirror she held behind my head.

“How do you like it?”

I nodded approval. I was speechless with excitement.

She unclipped the cape and I quickly withdrew my hand from my jeans. I was wet and frustrated.

I paid and made to leave. As I turned and headed for the door Ali slipped me a note. Once I reached the bus stop I   the note out of my pocket and unfolded it. It said

“You are gorgeous”

A few weeks later I went back. I knew I needed to experience the again the masculine environment, with kits smell of aftershave and testosterone, its grubby newspapers, the packets of rubbers in a rack. Most of all I needed to see Ali.

This time I had a men’s polo shirt on, I had taped my breasts to make them even less prominent.

“I want a head shave.”

Ali stroked my heads as she worked and I felt my head against her breasts as my nipples hardened and chafed against the tape.

“There you go lovely” said Ali holding up the mirror. I looked at my shaven head, ran my hands over the stubble on my head. I was the last customer of the day. Ali has already locked the door.  I looked in the large mirror in front of  and saw Ali, her hand down her leather trousers.

She knew that I had seen her. She blushed but did not move her hand.

“You’re fuckng hot” she said as she massaged her clit with increasing vigour. “But I have never been with ..you know …I am not sure”

I got out of the chair and shook a few loose hairs from my head. I went up to her.

“I can show you a few things. But for now, let’s just enjoy each other this way.”

I knelt down before her in the sweep of what had been my hair, and which Ali would have to sweep up before she left. I motioned to her to kneel too. There, on our knees in the deserted shop, a double dildo length apart, we masturbated to each other.

“First steps” I said. “We don’t touch, we each pleasure ourselves just as we want to be pleasured by each other next time. We offer this as a gift to each other. We focus on each other, we come together.”

“And next time?” asked Ali.

“Who knows?” I answered. “Just enjoy this. This is the real deal too. Let it bring you joy.”

Check out the other stories here


Being a Proud Baggie

I suppose I should have been part of the LGBT scene rather longer than  I have.  I occasionally go to meetups of the Birmingham LGBT Meetup and have met some people I really like. But I never had time to go that often.  Their main event is Coffee and Cake on a Saturday afternoon, and on Saturday afternoons I often have other things to do, like supporting West Bromwich Albion.  And when I say that if I had the choice between going to a Baggies game and having lunch with Victoria Broom,  I would mostly choose the match you will see where I am coming from on this one.

It was last August that I read the winning entries in the annual competition run by When Saturday Comes for new writers. One of these was a really excellent piece about he LGBT Albion supporter’s group, the Proud Baggies. So I signed up.  A few days later I met Sarah Robinson, the author of the piece, for a prematch coffee in Starbucks, having taken the precaution of wearing my new rainbow Docs so that she could recognise me. She did. And Albion beat Mansfield (just about) This was then a good evening.

Over the following months I met several other members of the group and was made to feel really welcome. Yesterday I attended my first Birmingham Pride and paraded with the Proud baggies. We sang, we chanted, we exchanged banter with Villa fans among the spectators (good natured  by the way). We finished up at the Eden Bar with drinks. I was buzzing at the end.

But this was mainly for reasons unconnected with the Proud Baggies. As many of you reading this will know, there have been demonstrations and boycotts at some Birmingham schools over the No Outsiders programme which, as Carrie Lyell DIVA editor, cuttingly put it, exposes children to the shocking idea that “LGBTQI people  are not radioactive waste.”

Pride’s answer to the bigots was to invite two queer Muslims to lead the procession and to get the programme’s initiator Andrew Moffatt, to make a powerful speech before the Parade moved off.

As we walked through Birmingham city centre I was struck too by the immense support and goodwill of ordinary Brummies. We hear a lot these days about the rise of  the Far Right and the threat to LGBT rights, women’s rights and so on, but I dare to hope after yesterday that the bigots will not win.

My first Pride was huge fun but, and this is something Pride has been accused of no longer being, political. And this combination suits me fine,


Lazy Sunday Afternoon

After lunch we returned to our cells and the heavy metal doors banged shut behind is. The hatch opened, and we were aware of eyes watching us as we lay on our bunks.
“Everything OK ladies?” said a cheerful voice.
“Yes Miss” said Mandy from the top bunk and the hatch closed, leaving us to yet another aimless Sunday afternoon.
“Lazy Sunday afternoon” said Mandy dropping off the top bunk,
‘But then all Sunday afternoons are lazy. Every fucking day in here is lazy.
Her eyes flashed with anger.
“Ten years down, five to go. I suppose the time will pass eventually and then what?
I shrugged.
Mandy continued
“But I’ve got you haven’t I, my little errand girl, my little prison maid.”
She smiled a wicked smile. Because what she said was true, Coming to prison had been a terrifying ordeal but Mandy had taken me under her wing, and offered me protection in exchange for… well, servitude. I cleaned the cell, ran errands for her, did the dirty work of her prison wide tobacco empire, ran the risks, took the rap. I knew the punishment block well enough. But I said nothing. Loyalty to Mandy and safety went hand in hand., And besides, I found her hot, although she had never shown much interest in me. I masturbated to her every night and the knowledge that she was just a couple of feet above me, that the bulge in the filthy prison mattress was her.
“Parole Board tomorrow” I said.
She grabbed me, pulled me up roughly from my bunk and pushed me against the sickly green brick of the wall
“You’re going to fuck up. You are going nowhere.”
She moved her face in close to mine, I could smell her warm breath. She spat in my face and I felt the saliva run down my cheeks.
“You’re staying here with me. I am going to make you love prison.”
She pushed me onto my knees, pushed her knee into my back and yanked my head back by the hair until I was looking up into her face.
“Open your mouth”.
A long trail of spittle hung from her mouth before breaking off and dropping into mine., I swallowed greedily.

“Over to the bed. Kiss it and lie on it.
I did as I was told.
“Mandy I adore you, prison I love you “ as I placed my lips on the rough orange blanket and kissed it as tenderly as if it was the relic of a saint. .
I lay on the bed and then Mandy joined me on my bunk. She pulled down the blanket from her bunk to make a screen, pulled off my prison sweatshirt and the grubby bra and began to kiss my breasts, whipping the nipples with her tongue. I felt them harden.
She kissed me, deep and long and whispered ,
“After what I am going to do to you, you will never want to be free. Believe me.”
She pushed me back onto the bad, parted my legs and I felt a finger going into my vagina. I was wet and dilating. She put another finger in and began to move in and out. Her thumb found my clit and I was soon approaching orgasm. Then she stopped.
“You don’t come until you promise me you are fuck up that Parole Board hearing, until you tell me you want to be here with me in this cell more than anything.”
“More than anything Mandy.”
I could barely speak. She reached across, tweaked my nipples, then I felt her tongue licking at my vulva, them my clit. Then she stopped again.

“Just say it. Say it. And you will come as you have never come before. And you won’t care about the tedium, the searches, the shit food, the evenings in…”
She laughed.
“Every evening is a fucking evening in isn’t it?”
I laughed.
“But who cares? If it’s with you?”
“I promise to be faithful to you, to serve every day that you do”
She went on tonguing me again moved up to tongue my clit as the fingers went back in and she brought me to orgasm. As the orgasm shuddered though me, as brilliant sculptures of light filled my head , I thoughts of lumpy mattresses, green walls, white bloused officers patrolling the wing, lukewarm mashed potato on plastic forks, on every single indignity and humiliation of prison life and realised that I craved every one of them as the price for this. Tomorrow I would get my knock back. Tomorrow I would get the reward that made it all worthwhile. I pushed her onto her back and pushed two fingers into her wet cunt. Two hours until we were next unlocked. I was going to use the time well.

Sharing Our Shit – Eurovision Special

Those who know me in real life know that I am a total petrol head. I currently drive an Abarth 595 and have raw, unrefined fun in a car that looks oh so cute but, believe me, isn’t. It is the car for the woman I want to be, a bit girly, quite feminine, but a lot scorpion, and even more bitch. I have owned BMWs, Saabs, two Cortina 1600Es and a Mini.

And, as you might expect of a petrol head sex blogger, I have had sex in a few cars, (not the Abarth sadly – it is way too small) and am a firm believer in not having cloth seats in cars, particularly after a spillage on the back seat in a dark country lane in Oxfordshire many years ago

So I always read about car sex with more than a degree of interest and this week I really liked this by Posy Churchgate. And the petrol head in me loved the picture of a Rover P5.

A Twitter conversation about uniforms led to a discussion of religious habits which led, in turn, to my reading this by May More.

I have just finished a reflection on the April 30 Days of Orgasm Fun challenge and enjoyed this by Marie Rebelle.

I am intrigued by polyamory although I don’t identify as poly myself.The Other Livvy discusses here how polyamory looks from the perspective of someone whose primary partner has secondary partners but, herself, neither has nor needs a secondary partner.

And finally this. Not about sex at all really but a piece of car porn. Or maybe this is it all about sex after all?

30 Days in April – What Happened?

Being chronically disorganised sometimes helps. As so often happens I was late making a doctor’s appointment to get my anti-depressants represcribed. So, for the last few days of April I had to go without. I experienced a few weird days. I drank too much at first as if seeking solace I other ways. I had strange and disturbing dreams, slept during the day , drained of energy. Then I got back to running, took myself in hand, reduced my alcohol intake, and suddenly, one day woke up horny, horny as fuck. As the alarm went I reached, not for my phone, but for a vibrator.

I pleasured myself and came with that intensity that has you looking down a psychedelic kaleidoscope, explosions of colour in my head through as the waves of pleasure hit, fierce waves flagellating a rock. I came again in the shower, once more as I smoked a cigarette on the back step and played my favourite prison fantasy in my head.

Later that day I texted an occasional male sexual partner to arrange to see him, the sooner the better but actually it was not really about him or anybody else. This was about me. I had struggled with the 30 day orgasm challenge and yes I know we are all urged not to set the bar too high, not to punish ourselves if we can’t.

I couldn’t and I felt a failure. And now, a few unplanned days off the meds, I couldn’t stop. And I felt so good, with my daily doses of endorphins. The orgasm challenge ended so well for me. I feel good about myself, I have learnt more about my body, my mind, and how they fit together.

And now the question. Do I actually need medication? Do I need that appointment? Or are the keys to mental health that enticing combination of my imagination and the knowledge  acquired over four decades of how my body works?