Remembering Laura Lee

It is, I guess, not unusual to hear bad news these days but this week I heard news that truly shocked me.  This was the death, at the scandalously early age of 39, of Laura Lee. Laura had acquired a significant profile over that last couple of years as an articulate and determined sex workers rights activist both in Great Britain and in Ireland, where both Northern Ireland and the Republic have recently introduced laws to criminalise the purchase of sex, both, incidentally, without lifting existing criminal sanctions against the sex workers themselves despite this being part of the sales pitch for the so-called Nordic model which politicians claimed as their inspiration.

I never met Laura. But I came across her back in 2012 when I started blogging and tweeting and stumbled across the debates raging in Scotland over the attempt by MSP Rhoda Grant to introduce a criminlisation law north of the Border. Laura was prominent in this battle as, although originally from Dublin, she lived in western Scotland (hence her Twitter handle @glasgaelauralee),and so I discovered her on social media and we soon followed  each other on Twitter, became friends on Facebook and we chatted quite a bit about the various issues.

I blogged a lot on sex work in those days. I don’t really write much now as I have said all that I had to say and where more needs to be said, there are many others better placed than me to say it. Nonetheless I am FB friends with a number of sex workers and activists from around the world and really value my little online sex work community. Laura was very much part of that

Laura was about to fight her biggest battle yet, to get the criminalisation law in Northern Ireland, (introduced two years ago on the initiative of Lord Morrow of the DUP and against the advice of the Police Service of Northern Ireland) overturned as a breach of the ECHR. Sadly she did not live to see the outcome of that fight.

Those who knew and love her will grieve as they must. Those who did not know her in person will be saddened. But all of us who value the safety of vulnerable women, all of us who value policy based on evidence and not on ideology, all of us who believe in the bodily autonomy of women, must fight on.

None of us, and least all Laura, would ever say that sex work is never exploitative, that many sex workers would not prefer to make their living in other ways, that many want and need exit strategies. What we do say is that the way to make life better, safer, for sex workers, those who want out as much as those who want to remain, is to remove criminal sanctions, to get the state out of all our beds. Continuing the struggle for this is the way to honour the memory of Laura Lee.

Rest in Power.

Imagined Desires

Most weekdays I get up at five thirty. I start the day with a cup of tea, a cigarette, and watch German breakfast television as I take my medication, eat breakfast and do my make-up. But every other week I get up half an hour earlier, a sacrifice I make because I have a crush on a presenter who is only on every other week and who normally only presents the first hour of the breakfast programme. Attraction is irrational and I still struggle to explain what I see in her, but a crush this definitely is.

I don’t spend the half hour fantasising, but rather watching and adoring. This is a lovely feeling and one I haven’t known since I fell in love with a school teacher over forty years ago. I look forward to this half hour in the stillness of the early morning. On the days I oversleep and miss her I can be in a foul mood all day. When I have worshipped I leave the house in the winter darkness with a spring in my step. The tiredness I suffer later on in the day is very much a price worth paying. Sometimes I take out my notebook on the train and write her a short love letter, one of the “letters I’ve written never meaning to send.”  And I live in hope that she will one day follow me on Twitter.

So I, as a fifty five year old woman, find myself in love with an unattainable woman young enough to be my daughter. I will never meet her in real life, my love and devotion will never be returned. I know this and don’t care. I am sharing with you a part of my inner life, something that makes me happy.

This is something too that gives me emotional release and which helps in my depression and anxiety. Even though I don’t actively fantasise about her, and have never masturbated to her, she fuels my erotic imagination. A few days ago, it was a Saturday, my body clock woke me up at five. I rolled over in the darkness and searched for the alarm clock. Two more hours in bed I thought before I need to get up to go running. I dozed off into the light sleep where dreams unfold.

She came to me, stood before me. No words were said. I knelt before her, kissed her boots, gently and with devotion. I reached up, unbuttoned her jeans, pulled them down a little. I moved her panties to the side, gazed in awe at her magnificent cunt. I moved forward, wetted my tongue, then buried my face in the coarse, luxuriant hair and began to worship……

I woke up wet and with a deep feeling of contentment. I grabbed the notebook I keep on the bedside table and began to write. Some of my dream might end up in a story. Some of it will be transferred to real life. Then my lovers will feel for themselves the beauty of the crush, the magic that can be wrought by unrequited love.

More Than Skin Deep

I am of the generation that had Athena posters on their walls. I had a number of them over the years but the one I most fondly remember is an Art Decoey black and white backlit studio shot of Marlene Dietrich, silver hair, cheekbones sculpted, seemingly, by the interplay of light and shade. This I proudly displayed on my wall for three undergraduate years, enjoying the admiring glances it attracted, and the knowing looks aimed at me. Marlene had become for me an icon. She remains one and that is why I had her tattooed on my right arm a couple of months ago. Wherever I go from now in, she will come with me.

Whilst doing German A Level at school  we were encouraged to read around and outside the syllabus, to equip ourselves with a fuller and more rounded knowledge of German literature  so that we could set the prescribed books in a wider context and, hopefully, bring a greater understanding to bear on them.  One of these was Professor Unrat by Klaus Mann, the story of a pedantic schoolmaster who attends a club where e hazard his pupils are wasting (his view) their evenings. He becomes besotted by the cabaret’s star singer and this leads him to perdition. He dies alone in the school where he once taught, a broken man, publicly humiliated in the town where he had once been a respectable and highly regarded member of the community.

Reading the book led inevitably to seeing the film “The Blue Angel” in which Dietrich plays the singer Lola Lola with Emil Jannings co-starring as the doomed schoolmaster. This was her most celebrated role in German speaking cinema before she left for Hollywood in 1931. She combines sensuality, eroticism and a cold streak of malevolence which is seen in her palpable enjoyment of the indignities and humiliations she inflicts on the man who has become her husband. In this role she is intoxicating and totally believable.

I fell in love with Dietrich all those years ago but only came to appreciate her fully some years later. She is an icon for me because she was openly bisexual, because she experimented with gender fluidity, because she enjoyed sex and didn’t care who knew it. But she was an inspiration for other reasons. She was a German who rejected the regime that had taken over her country and was to lead it to disaster. She turned down financially attractive offers from Goebbels to  return home to appear in propaganda films (her erstwhile co-star Jannings took the Nazi shilling) and returned to Germany only in 1945, a US citizen in American uniform.

Some Germans never forgave her this “betrayal”. When she toured Germany in 1960, her shows were the target of boycotts and demonstrations. She left Germany vowing never to return. She did return, but only after her death in Paris in 1992. She is buried in a modest grave in Schoneberg Cemetery, in the sandy soil of her native Berlin. Marlene has many visitors, who leave stones, lipsticks, powder compacts, cigarettes, and even occasional flowers. I visit every time I am in Berlin, just to spend quiet time with her, feeling that she would understand the paths my life has taken. She would just “get” me.

My tattoo is, therefore, not just about Marlene and my feelings towards her. It is a statement of who I am. And when I think of Marlene it is above all of her as a lover of women, as I am a lover of women. She will always be there when I make love, she will fire my erotic imagination. She has already made me love my body. And that is the best thing of all.

Bake Day 2

He took me by surprise. I had just lifted the fruit cake out of the oven and was about to ladle the sponge cake batter into the second tin I had prepared when he came into the kitchen, stood behind me and held my wrist, not roughly but firmly enough to stop me working.

“Sinful Sunday tomorrow” he said. “I’m going to take a pic of you as my cake lady. But before I do…”

He reached under my skirt and pulled down my panties.

After a quick application of margarine from the tub his finger began exploring my cunt.

“Not now” I said half resisting “I am trying to bake.”

“You have baked. How many cakes do we need?”

“Charity bake day at work on Monday” I replied, the upward inflection in my voice betraying my uncertainty of my own arguments as two fingers propped deeply. I was wet.

“The second cake won’t need baking. I have always liked uncooked batter. Did you lick the spoon as a child?”

I gasped as he probed deeper and began to stimulate my clit with his other hand.

“Stop it, I’m trying to work, I’m trying to…”

He worked my clit harder and began to nibble my earlobes.

“Stop it…seriously I need to

He pushed his finger deeper into my wet cunt.

“Actually just fuck me.

I leant forward so that my hair dangled in the wet batter and he lifted up my skirt and I felt him go in. Our kitchen quickies are always hard and rough which is just  how I like them and he was soon finished finishing with a hard thrust that nearly pushed my face into a kitchen cabinet. I came with a moan and he stepped back spent and panting, fumbling to move his foreskin back into place. I stood up and felt his come seeping out of me and running down my leg.

“Get on the table”

I took my clothes off and lay on the table. He spooned the rich batter over me, massaging the mixture deliciously around my crotch, then kneading my breasts  with sticky cakey hands before standing back admire his handiwork. He washed his hands in the sink then took his phone and took a picture of me, lying there in batter, desperate for more of him.

He showed me the picture he had uploaded onto our blog, with the Sinful Sunday logo beneath it, inviting us to click and see the other sexy pics our fellow bloggers had posted..

Then he stripped, and came down on me licking the batter if my tits, off my stomach before burying his face in my crotch, working me with his greedy tongue. He moved his mouth towards mine and we kissed, the sloppy batter passing between us. .

Then he fucked me again until we were both a mass of batter and sweat and come and pussy juice.

I had a feeling we were going to enjoy showering together. And then I thought how thoughtful it had been of me to bake two cakes.

“I bet the fruit cake will be cold by now won’t it?” he said. “I’ll put the kettle on. I’m dying for a cuppa.”

The Mirror Cracked

The mirror cracked. My partner pushed me roughly back onto the chest of drawers which partly collapsed under my weight. I slipped and fell, the large dressing mirror tumbled down behind me and fractured diagonally about two thirds of the way up. I knew that this was a one night stand I would remember.

This has started out as a social drink with a former work colleague. Wetherspoons curry (this was a Thursday night in Wolverhampton) might seem an inauspicious start to a evening of rough sex but the pub, with its sticky floor and uncleared tables became an oddly appropriate place to start the evening.. I don’t  remember at what point the conversation turned to sex and we both realised we were horny, fancied each other and just wanted to fuck. We went out for a cigarette and my friend made the move. We kissed, she fumbled with my bra strap, pulling it dwon my arm, lifted my top and began to explore with her hand.

“Not here” I hissed.

“Let’s get a room” she said.

There were two hotels nearby. We went to the nearer one, but left when we were quoted ninety pounds for a double room including the breakfast neither of us would be around to eat. Round the corner, the other hotel oozed seediness. It seemed the sort of place that just might have rooms to let by the hour. A heavy fug of cannabis hung in the air. The man on reception grinned with a kind of “I know what you are here for look”

We took the room. It was dingy, grubby, the sheets were soiled, and we didn’t examine too closely the debris under the bed. But it was so appropriate for what we were here to do. I pulled off her clothes….. pushed her onto the damp bed with its sagging mattress. There I went down on her.

Just over half an hour later, flushed and sated, unwashed, (the shower looked rather uninviting) we walked out past the unshaven man who grinned again as we handed him the key. I felt his gaze follow us as we walked out. We shared a cigarette, and after a peck on the cheek, went our separate ways. .

I have only seen her once since, for lunch, this time without hot sex. But I am not disappointed about this. After that spur of the moment quickie, there would almost be nowhere to go in terms of friendship. But I have such found memories of that evening It is as if the seediness of our surroundings enhanced the experience. Discomfort and no distractions turned us in to focus on each other’s pleasure.

I arrived home smelling of sex. In my exhilaration I didn’t shower before bed. I wanted my bed to smell of her, even my warm cosy bed that she would never see.

And back in the room a cracked mirror swayed drunkenly from a collapsing chest of drawers, reflecting a bed, sheets wet with pussy juice and stained with the fat from the pork scratchings we had eaten off each other. It was that kind of night. .

Sharing our Shit

Considering that a large majority of adult human beings engage in sexual activity at various times and that many of them, possibly more than is generally realised, enjoy what might be termed alternative sexual activity, the prudery of many large internet companies may seem surprising.  I guess we can’t expect any different from politicians on moral crusades but now Patreon have joined the ranks of the digital Dr. Bowdlers and their target is a community of which I am a small part.

This blog is a pretty low-key operation. I work full time, have a long commute  and consequently don’t have a great deal of time to update it.  A number of my blogging friends devote a lot more time to their blogs, have many many more hits and are able to make part of their living, for example by selling advertising.  They will not, however, become rich from this. Any freelance writing (I have dome this and retain my NUJ membership so I know at first hand) is a precarious existence. So, in order to get a more regular income and so o be able to keep blogging, some of them are sponsored via the website patreon.com  And in the spirit of quid pro quo they may offer sponsors extras, a kinky video,  say, or a hot story, that are not made available to other visitors. But now, Patreon have changed their terms and conditions and are forbidding users from rewarding sponsors with free pornographic content. This will cut off an important income steam for bloggers and threaten the ability of bloggers to keep blogging.

The call has gone out for us to share our shit and promote each other. I am not going to do this. There are lots of Twitter posts under the hashtag #shareourshit where you can find a load of awesome blogs which I can recommend.  Instead I am going to talk about why sex blogging is important and why it deserves your support.

My friend Violet Fenn recently wrote a piece for The Metro about the joys of pegging. The comments from readers were quite an eye opener. One man seemed to think that there were “gay” and “straight” orgasms, and that pegging might tum you gay (it doesn’t…trust me). Others could not hide their disgust and seemed to find it hard to accept that other people may have sexual tastes that you don’t, but that it is cool. Live and live or as they say on the BDSM scene YKIMKBYKIOK . It is quite apparent to me that ignorance and prejudice are rife. Sex blogs can be, and I use the word with caution, educational.

This links in to my main point. In a  world where there is still stigma and prejudice, sex blogs can be a window into the world of those who are different and nor ashamed, as I am not. We deconstruct the normal,   share experiences, promote in our different ways safe play, safe sex, care about sexual health and the all important issue of consent. If you are confused, lonely, ashamed of your feelings, fetishes, whatever, reading good blogs can be a path to self-knowledge and self acceptance.

This doesn’t only apply to the readers, of course. My writing has had a major impact on my life, and helped me to understand my own sexuality, accept and embrace my gender identity. Oh and it’s enabled me to meet some totally awesome people to drink cider and smoke cigarettes with…….but that is another story.