Why I Write

I’m going to start with a piece of advice. Windmills of Your Mind is a haunting and beautiful song that lodged itself in my head nearly 40 years and, I am sure, will never leave. It is, however, a song that has rather more than its fair share of bad interpretations. The bad ones are all bad for the same reason; they are too slow, stretching the melancholy of the lyrics into sickly and maudlin sentimentalism. This is a song that needs to be suing at a tempo that reflects these lyrics. These are full of motion. They are also, as we see as the song develops, about the remorseless passage of time. Noel Harrison’s interpretation, whilst not perfect, captures this and its 2 minutes 18 seconds are just about right. My advice is, therefore, to stick to this version but of you want to look elsewhere avoid all those versions that stretch the song out to 3 minutes plus. In particular avoid Barbra Streisand’s version.

It is with this song that I want to start, One section, in particular, speaks tom me with increasing power as I grow older:

“Lovers walk along the shore

And leave their footprints in the sand.

Was the sound of distant drumming

Just the fingers of your hand?

Pictures in a hallway,

A fragment of a song,

Half remembered names and faces

But to whom do they belong?”

Consider the fragments of songs. My life, like that of everyone of my age has had its particular soundtrack and particular songs take me back to places and times, not all of them places I want to return to. The last part is the most striking of all. I am constantly reminded of the number of people I have known, family members, people at school, at university, at work, friends who have come into my life and, in many cases, drifted out of it again.  There are those I remember well, those who are simply “half-remembered names and faces.” Even the half remembering can be troublesome or maybe burdensome. Who were they fir me? How have they influenced my life? Where are they now? Do they remember me or even half remember me? At times it seems that these people, or maybe the years of life already lived that they represent, weigh heavily on my spirit. There are days when I will suddenly remember someone from the past and start to think about them.  Sometimes when I do this I feel that memories can be destructive of memory, the sheer number of them defying any attempt to order them and make them into the coherent whole that, for me, is memory.

This is really why I write, to make sense of tall and recreate my own past. When I write I may well be living in it but a creative and ordered sense of living in it, that, I find empowering, I am taking back control from an oppressive melancholy and to misquote another song “I free my mind, I free my soul.”

Writing fiction takes this a stage further and helps me to mould my lived experience into new realities. Like reading, like learning a new language it is a genuine broadening of experience, an enrichment of my life.

And those who are half remembered are in there somewhere. I may have given them a new name, a remembered face and placed them in sexual contexts they never dreamt of, (or maybe they did!). But they are there as one day, dear reader, you may too, when time has continued its remorseless progression and

“You are suddenly aware,

That the autumn leaves are turning

To the colour of her hair.”


The Rock That Doesn’t Roll

I’m still looking for the perfect diner experience. You know, the one where you were dress up in your 50s finery, all circle skirts and petticoats, jump in a classic  car and head off to a place with the perfect decors, shakes to die for, burgers that melt in your mouth. A place where you admire the period cars outside the window and where you think that, as soon as you’ve eaten, you’re going to get up and jive or swish away to your heart’s content. So my perfect diner is a place run by people who understand that the vibe is as important as the food, who know how to give vintage looking lads and lassies  not just a good meal but a couple of hours in the 1950s. Rock 66 in East Birmingham is the latest to disappoint, all the more so as, with a little care and attention to detail, it could have been good.

The diner is a small place on a corner just opposite the Aldi at Ward End, where Alum Rock Road meets the Outer Circle. A trek into the East Birmingham Badlands for me. First impressions are not bad. Décor wise it looks like a proper diner and if the colour scheme is a bit odd at least you feel encouraged as you sit down. .

And the food really wasn’t bad, at least to begin with. My shake was good, thick and creamy, making me glad I’d been for a run earlier to burn up the calories, whilst my partner and I shared a starter of king prawns fried in breadcrumbs that was just about perfect, crispy, tasty and brought to the table piping hot.   The burgers didn’t quite reach those heights but were satisfactory, if not much more than that.

But what about the vibe? This was the big disappointment. The service was desultory and inattentive and I really don’t appreciate having to try to attract the attention of the waiting staff every time I want something.  Should I really have to ask for the menu if I want to order a dessert?

Did I say the décor looked reasonably authentic? Well two televisions playing MTV were really out of place. This is where imagination and attention to detail come in. How about a period jukebox? How about some proper period music? I asked about this and was met with blank looks. And this is the problem with Rock 66. It is run by people who are really going through the motions, who don’t feel the vintage vibe as you and I do, people who don’t have it in their soul. So it may (Alum) Rock but it just doesn’t roll.

Verdict: I would eat there again if I happened to be in the area but it is not worth a special journey. Score 5 out of 10


Cutting the Sage Derby

This story arose from a challenge I took on last week to write a short story involving cheese.


I was about to order when a man’s voice interjected

“Excuse me, I was next.”

I looked around startled and the only words I could find were to apologise.

“I’m sorry I…”

“No worries” he said.

He brushed past me as he went up to the counter, a little too firmly, I thought, to be entirely unintended. I watched him order a wide selection of cheeses, there was Jarlsberg, Roquefort, Gruyere, the stinking Alsatian Munster, Reblochon, Shropshire Blue, Sage Derby. Observing him I decided that he was about 15 years younger than me, trim. Bearded and well….he obviously didn’t eat that much cheese. A connoisseur definitely. He picked up his jute shopping bag, now bulging with cheese, took his plastic bag of cheese and smiled as he made to walk past me.

“You know your cheeses don’t you?” I observed in a conciliatory tone.

He smiled.

“Well yes. Actually I’m having a few friends round for cheese and wine tomorrow evening. Would you like to come?”

The following evening I walked the short distance to his house, two bottles of Gewurztraminer clanking in a plastic bag as I went.

“I’ve got a confession to make” he said as we clinked glasses and looked at the cheese laid out on the table. “I said I was having a few friends round. In fact there’s only going to be us.”

“And your friends?”

“I kind of uninvited them.”

He smiled.

“And if I hadn’t come?”

“That was a risk it was well worth taking.”

He took the wine glass out of my hand and placed it on the table.

We kissed. I buried my face in his luxuriant facial hair, pushed back against him, forcing my tongue in deep. After a while he struggled free and said

“We really can’t let this cheese go to waste can we?”

On the table he had laid out the cheeses on wooden boards. He took a piece of Sage Derby and with the knife carved it into a green veined cock. I dropped my skirt and took up handfuls of the soft goats cheese and smothered my mound in it. He knelt before me, licking it off eagerly before tonguing my swollen clit. He moved down to nibble gently, teasingly at my labia before sliding the Sage Derby dildo into my rapidly dilating pussy. Slowly, cautiously at first, then gradually picking up

the tempo, he slid it in and out. He pulled it out, and offered it to me. I sucked, gently, felt the cheese soften in my mouth, gently tongue whipped the end, then bit off a chunk, swallowed it with my sour juices as I did so. .

I took a piece of Gruyere from the board, placed two fingers in the largest hole and rubbed gently to widen it. I slipped it over his cock and moved it backwards and forwards. As his prick hardened and swelled, the cheese broke and I caught the pieces in my hand, put them in my mouth, chewing slowly before dragging him forward and placing my mouth over his, passing the cheese from mouth to mouth. With a violence that caught me by surprise he pushed me back onto the table. I felt a Camembert squeezed under my back, its ripening softness gushing from the crust. Biscuits fragmented under my buttocks as he forced my legs apart and climbed on top to fuck me, slow and hard, slow and hard, then gathering in speed and intensity as he moved in and out until the orgasm ripped through me and I could see nothing but green veins of ecstasy pulsing through me, to every corner of my body like the sage spreading through a Derby cheese.

As he withdrew he sent come spilling onto a piece of Reblochon. I licked greedily and ate.

“I presume you’ve planned dessert?” I asked.


No Trumps at the Ace Cafe

This is a chapter from a novella I am working on. Claire, my heroine, is a young lady with a passion for vintage who sets out to find her perfect man and have loads of good sex as she does so……..

Claire was delighted at Dorothy’s news but it had the effect of increasing her own frustration. She redoubled her man hunt. Her encounters so far had been unsatisfying. So she placed an advert in the personals section of a classic car magazine.

‘Lovely fifties girl. Has Zodiac, will travel. Seeks mechanic with a piston for her cylinder.’

There were just two replies and only one of these seemed worth following up. She soon found herself driving down to London for a rendez-vous with a man called Paul at the Ace Cafe. It was the evening of the monthly Mark Two Consul/Zephyr/Zodiac meet. There would be loads of sexy cars and Claire  hoped too that Paul, with his Zephyr, would be the man of her dreams. She was day dreaming even before the day she had arranged to go down to London to meet Paul. She imagined the traditional semi they would live in with the period furniture, the box television set with the nine inch screen, the his and hers Zodiac and Zephyr parked on the drive.


She wore a skirt to drive down the M40 to London, cruising at a stately 55 mph, with her left hand

down her front playing with herself. It was going to be a long drive back if she didn’t score and, in

any event, she needed to be wet enough to do it quickly, round the back of the cafe or maybe on his backseat after dark. Either way, she was going to be gagging for it. She was going to be ready.


The Ace Cafe is a London motoring legend, located on the North Circular Road. Claire had long planned to go down, to one of the Owners’ Club meets. Claire enjoyed petrolhead talk. She knew her stuff. It’s just that she felt that a girl does need a little looking after and surely a man should be able to look after her car in exchange for his home-baked treats, the pleasure of having a woman as striking and as stylish as Claire on his arm, most of all for being able to have sex every day and three times most days. It was Claire’s first visit and when she pulled onto the forecourt and parked her Zodiac among a bevy of its brothers and sisters and Ford Consul cousins, there were hosts of admiring looks. And not just for the car. A crowd soon gathered round. One man stood away from the crowd looking a little unsure of himself. He waited until Claire withdrew a little way to light a cigarette and introduced himself.


‘Hi I’m Paul. You must be the girl in need of a piston.’

Claire smiled. ‘I certainly am. I hope it’s a big one and that it throbs and gets really really hard.’

‘Well’ laughed Paul nervously, ‘I’ve got loads of spares in my boot. Would you like to have a look?’

Claire was puzzled by this. Surely he didn’t mean piston literally? Sadly he did and opened the boot

of his Zephyr to reveal a mass of Ford spares chucked in any old how.


‘This here is a layshaft for a Consul gearbox’ he explained with a smile ‘and this is a Mark Three

Zephyr steering box and this, I got this at an autojumble…. how much were you looking to pay?’

‘Paul’ she said crossly. ‘I have come from the Black Country to see you and your car. The least you

can do is take me inside and buy me something to eat.’


Inside the Ace Cafe Claire ordered a burger and a banana milkshake. She was going to do things in proper fifties style. Paul seemed suddenly nervous as if Claire’s intentions were slowly dawning on him. As the drinks arrived and he could see whatever Claire wanted was to be put off for half an hour or so he relaxed. Although clearly shy he began to talk animatedly about his interest in cars. Claire tried to steer the conversation round to sex but he didn’t get the hint. Then Paul asked


‘Why does a girl like you drive a Zodiac?’


‘I love the Fifties’ she said, ‘the styles the fashions, the cars. And the Mark Two Zodiac is perfect for sex. Bench seats front and rear, a big throbbing six pot to get me in the mood. It turns heads. It’s not only men that can use big cars to pull you know.’


She looked at Paul who was clearly a little uncomfortable. Claire continued.

‘I will clean and wash and iron. I love being a girl and I will pamper my man. All I ask in return is that my man look after my car and looks after me, that he brings me flower, hugs me when am I sad and, most of all,’ she leaned forward again to continue in a whisper, ‘is always ready to fuck me. I need sex every day, lots of it, and if you don’t want it as much as I do then you’re not the man for me.’

Paul continued to look gormless. He shuffled nervously in his chair as Claire sucked intently on her straw and looked at him.

‘I’m sorry Claire I didn’t realise I…’

Claire ate a last mouthful of burger and said

‘I’ve driven down from Dudley to see you. I haven’t been fucked for four weeks. What are you going to do?’

‘Well I suppose, if you really wanted to…’

‘I do want to’ said Claire fixing him with a stare. ‘Do you want to?’

‘Yes’ said Paul quietly.

‘I’m going to pop to the loo. I’ll text you when the coast’s clear. If anyone sees you and asks what you’re doing, I’m stuck and you’re coming to help me. Alright?’

Paul was shaking as Claire strode off . Paul watched her go, listened to the heels clattering up the metal stairs like a ringing out of hos doom. It seemed like an age but was in fact only thirty seconds before his phone buzzed and shook on the formica topped table. He put it in his pocket and went off to his fate.

As he entered the ladies the door of the first cubicle opened and he was pulled inside. He heard the latch slide in behind him as Claire put her arms round him and pulled his face towards hers and slide her tongue into his mouth.

Paul was unused to sexually assertive woman, or at least to those who didn’t take money off you. As they kissed Claire let her skirt fall around her ankles and took Paul’s hand and guided it to her pussy. Pausing from kissing him she whispered

‘Put a finger inside and feel if I’m wet enough.’

Paul did as he was told. He said

‘You’re quite wet.’

‘I played with myself all the way down the M1 just to be ready. Before I set off I lay on the bonnet and felt the vibration of the engine against me. Six cylinders, six rock hard pistons going in and out. What does that remind you of?’

Paul said nothing.

‘It’s the sexiest car I’ve ever had. I’ve got Ford publicity brochures at home and thee are shots of women in fifties dresses and driving gloves and I bet you’ve seen them too, dreamed of fucking them, I bet you lie in bed with pictures of them and play with yourself. I’m like them, I’m your dream come true. Satisfy me now and you can have me in my Zodiac next time, and I’ll wank you with my leather driving gloves and you can come all over the seat, and I’ll lick it up and……feel me again’

Paul put a finger in.

‘How many fingers?’

Paul tried with two, then three, then four and Claire whispered

‘I’m going to lean over the loo and you can take me from behind. I’m so wet you’ll go straight in. I want it deep and slow’

Claire took a condom out of her handbag and handed it to him.

‘If you’re a good boy I’ll put it on with my tongue next time I see you.’

She let her panties fall on top of her skirt turned away from Paul; and bent over the toilet. She heard him fumble with the condom wrapper then heard him roll it on. So he had used one before. That was a relief. She felt his hands on her buttocks and the fumbling of his penis searching for the right opening.

With a touch of impatience she reached beneath her crotch seized the hardening member and guided into her.

‘In deep and work slowly’ she gasped and let out a sigh as Paul set to work.

‘I’m sorry I’ve slipped out.’

‘Then try again’ hissed Claire.

‘Think about your car, if that turns you on more than me, think about a piston moving in and out of the cylinder, think about McPherson struts, think about any fucking thing but shag me. Give it to me hard.’

As Paul fumbled again she felt tears of frustration running down her cheeks.

‘Please Paul. Please, just fuck me and when I’ve come you can go home. I just need you inside me. Please.’

He moved in again and entered Claire unaided and she gasped with pleasure as she felt at last the piston enter her cylinder and move in and out.

‘What’s the firing order in a Mark Two Zodiac?’ she asked him as he warmed to his task.

‘1 5 3 6 2 4’ Paul answered without thinking.

‘Good boy’ said Claire, ‘now give me the six strokes quick and hard. I want to feel you thump against my buttocks.’

Paul withdrew until his swelling penis was right at the edge of Claire’s labia then thrust back in hard/

‘One’ he shouted. Then he repeated the action, and Claire felt a surge of pleasure coursing through her as he said

‘Five’ and Claire was suddenly far away from the toilets of the Ace Cafe; she was suddenly on Beachy Head on a summer’s day as the wind blew across the grass and she lay, legs apart on the bonnet feeling the engine at her back as a man (Paul?) worked his way in and out, straining every last muscle for her pleasure. She closed her eyes and waited for the orgasm that was waiting to explode.

Then Paul slipped out.

‘What’s happened?’ asked Claire angrily.

‘I’m sorry, I’ve gone soft…………I ……….. I only ever do it with, you know and they have no expectations just as long as I pay and they make no demands, they are kind to me but you…you want it so much.’

He began to cry.

‘I’m sorry I can’t be a real man for you Claire.’

Claire pulled him close, placed his head against her little breasts, kissed him on the top of the head and said

‘It’s alright Paul. You’re a very nice man and I’m sure you’ll find someone just right for you.’

Paul freed himself from her embrace, hoisted up his trousers and left hurriedly, not wanting to see Claire again in this moment of humiliation. Claire waited till he had gone and shouted

‘FUCK’ as loudly as she could. She beat the wall with her fist. Then she looked at the floor.

‘He could have taken the condom with him’ she thought as she picked up the used rubber with distaste, wrapped it in a piece of toilet paper and flushed it down the toilet. She went outside. She needed a cigarette.

It was late when she arrived home. In the bedroom, with the big welcoming double bed that was not getting the use it needed, she took the laminated Ace Cafe menu card and wrote on it in marker pen.


She inserted it into her Man Hunt exercise book which she threw angrily against the wall. She shouted again

‘FUCK’ and climbed into bed. She played with her clit and dreamed of sex on the bonnet at Beachy Head before going to sleep.




Breaking the Mould

It was good to see you again, even a furtive glance across the aisle of the supermarket. I would have come and said hello but you were with your wife. Little does she know how much she has to thank me for. You smiled and I am sure I saw your trousers bulge, and saw you turn away to rub your groin. I imagined that gorgeous cock, imagined the foreskin drawing back, imagined the pre-come staining your boxers. Admit it, you still lust after me. I shop at the same supermarket at the same time every Saturday. Next time you see me come over, I’ll slip a card with my number into your pocket. I’ll leave my hand in, feel your cock again. You won’t refuse me will you? I want to be fucked by you again.

Well I know you think we tricked you but that was never the idea. I had worked my first day the previous Thursday and nobody had picked me when we came into the lounge to smile sweetly and introduce ourselves. A whole day of sitting around and making no money. A day wasted. So we talked about how to get me work. It was Natalie the other Thursday girl who suggested we get plaster casts made of our vaginas. That wasn’t entirely fun I can tell you but we thought it would be a novel idea. Instead of us coming out one by one to introduce ourselves we would put the plaster cunts on a table for the clients to choose. You chose me because I was the biggest. You greedy boy! You have a massive cock and when it’s big and throbbing and the foreskin is pulled back to make it look like a mighty oak, well no girl could say no. You needed a deep cunt to get it all in. And mine is deep and soft and welcoming. It had just been a little underused lately. I had heard all about you from the other girls and I felt my heart leap with, yes, joy, when you chose Cunt Number Four. I was going to get the best fucking ever and, better still, I was going to get paid for it.

I remember vividly the shock on your face when you saw me for the first time. I had on a lycra mini a tight pink top that showed off my magnificent tits in the best possible light and, my patent leather boots were to die for. I am a beautiful woman, men lust after me, I know, one client told me about how he printed off my photographs from the parlour website and wanked over them until they are covered in come which he then rubbed all over his body before kissing the pictures. That’s how it is was once I had become known. I wasn’t then. You didn’t know my little secret when you chose my cunt; that I am in a wheelchair.

As I wheeled myself out into reception you knew but it was too late for you to change your mind – that was the deal.

‘Hi I’m Delilah’ I said and you bent down to give me a peck on the cheek, your eyes drinking in my tits as you did so.

‘We’re in the downstairs room. It was built for disabled clients but it’s mostly my haunt.’

‘But I’ve never………you know………I’m not sure………..’

I smiled. You probably didn’t see. I know how good I can be with the right man. I knew that you too would end up wanking over me, moving your hand surreptitiously to your groin whenever you saw a pretty girl in a wheelchair.

‘Not sure of what?’ I asked, ‘of how to fuck a cripple? Now seems like a good time to learn don’t you think?’

I rolled down to the room and you followed me. You looked at me suspiciously and said

‘Can I fuck you just like I do the other girls?’

‘Of course you can honey, in fact I want you to, I’ve heard about your cock, a thing of beauty, a thing of wonder. I want you to thrust it deep into my pussy. In fact I want to start with a bit of oral without, and you can have that for no extra charge. I want so much to suck that cock. You won’t regret choosing me. I’m good, very good. ‘

You took your clothes off and approached the chair. You were tentative, unsure how to handle a disabled girl. I used my arms to slide forward on the chair and you climbed on, resting a knee either side of my thighs, wedged in tight, and not for the first time. Your cock was already starting to harden as I gently pulled you towards me and I took it into my mouth. You responded,  moving forward until I had all of you inside me. I began by whipping the tip with my tongue then sucking on it before with swift movements of my head working my way backwards and forwards along the shaft. You began to purr and moan. I whipped again with my tongue and felt your cock swell and harden further. I sucked again and you came, and the warm creamy fluid filled my mouth. I swallowed some and said

‘Kiss me big boy.’

Do you remember how you bent down and our mouths came together and our tongues intertwined as I let your delicious juices flow from my mouth into yours. As you pulled away you swallowed and I smiled as I watched the last few drops dribble down your chin.

‘I’m good aren’t I?’ I said and you said nothing but kissed me again running your fingers through my hair, fingers sticky with your come, and I said

‘Naughty boy you’re making me smell of sex.’

You said simply.

‘I want to fuck you.’

I saw the desire on your face, saw the cock hard and proud.

I took out a condom and asked

‘Chair or bed?’

This was where I could see that you were a first timer with a girl like me. I slid forward a little further in the chair, lifted the skirt and showed you my shaven cunt. Suddenly you knelt before me and began to worship my pussy with your tongue. I reached down to part the labia with my fingers and you worked your tongue inside before moving up to lick my clit. Your eyes were closed, you were in a world of your own. What were you imagining? That I was whole? That you could fuck me into a real woman again? I couldn’t tell you that I was unfucked since the accident and that I worked for sex, to be able to feel I was a proper woman again.  I had waited many months for this moment and was determined to enjoy it.

I felt nothing but became excited at my cunt receiving such devoted worship. I saw your cock, hard and swollen, ready for action.

‘It’s nice on the chair.’ I said, ‘something a little different.’

‘Take off my boots.’ I felt a note of command in my voice. I detected the urge to submit in your quick gesture of obedience, saw your cock get harder still.

You did too and as you admired the gleaming patent leather, the towering heels you began to dribble.

‘You have to be patient. I don’t get naturally wet. We need to lubricate you. Put the condom on and pass me the bottle.’

As I massaged the lube onto the condom you stiffened again and began to moan. You were gagging for it. I slid forward a little more before releasing the back rest. I was now as helpless as in a dentist’s hair, my cunt completely open to your probing. You slipped in easily and I was soon enjoying the jolting. That’s the best bit when you have no feeling below the waist, the jolting, the warm breath, yours was sweet and the look of desire on your face. You pumped your way in and out, in and out and I breathed you in, enjoyed the jolts, and prayed that the brake on the chair was secure.

Then you began to talk,

‘A cripple and a whore, a cripple and a whore. And so beautiful,’

Soon you had ejaculated into the condom and pulled away, panting.

‘I want you on the bed now’ you said.

‘Then you’ll have to help me.’

You picked me up, so big and strong, yet so gentle and laid me on the bed. You pulled down my lycra skirt, as I wriggled out of the top and I lay naked and helpless before you.

You stood over me.

‘Broken and beautiful’ you said.

You had prepared the bed with a heap of pillows under the small of my back. You parted my legs and I suddenly felt vulnerable. You knelt up over me and I watched your prick grow one more big and hard. It began to swell, and the angry red tip surged through the parting foreskin. You began to dribble and I thought it was the most beautiful thing I had seen since becoming paraplegic. You slipped a condom on and said

‘Most men don’t like doing it with a rubber but I do. I love the feel of the rubber against my skin..’

I didn’t say anything about how vulnerable I felt, my useless legs forced apart, my cunt open to your probing. But I knew one thing as I watched you come down on me, as you drove your huge cock into me, with just a touch of lubricant, I knew that I was desirable, I knew that I was all woman, as if I could ever have doubted and when you began to thrust and move in and out with quick fierce rhythm I felt nothing but the jolting, the fierce jolting and I was sixteen again, losing my virginity on the back seat of a Ford Cortina. I grabbed your hair and pulled your head down roughly, you winced with pain as your face came close to mine as I felt your breath and you felt mine.

‘Kiss me’ I commanded and you did, our mouths locked and our tongues entwined and all the time you thrust in and out in and out.

‘I’m so fucking hard’ you said ‘I could keep this up forever.’

Then it was over. You withdrew holding the condom in place as you did so and removed it, shrivelled and full of come, placing it in a tissue which you placed on the bedside table. Then you lay down next to me panting heavily.

‘I want you to wank all over me’ I said.

You were soon back on your knees astride me working your cock, moving your left hand up and down the shaft then kneading the end like dough with your fingers. You had come twice already and it was clearly going to take time. Then it happened as you leaned back straining and your hand worked faster and faster until suddenly you pulled the foreskin back and your hot creamy fluid squirted out onto my breasts. It was a lovely feeling and the sight of a man wanking over a woman still turns me on. On my first day in the brothel I had watched through a peephole as the other girls went about their business and learned. I saw men wank over girls. That was all some of them wanted and I remember the look of wicked delight on Natalie’s face as come rained down on her. I wanted that to be done to me and it was beautiful when you did. Then you came down on me again and licked and kissed my breasts. I felt the nipples harden, this I could feel and you took the nipples in your mouth and pulled and sucked and I thought

‘Who is the client, who is servicing who?’ and I was wondering what we would do next when the receptionist knocked on the door. I looked at my watch and saw that your time was up.

When you had gone and I counted out the money you had left I felt a real woman I felt a proper whore. I was a cripple, I was a prostitute and I was proud of it.

And that was it. You never saw me as a client again but together we had achieved a first, my first paid sex my first sex as a cripple and your first time with a girl with a broken body.

I heard you starting coming regularly on my days off, but never on my days on. I don’t know why, I had hoped you might become a regular. But I heard you had developed a thing for disabled girls and soon enough you married one. But if you knew how to fuck a girl in a wheel chair and make her feel special, that was down to me. I made you the man you are. You made me a woman again. For that I’ll always be grateful.

I continued working at the parlour for another year. I was soon in demand. I found out how many men fantasise about disabled women. I had a whole load of wheelchair pics done. When clients told me how they sat in front of their computers wanking over me I was sure that I was becoming wet. The doctor told me it could never happen. But it does, I feel a prick going in now. Doctors haven’t healed me. Sex has. Sex will make me whole. And you started my healing.

I saw you again the other day, wheeling your wife through the shopping centre. You looked so happy together. I really wanted to come over and talk but knew it wasn’t right even though I no longer sell sex for a living. It’s surely better that she never finds out about us.

I keep the cast of my cunt on the mantelpiece. I look at it often and think what a wonderful thing it is to be a woman, how beautiful it was to be a disabled whore, I think of all the men whose cocks have been in me, hundreds of them, and I know my cunt is beautiful. I think too of  how, together, we broke the mould.


I suppose the story of Tara Hudson is old news now that she is serving her sentence in a women’s prison.  I am not going to say anything on what she did or about whether a brief custodial sentence was appropriate although some might think that prisons are overcrowded enough and that sentences like this are ultimately pointless. Neither will I say anything about the idiotic decision to send her to a male prison simply because she hasn’t gone through the hassle and expense  of obtaining a gender recognition certificate when prison regulations already allow transgender prisoners without certificates to be considered on a case by case basis, and particularly where prisoners have already embarked on the process of physical transition.

No, I want to talk about something else. You see, I took it as read that people, or thinking people at any rate, would consider the decision to transfer Tara to a women’s prison to be the correct one. Then I stumbled across a discussion on Twitter. I should perhaps have realised that some radical feminists would have a problem with this, as they seem to believe that   trans women are men pretending to be women to access women only spaces. The argument was that violent men who transition remain violent and by their continuing to commit acts of violence prove that they are still really men. Which, in effect is saying that committing violence is a man thing.

Men are perpetrators, women, if they are involved at all, are victims.  On this analysis men and women are essentially and fundamentally different ab ovo .  This assigning of behavioural characteristics on the basis of biological sex seems however strangely at odds with the usual radical feminist  claim that transgenderism is damaging precisely because the aim of feminism is the abolition of gender roles which transgender people reaffirm by their very transition. It is not clear how you can consistently argue that gender is a social construct at the same time as holding that certain types of behaviour are inherently linked to the genitals you were born with.  Not for the first time radical feminism appears mired in contradiction.

This all reminds me of a discussion I had in the bar during my student days. One student, a self proclaimed anti-feminist Marxist expressed forcefully his view that much contemporary feminism was “essentialising bullshit.” Reading some of these rad fem tweets about Tara Hudson it was hard not to agree.

Police and Thieves

This is a post I originally published on the Everyday Whorephobia blog two years ago. Following  the criminalisation of clients in Northern Ireland it appears that the flawed arguments of the sex work prohibitionists are enjoying a second wind. They remain however deeply flawed. One of the flaws is the naive faith in the police as agents of”rescue”. Melissa Gira Grant, in her book Playing the Whore, discussed how the police are themselves a major source of violence against, and exploitation of sex workers. Here are some more examples.


We can argue theoretical points all day, about women’s right to bodily autonomy, about whether sex work can really be a free choice in a patriarchal society and so on, but some of the most important issues connected to the criminalisation of sex work are essentially practical.   Are the laws enforceable and who will do the enforcing? It is with the second of these that serious questions emerge.

It has been said that a good police force is one that catches more criminals than it employs. The British police certainly aren’t doing too well on that score at the moment. We have heard stories from Sweden about police harassment of supposedly non criminal sex workers. The Swedish police, by the way, are those nice people who gave Joan Smith a free tour of night-time Stockholm in exchange for an advertising spread masquerading as critical journalism.

A three hour ferry crossing from Sweden is yet another country where the police can’t be trusted. That country is Poland. Here are a few examples of how the Polish police treat women, sex workers and otherwise.

A woman accused a policeman, a friend of the family, of raping her. Several months later she has been interviewed several times but her alleged attacker remains on active duty and has yet to be interviewed. The investigation is focussing on blood tests carried out on the woman, aimed at determining whether she had taken substances that could have caused psychological disturbance and so lead her to make false allegations.

On 9th June this year a 27 year old woman was stopped by a traffic policeman in a southern Polish town as she drove her car. She was tied up with masking tape, raped and had her mobile phone destroyed to prevent her calling for help. At least this case is being taken sufficiently seriously for the alleged attacker to have been arrested.

A senior officer of the Gdansk police was caught carrying out a sexual assault on a disabled 14 year old girl. He has been arrested and suspended from duty but a statement from the press office of the Gdansk police expresses ‘disbelief’ that he could have done such a thing.

Outside the city of Bydgoszcz in North West Poland sex workers stand by a busy road leading to the German border to attract clients among the thousands of lorry drivers who pass this way each day. They are offered “protection” by the local police which means, in effect, free sex in exchange for being left alone.  Some of these sex workers are so fed up with all this that they have gone to the press. One told a journalist that she had had sex with and given oral to one particular policeman on several dozen occasions, usually in the back of his patrol car. This man evidently has a uniform fetish as he makes her dress in his uniform for sex. A reporter who had been seen taking photographs of a policeman forcing himself on a sex worker was stopped and held for over an hour to be breathalysed and have his car checked. When he complained to the local police he was told that these enhanced controls were part of a new campaign to stop pimping and trafficking.

All this happens in an EU member state. Poland is probably no worse than many other countries in the way the police treat women and sex workers. Those who favour criminalisation should answer this question. You will be giving men like these even more power to harass and abuse women. Is that what you really want?