Sex Work Is Still Work!

I was going to write some more about this. There is a ‘survey’ currently being conducted on behalf of the All Party Parliamentary Group on Prostitution and the Global Sex Trade to which responses are required by next Monday (4th February). This is a deeply flawed exercise with loaded questions that make clear what the Committee’s agenda is, namely attempting to tackle demand by criminalising clients whilst denying sex workers a voice in the debates about what is supposedly being done for their benefit.

If you want to respond and let them know your views you can find the survey here:

I have written to Committee Chair Gavin Shuker with some questions about the Committee’s terms of reference and if I get answers I will post them here. I don’t need to say any more at the moment as there is a fantastic piece about the issue here:

A Chick With a Dick

It was nearly dawn and I had completed my task, which was to write out one thousand times

‘I must have the utmost respect for Mistress Dagmar. I am sorry for calling her a chick with a dick.’

My arm was aching, my buttocks still sore from the lashes I received in punishment the previous week. I was going back as I must in the earnest hope that I had earned the privilege of being removed from the chastity in which I had spent the last week.  I had been taught a harsh lesson.

I have been submissive for years and visited a number of excellent Mistresses who taught me the joys of discipline and obedience, the superiority of the female sex. I blogged about my experiences and then had the idea. I would try a TS Mistress and so I came to knock on the door of TS Mistress Dagmar.

She was over six feet tall in her heeled boots, and the PVC dress wrapped tightly around a body that only hours in the gym could have produced. She ordered me to strip. I stood before her, head bowed and she grabbed my limp penis.

‘This is pathetic. Look at mine.’

She lifted her dress and I saw her own prick, erect and magnificent.

‘I’m the gorgeous woman you’ll never be. I am more of a man than you can ever dream of being. You are nothing’

She dressed me in a frilly pink frock and ordered me to kneel and worship her boots as she sat on her throne. I began with the soles, sucking lovingly on the four inch heels as ordered before progressing up the boots leaving each one wet and shiny. I was dry and very thirsty but Mistress commanded me to continue up her thighs and to the crotch.

‘You’re not a man. You’re a dirty little slut. And sluts love to suck cock.’

She raised the dress and held her penis, which was stiffening visibly as she anticipated the treat that was coming. I was nervous, I had sucked many strap-ons in my time but this was a real cock. There was no escape. Moving in close as Dagmar clamped her booted thighs around me I took the prick in my mouth and worked the tip with my tongue before moving quickly backwards and forwards along the shaft. I had been to enough massage parlours to know what a good blow job was like. And Dagmar’s cock grew big in my mouth and she came, squirting huge amounts of creamy fluid um into my mouth. I fought off an initial instinct to gag and swallowed greedily.

‘Taste the sweetest nectar. Then take my cock in your mouth again.’

I pulled and sucked again and felt Dagmar harden again. She withdrew and ordered me onto the whipping bench. As I heard her put on latex gloves, felt the cold lubricant around my anus, I knew what was coming next. But I was strapped down and helpless.

‘Fucked by a lady, what a treat for you’

She lay on me. I felt her breasts against my back, felt her soft skin. She was really a woman and yet the huge prick she was going to push up me was all too real. She moved round in front of me, to show it to me, so that I could see the condom being rolled on.

Then it happened. I tightened my muscles as I felt her entering me, trying to retain some control. Dagmar was suddenly soft and soothing as she said,

‘Relax, my little slut, relax. This is the first fucking of many. I’m going to earn good money with you. I’m going to make you a whore’

She laughed at my discomfort. Then she entered me a second time and I felt the whole of her penis going in. She began to move backward and forward and the discomfort soon became unbearable as she quickened the tempo.

‘Stop, please!’ I shouted but she replied briskly

‘You’re just a sissy slut and I’m fulfilling your destiny. This is the only thing that gives your life meaning. Besides it’s good for the prostate. Relax, relax and enjoy.’

I relaxed and thought about the humiliation, strapped down, buggered by a she-male. But Dagmar was right. There were depths of submission I had to explore, a self I had to discover. I became hard even as I relaxed and began to enjoy her slow deliberate movements in and out.

She pushed again and I gasped as I felt her penis go fully in.

‘In kink is self-knowledge. In kink is the only truth.’ said Dagmar.

She withdrew and, leaving me strapped down went to the side where I had left my notebook. She opened it and turned to the page where I had begun my first jottings of my research notes. She turned to me and read aloud.

‘Mistress Dagmar – a Chick with a Dick.’

She came across to me, seized my chin with powerful masculine hands and lifted my head so that I looked her full in her red and angry face.

‘How dare you. How dare you, a slut, write about your Mistress like that? You will suffer.’

She passed behind me and I heard her looking for a flogger. I heard the swish through the air and then the first harsh painful blow. Dagmar was a woman with the physical strength of a man and she flogged harder and more relentlessly than any Mistress. I began to cry. She released me and I knelt on the floor in my frilly pink dress. She held up a mirror and I could see the big tears of shame rolling down my cheeks.

I was attached to the cross and she came over, rubbing herself against me, teasing me as I became hard and dribble began to escape from my penis.

‘Chastity’ she said. ‘You will come back next week for release having written one thousand lines in your best handwriting. And if I am satisfied I may release you.’

I was sent on my way with the device locked on. No football as I couldn’t use the communal showers, no meeting with my girlfriend, no………….just evenings at home writing lines and regretting my impertinence. I was hers, Mistress Dagmar filled my every thought.

I put the lines into an envelope and set off. I was nervous. If she wasn’t satisfied the punishment would be doubled and I would remain in chastity.

I was shown into an upstairs bedroom where another TS waited, in a leather mini, gold lame top and boots. She had a blonde wig and garish make-up. I looked with distaste at her obviously masculine legs, her knobbly knees.

‘Meet Slut Lorraine’ said Mistress. ‘She’s been dying to meet you for some girl on girl action.’

Mistress dressed me in the same pink dress I had worn the week before and said,

‘Both of you, on the bed and kiss.’

Before I could think Lorraine had grabbed me and pulled me onto the bed, thrusting her tongue deep into my mouth. I embraced my destiny and responded, pulling her close, feeling the chill of the falsies against me, her booted legs wrap round me and the heels dig hard into my buttocks. Mistress sat on her throne, smoking a cigarette with obvious disdain. She laughed at our clumsy efforts as we rolled round and grappled with each other.

Mistress then ordered us to stand.

‘You have earned relief’ she said and removed the chastity device. She handed me a pair of latex gloves, a condom and a tube of lubricant. Slut Lorraine was fastened to the whipping bench, her skirt lifted to expose her pale buttocks.

‘Finger her to loosen her up though a slut like that won’t need much fingering. Then fuck her. Fuck her hard and enjoy. Because you are going away in chastity. You will return again and again to be made the perfect slut. A chick with a dick.’

Fifty Shades of Ipswich

I don’t really want to say a lot about this and don’t know the facts of exactly what Steven Lock did to his partner, how much consent was involved and whether the case should have been brought. My concern is that the case does not become an excuse for the authorities to begin a  witch-hunt against people involved in consensual BDSM activities. We have been here before, remember the Spanner case? There are those in the police and the judiciary who regard anything kinky as disgusting and see themselves as authorised to act on behalf of ‘right thinking people’ to punish those involved. I have no doubt too that the proposed anti-sexwork legislation in Scotland will, if passed, end up being used against professional dominatrices and their clients and so draw the BDSM community into its net. There are battles ahead. Let’s unite to fight them.

Steven Lock and his partner were very foolish and have suffered a very public humiliation. even if Lock escaped judicial punishment. I wonder if he realises that with a bit of thought and intelligence they could have experienced something beautiful.

Of Julie Burchill and Bitter

It was in November that, channel hopping after watching Chelsea lose in the Champions’ League, I switched to BBC3 and, by chance, watched the documentary about Jackie Green, the transgender beauty queen. I am still not sure why she wants to be a beauty queen but I was very impressed by her courage and strength of character. The following day I sent her a message of support on Facebook. I got a reply. Jackie had hundreds of messages and tried to reply personally to all of them. This says a lot about her.

There were, inevitably, offensive messages, some from the usual suspects and, sadly, a few from older transgender women who seemed bitter that she had, in their view, had it easier than they did.   I don’t think she did. She was suicidal before her parents paid for her to undergo gender reassignment surgery on her sixteenth birthday.  The thing that Jackie, apparently, gets most upset by is that is the suggestion that she used to be male. She maintains that she has always been female but trapped in the wrong body. All of which raises the question of what actually makes a woman a woman.

Julie Burchill, in her rant in yesterday’s Observer, is clear. You need to have been born female and had the experience of feeling shit for a few days every month. Transgender women beware. You are fakes and Julie is going to get very angry with you.

The essence of woman is, then, the period and the menopause; to menstruate or to have menstruated, so that older women are not excluded. But isn’t this a narrow, impoverished view of what it is to be female? If you didn’t get the right chromosomes forty weeks before you breathed your first, tough.  Apart from the obvious fact that Jackie, and others, live fulfilling lives as women and are accepted as women by those Burchill would class as “real women”, it is a sad and dismal definition of the feminine. No joy, no celebration. She probably prefers vinegar to champagne.

Enough of Burchill. I am sure that those reading this are as appalled as I am at her ravings. But I do wonder why so many transgender women so keenly embrace the stereotypically feminine, frocks and heels and so on. It strikes me as betraying a lack of confidence in their femininity. I once chatted to some members of a TV/TS Group in Birmingham on their weekly social night in a gay pub in Birmingham. To a woman they were drinking girly drinks, like Babycham with a cherry on a stick. I bet most of them didn’t even like Babycham. I say to them: welcome to the sisterhood but some girls drink real ale. Next time I dare you to come in jeans and I’ll buy you a pint of bitter.

Stuffed Pheasant with Swede and Ginger Mash



One hen pheasant with giblets(preferable to cocks as the meat is more tender)

One medium onion

Chopped walnuts

For the Sauce

100 ml single cream

One small glass brandy

A little flour

For the Swede Mash

One large swede

Root Ginger




Remove any remaining feathers from the pheasant taking care not to tear the skin.Season and smear with oil.

Chop the onion and walnuts and use to stuff the bird.

Roast (Gas Mark Five) or an hour or until the juices run clear. Be careful not to overcook the bird otherwise the meat will become too dry.

While the bird is in the oven fry the giblets with a a couple of tablespoonfuls of flour. Add 400 ml of water and bring to the boil. Simmer for an hour then strain, season, and stir in the cream and brandy.

When the pheasant is cooked, cut into four pieces sing poultry shears and place in an oven proof dish. Pour over the sauce, cover  and place in the oven on a low hear for 20 minutes or so.

Chop the swede into small pieces and boil until soft. Drain, add butter and chopped root ginger and a little honey. Mash, place in a small oven proof dish and bake for half an hour.

Serve with roast potatoes and another vegetable of choice. (Sprouts go well).

As for wine the Montepulciano d’Abruzzo from Aldi goes well (and it’s only £3.49 abottle!)

Zodiac Signs

Dorothy reflected that, now that she was 72, people saw her as sexless. Yet she had been young once, she had been seen as a real catch, back in the 1950s when she lst her virginity on the back seat of a Ford Prefect,  when her boss regularly took girls from the typing pool on drives in the country in his Zodiac. Later, as a married woman, she had been something of a femme fatale, and had had a string of affairs  She had been a most desirable woman and still felt the need for the touch of a man. But who could she talk to about such things?

Then she met Claire, fifty years her junior, a girl who was fascinated by the fashions and music of the 1950s, a girl who loved sex as much as she had at the same age. They became good friends and Claire came to visit most Sundays to chat over home baked cakes and tea  She taught Claire to jive. The day that Claire came to show her her new car, a 1959 Ford Zodiac,  a lot of memories were awakened. Claire came roud a few days later.

‘I’ve written you a poem’ she said.

Dorothy took the hand written piece of paper and read.


Zodiac, the sign
of someone else’s life.
This car was his, not mine,
maroon and grey with
whitewall tyres and a hood,
a bench seat where he sat proud.
behind a bonnet, sculpted chrome
and the throb of a straight six.
How he lived some distant summer
with the girls he drove home
from the dance, the pleasure
of each moonlit kiss, the tricks
of light, of time’s deceiving measure.

The car rusts on bricks.
The hood rots shred by shred.
Somewhere a woman remembers.
She nurtures her distant past
mines it for the youth to shed
the aching burden of the years.
What summers were hers!
She jived with the best,
much desired for the lips
she painted signal red,
the swing of her hips.

Copyright Eve Ray 2009