Biting The Bullet

I sometimes eat out alone. There are times when I want an evening in a restaurant with nice food, a glass or two of wine and I don’t have anyone to go with.  So I take a book and my phone, resist any attempt to seat me in an inconspicuous and cramped corner as if I had a nasty disease, and enjoy my time. I don’t usually read or tweet much as I am too busy people watching, thinking, reflecting and gathering material for new stories. I am also enjoying the sensual experience of the food and the wine. I see no reason to forego these pleasures just because I am on my own and my friends are busy. In fact it is an essential part of self care, self love.

It is the same with masturbation. Although I have three and a bit regular sexual partners most of my sex is solo sex. This too is necessary and is good for my state of mind, my sometimes fragile mental health. Tomorrow I begin the month of April with the aim of having an orgasm a day. 30 days, 30 orgasms or as many as I can manage. .

In the masturbation month of April I intend to have solo sex in all the places I might have sex with a partner, in the loos, outdoor, a quickie in my car, at a swingers club, but also of course in bed. Tomorrow I will start off by making it special. I will have a bath, put on some sexy lingerie, apply a little fragrance, retire to my freshly made bed, light a scented candle, put on some mood music, take out my bullet vibrator, some of my favourite porn, and play with myself, slowly, gently, forcing nothing, aware that my anti depressants might make climaxing difficult, but being in the moment, enjoying my body and finding it beautiful. And if I don’t come I will not consider it a failure. I will practice self care. I will love myself.

I will post weekly about my adventures. For the final day I have something special planned but you will have to wait to read about that.

Loving Eroticon

Once something has passed it has gone for ever, and what happened in London just two weeks ago is seemingly as irretrievable as that day in 4004 BC when God created the world, at least according to Archbishop Ussher.  Yet irretrievable does  not mean lost. The past lives on in  us, seen through the often distorting prism of our memories in, but shaping us in ways we are often only dimly aware of. I carry five Eroticons inside me, each in some way better than the previous one, each bringing friendship, fun, inspiration, consolation and, not infrequently, hot fantasies to take back to my hotel room.

It is difficult to know where to begin my review this year. If 2018 was not life changing in the way that 2014 and 2015 were, it led, unlike 2017, to a couple of decisions. The first relates to the focus of this blog and I will say more about this in future posts. The second is to change my BDSM focus. I am about to rebrand myself as a pinup mistress, abandoning traditional fetish wear for 50s frocks of various kinds with pink and leopard print and hair flowers,,,and a couple more awesome tattoos. In this way I will link my win passion of kink and vintage and get to wear my awesome vintage wardrobe more often. And if anyone fancies joining me for a role play with a difference, do get in touch. You know where to find me.

Here are few random thoughts and impressions. In no particular order.

I was so disappointed to find out that I had missed Mia More. Shew was the first person at Eroticon to change my life and she probably doesn’t know it because I haven’t seen her since Bristol 2014. I so want to introduce myself and say “Thank You”  and buy her a drink…..gin maybe?

Which is a segue into funniest conversation of the weekend which, no surprise, was with Violet Fenn who told me the story of the aggressive driver who forced her over on the M40 sped past and, slewed across 3 lanes of traffic to hit the barrier.

“Karma” I suggested.

“Serves him right for driving a f**** Peugeot”

I loved Lori Smith’s talk on the history of the bra and loved the fact that the first ever sports bra was made from 2 jockstraps and was originally to have been marketed as the Jockbra  before being launched as the er Jogbra.

I loved meeting the other Eve who gave a talk on disability and sex work and loved her reflections on the event.

I loved the fantasy I had early on Sunday morning that broke a Citalopram induced dry spell orgasmwise. I have told Tabitha and a couple of other people about it but will keep the rest of you in suspense as it will form the basis of a blog post, probably in April for obvious reasons.

I loved talking sissification with a Dutch dominatrix in the pub on Saturday night..

I love that I have so many ideas for blog posts. I just need the time to write  them.

I love that Drew grew up in South Worcestershire and knows a lot of the places I do……Wyre Piddle we’re talking about you!  …….and I loved his incredible story….. .

I love Eye for showing us all that age is meaningless and we can all get sexier and hotter as we get older. I am 56  and find her an inspiration..

I love that Katy Swann  is into Joy Divisoion.

I love that I have friends who are too young to have heard of Joy Division…….Coffee and Kink remember? I also love you both for being awesome.

I love Confess Hannah and Livvy for beautiful words of support to me on my journey.

I love the vibrator I won.

I love the fact the Zoe King and I have a mutual acquaintance (a Head of House at Cambridge no less!)

I love Eroticon.

I love Sarah, Molly and Michael for making it happen and making it awesome.

And finally, after years of struggle, I am learning to love myself. Eroticon has helped me to find my truth, that precious jewel I will carry in me for ever. ..

 

 

Setting Sail

This is my entry for the 2018 Euphoff competition devoted to seriously bad erotic writing, run by the fabulous Other Livvy. This is the worst I could come up with. Check out the other entries here            

I have crested many a range, conquered veritable Himalayas of female voluptuousness, scaled the mountains of desire, reaching for bright galaxies of ecstasy even as I plunged into  the darkest depths. For it is the depth that I crave, not the heights. I still recall the first blissful night, when I sailed into the vast ocean of delight reached from the narrow bay between her thighs, its coastline thick with the gorse bushes of her pubic hair, warning me off, yet inviting me in.  And I grew hard, my manhood swollen with desire and the creamy pulsations rising up from my spheres of sexuality. And I saw that I was glistening, my bell end a bright purple bauble hanging from the stout tree of my gym formed frame. I rose up, a very Mars unhorsed, and came down brutally to plunge my sceptre of masculinity deep, deep into the erotic chasm she had willed open for me in her desire. I drove my manly member into those soft sensual feminine folds, fragrant with female juice, and gasped as the foreskin slipped back and my semi-moist treat stick lapped at the pools of pleasure she had prepared.  Our bodies moved in the synchrony of pure physical poetry, of a wonder beyond words.

She opened her beautiful mouth, its full lips rising and falling in hedonistic harmony as she moaned and gasped and said

“Oh Sixtus,  just fuck me. I want it hard”

And she rose up and bit my shoulder ran her ombre nails down my back.  And I knew the spell was broken by her cheap vulgarity I withdrew with more than a hunt of disgust.

“Sixtus, SIXTUS! Just give it to me now! I’m fucking gagging for it!”

“Oh Annunziata, how could you spoil such a special moment how…how can you deny the pulchritudinous poetry of the coupling, the sweet sonnet of sex, the hexameter of hedonism.”,

“For fuck’s sake Sixtus.  Are you going to ram me or not?”

I remained stunned.

“Because if not just take your things and get out. In this corner of Brexitland sex means sex. I didn’t bring you back here for pulchritudinous poetry. I brought you back here for a rough shag.”

Again I said nothing.

She slid down so that my erotic rod of state was by her mouth and took it inside that temple of her vulgarity. And I released my seed into her softness, not to give her pleasure but to cleanse her, before making her whole in an aesthetic of atonement, how I forgave her for spoiling the moment, yet, even as I sought to deny her I calmed the waves, the rushing torrents of sensation. Now I knew I was to be the poet, she the writing tablet, the recipient of my art, marked with my manliness, engraved with the erotic. And I put out to sea a second time, knowing I would never return home.