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?