SoSS July

June came and went, we remained in a weird semi-lockdown, subject to baffling rules about bubbles that nobody understands and which are anyway unenforceable. And people did their won thing. I caught up with a friend who I hadn’t seen for over four months. I visited her in her new house, we cooked lunch together, we went for a walk. I hare no idea if this was allowed strictly speaking. But I really don’t care. It was just to see her in real life, to talk properly. to hug, just to enjoy or friendship. And to be happy for her as she is at long last in a relationship with a man who seems to be worthy of her. The night before that we had a highly successful Smutathon launch via Zoom. I will be writing more about Smutathon. It does, however, give a link into the first July post I want to highlight.

The erotica readings tempted Formidable Femme to write some smut. They were a little bit nervous about posting it but I am sure you will agree that their story is really good.

I had hoped to post something for the One Rainbow Apart meme but didn’t quite get rod to it. There were a number of excellent posts and this by Molly really spoke to me as someone who herself identifies as bisexual. Sadly, biphobia and bi erasure are everywhere, not least in the LGBT community. At this point I was going to make a caustic comment about the fuckwits in a certain “Alliance” but I really don’t want to soil my blog by mentioning them.

The theme for the first Sinful Sunday of July was Movies and there were some amazingly inventive pictures. I particularly enjoyed this by The Other Livvy, this by Krystal Minx and this by Modesty Ablaze, which got me thinking about Monica Vitti who played Modesty Blaze in the 1965 film. And anything that gets me thinking about Vitti is a good thing!

May More reflected on her lockdown experience here  

Meanwhile Posy Churchgate continued the story of Delphine’s Schooldays with Chapter Six to which I have responded with Chapter Seven

There is another new meme in town and that is Little Switch Bitch’s Quote Quest. I posted a piece here after joining in in Week 3. This, by Coffee and Kink, was particularly thought provoking  and drew together two kinds of fear a sex blogger may experience. One of them reminded me of a recent discussion on Twitter. There are people out there who make assumptions about sex bloggers. I have had to deal with people who think that writing openly about sex  means that I am up for it with anyone. I am not. Neither, I think, are the other sex bloggers I know.

I have been involved with Smutathon and Smutathon warm up events this month. In the course of a conversation on the Whats App group Exhibit A  told me that he was “reeling” from my admission that I had never heard of someone called Elon Musk, a name that sounds like it should be a new fragrance. I still have no idea why this is something to make anyone “reel”  (many of my friends have never heard of him either) but EA managed to unreel himself sufficiently to celebrate his birthday, amongst other things with this rather special birthday cake from Exposing 40.

And this all segues neatly into the tale of somebody else I had never heard of , namely Sorcha Rowan, who, I discovered, describes herself as an “erotic raconteuse” . Not entirely accurately as it turns out, since, to misquote Lou Reed,  “she is a he”  but without exploring the wild side. EA takes them to task in this post explaining why, from his cis male standpoint, it is not acceptable for men to pretend to be women, all the more so when it is not just about the writing but about attempts  to engage with actual women under false pretences.

Another discovery this month was the film The Matrix which inpsired this Sinful Sunday post from Francesca Demont.

Rainy evenings are not all bad as Alethea Hunt shows here 

I made a trifle recently, my first since lockdown, not even imagining the meaning that trifle would have for Girl on the Net in this heartbreaking story of a break up

I don’t see many stories involving sex work in any of its manifestations, something which is probably not entirely surprising as paid sex is rarely a big deal from the perspective of the sex worker. And phone sex providers, at least the ones I have spoken to about their work, admit to being bored rigid by what they do. Notwithstanding this I really enjoyed this story by KristanX

Sin tastes nice as Little Switch Bitch shows here.

And talking of things that taste nice, on to food porn. The Sussex Pond. If a bread and butter pudding is cishet sex with the lights out, the Sussex Pond is an orgy from which you all emerge slathered in come and pussy juice, get into a hot tub, and then go and do it all over again. Filth and debauchery in a dish. Enjoy!

Delphine’s Schooldays – Chapter 7

The story continues. Read the previous chapter by Posy Churchgate here After the Christmas holiday Delphine returns to school at the beginning of what is to be Coronation Year.

St. Faith’s School – January 1953

As I looked out of the window I saw Catherine Spencer-Harrington’s dark green Alvis draw to a halt on the gravel before the main entrance to the school. She got out, immaculate, as ever, in an emerald skirt suit, ivory blouse and courts.

“I have been having the most awful day” she said as my secretary closed the door of my study behind her.  Catherine sat down and lit a cigarette.

“We have had some horrid little men from the News of the World lurking outside all day. They are looking to get photographs of the Agriculture Minister who, as I think I mentioned to you, is one of our best clients. Everyone in the Conservative Party knows about his little shoe fetish but the great unwashed don’t need to know. It is the most frightful bore.”

She sighed.

I rang the bell and Delphine de Lotbiniere walked in after knocking. She had that look of pouting defiance that never seemed to leave her leave these days.

“Lotbiniere, my visitor is a distinguished old girl of St. Faith’s, Catherine Spencer-Harrington, a prominent London businesswoman and benefactor of the school. When you return with  pot of tea, for scones and raspberry jam and cream, you are to curtsy to Miss Spencer-Harrington and then to me. Is that clear?”

“Oui Madame” said Delphine with another pout before turning on her heels and leaving.

“Who is that girl?” asked Catherine

“Delphine de Lotbiniere is a rather arrogant and cocky French girl who needs taking down a peg or two and I intend to do that. She is waiting on us today as a punishment for continual refractive and uncooperative behaviour.”

“She is beautiful” said Catherine “I am sure I could find work for her after she leaves the school.”

“The thought had crossed my mind. I am always on the lookout for girls of an appropriate bearing who have what it takes to please your very demanding clients. But I don’t know. I really don’t.”

“Why is that?”

“Delphine is the eldest daughter of the Comte de Lotbiniere. The Comtes de Lotbiniere go back in an unbroken line to 1223. A direct ancestor of Delphine led the French army at Agincourt. Several daughters of the family married into the royal houses of Valois and Bourbon. In 200 years the school has never had a girl of such breeding, of such indisputably noble blood. She is better than us,  Catherine, and the trouble is, she knows it.  And she is destined for greater things than pleasuring Conservative MPs in a Mayfair bordello.”

There was a knock on the door and Delphine entered, scowling, carrying a silver tray with tea and scones. She placed he tray on the table and curtseyed to Catherine although without obvious enthusiasm.

“Pour the tea Lotbiniere.”

She turned the delicate china cups over and placed them in the saucers.  She lifted the lid of the teapot, stirred the tea, replaced the lid and placed the strainer across the rim of one of the cups.

“Milk first” I reminded her.

“Pardon Miss Ransom”

She poured the milk, then the tea and I could see this was going to be a strong, satisfying brew.

Delphine handed us the cups of tea. She took a step back, curtseyed to Catherine again then to me. She turned and headed for the door.

“Young lady” said Catherine, “come here and prepare my scone.”

Delphine looked surprised. I must admit I hadn’t expected this. Delphine took a scone, cut it in tow and spread cream on it, followed by the raspberry jam, heavy with lumps of fruit. She offered the plate to Catherine who took it and inspected the scone with distaste.

“Is that how you serve scones in France?”

“Madame Catherine, we do not have these things in France.”

“Do you not?”

“Non Madame.”

“I find that a shame. If you did you would know that one puts the jam first, then the cream. This” she pointed at the scone and grimaced  “is barbarism. Pure barbarism.”

Delphine went red.

“Come closer girl.”

I watched in fascinated horror as Catherine picked up the scone, one half at a time and smeared the jam and cream over Lotbiniere’s face.

“So then, girl, you are to take the tray back to the kitchen and bring us fresh scones. You think you are better than us I am told. Let me make it very clear to you. You are not.”

She left the room and we could her sobbing as she made her way down the corridor to the kitchen. Catherine laughed.

“You are evil Miss Spencer-Harrington, pure evil,” I smiled as I said this and the smile froze as I realised that there was more than a little truth in thus.

“No, Miss Ranson nor evil. Just hard and unforgiving. Do you think I could survive in my line of work if I wasn’t?”

We drank our tea in silence until there was again a knock at the door and Lotbinere came in to repeat the ritual. She picked up a scone but Catherine grabbed her wrist and pulled Lotbinere towards her.  She stood up, took a handful of Delphine’s hair and pulled her head back so that she was looking up into Catherine’s piercing green eyes,

“I don’t like your attitude young lady. I don’t like it one bit. I am a successful businesswoman and I do not tolerate my employees providing poor service to my clients. I do not tolerate ladies who work for me picking and choosing which clients they serve. They do as they are told. Do you understand?”

Lotbinere let out a cry of pain as Catherine pulled her head back a bit further.

“Oui Madame”

She struggled to get the words out as she began to cry. I looked on uncomfortably, knowing that I ought to intervene, it was not appropriate, it really wasn’t. But I could do nothing. I was bewitched by Catherine.

Catherine continued.

“I am going to teach you a lesson. You will get twelve strokes of the cane.”

“No please madame I will do better next time I promise, please”

“Twelve with the cane and if you want it to stay at twelve you will shut up now. Miss Ranson, give her twelve.”

I had two canes I kept in a stand by my desk. I took one on, with a curved handle a bit like a shepherd’s crook. I pushed the girl over the desk and Catherine stood up to hold her down. She wriggled and struggled but I was strong and she soon resigned herself to her fate.

I pulled down her pleated uniform skirt, them her knickers.

The first stroke land and Lotbinere’s scream of pain was stifled to a whimper but the hand that Catherine had placed over. As the second stroke landed she kicked and wriggled.

“Keep still you little slut!” hissed Catherine or we will make it even worse for you.”

After the fifth stroke Lotbinere was broken and barely moved as the other strokes landed, leaving neat tramlines on her virginal backside. Stroke twelve landed and Catherine released Delphine from her grip.

“Let that be a lesson, Lotbinrere” I said, trying desperately to reassert the authority that Catherine had so blatantly usurped.

She pulled up her knickers and skirt and ran from the room, wailing.

Catherine returned to her chair, crossed one leg over another and lit a cigarette.

“So you had another business proposition for me Miss Ransom?”

At moments like this  I found her quite chilling.

When we had finished the tea and scones I led her through two sets of doors to my bedroom. She sat down on the bed. I closed the door and locked it.

“On your knees Ranson Now!”

“Yes Lady Catherine” I blurted out and   knelt before her.

“My shoes are a little muddy. Clean them.”

I set to work licking her patent courts, the uppers, the heel, the soles, looking up like a puppy dog  for a look of approval from her. I knelt up when I had finished, pushing a small piece of gravel into my cheek.

“Stand up and drop your knickers.”

I stood before her, skirt and knickers around my ankles.

“Show me your knickers!”

I stepped out of the knickers, picked them up and gave them to her.

“Dirty again aren’t they? Nasty brown marks. What are you going to do?”

“I promise to wipe my bottom more carefully in future Lady Catherine.”

“Put your grubby knickers on your head and go and stand in the corner.”

I felt my cheeks burning as I took my place in the corner. I could see Catherine in the mirror as she took her clothes off and lay on the bed, watching me, playing with herself.

It was after Catherine had left that I began to feel unwell. I went to bed early but a queasy feeling kept me awake. I soon had to leap out of bed and rush to the bathroom, where I knelt sweating in front of the toilet. As I vomited I could only think of one thing, the scones. The scones! I felt the chill of fear. It seemed clear that Lotbiniere had tampered with them. I already knew that she was a girl of spirit. But if Catherine was suffering the same indignity? She would surely want to punish Lotbiniere. That, I knew, could not happen again and I had to protect her. But if she could not punish Lotbiniere she would punish me. That I would be powerless to prevent.

TO BE CONTINUED

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All the Sex We Never Had, All the Places We Never Went

Heraclitus wrote that you can never step into the same river twice. I have been thinking about this a lot recently while reading Olga Tokarczuk’s fragmentary travel novel Bieguni. The English translation is called Flights which is not a particularly accurate translation. There are an journeys in this book, journeys of different kinds, journeys by train, by boat, by plane, journeys in time.  Journeys of escape that are also personal journeys. Even tourists with their suitcases and wallets stuffed with privilege are often  escaping something. And in the middle of these journeys there are lengthy digressions on the preservation of human remains, beginning in 17th century Holland and carrying on to modern day plastination, the presentation of dead bodies as art. Art as the denial of the aesthetic of sex.

The living body changes, time is its solvent. The aesthetic of sex is an aesthetic of decay. Sex is the land of rivers that flow remorselessly on, taking our lovers with them as they head for the sea of death and oblivion. It is also the land of erotic adventures that never happened, of the times we failed to step into the river and knew immediately we never could again.

Estelle

It is July 1985. Graham is on the overnight train from Innsbruck to Vienna. There is just one other person in the compartment.  She introduced herself as Estelle, from Bloemfontein. And, as white South Africans did, she assured Graham that she was  not a racists.

“Everywhere we go,” she said with a sigh, “no one likes us.”

“Are you surprised?” thought Graham but resisted the temptation to say this.

They talked, about travel mainly,  and Estelle accepted his offer of a beer and then another. She moved across to sit next to him. She pressed her knee lightly against his to test his reaction. He didn’t flinch. Encouraged, she placed his hand on his knee. They had another beer, and when he went out into the corridor for a cigarette she joined him.

“I am a social smoker” she said “but only a social smoker.”

She held her smile until he offered her a cigarette. When they had finished she leant into him for a kiss and he responded. Beer, cigarettes and a faint hint of sweat. Graham was getting hard but he pulled away. It was the thought of the unlocked compartment, the thought of well….Bloemfontein.  He had caught a glimpse of her surname in her passport. Van der Merwe. Afrikaner. They were the worst weren’t they? Racists with black servants. She probably had a maid who had to curtsy before her. But he knew this was all rationalisation. The truth was, she repelled him.

Graham woke up at 4 o’cock  tired and sweaty, metallic foulness in his mouth. He looked over to Estelle. She snored and tossed and turned. not waking up until the train rattled through Hutteldorf on the outskirts of Vienna. They parted without a word.

East Berlin 1981

I have a flag. The state flag of the German Democratic Republic. It is Saturday 2nd May. There are flags everywhere. You can buy them in Centrum Warenhaus on the Alexanderplatz. They have different sizes, and plastic sticks to put them on are extra. I buy a medium sized flag without a stick. I have lunch at the Zillestube, I have coffee and cake in the revolving cafe of the TV tower and return to the West with a pile of the classics of Marxism wrapped in coarse, grey paper. And the flag. I used it as a tablecloth until my landlady told me she wasn’t happy with it.

Annette

It was nearly 10 o’clock. Time for bed in the bustling youth hostel on the banks of the Rhine. Peter had been talking to Annette there on the wall as they drank Coke from bottles, for two hours. He was tired, his German was becoming ragged but…..Annette had forgotten about her friends in the school group she had come with. She took his hand and led him away to a spot behind the bushes. She pulled him close, kissed him. Peter responded, this was not the first time he had kissed but, at 17, the first time had felt raw passion from the other person. He squeezed Annette, enjoyed the softness of her body, pushing his tongue deep into her mouth. She pulled herself free, took off her T shirt, unhooked her bra and Peter saw for the first time breasts, large breasts hanging down, large aureoli and in the middle nipples that stood stiff and proud. She unbuckled her belt and began to slide down her jeans.

“Willst du mich ficken?”

He began to feel week at the knees as Annette’s jeans came down, her knickers and he saw, as if in a blur, her slit, her bush. She was aroused, she wanted it but he only felt fear. He mumbled something about an early start, a long walk the following day.

He lay in his bunk and masturbated to her.  He saw her at breakfast the following morning but she ignored him. He hadn’t seen her crying and would he have cared if he had?

Paris 1977

I never knew her name, I don’t think she even looked at me. She got on the Metro at Miromesnil with a friend and got off alone at Strasbourg St Denis. Our respective journeys through spacetime coincided for just 20 minutes but I was fascinated. I don’t think I had seen a woman like her before, in her 20s but with the lines from the corners of her mouth to the nose that come from speaking French. Her dress, the way she carried her bag, the way her hair was dishevelled but actually not, the way she spoke, yes, the way she spoke.  I listened closely to catch what words I could. Later I practised in front of the mirror. That night I lay in bed and thought about her. I did not fantasise. I did not masturbate. I just wanted to be her. I still do.

David 

David met Susie when he was working  in Germany and, finding it hard to make friends,  they clung to each other to avoid  being stuck in their respective bedsits gazing at the wall. One rainy Saturday afternoon he had invited Susie round. He had bought a selection of cakes from the local bakery, he made filter coffee and his attic room suddenly had a homely smell it had never had before. As he only had one chair, they sat on the bed, leaning against the wall. They munched Pflaumenstreuselkuchen and crumbs fell onto the duvet but David didn’t mind. The small space brought them closer together. legs pressed against each other. Susie didn’t seem to mind this at all. David pressed a bit more. He had thought a lot about Susie, how she was nice but boring, not seeing the irony in how own lack of self awareness. And those big, heavy glasses she wore! Then again, the lips, Susie had full lips that he just wanted to kiss. He leaned across and gently took her glasses off.

“Why did you do that?”

“I want to see your face.  I think you’re very pretty.”

“Thank you.”

She smiled.

David pulled her towards him, paced his thin lips on her full lips, and pushed his tongue into her mouth as the lips parted. Susie responded and they rolled over. She put a hand on the back of his head and pressed to lock him in the kiss.  David felt he was getting hard, he slipped his hand inside Susie’s knickers and fumbled to find her slit. He pushed a finger in. She was wet.

He felt his cock getting hard, the bulge in his jeans called for release. With his free hand, he unbuttoned his jeans, started to wriggle out of them. Then Susie pushed him off.

“I can’t do this David. I really like you, I could even love you, I think, but I can’t.”

“What’s the problem?”

“It’s not you. It’s my faith. I promised God that I would remain a virgin till I marry. It’s not that I wouldn’t, you know … with you…because I know I would like to and it would be nice. If you were my husband. ”

“I am sorry Susie I had no idea. Are you not angry with me?”

“No I am not David. I think you are a really lovely guy. I do. But it wouldn’t be right. Not yet. ”

She gave him a hug.

When Susie had gone David pounded the wall with his fists.

“God, God, God! Why do you do this!” he shouted and saw, to his astonishment, that he was crying.

He met Susie fleetingly at Derby railway station several years later. She had her four young children with her, she looked tired. They spoke briefly.  Susie had devoted her life to her family, what little spare time she had to the church, and her husband, an elder of the church, had left her for another woman. They both felt regret but neither of them could say it. The unspoken mutual feelings weighed heavily on the conversation and it was a relief to them both when David realised he was on the wrong platform for the Nottingham  train and had to run off up the stairs. As his train pulled out he avoided looking out for her. This was not a second coming of the river. That much he knew.

Vienna 2003

There was a time before selfies. We were approached on the Karntner Strasse by a young woman holidaying on her own and asked to take a photograph of her in front of the Stefansdom. We obliged. Later we headed out to Gasometer to eat. I liked Gasometer because it is not coffee houses and kitsch. Not a slice of Sachertorte in sight. As we ate, my partner mentioned the woman again as if feeling sorry for her.

“Maybe we could have invited her to join us?”

I could only think that I admired her for just getting out there and having a holiday and not worrying because she hadn’t got anyone to go on holiday with.  It’s happened to me, it’s happened to many people. It is not a disease. I was just wishing her great sex. That happens on holiday too.

“I bet she’s somewhere having more fun that she would with us” I replied.

Caroline

It had been a bit of a red letter day for Caroline. She has been to the hairdressers in the morning.

“There’s enough to style” said Laura. “I think you’ll like it.”

And she blowed and brushed and busied herself as Caroline sipped her tea.

“Have a look” said Laura with a smile. And Caroline looked in the mirror and liked what she saw. Her hair was still shortish, still grey but it had been shaped nicely and had the beginnings of a short bob.

“I like it.”

“You’re not putting that bloody wig back on are you? Are you Caroline?”

“No Miss” said Caroline and they both laughed.

As she left the salon Caroline did a jig of delight.

She was still on a high that evening when she met up with friends for a night in Birmingham’s Gay Village. Drinks and food at ‘spoons, pool and lager and karaoke at The Fox, a cigarette in the garden and she fell into conversation with Amy.

“You’re lovely” said Amy taking a second cigarette from Caroline. “Can I add you on Facebook?”

“Yeah, of course.”

They both took out their phones and conducted the modern friendship ritual.  Caroline was feeling a new confidence and wanted to chat some more but Amy stood up and said

“I’m off to The Village now, meeting a few friends.”

It was nearly five hours later that Caroline pushed her way through the crowds to find a space in the garden of the pub to sit down and light up. It was only after she at down that she realised that she was sitting next to Amy.

“Hello again” she said.

“Hi” said Caroline realising that the night’s drinking was taking its toll, the fizzy lager and the shots that her friends had been buying all evening. They were still going strong  and were doubtless looking to see it through to closing time at 8 am. Caroline was thinking of going home. She had had enough and was making a mental note to be careful in the future when it came to going out with 20 something lesbians. It had been fun though.

She felt her head being grabbed and turned round to look Amy in the face. Amy loved in and kissed her, forcing her tongue into Caroline’s mouth. Alcohol had removed her inhibitions and she responded. She ran her arm behind Amy pulled her closer, thrust her own tongue into Amy’s mouth. Her head began to swim, she was hard, she cold still manage an erection despite the hormones, she was glad she was wearing a loose fitting summer dress that hid the bulge, she wanted Amy, wanted her so much, wanted Amy to finger her, to……

Amy unbuttoned Caroline’s dress, reached inside and took a breast in her hand, kneaded it, moulded it in her lovely warm hand, before tweaking the nipple. Caroline yelped in surprise but found the pain quite pleasant.  Amy undid 2 more buttons, reached behind to unhook Caroline’s bra and, as it fell, moved her hand inside the flapping dress to suck at Caroline’s nipple, twisting it with her lips, flicking it with her tongue, making Caroline more and more aroused.

“Come on” said Amy “let’s go to the loo, I so fucking want to go down on you.”

She stood up, grabbed both of Caroline’s hands and pulled her to her feet. Caroline stood there, her left breast hanging out, hair dishevelled, frantic with desire for this woman, fuzzy headed with drink to the point that she was struggling to stay on her feet,  but clear headed enough to know she couldn’t go through with this.

“Sorry Amy I can’t. I so fucking want you but I just can’t!”

She ran, falling out of the door, her dress still open, her breast still hanging out.

A doorman grabbed her arm and steadied her.

“Are you OK love?”

Caroline nodded.

“Are you sure?”

She went to the corner of the street and rested against a wall. She buttoned up her dress and lit a cigarette. As she smoked she gathered her thoughts. It was now nearly four o’clock and the summer night was getting chilly. She hailed a taxi and jumped in.

The taxi drive off. Caroline didn’t look back at the throng outside the pub. She looked resolutely forward, at the dark shadow of the driver, the red numbers changing every few hundred yards on the meter.  She began to cry.

Boston, Massachusetts 2000 

In the year of The Big Dig there were people in Boston worried about the future of Little Italy in the city’s North End.  Tucked away on the far side of Interstate 93 on its rickety looking green viaduct, almost a town beside the city.  But when the road disappears into a tunnel, when Little Italy is opened up to the rest of Boston, the acid of property developers’ money will surely dissolve the area’s character. The works continue. The contractor’s boards are painted with the coats of arms of Italian cities. It seems like a defiant gesture. Our meal is too. We find a trattoria,  sit with plates of pasta, tomato salad, a bottle of red wine. We are enjoying slow food in the land of the Big Mac.

All That Is Solid Melts Into Air 

The last time I was in Berlin the Palast der Republik, the home of the puppet parliament of the German Democratic Republic, where I had once eaten lunch and bought a newspaper, was an ugly  twisted metal frame. It was an eyesore and its final removal, a week after I left, was a blessed release. Cities change. Cities evolve. It is as if the moment you leave you have never been there. One minute after your plane has taken off, the city has changed. I have Austrian friends who have a collectors’ approach to sightseeing. Been there. Seen that. Done that. “Abgehakt” as they say in German.  I don’t think they realise the futility of the freezing of motion as if the frozen moment is all that matters. They remind me of those sad men who keep a notebook of all the women they had had sex with. Or claim to have had sex with.

The sex we never had is no less real than the sex we had. Or rather, the sex we had is no more real. All the bodies I have loved have been dissolved by time, made anew or not, remade as ageing parodies of what they were. Mine too, and let’s face it, mine has changed more than most. Consider the vaginas I fingered, the clits I tongued, the glistening bellends I took greedily into my mouth. They are no more. Every single cell dead, replaced by new cells, regenerated but decaying, changing even as they appear to stay the same. But decay is inherent to the aesthetic of sex, it is the art of bodies in flux.

And Finally Plastination……

I write, not to freeze sex in a moment, but to hint, offer fleeting glimpses, and let you, my readers, engage with me as you wish. Because only the act of reading, being in the moment of that reading can make that sex real.

I once thought about being plastinated myself. Any part of me, or even all parts of me, just not my genitalia. Let all my partners come and enjoy my sinews, my muscles like taut wires, as lifeless as the steel cables of a suspension bridge. Let them enjoy me without the parts of me they most enjoyed, or were destined not to. That river has already flowed on to the sea.

A post for Wicked Wednesday. Click here for more wickedness

 

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Anita

“Right on the edge of fear was where trust could grow”

Cherise Sinclair

When I was a boy I wanted to be an amoeba. I liked the idea of being a creature that didn’t have to bother with sex. I adored Debbie Harry,  I masturbated till I was sore, I took my mother’s magazines to bed, I picked a model from the fashion pages and made her my wife, my lover in my fantasies. I imagined the house we would live in, the dinner parties we would host (which were oddly similar to the ones my parents hosted  but they were the only templates of adulthood I had), the bedroom where we would make love. I wanked to her in quiet adoration but when the sticky ejaculation flowed out to matt my pubic hair and dampen my pyjamas I felt a desperate sadness. These were things that would never be more than fantasy for me. Women belonged on posters, in magazines. In real life they were to be feared. Feared because, some time, a woman might ask me for sex. I avoided girls at at school. I took up trainspotting. I don’t even like trains. I found my fellow trainspotters weird. Yeah I know, I’m weird too but compared to these guys? But it was a safe environment, a long long way from sex.

I was 37 and a virgin when I met Anita. She was a few years older than me, divorced with 2 grown up children. I guess she was lonely. She must have been. Why else would she have been interested in me? But we starting meeting up. Just a drink in the local pub, a country walk. I liked her. She had a ready laugh, she could talk about football, she began to look after me. On my birthday I took her for dinner. She bought me a present, shirts and I realised she might be looking for more than friendship. That evening she invited me back to her house for coffee.

Coffee. And it’s not always with granules is it? I made myself comfortable on the sofa. . She poured whiskies and sat next to me. We talked, she sat closer, pressing her knee against my leg, played with my hair.  When she sat on my lap and pressed her lips gently against mine I felt sick. I was alone with her in her house, the bedroom was directly above us, the bedroom, the bedroom. Shit! The bedroom! This is real. This is going to happen. I felt my head go light as she took my hand and led me upstairs.

I failed. I cried. I apologised to her, told her I felt a failure. She cradled my head against her chest. kissed me gently on the top of the head, assuring me it was fine, she wasn’t angry,  it would be better next time. I unburdened myself there and then and 20 years of pain flowed out onto the soft sheets, like waters from a broken dam. She hugged me close, reassured me.

Next time, she kissed me gently, moving her lips from my mouth, down my body to my cock,  she took my cock into her mouth and sucked and licked and flicked the end with her tongue until I was hard. I knew I could keep this erection.  I knew I could. I wanted this. My fear was gone as she lay back, took me in her had and guided me into her wet, warm cunt. It didn’t last long. I felt the foreskin rolling back, felt wonderful sensations I had never known before. I pushed in and out  as she told me what to do. I came, felt the pulse of the ejaculation, saw a brilliant array of lights and colours as I sank down onto  her and submitted to its force.

I was spent. I was high on the joy of the moment. Anita sad she hadn’t come but that she was happy for me. She would come next time. She had enjoyed it anyway and next time would be even better. I cried as I thanked her. I knew that she had dome something special for me, something loving. She had taken my fear and turned it into trust.  And as for amoebas well………imagine one splitting into two and the second  is so much better than the first. It wants to fuck. It needs to.

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