Smutathon

I was wondering what to do for Smutathon but have now decided to edit and finish off the novella that I began six years ago and have toyed with on and off over the years, even reading a chapter at the Eroticon slam in 2016. I will now finish it because it deserves to be finished.  It changed my life.

Those who have met me will know that, in addition to being into sex and smut, I have a deep love of vintage fashion, and particularly of 50s fashions. This came about through writing smut….really. I had an idea one day of writing a story about a young woman who loved the fashions and style of the 50s , to the extent of living the lifestyle 24/7. So I invented Claire, who is my absolute favourite person of those who have been born from my imagination. Claire is different, she is proud of being different, she finds vintage empowering. And she likes sex. Rough sex. Sex on the back seats of cars.  Sex where she sends a man home with a ripped shirt , bloodstained from running her fingernails down his back.

I actually had the idea watching a programme about a woman in her early 20s who lived in the 50s even to the extent of using a Vauxhall Wyvern Series E as her everyday transport. My parents were amazed at  the attention to detail with which she had furnished her house. I have no idea what her sex life was like but she inspired the vintage bit of Claire.  And the sex  bit? Well that came from a Ford publicity shot for the Mark 2 Zodiac. A simple shot of a woman behind the wheel, in a circle dress,,, wearing leather driving gloves.  I have a huge glove fetish and my imagination ran wild as I looked at the photograph. I was aroused.

In this way the pieces came together, vintage fashion, classic  50s car, and unbridled eroticism.  So, on July 1st, I will put a nice frock on, open the laptop and finally finish this novella.

Claire, I promise I will do you justice. This will be my love letter to you.

smutathon4.png

Another Girl, Another Planet

This is a short story I wrote specially for the Eroticon reading slam. There was a certain amount of inspiration from a song, as older readers may notice.

‘Space travel’s in my blood’ she said, pulling off her silver boots, ’there’s nothing I can do about it.’

‘Tell me about yourself, how you came to be doing this.’

‘My name is Neptunia. I was born on the Neptune colony four thousand years ago and came to this galaxy through the time shift, after the solar system was abandoned I have travelled a lot, I enjoy it and when..’

‘they allowed sex again?’

‘Yes, I was chosen to apply to be an inter-galactic sex worker and I jumped at  the opportunity. I see a lot of the cosmos, the money is good  and I ways wanted to be a teacher.’

A teacher was what I needed. This was my first permission to visit our galaxy’s pleasure planet. I had read about sex in antique data storage from the days before humans destroyed planet Earth and the solar system had to be abandoned, musty stained things called books. I grew up after the move towards the more efficient asexual reproduction of the species.  For millennia sex was forbidden. Oh we still married, but only for companionship. Ova and sperm were produced by industrial process so there was no need for the human body to be involved. And sex for pleasure was deemed harmful, detrimental above all to the efficiency of the galactic economy. Like all males I had been locked into a chastity device on my thirteenth birthday. It was only ever removed under medical supervision for purposes of washing and so on,  and we knew nothing other than the dull aches and throbbing pain of the erection being crushed by the pitiless kryptonite.

And now sex was allowed as a privilege, but only for those with the means to travel to the pleasure planet and pay one of the few handpicked sex workers like Neptunia.

‘We only have an hour’ she said ‘maybe we should get on with it?’

She removed her gauntlets and pulling down the shimmering suit revealed two small firm breasts followed by a stomach tattooed with a pink meteor shower and then her pussy, her pubic hair shaven into what Earth language called a Brazilian. As the suit fell round her ankles she stepped out of it and walked towards me. I gazed at her. I had never seen a naked woman before. She took my hand and guided it to the hair, the lips and made me feel my way gingerly up and down.

‘You’ve never seen a woman before have you?’

‘No I er…….’

She gently kissed the top of my head.

‘The pleasures of the body couldn’t be denied for ever’ she said, ‘ and I am so glad the Administration realised that. Just relax……feel my hair, feel the roughness of the stubble, then feel your way down..’

She guided my hand to wear I could sense an opening, then put one of her fingers in and pulled it, put it on my tongue.

‘Taste. I’m getting wet, that’s what women do when they are ready for sex.’

She knelt before me, pulled my head towards hers and kissed me, forcing her tongue between my teeth.    I pulled away horrified.

‘But that’s so unhygienic. It’s gross.’

Neptuia laughed.

“You need to forget all they taught you at school. This is not dirty. It’s really wonderful to get close and intimate with another human being like this. Besides I’m clean and if you want to suggest otherwise you know where the door is,’

She wasn’t laughing now.

‘Just get this straight. I am proud to be a sex worker and any ideas you have about dirty disease ridden whores are just so ancient solar system. Just get them out of your head. Besides only I have the cyberkey to your chastity device. So you had better be nice to me.’

She began to laugh again.

She pulled a thin metal rod out of her bag and pointed it at my crotch. The chastity device loosened with a click and she was soon on me, Gently sliding it off, pushing me onto my back as she kissed me again. This time I could feel her strength as she pinned me down and pushed her tongue into my mouth so hard that I struggled to breathe. I made a token effort to throw her off but she was too strong for me. She slid down my body, her tongue leaving a damp trail until she arrived at my penis. She licked the end before whipping it delicately with the end of her tongue. I felt it harden and rise, now unrestrained for the first time in thirty years. She took it into her mouth and began to suck.

I stiffened and made to draw back.

“What’s wrong?”

“It’s just that I’ve never done this before i…..”

The move into her mouth had drawn the foreskin back and the unsheathed bellend, all purple and shiny with her saliva felt vulnerable and exposed. I shuddered.

“Trust me. I won’t hurt you.”

I lay back on the bed took a deep breath and tried to relax. She started again.  This time I shut my eyes and tried to yield to her. She began to move in and out in slow rhythmic movements, and I felt myself beginning to enjoy the warmth and softness of her mouth. Another tongue whipping, another couple of swift movements in and out and I had come, feeling more pain than pleasure as one huge ejaculation quickly followed another.

Neptunia swallowed but kept a little in her mouth as she kissed me and passed some of the creamy fluid into my mouth.

“That’s the taste of a man. That’s your taste.”

She wiped her lips and smiled.

‘That’s it” she said. “Your time is nearly up.”

“And sex?” I asked not hiding my disappointment.

“Not today. I need to file my report and the Pleasure Ministry will decide if you can have a second appointment with full service.”

“And if they don’t?”

“If they don’t they don’t” said Neptunia matter of factly. “It’s down to the Ministry to decide if you need sex, or if the productive capacity of the state will be enhanced. It’s not my decision. And to be honest I don’t care either way. I’m a sex worker. I service my clients and show them the door. I don’t get emotionally involved.”

Perhaps she could see the disappointment on my face because she quickly added

“I like you and I’ve enjoyed spending time with you. So I will write a positive opinion. And maybe you will come again.”

She reached behind her and picked up the chastity cage and cyberkey.

“Come here. I have to put this back on.”

“No” I said, surprised at the firmness in my voice. “I’m not going back into that.”

I backed away but she stood up and walked towards me with a determined look.

‘That chastity device IS going back on. It’s inter-galactic law and I am here to enforce it.’

She pushed me back against the wall and hissed

‘Are you going to do as you’re told or do I have to hurt you?’

The last words came out with such venom that her spit flecked my glasses.’

‘Just remember the report I have to file. Piss me off and you’ll never come here again. You’ll live the rest of your life like a fucking monk. Is that what you want?

‘No’

My resistance was broken. She clipped it back into place, locked it with the cyberkey. I looked at her, as he pulled on her boots. I felt desire for her again, felt the blood pumping into my penis, which rose and swelled until cruelly restricted by the cage. I bent low with the agony and sank to my knees crying. It was not just for the desire of Neptunia but for what I had understood. Chastity was slavery, I had always wondered about the things I had read from earth days when chastity was a form of play in something called BDSM. I realised that when we are not free to use our bodies as we want, when we cannot express ourselves sexually then we are slaves. My head was teeming with subversive thoughts. Did The Administration realise how dangerous this could all be?  I knew too that I could say nothing of this to Neptunia who was after all a spy for the police, part of the control apparatus. What an irony there was there!

In any case I had to come back, to push my penis for the first time through those mysterious soft folds of flesh, into that secret place of the ultimate warmth and softness.

‘Come on’ said Neptunia. ‘it’s time for you to go.’

She led me out to the docking pod and I was soon on my way, her planet a distant speck and her body a sweet memory. It is a long and tiring flight to the Pleasure Planet and back but I know I will return. Long journeys wear me out but I know I can’t live without it.’

 

Ten Great Eroticon Moments 2017

Was it really a week ago that I walked out of the Grafton pub into a horrible night feeling the famed Eroticon drop? In truth the drop only lasted until I tucked ravenously into a pasty at Euston. On the train home I felt tired but elated. Eroticon just gets better and better. I have needed a week to take it all in and reflect but here are my thoughts.

2017 saw the event back in London after three years in Bristol. Much as I love Bristol, and much as I loved Armada House as a venue, I think London is  really where the event needs to be, not least because it is so much easier for overseas delegates ( of whom there were quite a few). I loved the vibe of Camden and loved Arlington House. And the proximity to Vivien of Holloway is, of course, another plus 🙂 And yes Anna Sky, we are going to buy frocks next year!

A few familiar faces were missing this year but we had a lot of new faces. A number of them admitted to anxiety and trepidation beforehand but they took to it like fish to water and made a huge contribution to the success of the event. It was great to meet you and I look forward to seeing you again next year. And if anyone is reading this who didn’t come because of anxiety please do come next year. We are more than people who come together once a year, we are a community and we want you to be part of it. Any event needs the renewal that comes from having new participants and it really bodes well for the future.

Others have written about ten things they took away from Eroticon 2017. I am going to write about my ten favourite moments (in no particular order)

  1. As I was enjoying a pre-Eroticon cigarette outside Arlington House I was joined by one of the residents. came to chat.

“This conference, what is it?” she asked.

“It’s a writers’ conference” I replied  vaguely.

“Only I’ve just been downstairs and I’ve seen them putting all penises out on a table.”

“Oh yes it’s an erotica writers’ conference” I said with more than a hint of relief.

2. Kate Lister’s run through the history of obscenity, .She mentioned Catullus who I had to read at school and who, oddly enough, is in a story on this blog here and here. And I never tire of Chaucer’s Miller’s tale

3. Being tied up by Screw Taboo at DJ Fet’s rope workshop and going all floaty and spacy. A lovely experience and a lesson in the power of rope.

4. Talking sex work politics. Can we have more on this next year please?. .

5. Girl on the Net’s riotous Listeresque poem. She fucking loves fucking in London ( although I may have worked that out already)

6. My train journey to work has not been quite the same this week after Confess Hannah’s tale of a train journey in Scotland.  But I still await my moment. Come on Chiltern Trains, lift your game!

7. Being asked for my autograph. This hasn’t never happened before….and may never happen again. For you Livvy it was a pleasure.

8. The Saturday evening social and particularly the burlesque show which will stay in the memory for a ling time.

9. Cigarettes with awesome people. You know who you are. I know I ought to give up but  I would surely be missing out on so many interesting conversations if I did.

10. Leaving on the Sunday knowing we will do it all again next year.

Read other reflections on Eroticon 2017 here

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Every Girl’s Guide to Being Awesome

There we were in a cocktail bar on a Friday night, nine women enjoying ourselves,  the drink flowing along with the conversation. Some of the ladies I had never met before, the others I couldn’t claim to know particularly well.  And yet. We all felt a connection. And the connection was that we are different and proud of it. Visually we stood out, in our frocks, (quite a bit of leopard on view!) dyed hair, tattoos and so on. We were probably quite loud as well. I may have imagines disapproving glances coming our way but maybe not…..  The point is we were not typical customers.

One of our group summed it up succinctly…”Everyone else here is so boring!”

What she meant was that everyone else was normal, dressed not to stand out, seemingly not obviously enjoying themselves particularly. Young people, well younger than us mainly,  just being, well, respectable.

“Why be normal” I said, “when you can  be awesome?”

The others agreed.

Being into vintage is making a statement, of being different and loving it. It is a way of finding friends who are, in a sense, soulmates. People who get it, get you. I am not talking necessarily about our little coven but in the vintage world you get to meet ladies who have had their struggles with anxiety, low self-esteem, and so on and have come through it and have learned that there is strength in embracing their difference.  I have been on the vintage scene for under two years but have met so many lovely people. Well actually I have met a lot of awesome people, all of whom have a story to tell. People who have embraced their difference and understand that going with the crowd is not worth it.  People who get it.

What goes for vintage goes for other areas of life too, areas of my life in fact. If you’re reading this and thinking you don’t fit in,  know that you have soulmates out there that you haven’t yet met. Learn to accept yourself, learn to love yourself and then share the love. When you do, you will be well on the way to being awesome.

And a final word for my vintage sisters. Thank you for being in my life. You have enriched it more than you probably know. I look foreword to drinking cocktails with you again. You are awesome!

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

. .

 

An Object of Desire

A little contribution to Kink Of The Week on Molly’s Daily Kiss

I go most places in flats these days. I have reached the time of life when, conventional wisdom has it, comfort takes precedence over style. And yet……

When I saw the stiletto heeled ankle boots in the sale I had to have them. They will go nicely with my leather dress I said although I knew that my chunky heeled knee boots were always a better option. But I guess I’m not the only girl  who buys shoes that she knows, deep down, she will never wear. For shoes are not practical items, they are objects of desire,

I open my laptop and begin to write. Words won’t come. Coffee and cigarettes don’t help this time so I take the department store carrier bag out of my wardrobe and lift out the unworn ankle boots. I place them on the table, I light another cigarette, I lift my skirt and slide my left hand inside and start to enjoy a daydream,.

I put on the leather dress, and tug on the boots. A quick spray of Alexander McQueen and I leave the house. I walk briskly, confidently, made tall by the heel, my chest pushed out. I feel magnificent. I demand to be adored.

And I will be adored. I will find a man in these teeming streets who will beg to worship, beg to be trampled, to feel the cruel heel pushed hard into his nipples and twisted, a man who will worship sincerely, a man who will earn his reward,  when I offer myself to him, when I wrap the booted ankles round his neck as he pushes into me and we come together and the orgasm pulses through me in a kaleidoscope of colours until I can no longer see his face, just the boots, gleaming and magnificent, as I pull down my skirt and begin to write.

For more stories inspired by heels click on the lips below

OF GIRLS AND CARS OR ….THIS GIRL AND THIS CAR

I am still looking for a recording of the Arena programme “The Life and Times of the Ford Cortina” broadcast in 1982, the year that Cortina production stopped, this iconic car  being replaced by the initially unpopular Ford Sierra, referred to by many as an upside down blancmange. The programme was an exploration of the car as cultural icon and featured Tom Robinson singing this hymn to the Cortina.

This was the car that the young me always dreamed of owning, ever since I set eyes on an aubergine one with a vinyl roof  on the car park at Whistling Sands in North Wales in 1969. My siblings were keen to get down to that lovely sandy beach in its sheltered cove, to build sandcastles, explore the fascinating aquatic mini-worlds of the rock pools left behind by the retreating sea when the tide turned. But I only had eyes for the car, the dark majesty of its paintwork, the shine of the rostyle wheels, the radio aerial leaning rakishly back from above the windscreen, the racing car style pod wing mirrors. Inside there was a wooden dashboard with a rev counter with its shock of red (a bit like the hair I have at the moment!), the steering wheel with holed steel spokes. This was an executive sports saloon built for those for whom such a car would have been beyond their budget previously. I walked around it, admiring its perfect form, its understated beauty and fell in love.

There has always been a prejudice in certain quarters about girls and cars.  Not just the jokes about women drivers (boys, we pay lower premiums than you, ever wondered why?), but also the mansplaining wisdom that the female brain cannot accommodate engineering concepts in its tiny form. Why these prejudices persist is unclear. There have, for example, been a number of successful female rally drivers, going back to the days of Pat Moss, there are excellent female motoring journalists, indeed Top Gear pre the Clarkson testosterone revolution always had at least one female presenter. In the last few weeks there has been Girls and cars on Radio 4, were female celebs come on to go through their automotive autobiography, talking knowledgeably about cars they have owned. Women can be petrolheads too and we don’t need gimmicks like “Girly” versions of cars (Mini Design anyone?)

So here is an extract from mine:

After an initial infatuation with a Mini I finally bought a 1600E, amber gold with a black interior, a but rusty in places but it looked the business, much more than the XR3 and other sporting Fords of the time. It was probably even by 1986 an old fashioned car, with its steering box, dynamo and cart spring rear suspension but the bonnet hid the delights of the engine with its twin choke Weber carburettor nestling under an air box that looked like an upturned frying pan, and  the four branch exhaust manifold on the opposite side of the head, like a clutch of serpents. There was even a sticker on the head sayinh 1600GT in red letters. It all looked purposeful. And it was. The crossflow version of the Kent engine was a fine unit, with a lovely whine on the overrun that gave plenty of torque low down. With well chosen gear ratios you could pull from 10 mph in 3rd gear and 15 in 4th. A car for the open road really, and not a car for motorway cruising, (you couldn’t hear the radio once the speed got past 55 mph!) but, then again, there weren’t that many motorways in 1968.

I had the car two years before rust spread and became terminal, but two good years they were. And even though I am a 50s girl at heart and have a pic of a Mk 2 Zodiac on my Facebook profile, it is for the Mk 2 Cortina that my heart beats,

There aren’t that many 1600Es left and hardly any in daily use. I did see one last week and it turned heads, mine included. I felt a pang, about like seeing a former lover, remembering the nights, the beds where you explored each other, and wondering if he tastes the same today but reflecting wistfully that you will never find out.

This is meant to be a sex blog so I will mention the car’s biggest plus, vinyl seats, and you surely don’t need to ask why.

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.”

.