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.

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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!

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

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No Trumps at the Ace Cafe

This is a chapter from a novella I am working on. Claire, my heroine, is a young lady with a passion for vintage who sets out to find her perfect man and have loads of good sex as she does so……..

Claire was delighted at Dorothy’s news but it had the effect of increasing her own frustration. She redoubled her man hunt. Her encounters so far had been unsatisfying. So she placed an advert in the personals section of a classic car magazine.

‘Lovely fifties girl. Has Zodiac, will travel. Seeks mechanic with a piston for her cylinder.’

There were just two replies and only one of these seemed worth following up. She soon found herself driving down to London for a rendez-vous with a man called Paul at the Ace Cafe. It was the evening of the monthly Mark Two Consul/Zephyr/Zodiac meet. There would be loads of sexy cars and Claire  hoped too that Paul, with his Zephyr, would be the man of her dreams. She was day dreaming even before the day she had arranged to go down to London to meet Paul. She imagined the traditional semi they would live in with the period furniture, the box television set with the nine inch screen, the his and hers Zodiac and Zephyr parked on the drive.

 

She wore a skirt to drive down the M40 to London, cruising at a stately 55 mph, with her left hand

down her front playing with herself. It was going to be a long drive back if she didn’t score and, in

any event, she needed to be wet enough to do it quickly, round the back of the cafe or maybe on his backseat after dark. Either way, she was going to be gagging for it. She was going to be ready.

 

The Ace Cafe is a London motoring legend, located on the North Circular Road. Claire had long planned to go down, to one of the Owners’ Club meets. Claire enjoyed petrolhead talk. She knew her stuff. It’s just that she felt that a girl does need a little looking after and surely a man should be able to look after her car in exchange for his home-baked treats, the pleasure of having a woman as striking and as stylish as Claire on his arm, most of all for being able to have sex every day and three times most days. It was Claire’s first visit and when she pulled onto the forecourt and parked her Zodiac among a bevy of its brothers and sisters and Ford Consul cousins, there were hosts of admiring looks. And not just for the car. A crowd soon gathered round. One man stood away from the crowd looking a little unsure of himself. He waited until Claire withdrew a little way to light a cigarette and introduced himself.

 

‘Hi I’m Paul. You must be the girl in need of a piston.’

Claire smiled. ‘I certainly am. I hope it’s a big one and that it throbs and gets really really hard.’

‘Well’ laughed Paul nervously, ‘I’ve got loads of spares in my boot. Would you like to have a look?’

Claire was puzzled by this. Surely he didn’t mean piston literally? Sadly he did and opened the boot

of his Zephyr to reveal a mass of Ford spares chucked in any old how.

 

‘This here is a layshaft for a Consul gearbox’ he explained with a smile ‘and this is a Mark Three

Zephyr steering box and this, I got this at an autojumble…. how much were you looking to pay?’

‘Paul’ she said crossly. ‘I have come from the Black Country to see you and your car. The least you

can do is take me inside and buy me something to eat.’

 

Inside the Ace Cafe Claire ordered a burger and a banana milkshake. She was going to do things in proper fifties style. Paul seemed suddenly nervous as if Claire’s intentions were slowly dawning on him. As the drinks arrived and he could see whatever Claire wanted was to be put off for half an hour or so he relaxed. Although clearly shy he began to talk animatedly about his interest in cars. Claire tried to steer the conversation round to sex but he didn’t get the hint. Then Paul asked

 

‘Why does a girl like you drive a Zodiac?’

 

‘I love the Fifties’ she said, ‘the styles the fashions, the cars. And the Mark Two Zodiac is perfect for sex. Bench seats front and rear, a big throbbing six pot to get me in the mood. It turns heads. It’s not only men that can use big cars to pull you know.’

 

She looked at Paul who was clearly a little uncomfortable. Claire continued.

‘I will clean and wash and iron. I love being a girl and I will pamper my man. All I ask in return is that my man look after my car and looks after me, that he brings me flower, hugs me when am I sad and, most of all,’ she leaned forward again to continue in a whisper, ‘is always ready to fuck me. I need sex every day, lots of it, and if you don’t want it as much as I do then you’re not the man for me.’

Paul continued to look gormless. He shuffled nervously in his chair as Claire sucked intently on her straw and looked at him.

‘I’m sorry Claire I didn’t realise I…’

Claire ate a last mouthful of burger and said

‘I’ve driven down from Dudley to see you. I haven’t been fucked for four weeks. What are you going to do?’

‘Well I suppose, if you really wanted to…’

‘I do want to’ said Claire fixing him with a stare. ‘Do you want to?’

‘Yes’ said Paul quietly.

‘I’m going to pop to the loo. I’ll text you when the coast’s clear. If anyone sees you and asks what you’re doing, I’m stuck and you’re coming to help me. Alright?’

Paul was shaking as Claire strode off . Paul watched her go, listened to the heels clattering up the metal stairs like a ringing out of hos doom. It seemed like an age but was in fact only thirty seconds before his phone buzzed and shook on the formica topped table. He put it in his pocket and went off to his fate.

As he entered the ladies the door of the first cubicle opened and he was pulled inside. He heard the latch slide in behind him as Claire put her arms round him and pulled his face towards hers and slide her tongue into his mouth.

Paul was unused to sexually assertive woman, or at least to those who didn’t take money off you. As they kissed Claire let her skirt fall around her ankles and took Paul’s hand and guided it to her pussy. Pausing from kissing him she whispered

‘Put a finger inside and feel if I’m wet enough.’

Paul did as he was told. He said

‘You’re quite wet.’

‘I played with myself all the way down the M1 just to be ready. Before I set off I lay on the bonnet and felt the vibration of the engine against me. Six cylinders, six rock hard pistons going in and out. What does that remind you of?’

Paul said nothing.

‘It’s the sexiest car I’ve ever had. I’ve got Ford publicity brochures at home and thee are shots of women in fifties dresses and driving gloves and I bet you’ve seen them too, dreamed of fucking them, I bet you lie in bed with pictures of them and play with yourself. I’m like them, I’m your dream come true. Satisfy me now and you can have me in my Zodiac next time, and I’ll wank you with my leather driving gloves and you can come all over the seat, and I’ll lick it up and……feel me again’

Paul put a finger in.

‘How many fingers?’

Paul tried with two, then three, then four and Claire whispered

‘I’m going to lean over the loo and you can take me from behind. I’m so wet you’ll go straight in. I want it deep and slow’

Claire took a condom out of her handbag and handed it to him.

‘If you’re a good boy I’ll put it on with my tongue next time I see you.’

She let her panties fall on top of her skirt turned away from Paul; and bent over the toilet. She heard him fumble with the condom wrapper then heard him roll it on. So he had used one before. That was a relief. She felt his hands on her buttocks and the fumbling of his penis searching for the right opening.

With a touch of impatience she reached beneath her crotch seized the hardening member and guided into her.

‘In deep and work slowly’ she gasped and let out a sigh as Paul set to work.

‘I’m sorry I’ve slipped out.’

‘Then try again’ hissed Claire.

‘Think about your car, if that turns you on more than me, think about a piston moving in and out of the cylinder, think about McPherson struts, think about any fucking thing but shag me. Give it to me hard.’

As Paul fumbled again she felt tears of frustration running down her cheeks.

‘Please Paul. Please, just fuck me and when I’ve come you can go home. I just need you inside me. Please.’

He moved in again and entered Claire unaided and she gasped with pleasure as she felt at last the piston enter her cylinder and move in and out.

‘What’s the firing order in a Mark Two Zodiac?’ she asked him as he warmed to his task.

‘1 5 3 6 2 4’ Paul answered without thinking.

‘Good boy’ said Claire, ‘now give me the six strokes quick and hard. I want to feel you thump against my buttocks.’

Paul withdrew until his swelling penis was right at the edge of Claire’s labia then thrust back in hard/

‘One’ he shouted. Then he repeated the action, and Claire felt a surge of pleasure coursing through her as he said

‘Five’ and Claire was suddenly far away from the toilets of the Ace Cafe; she was suddenly on Beachy Head on a summer’s day as the wind blew across the grass and she lay, legs apart on the bonnet feeling the engine at her back as a man (Paul?) worked his way in and out, straining every last muscle for her pleasure. She closed her eyes and waited for the orgasm that was waiting to explode.

Then Paul slipped out.

‘What’s happened?’ asked Claire angrily.

‘I’m sorry, I’ve gone soft…………I ……….. I only ever do it with, you know and they have no expectations just as long as I pay and they make no demands, they are kind to me but you…you want it so much.’

He began to cry.

‘I’m sorry I can’t be a real man for you Claire.’

Claire pulled him close, placed his head against her little breasts, kissed him on the top of the head and said

‘It’s alright Paul. You’re a very nice man and I’m sure you’ll find someone just right for you.’

Paul freed himself from her embrace, hoisted up his trousers and left hurriedly, not wanting to see Claire again in this moment of humiliation. Claire waited till he had gone and shouted

‘FUCK’ as loudly as she could. She beat the wall with her fist. Then she looked at the floor.

‘He could have taken the condom with him’ she thought as she picked up the used rubber with distaste, wrapped it in a piece of toilet paper and flushed it down the toilet. She went outside. She needed a cigarette.

It was late when she arrived home. In the bedroom, with the big welcoming double bed that was not getting the use it needed, she took the laminated Ace Cafe menu card and wrote on it in marker pen.

‘PAUL = ZERO. I WANT TO CRY’

She inserted it into her Man Hunt exercise book which she threw angrily against the wall. She shouted again

‘FUCK’ and climbed into bed. She played with her clit and dreamed of sex on the bonnet at Beachy Head before going to sleep.

 

 

 

Me and My Viv

I feel like I have joined a new sisterhood. This is the sisterhood of vintage style. For anyone who has been following me on Twitter and Facebook and seen the pictures I use to give a glimpse of the real me this will not come as a surprise. I love the style of the 1950s love the cars, love the music and so on. Until recently I hadn’t got around to actually wearing vintage clothing or even reproduction vintage clothing. It was just before Christmas that on a trip to London (a girly pre-Christmas shopping day out) that I first walked through the door of Vivien of Holloway, the reproduction vintage clothing shop on the Holloway Road (just a few doors down from where record producer Joe Meek had his flat and studio). I left with a 50s halter neck dress, petticoat and accessories and a somewhat diminished bank balance, although the dress is gorgeous, both to look at and to wear, and worth every penny. I was in a pub soon afterwards in my new dress when a lady came up to me smiled and said

“That’s a Viv isn’t it?”

We chatted about our shared love of vintage and she showed me pics on her phone of the several lovely dresses she owns. This was not the first such encounter and having been to vintage fairs and joined online groups I have found a new shared interest community. It feels good to get into something new.

Not everyone I know is delighted about this. I have heard arguments that my interest is crass nostalgia for a dark and dismal decade. Those who argue this point out that the 1950s were a time when Derek Bentley and Ruth Ellis were sent to the gallows, a time when gay men were viciously persecuted, a time when racial discrimination was acceptable, a time of conservatism and stifling conformity.

This is all true but it is not, I think, the full picture. The 1950s were also a time of mass membership trade unions, a time of full employment, of opportunity and increasing social mobility. They were also the decade that saw the birth of the teenager, the coming of rock and roll, a time of increasing American influence that was not all bad, a time too, when society cautiously opened itself to foreign cultural and gastronomic  influences, for example Italian coffee bars and Indian restaurants. More importantly the 1950s were a time of serious political protest. The mass demonstration against the Suez invasion in 1956 and the Aldermaston marches may serve as examples.

Every era is Janus faced and every era defies easy categorisation. The 1950s were certainly no golden age but were very different from the mythical decade that many UKIP members are said to aspire to return to. Katharine Whitehorn, no reactionary, described the 50s as the best years of her life.

And what of the fashions? Here I have heard the argument that the fashions of the era were emblematic of the return of women to the home, to cooking, cleaning, child rearing and looking good for hubby, in short that to be into vintage is to be nostalgic for an era of subservience and oppression. I have two responses to this. Firstly, I find it is deeply patronising to the women who lived at the time to imply they were passive consumers of fashions created by men, rather than agents with the ability to shape looks and styles. And if even of the first point was true it ignores the fact that contemporary women who adopt vintage styles imbue with their own meanings, adopting them as something empowering. Some men , of course, are interested in vintage but the scene is essentially a feminine one, and most vintage businesses are run by women for women. For many of them vintage is more than a hobby, it is a lifestyle. I am always amazed at the number of young women, some barely into their 20s. I see at vintage events dressed and made up with the most amazing attention to detail. They are saying I am different and not ashamed of it. It did occur to me that there are certain parallels to the kink scene, difference as a lifestyle, and there is also an element of cross over. Last month I had a lovely conversation with a stallholder at the BBB who is getting married this year in a Vivien of Holloway dress. For her vintage and kink are both integral parts of her identity. And just as I find the sex positive women I engage with online clever and strong, so it is with my new vintage sisters.  I accept that being into feminine clothes and make-up is not for all women but for many, it is a fundamental part of the enjoyment of being a woman. And no woman should criticise them for it.

So what to buy on my next visit to the Holloway Road?  That’s a difficult one but in the meantime a friend and I have a plan, to put on our Vivs, hire a Mk 2 Ford Zephyr for the day and have a drive out for lunch at a 50s diner we know. Bring on the sunny weather!