Ontario – Yours to Discover

This is another Canadian themed post I had intended to write for Smutathon but never quite got round to as fatigue took its toll. But I was determined to write t and here it is:

I never really wanted to go to Toronto. I didn’t, believe me. And I never thought I would end up staying.  I had been with Kat 2 years without ever getting to visit her home city. Then we broke up. It wasn’t easy.  She regarded my affair with a man as a double betrayal.  We parted and Kat returned to Toronto. I resigned myself to never seeing her again.

For over a year, I heard nothing from her. Then I got a text message.

“I need you back in my life. All is forgiven. Almost �”

“Are you coming back to London?” I texted back, with a mixture of apprehension and hope.

“No. You are coming to me. Check your e-mail. I have sent your tickets through.”

So I found myself on the Toronto waterfront  at 2 days’ notice, having phoned in sick at work, no hotel booked, just instruction to wait for a message.

It was late afternoon and the sun was already low in the sky, when the message came.

“Tranmere Drive, Mississauga. Take a cab.”

I stepped out of the taxi into a deserted street with industrial buildings. I felt anxious and vulnerable.   I held my phone in my hand, checking for messages, scrolling anxiously, feeling mounting panic.  Why had she made me come here? What was her game? No one knew I was here. Not work, not family, not my London friends. If I died alone here, who would ever know?

I heard footsteps behind me then felt a gloved hand over my mouth a knee in the back forcing me to the ground.  A hessian sack was pulled over my head. My hands were forced behind me and tied roughly with rope. I trembled.

Then I heard Kat’s voice.

“Just throw the fucking slag in the boot!”

They picked me up, overpowering me as I wriggled and kicked, I felt a strap going round my ankles. Soon I was in the boot of the car, trussed and helpless. The lid slammed shut and I was in darkness.

The car drove off. After a couple of bends the car seemed to be picking up speed and moving straight ahead. I guessed that we mist be on a main highway out of town.

I have no idea how long we had been driving for when I was shaken to the side again as the car veered suddenly off the straight road, braked sharply and began jolting down what was evidently a rough track.  After a short while the car turned sharp left again and came to a sudden halt.

The boot lid was opened and I was lifted out and set on my bound feet. The blindfold was taken off. It was already dark. I had no idea what time it was.  Kat came out and spat in my face.

“You like cock? You’re going to get cock baby!”

She pinched my cheeks and smirked.  One of her accomplices came up wit a license plate on a cord and handed it to her. She showed it to me. Underneath the word Ontario and the motto “Yours to Discover” were the words

“Yours to Fuck,”

She hung it round my neck and laughed again. I trembled with fear.

“Kat, what are you going to do to me?”

“Giving what you like best, honey. Which isn’t what I can give you. Is it?”

She turned me round and pushed me in the direction of the edge of the forest.

“Walk. This is Ontario. Yours to discover”

They all laughed.

I shuffled forward, ankles bound.  I fell over a couple of times, stumbling in the undergrowth. Each time I was pulled roughly to my feet, ordered to carry on. We soon reached a fallen tree where I was ordered to kneel in the wet grass.

I was tied to the tree, blindfolded, my ankles bound, my tights round my ankles. I was alone. At least I think I was. Kat and her friends had gone, I knew that but here it was, bound and helpless, in bra and panties, a quick to the side from having my cunt exposed to the world.

After a while, I heard voices in the clearing.

“Hey, look at this.”

I heard footsteps coming near. Three men were standing over me.

“Well she’s not my type, I guess but, hey, it’s a free fuck.”

“What’s your name?”

I screamed.

“Fuck off!” I yelled, hoping someone might hear. But my screams just seemed to echo in the emptiness. I let out a wail of despair.

“Well Miss Fuck Off we are real pleased to meet you. My friend is Kat’s brother and we have heard so much about you, about how you really like being fucked.”

“That’s right, we have been looking forward to it. And hey cos we’re good guys we have eve brought rubbers.”

Then I heard the third voice. I started. It was an English voice, one I thought I recognised. I was a little relieved that these weren’t random strangers.  If they knew Kat, and were here at Kat’s invitation, then Kat herself and her two accomplices could not be far away. I had not been abandoned. Instead I was being used and degraded in an elaborate game. And, maybe, Kay would have me back  once I had done this penance.

Except it wasn’t penance. As I thought about this |I felt myself getting wet, feel my swelling clit brush against my nylon panties. I was going to get a good hard fucking or three but what I needed more than anything at this moment, was a wank. And this, I would surely be denied.

“Can you untie a hand please?”

“And why would I do that honey? So you can play with yourself? My cock not    good enough for you?”

He climbed onto the log, knelt astride me and tugged down my bra and began sucking my nipples. He was rough, I felt a beard against my skin, felt his teeth.  He was doing this top hurt me.

“Stop it, you’re hurting me!”

“Oh really? Kat said you like it rough.”

He started kneading and slapping my breasts with his hands, again I cried out. He carried on then I felt a finger going into my cunt.

“You’re a dirty bitch. You are so fucking wet.”

“Just fuck me, Please!”

And then he was inside me. He pushed in to the full length of his large cock, grabbed me round d the head, pulling on my hair so that I winced with pain again, then with five brutal thrusts, he ejaculated, and cried out with pleasure as he came.

I hadn’t come, I generally don’t come unless I can massage my clit when I am being fucked. But that was the point wasn’t it?  This was to be sex with men for whom my needs counted for nothing, for whom I was an object with a wet, slippery hole. Kat was trying to teach me a lesson.  She has thought this out well up to a point. What she hadn’t taken into account was that I was enjoying the objectification, I was going to get a month’s worth of wank fantasies out this. Oh God, wank. I so needed to wank.  Oh please!

I pulled against the ropes that bound my wrists. But they were tight, really tight, and rubbed and chafed.  I began to sob with frustration.

The man got up, I could make out the sound of trousers being pulled up, the clink of a belt buckle.

“OK Gary. I’m done. The dirty slut’s all yours now.”

“Hi Gary” I said, attempting a weak smile. Could you just play with my clit a little bit? Please?”

“I really haven’t got time for foreplay and all that shit honey. Kat wants you fucked and fucked hard.”

And he did. Six thrusts, six thrusts of premeditated brutality. And he was out.

“We are using rubbers” said Gary, “that was like part of the deal with Kat, But I am just going to squeeze this baby out over your lovely litl;e tghigh.”

I heard him fumbling with the condom, removing it I guessed carefully so as not to spill anything, then I felt a vigorous rubbing of latex against my inner thighs, then the ooze of cold jizz. He worked his way up to the crotch, spreading his emission over both inner thighs up to the first sproutings of pubic hair.

“Be careful. I can get pregnant from this, you know.”

“And? I quite like the idea of a lesbian having my child. Yeah I love that idea. And he rubbed again and I felt the pubic hair matting as he worked his way up to the vaginal opening.

“yeah, that would be real good.”

He laughed and stood up.

“Mike, the little lady wants you to make her a baby”

They both laughed and I began to scream. I had to hand it to Kat. She had probably thought this one up too.  I felt miserable and helpless as Mike got on top of me and pushed his way in. I barely registered what her was doing to me. He grunted a lot, he was , I guessed, a bit more corpulent than the other two, his breath smelt of vinegar I tried turning my head away from him bit he grabbed it and turned it back. I shut my mouth as I felt him kiss me and try to force his tongue   between my lips.

He would not abandon the effort and I thrashed about, pulling against my restraints, retching at the vinegar breath that I could not escape. He held my head in a lock and I began to choke when I heard someone approach. Mike took his hands off my head and I felt him sit up, still astride me.

“Get off her and leave her alone. You have all had your fun. Now just get back in your car and go home.”

It was Kat, cool, authoritative and utterly dominant. The three men didn’t say a word and walked away. I heard a bang of car doors, an engine starting, and they were gone.

I was spent. She took the blindfold off and smiled.

“Had enough cock, haven’t you?”

I nodded. I felt sore and used, my inner thighs sticky with the come of the men who had had me as I lay there helpless.

“Yes, Kat.”

She stood over me and spat in my face.

“Betray me again and this is going to happen again. And again. And again. Until you learn your fucking lesson.”

“Yes Kat.”

“And what have you learnt?”

“That I will be faithful to you, I will sleep with no one but you, that I am a lesbian. I am yours. I love you Kat, I adore you, take me please take me..”

I burst into tears.

It was after dawn by the time we reached East York. We pulled into a diner where Kay handed me a denim boiler suit. And a pair if pumps.

“Put these on. They’re a bit like prison issue aren’t they but I quite like the idea of that. I mean, the dynamics of our relationship have changed haven’t they and we kinda need to reflect that in our clothes from time to time don’t we?”

I was tired. I was hungry. Cream cheese bagels and coffee were just what I needed.  Back in the warmth of the car I feel asleep but when we reached Kat’s house I was conscious of her lifting me out of the car and tenderly carrying me in to my new home.

After a bath I lay in the freshly made bed waiting for my love.  I played back the previous 24 hours in my head, how I had been degraded and used. My hand reached for my clit. I was horny as f**k. Waiting for her, waiting for her,

Out of Body Experiences

This piece was written for Smutathon 2019 on 28th September 2019 and originally posted on smutathon.com . Please visit the site if you haven’t already. There is a lot of fabulous content.

Many years ago, in a student bar, a friend asked a strange question
“Why do you have to transport your body when you want to go anywhere?”
We laughed. I mean, the answer is obvious isn’t it? And yet, the question has remained with me over the years. I imagine it has remained with my friend too. He moved to Seattle shorty after graduating and has had a successful career in Artificial Intelligence research. Simple, naïve questions sometimes turn out to be the most fruitful and I am sure Peter’s habit of coming up with these questions has inspired his research.

For me, as a writer, it has proved to be a fruitful question. It has helped me to think more deeply about my writing and how it has enabled me to travel to places and times I could not otherwise visit, to inhabit other, different bodies (something I touched on in my last post) and to think in different ways about my own body, my own materiality, and that particular bit of spacetime in which the material Eve finds herself.
I had actually planned to be in a different bit of spacetime today as I had originally planned to be at the main event in Montreal. Instead I sit at home in the rainy English Midlands with woe and honey cake, listening to The Cure as I write. Yet I am in Montreal with a bunch of people I love and admire. We may not be physically present to each other but wed are together, we are there for each other today. Some of my posts will be about Canada so I will be travelling and exploring without transporting my body. Just as well as it aces like anything today (I am in training for a half marathon).
How does this relate to sex? After all there is nothing more body centred than sex is there? Even solos sex needs a body. And yet we are able to interact sexually with people who are not physically present to us. There is phone sex, obviously, web camming and so on. There is also writing. I engage with my characters, and some of them are hot in ways that never made it on to the page. This does not mean I fantasise about them as I masturbate. For me, the act of thinking about them, just holding them before me can be sexually charged. I pour sexual energy into my writing. And also into my reading. There is an aspect to reading and writing erotica that I had never considered until I read Enjoy Sex by Meg John Barker and Justin Hancock a couple of years ago. This is that through reading and writing we interact sexually with our writers and readers. When I post a story, I am inviting you, dear reader, to enter my house of eroticism, maybe not the whole house, but a room or two, all with large windows and nice views. And If you like what you read, if it fuels your fantasies, then we have connected sexually. Not with our bodies, but with our minds. I may never know who you are, we may never be in the same bit of spacetime, but the connection is real. I value it. I hope you do too.
Today you have the opportunity to interact with a lot of clever, sexy people here at smutathon.com I hope you enjoy what you read and that you will feel able to make a donation to the cause of abortion rights in the United States that Smutathon2019 is supporting. And pause, too, to reflect on the potential richness of a naïve question.

Desire Lines

I guess most of us have had the experience of meeting people in real life they originally encountered online.  Many of these encounters can be big disappointments. Others can be more unusual. Some can be fantasies…….like this chance meeting with sex writer Anna Sansom.

Anna came to me out of the mist. I was tired and lost, resting on a grassy knoll, and munching what little food I had. Two sheep looked at me pityingly as if they thought I was mad, quite mad, to be so high up in their damp domain. I wondered what madness had possessed me to make me attempt this walk, when I had only ever followed waymarked trails through valleys.

Anna had a bright red waterproof jacket on, a small rucksack and a warm smile. She asked if she could join me on the grassy knoll I nodded agreement and she took off her rucksack and sat down.

“I’m Anna” she said, taking a slab of Kendal Mint Cake out of her rucksack and offering me a piece.

“You look like you could do with some of this. It’s good for giving you instant energy when you’re tired.”

“I don’t know if I am tired, just lost and  in need of some guidance.”

“Well I came to Wales with friends, but I knew I really didn’t want to do the  walks they had planned. I wanted to go my own way and experience some real excitement. But I am stuck up here and they are probably in that pub by the shore of the lake.”

“Maybe” aid Anna “but let’s walk together a little way and I will show you some of the things that they are missing out on. I think the mist is starting to lift  and there will be some great views across towards  Snowdon.”

“Do you do a lot of mountain walking?” I asked her.

“Well yes. I don’t think I have ever been one for the beaten track.”

“And do you always walk on your own?”

“Not always. Sometimes I walk with friends, sometimes with my partner and then, like today. I feel the need to head off on my own.”

I thought about this,

“Do you think I am odd, just setting off on my own like this.?”

“Not at all” said Anna, “You’re taking a risk by doing this, but you need to follow yoir won paths sometimes. We all do. And no you are not odd. And please don’t let anyone tell you that you are.”

“I need to be me don’t I?”

“You do. Remember, too, that you are good enough, you don’t need the approval of others to validate your life choices.”

Anna stood up.

“I didn’t catch your name.”

“Eve” I replied.

“Well it s  been lovely to meet you Eve…”

“It has”

“Maybe we should walk on a bit together? I guess we are going the same way, at least for a bit.”

So we walked and talked and as we talked about our lives, the life choices we all have to make, and the mist began to lift, the sun, pale yellow, began to break through the cloud and there below us, was the lake, the old road with cars snaking along it. And I could see a beauty in these mountains than I could only have guessed at from the perspective of the low level paths.

“There is one thing” I said “I am not sure how to put it”

“Go on” said Anna smiling,

“I have fallen in love.”

“That’s fabulous.”

“With a woman. I have never been into girls before  and this is…..”

“New> Exciting ? A bit like mountain walking?”

“Yes”

“it’s a new path for you isn’t it, a walk off the beaten track. You know I call it.? These are your desire lines, these  paths you take. And like mountain paths they bring both risks and rewards. But you need to follow them to be the real you.”

We had reached a point where a stony track on the left  dropped away off the ridge,

“Well Eve I do have to leave you a point. My partner will be expecting me back. But carry straight on and  you will come to the summit cairn. The mist should have lifted by the time you get there,”

“Thank you Anna.”

We looked at each other  for a second and then Anna took a  step forward and hugged me.

“I wish you all the very best Eve.. I hoe your desire lines take you where you want to go.  “

Then she turned and walked off,  disappearing over the side of the ridge along the stony track down to the lake, She did not look back, I paused a moment and turned right along the path along the ridge that rose gently to the summit cairn., from which the mist was now lifting.  I felt, peace, tranquility and, yes, joy.

POSTSCRIPT

Did I meet Anna again?  Well, actually I have never met Anna, although we were once in the same room in a Bristol bar without actually meeting (how did that happen?) However I am sure that we are going to meet in real life one day and I really think we will get on. For Anna is one of my oldest online friends  We have been engaging online and sharing for nearly seven years now, and sharing and Anna has always found time to offer her advice and suggestions when I have contacted her.

This little story is an allegory of my relationship with Anna as writer and reader. Anna’s new book, Desire Lines is published in September and while I can’t promise you it will help you navigate your way through the mists on Welsh mountains, it will give you much food for thought and encouragement as you map and follow your own desire lines.

Smut Marathon – The Story So Far:

Round One has come and gone. We smutty marathoners have just received our second assignment. And one again I don’t know what to write! I am sure something will come to me but, for now,  I am struggling.

This is no, of course, a bad thing. Block and mental blanks are all part of what we have to do through as writers. It happened in Round One too. This seemed a simple assignment, to describe in 30 to 50 words, the moment when two protagonists meet.

Now I am one of those people who likes to manage workloads by compiling task lists only to then get stressed and anxious by the length of the list and all the things that are waiting for me to do them. I am easily overwhelmed. So when I saw that we only had to write up to 50 words I felt a sense of relief. Then I realised how difficult that was actually going to be. In a longer piece you can billed on that opening paragraph, so it doesn’t matter if you don’t quite get it right.  But when you stand or fall on the basis of those 50 words, it is another matter altogether.  My mind went blank again,. Then I scribbled something down and shut the laptop. I intended to edit and revise it but, somehow, couldn’t bring my self to do it.

On the final, evening I pressed send and muttered a prayer. This was my finest writing moment, I know, but I live to fight another day, like the Strictly contestant who survives the dance off and lives in hope she will get Craig Revill-Horwood to say something nice the following week .

Of Smutathon and Prosecco

I am now at home with prosecco and not feeling the drop. I had a fun weekend and if 12 hours writing seemed daunting I did get 8 posts written and my idea, to do a series of short stories each with the title of the Small Faces album Ogdens Nut Gone Flake turned out to be a source of inspiration. I still have seven to write but am brimming with ideas. And why not? This is an awesome album. And since you ask one of the stories will be in Unwinesque gobbledygook.

For these events are for me about much more than raising money although that is really important. In two years we have supported  the campaign against internet censorship and the demonisation of kink that goes with it, rape crisis and ow abortion rights. Remember that there are parts of the British Isles, such as Northern Ireland  and the Isle of Man where women do not have legal access to abortion without having to travel to  Great Britain. We have raised nearly 3,000 pounds in two Smutathons to day. And a thitd will happen next year.

Besides this Smutathon is about building friendships with fellow bloggers and having fun. We drank gin and prosecco, we luxuriated in the hot tub, we ate cake and pizza and croissants and strawberry shoelaces and a host of other gourmet delights. And I danced on the lawn on the rain in my nightie. And we had a host of weird, interestg and inforamtive conversations.

So I am now going to open the prosecco and raise my glass to you all, to Amy who organised it all, to the two Hannahs, to Jayne who flew over from Canada just to be with us, to Livvy, to Olly and Chris.

Cheers guys and here’s to next time.

And, dear reader, if you haven’t donated yet you can do so here 

It’s Therapy But Is It Art?

I have a friend who has recently started reading erotica. This began out of curiosity specifically that she wanted to read my published work, But she read the other stories in the books I lent her, enjoyed those and asked me to lend her some more books. I went for a coffee with her recently to talk about her experiences. Anna is in her early 30s, she identifies as straight and vanilla, and on her own admission had never thought much about her sexuality and the ways in which she lived it.  Bur she had fund much to enjoy in the erotica she had read. She had gained insights into her own life, and understanding of herself as a sexual being, even from stories about gay sex or even BDSM that were far removed from her own experience.

As the conversation continued Anna opened up more and confided that she had had some bad experiences sexually and that she had issues with low self esteem specifically related to sex. And reading smut had helped to come to terms with this, to see that really there is nothing wrong with her.  In short, reading smut had been therapeutic.

Some years ago I did some work with  a Community Interest Company that was commissioned bt local Mental Health trusts to run reading therapy sessions often with people who had had limited educational opportunities and presumably found   reading literary fiction daunting. But it was fascinating to sit in on a session and see how the act of reading helped the self esteem of these people and also served as a medium for self understanding as they brought their own life experiences to bear on the text, commenting with insight on the issues raised.

It is a commonplace that there is no right or wrong way to read a text, everyone brings something different to that text. This is true of literary fiction. It is also true of erotica. In fact I would go further and say that the distinction between literary fiction and niche fiction, be it erotica, crime fiction or whatever. Good writing can open doors, whatever the subject matter I am grateful to Anna for providing evidence of that.

 

 

Looking Forward to Smutathon 2018

It seems hard to believe that there was once a time when I didn’t know Amy who blogs as Coffee and Kink.  I met her at Eroticon in March 2017 which she was attending as a nervous newbie.  Just like other newbies over the years (me in 2014 as well) she took to it like a duck to water and found her place in our weird and wonderful blogging community. Amy it was who, just over a year ago, came up with the idea of a 12 hour smut writing marathon to raise money for worthy causes. Last year it was Rape Crisis UK and Backlash, for whom we raised £2,000.

Last year I rocked up at the South London home of EA Unadorned and The Other Livvy, overdressed on a hot day, frazzled after a difficult journey and, to  be honest, unprepared. Well I had baked a cake (a disaster destined never to be eaten) and bought loads of booze to make cocktails but I hadn’t really given too much thought to what I was going to write and post.  My contribution was a little bit off the cuff although the conversation did inspire one piece, after Amy outed me on Twitter as a serial haver of sex in Skodas in public places. I am sure you will agree that car sex was well worth writing about. By the evening, however, I had a splitting headache and was running out of steam long before the midnight closer of the blogging marathon.

Nonetheless we had fun, and lots of stimulating conversation. And there were some surreal moments. We sat out in the garden for an hour or so in the evening and had a barbecue. Just 100 yards in a red brick church the Saturday evening service was long and loud. As we talked about well, the sort of things we talk about and ate grilled halloumi and sausage,  the air was filled with songs of the salvation we might possibly be missing out on.

This year 8 of us are heading up to the North West where we have a house for the weekend and, oh joy of joys, an outdoor hot tub.  I am going to bake a cake (properly) and Nadiya’s (she of Bake Off fame) yummy orange blossom and polenta cake may well feature. Most importantly I have a plan for my writing and it is, as you might imagine, a cunning one. I can now reveal it exclusively.

The 24thMay 1968 was a significant day and not just because students in Paris were on the verge of bringing De Gaulle down. Back in London The Small Faces, one of the most innovative and original of all English bands of the 60s, released their masterpiece and, I guess, swansong, Ogden’s’ Nut Gone Flake, featuring on Side Two the tale of Happiness Stan, the songs interwoven with gobbledegook by Professor Stanley Unwin.  Sadly the album proved totally unsuited to live performance and by the end of the year the band had split. Three of them carried on, with the addition of Ronnie Wood, as The Faces and, as many if you will know, had a fruitful collaboration with Rod Stewart in the early 70s.

Only one of The Small Faces, drummer Kenny Jones, is still alive.  Keyboardist Ian McLagan died a couple of years ago while it is over 20 years since the very premature deaths of Ronnie Lane, after a long battle with MS, and Steve Marriott who died in a fire at his home. But the bands, who are commemorated with a blue plaque on Carnaby Street, deserve to be remembered. They were hugely influential and their legacy will last. And anyone who says they were just a Cockney imitation of The Beatles can never be a friend of mine.

My plan is simple: 10 pieces of short fiction, each named after a track on the album. And who knows? May be there will be some gobbledegook in there too. I can’t wait to get started.

As you can imagine I am looking forward to the Smutathon weekend.  Raising money is the main object I suppose but Smutathon had been positive in other ways. It has helped to bring the blogging community together. We are no longer people who just see each other once a year at Eroticon.  We can, and do, meet up during the year as and when time and other commitments allow, to exchange, support each other in this baffling, baffled world where sex is everywhere yet, in the most important senses, nowhere and where we are misunderstood and stigmatised. And we enjoy each other’s company, drink together, share cigarettes, and, sorry, bore on about Brexit, or is that just me?  In short we are a group of friends. Long may that remain so.

Sharing our Shit

Considering that a large majority of adult human beings engage in sexual activity at various times and that many of them, possibly more than is generally realised, enjoy what might be termed alternative sexual activity, the prudery of many large internet companies may seem surprising.  I guess we can’t expect any different from politicians on moral crusades but now Patreon have joined the ranks of the digital Dr. Bowdlers and their target is a community of which I am a small part.

This blog is a pretty low-key operation. I work full time, have a long commute  and consequently don’t have a great deal of time to update it.  A number of my blogging friends devote a lot more time to their blogs, have many many more hits and are able to make part of their living, for example by selling advertising.  They will not, however, become rich from this. Any freelance writing (I have dome this and retain my NUJ membership so I know at first hand) is a precarious existence. So, in order to get a more regular income and so o be able to keep blogging, some of them are sponsored via the website patreon.com  And in the spirit of quid pro quo they may offer sponsors extras, a kinky video,  say, or a hot story, that are not made available to other visitors. But now, Patreon have changed their terms and conditions and are forbidding users from rewarding sponsors with free pornographic content. This will cut off an important income steam for bloggers and threaten the ability of bloggers to keep blogging.

The call has gone out for us to share our shit and promote each other. I am not going to do this. There are lots of Twitter posts under the hashtag #shareourshit where you can find a load of awesome blogs which I can recommend.  Instead I am going to talk about why sex blogging is important and why it deserves your support.

My friend Violet Fenn recently wrote a piece for The Metro about the joys of pegging. The comments from readers were quite an eye opener. One man seemed to think that there were “gay” and “straight” orgasms, and that pegging might tum you gay (it doesn’t…trust me). Others could not hide their disgust and seemed to find it hard to accept that other people may have sexual tastes that you don’t, but that it is cool. Live and live or as they say on the BDSM scene YKIMKBYKIOK . It is quite apparent to me that ignorance and prejudice are rife. Sex blogs can be, and I use the word with caution, educational.

This links in to my main point. In a  world where there is still stigma and prejudice, sex blogs can be a window into the world of those who are different and nor ashamed, as I am not. We deconstruct the normal,   share experiences, promote in our different ways safe play, safe sex, care about sexual health and the all important issue of consent. If you are confused, lonely, ashamed of your feelings, fetishes, whatever, reading good blogs can be a path to self-knowledge and self acceptance.

This doesn’t only apply to the readers, of course. My writing has had a major impact on my life, and helped me to understand my own sexuality, accept and embrace my gender identity. Oh and it’s enabled me to meet some totally awesome people to drink cider and smoke cigarettes with…….but that is another story.

 

 

 

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

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

What’s In A Name?

I’ll start with a disclaimer. This is not a finished piece of analysis but rather a few things that have come into my head, a sort of thinking aloud if you like. I am very interested to hear other people’s thoughts.

It happened a while ago that a blogger and sex worker who had separate blogging and working names that she was clearly determined to keep separate. decided to advertise her new working website and working name via Twitter. I had briefly wondered what her working name might be although not curious enough to actually do anything about finding out. Seeing it on the new site started me thinking about the whole issue of pseudonyms.

Why have a pseudonym? If you’re involved in sex you need to because our so-called liberated society still has a problem with people with those who have alternative sexual preferences or who engage in commercial sex whether as providers or as clients. This even applies to people who write about sex. I write erotica and make a small amount of money doing so. However I make my living writing about serious, dull if you like, matters like accountancy and have to accept that, if it was known that I write, and enjoy writing, about sex, I would not be taken seriously as a writer on financial matters. So I adopted the name Eve Ray, simply because it is short and snappy, (my real name isn’t!) and because the name Eve has a certain resonance (the fallenness of man and so on). Using a pseudonym enables me to write freely about my own life and to write about the sex work debate, including recounting my own experiences of paying for sex. I could never tell those whom I deal with professionally about any of this.

I suppose for sex workers there are two further aspects. They are actors and the name is part of the fantasy and illusion they are trying to create. The client sees, and I’m picking names at random here, Daniela and not Tracey. Daniela is a femme fatale in a tight leopard print dress and blood red lingerie, skilled in the erotic arts, the predator no man can resist. Tracey normally wears jeans and a tee-shirt, she has two small children she leaves with her mum when she goes to work and has a huge pile of washing to do when she gets home. Sex work is theatre. And many actors have stage names don’t they? I suppose the other reason is psychological. It enables the sex worker to take off their sex work identity when they get home, like taking off a coat, to draw clear boundaries around their private life. If sex work was socially acceptable and men could go to a massage parlour as openly as they might go to the gym would sex workers use their own names?

I suppose for a dominatrix the choice of name is even more crucial. I’ve never come across a Mistress Daisy but a Mistress DeVille might have a potential sub shaking even as he plucks up the courage to dial her number.

I wonder too whether pseudonyms help to create an aura of mystery and allure. The client surely wonders sometimes about the real identity of the person he or she is seeing, knows there is another life from which he or she is excluded, a world about which the client might be afforded a tantalising glimpse in the context of post-coital putting the world to rights. Maybe this is a turn on for some people.

As for me I just wish I could be Eve more often. She is funny, I am told, she loves sex and, most important she is much the nicest part of me.