A Brief Note On Underthings

So, I’ve decided I need a bra.

Actually, scratch that. I need several of them. The only bra I have is the one I’m wearing, and there’s a hole in it. Also, it’s a bit… well, not red any more.

Anyway. This morning, I had some time to kill in town, so I hovered into La Senza, thinking that they might have a good bra or two at a decent price. I hovered in with the same naive optimism that one hovers into a Topshop with, thinking that somehow (magically) everything will fit and be cheap and people will be nice and the atmosphere will be one of shopping joy.

Like bollocks it is.

Shopping for any kind of clothing still fills me with dread (albeit for different, more cash-related reasons these days) but to me there is nothing more dreadful about clothes than shopping for underwear. And when I saw all the different types of knickers available at this store, I wanted to give up, go home and walk about with no clothes on. Or commando, at least.

Bikini. Brazilian. G-string. Hipster. No-show. Thongs. Boy shorts. Oh my God, I just want pants! I just want a nice pair of pants that won’t ride up my arse! And for that matter, I’d like a nice bra as well. I don’t give a toss whether it’s a balconette, lightly lined or multi-way.

I didn’t end up with a bra. What I did end up with was the sense that I could have been worrying about more important things today.

Periodical

I’ve written about my period before. In fact, I’ve gone into the subject at great length for a guest post on Vagina Antics, which you can read here. But, just for your amusement, I’m going to write about it again and tell you about some embarrassing shit that has happened while Flo’s been on my sofa.

When you first get your period, you have no idea what’s coming. If you’re like me and your sex education was kept to a minimum as a youngin’, you are even less aware of the onslaught that periods have on a young body. The first time I got my period, I cried for an hour straight. I wasn’t at home, and the only thing that people could tell me about this was that I was indeed “becoming a woman”.

Which, really no help at all.

I remember that night, I was watching Big Brother, and the pedagogue on duty (you join the scene at the care home I was in, by the way) chose exactly that moment to come and educate me on the wonders of a period. “So, Jillian, do you know how a period works?”

Of course, I resisted every temptation to say “Of course I do. You put it at the end of a sentence.”

But that was before I knew the wonders of a full stop.

Anyway.

Then, there was that time…. oh God, I dread to think about it. I had a very heavy flow which didn’t correct itself until years later. And way back then, I had no idea when I needed to switch pads. So, I had accidents. All over the fucking place. I spent some time in observation (not for that, obviously), and stained a chair. Said chair was declared “my bloody” throne by the other kids in the group. Keep in mind that I was an insecure eleven year old surrounded by kids who had come from broken homes, had suffered rape and physical abuse and started smoking when they were barely out of nursery. I did not need any poking of fun of something I had no knowledge about.

Sometime later, I was in the bathroom at school, during lunch break. One thing I absolutely dread is when pads fall into the loo by accident. Of course, exactly that happened. I ended up fishing the thing out of the loo and spending the rest of the day frantically cleaning up after myself, using my furry pen holder (it was a Monsters Inc. one in the shape of Sully) to erase stains. It was not a good day for Sully.

The earlier years of my period were absolutely horrendous. I am still enormously embarrassed by leaving stains, not changing pads in time and all the palaver that comes with me being too stupid not to invest in a Mooncup as of yet.

But I am praising myself lucky that Himself is not grossed out by it. Nor is he grossed out by the mood swings and crying that come with the massive hormonal swings.

Bless his little boots.

xoxo

Betrayal of Cool

I`ve mentioned making a list full of awesome things that I want to do over the next few months. It really is a cool list, and I may actually post it somewhere if I find the time.

Yesterday was a good day, so I saw no reason not to try accomplishing one of the things on the list. This particular thing brought me to the Rock/Pop section of my local HMV.

I was looking for the letter S, and if there is one thing that always happens in situations like this, it`s suddenly forgetting the entire alphabet. It`s nice though, to discover other music. There are new editions of Pulp and Adam and the Ants out. Tyler from The Voice used to be famous. Jedward are a thing.

Soon, I found myself reciting the entire alphabet in silence, just to find the S, because I`m just that much of a nobbin. But I needn`t have feared, for the S was in sight, and so was my chosen CD.

Steps: The Ultimate Collection.

Yes, you heard that right. The awesome thing I set out to do was retrieving a bit of the incredible naivety I had back in the late nineties, when Steps were a thing. I grabbed hold of the CD and nearly cuddled it. That`s how excited I was. That is also how sad I am.

Inches away from luminaries such as The Smiths, I hugged a Steps CD. I felt like I had betrayed cool.

I didn`t end up buying it though. Partly because I`m low on funds this week. Partly because I really, really want to save up for the Best of: Tour Edition.

Isn`t that one of the great pleasures in life? Revisiting moments where you were really happy and nothing in the world could stop you? I mean, it might be a bit silly to buy that CD, but it means something to me. More than you think. I need that silliness in my day.

Not that I`m not doing well. I`m doing very well, actually, but I just need silly. Lots and lots of silly.

Silly is good.

One Of Those Ones

Get up.

Feel on top of the world.

You’ve slept very good last night, and are feeling fit as a fiddle and ready for work.

In fact, you are SO ready, that you even manage a little dance down the stairs. (This may not have actually happened.)

But then you boot up your laptop.

And you feel that zest for life ebbing away, as the only thing you find yourself capable of doing is staring at pictures of kittens dressed as scientists on Tumblr.

And maybe mildly soliciting Wil Wheaton on Twitter.

You feel like you aren’t capable of doing anything, really. Not in the least planning a move to another country.

Or explaining said move to a few relatives, who are suddenly there, on your couch.

Because they might not see you for a long, long time to come.

And they decide to tell you that you look good. And that your mum, in comparison, looks like shite.

They don’t stick around for long, thankfully.

But this is how this day works.

And you find yourself wishing you were in your bed, cuddled up with someone sexy, watching something sexy.

But no.

You must persevere. Because this day is happening, and you don’t get a “Get Out Of This Day For Free” card.

So you find yourself drowning in a sea of books. Seeking a comfort in the fact that Danny Wallace (who, for no reason whatsoever, you have appointed to be your spirit guide) is having awkward moments too.

And the hours tick away, into the next day.

Another day closer to leaving the nest.

Yep.

One of those days.

Sad Toast

You know those mornings when you get up full of pep, and you’ll think “Oooh, I’ll get stuff done today”, and the world is your smorgasbord and all that? And then when the day progresses, you start feeling more and more shit, until you end up curled in a ball crying that you want your mum?

Unbelievably, this all happened today.

I got up at EIGHT AM this morning, for some unknown reason. Apparently my body (traitor) had managed to convince my mind that it was well-rested and up for a new day.

Don’t get me wrong. I managed to get shit done today. But as the day passed, I started feeling like a rag doll. Period cramps (yes, that), emotional overload, all of that nasty stuff.

And I cried, because I’m moving home in two weeks and leaving my mummah, and I don’t know what to do and I’m panicking.

Also, I am DREADING two more weeks of a virtual onslaught of “So, how was London?”/”You’re leaving home?”/”But whaddabout your mammah?” questions.

The answer to these pressing questions would be: Good, Yes and She’ll be Fine.

I’m trying to come up with a list of reasons why I should actually be very happy to leave home. So far I came up with the following:

  • I never have to go to my grumpy hairdresser again.
  • As far as I know, there are no pervy septuagenarians living in my building.
  • The flat is quiet enough for me to do writing in.
  • Hate on it if you must, but Essex does have a more… colorful nightlife than this hole.

I am sure that this list will be expanded on in the weeks to come.

In the meantime, I’m trying to keep myself busy. I’m laying down the bones for The Project, which is going well. And I’m also trying to compose the zombie smut thing I may have mentioned. I’m overhauling it so that it’s much bleaker. Also, for some reason it involves the Dominion on Tottenham Court Road. Choice hang-out of the undead, people! (but only in my twisted brain)

(side note: I did actually like We Will Rock You, and the Dominion is gorgeous. Just to prove that I mean no harm.)

I keep having these depressed moments where I completely panic. You know those moments, right? The ones that hit you up when you never expect it.

Earlier on, I was sitting in the ante-room (oooer, such a fancy word) at my physical therapist’s place, and I just started freaking out. I’ll never be loved and romanced and adored in the way I want. I want passion and giggles and snuggles and snogs. And I’ll never get it!

Of course, I will get it. But that’s totally where my head was a few hours ago.

Side note: naps help.

A Random?

Yes.

YAYAYAYAYAA

 

The Place in My Head

I mentioned in my last post that if I closed my eyes, I can see IO and see what could happen between us. 

It’s something that terrifies me. I know that I might be seeing him when I’m in London, and I know that the chances of anything at all happening sexually are slim to none. But whenever I let my mind drift to that place in my head where anything goes, it’s both scary and intensely arousing.

I confided in Harper (whose post on surviving drop alone is a must-read) about hitting that drop, and we got to talking about virginity. She pointed out that losing your virginity is better with a friend.

I’ve been thinking much the same thing. I’d rather take those first steps into sex with someone I know and trust than with some random. 

The thought of making love with IO (yes, I said “making love”, so go and fucking sue me.) is one that… I don’t know. Arouses me. Terrifies me. Makes me yearn for something that I can’t quite put my finger on.

But I keep thinking that this isn’t about IO. That it’s just about sex, with anyone.

And then my mind reverts back to Jason. How I get excited every time I see his name pop up in my inbox. How I remember kissing him in the starlight outside the tube station near my hostel. And I think about just how much I want to see him again. How I want to get to know him.

Jesus Christy, men confuse me sometimes. I can’t really figure out what I want anymore. There are some men in my life that I have come to absolutely adore and that I find so easy to be around. Men that I think I can fall in love with.

And I’m not really sure if I’m ready for that and all that it brings.

 

xJillian

Under My Skin

I’ve potentially done something very stupid.

It started when my cleaning lady and I were sorting books. I was going to take them to a second hand buyer, to see if I could scramble up some cash (spoiler: I did, and we now have actual food in the house because of it! Huzzah!).

While clearing one particular bag, I found my DVD of the first series of Dexter. To this day, I still can’t quite figure out why I bought that DVD. I think it was a moment of sheer cockiness. I mean, I can sit through a televised gastric bypass op without blinking. Surely this is a piece of piss?

I should probably mention that until yesterday, I hadn’t even removed the plastic from the box. So much for bravura. 

Somewhere yesterday, between reading a huge chunk of “Join Me” and dinner, I bit through the bullet. With slight trepidation, I loaded up the DVD.

I am torn. On the one hand, it’s a fucking good show. And on the other hand, I will never get the image of Michael C. Hall garotting a choir master in the first scene out of my head for the rest of my days on Earth.

Here’s a little Boyd-tidbit you may not know. I am enormously interested in the human psyche. If it wasn’t for the potential emotional strain it would put on my life, I would have become a psychiatrist. I want to know why people do things. What motivates a person to walk through his or her life in a certain way?

And in that way, Dexter is a fascinating show to watch. Part of me is willing to sit it through just to figure out what drove Dexter to his one man vigilante against the scum of Miami. But the part of me that values the little sleep she gets really wants to not watch it anymore, just because Michael C. Hall plays Dexter so convincingly that he scares the living shit out of me. 

It’s scary when something gets under your skin like that. It’s even scarier when someONE gets under your skin. When, without even realizing it, this person makes you scared and excited and haves you fascinated in a way you can’t quite understand. You are affected by this person in a way that you’ve never been affected by anyone before. 

Just a thought I had.

In the end, my fears for a repeat of the 2004 Freddie/Jason tag team dream debacle did not come true. Mainly because I stayed up till six in the morning unloading to my mum about everything I was feeling. After that, it was pretty easy to fall asleep and not dream about finding the chopped up body of a prostitute in my swimming pool. 

(author’s note: my hypothetical, non-existent swimming pool. In my imagination, it’s actually filled with cash. Or jello. Whichever one tickles my fancy. In this dream, I’m also an eccentric billionaire, by the way. One who cackles evilly, and has monkey butlers keeping her supplied with many many macarons. I also own the lost episodes of Doctor Who, and am married to Prince William, who likes giving in to my whimsical personality. Plus, he’s banging in bed. Either that, or I’m married to Will. I. Am, who sees through my tactics and provides me with tic-tacs “cos I’m fresh.” 

I’ll get me coat.) 

Shades of Annoyance

Consider this me jumping on the bandwagon.

After Dara O’ Briain had finished pontificating on tonight’s The Apprentice, I was tempted to call it a night. And I would have, were it not for something interesting catching my eye. Apart from a lengthy interview with His Holiness The Dalai Lama, Newsnight apparently deemed it necessary to interview author EL James. 

You may have heard of this woman. She is the brains behind the 50 Shades Trilogy, the runaway hit in the book charts. Now, 50 Shades has caused consternation and uproar with people everywhere, for basically being “literary soft porn” aimed at women. Its display of BDSM and explicit sex is a hit with women everywhere.

And tonight, EL James was going to make her UK television debut.

Naturally, this piqued my interest. I am the author of a few erotic short stories, I write a sex blog, so why would I not watch this?

My timeline was also keen on hearing what she had to say. My timeline consists mainly of erotica authors and sex bloggers of many walks of life,including people in a D/s relationship. So, they were watching, eagle-eyed and eager-eared.

Oh, you want to know my opinion?

I am appalled. Genuinely appalled by the entire interview.

To start off, the attitude of the interviewer left a lot to be desired. I cringed, as he dredged up the cliché of porn being violent and degrading. I cringed even more as he started reading out some of the finer details of the contract between main characters Christian and Anastasia. Fisting, my good man, is not (I repeat: NOT) the sexual equivalent of burning a child. Yet, he spoke of it as if it was the most vile thing in the entire universe. Honestly, I have never heard anyone speak the words “anal sex” with so much contempt in his voice.

Then, he said that this book was speaking the language of women. What, English? Seriously, us “womenfolk” don’t exist on an entirely different plain of being. We speak the same language as you, interviewer. Except we are not biased and sexist, like you, you big dunderhead. 

EL James herself was not much better. When asked to explain what the acronym BDSM stood for, she could not even give the right words. This is a woman who has successfully flogged three books about a BDSM relationship. Who sold the film rights to said books. And even she has no fucking clue what she’s on about.

She also states that she was “inspired by Twilight”. Which is a completely blatant lie, as she was not inspired by Twilight, but by a Twilight fanfic called “Master of the Universe”. I have actually read this fic. It is the exact same premise as the first book, but with Bella and Edward as the main characters. And yes, it’s one of the most awful things I’ve read in my life.

And I’ve read all 42 chapters of “My Immortal” for fuck’s sake.

I spent most of last night on Tumblr, going through the archives of the aptly named “50 Shades of Suck”. It contains choice quotes from the trilogy, and has fueled my anger even more.

(Possible spoilers)

A quote from book three caught my eye. In this scene, Christian flogs Ana’s stomach. Ana’s PREGNANT stomach. Now, already knowing her answer, I asked my friend Cara, who is both a Domme and currently expecting, what she thought about this. Horrified doesn’t cover it. This proves that EL has no idea what she’s talking about, because this is neither safe, nor sensible. I should point out that EL noted during her interview that these characters practice safe and sensible kink. Yes, this happened.

Not noting the abysmal grammar (what the bloody hell does “Fair point, well made” even mean?) and the overtly detailed description of everything the characters are wearing, this also offended me as a sexual human being.

Like Ana, I am a virgin. I am only one year younger than her. But unlike her, I’ve actually masturbated. More than once. Fuck, more than I can even count! I’ve also kissed boys and girls, although my first kiss did come at 20. I’ve got several vibrators, I’ve had both fingers and a plug up my arsehole, and I’ve cammed several times. Okay, granted, it’s a lot. But Ana has no experience with any of this whatsoever. Her amazement at Christian’s idea of putting a finger up her arse (“A finger? Up there?”) is enough to drive me insane. She actually states that no-one has ever held her hand. I don’t know about you, but I spent most of my childhood holding hands with my parents. I’ve held hands and linked arms with plenty of people.

Adding to the list of what EL James doesn’t seem to understand: normal social behavior.

This can not be good for the BDSM community. They are being portrayed as violent freaks. Have you talked to any kinkster? I think you’ll find that they are normal people. They consent to what they do, they negotiate limits and they choose to be in a BDSM relationship. They are not “weak willed”. Trust me. I know Molly Moore (her take on this controversy can be found here.) She is not “weak willed”. She is one of the strongest women I have ever met in my life. She chooses to be submissive because she (shock, horror) likes it. She likes to not be in charge and she likes to surrender to her Dom.

Is this so hard to believe?

BDSM is being treated as just a silly fantasy of the “independent career woman”. They are apparently, in essence, “weak and willing to be dominated by a big bad man”. People are wondering why women are reading about this. Why are we attracted to a novel about BDSM? Why do independent career women still secretly crave to be dominated?

BDSM is not “just a silly fantasy”. BDSM is a common practice. But, surprisingly, none of the people in the lifestyle are asked for their opinion. Instead, we listen to housewives and soccer moms, because they are apparently more of an expert on this subject than the people actually practicing BDSM.

I am appalled as a sexual human being, a virgin (who blogs about sex) and an erotica author. I truly wish that people would start reading erotica from people who write it for a living. Seriously, I would give an actual limb to have any book or any anthology I’m associated with to go to number one in the charts.

It’s not about the book anymore. I don’t give a toss whether people think it’s good. For me, it’s about being an author of erotica and having to watch this happen.

I am in awe of my friend Elenya Lewis, for actually managing to read this book without wanting to give up on both her craft and BDSM as a whole. Her take can be found here and here. El, if you’re reading this, you are truly one of the brave for reading this.

I’m not saying sorry for the angry nature of this post. This is how I feel, and you can take or leave it however you like.

I’m going to listen to some smooth jazz, to keep me from hyperventilating.

Boyd, out.

 

 

 

 

 

 

Wank Memory Loss

I’ve decided that the ideal way to finish one week and start of the next is by wanking. Think about it! It’s like a little comfort if you’ve had a shitty week, and a little cherry on top of a good week. 

So, as you might have figured out, I wanked last night. Now, here’s where the story of what happened should go. What I did, which toy I used and which particular fantasy I got off on. Sounds like a good plan, right?

Only thing is… I can’t quite remember.

Yes, I have completely forgotten all the details of yesterday’s wank. The only thing I can vaguely remember is using Grey and going to sleep soon after. Between actually initiating the wank and the orgasm, I remember bog-all.

It’s something that has happened quite a lot with me. I’ve dubbed it “wank memory loss”, because the thing needs to have a name, right? I don’t know when it started, or how it started. Or even what this means. I’m just always hazy on the details afterwards.

Is this a sign? Should I pay more attention to what goes on with me when I’m in the throes? Or should I just ease up and let everything happen?

I have this other weird thing that occurs quite often. Whenever something of note happens, I tend to start composing a blog post in my head. It’s really annoying. Even when I’m wanking, I start mentally writing it up! It never stops, this blogging lark. I’m willing to bet that I do it in my sleep, unconsciously.

This may be a sign that I do obsess about this blog. But why shouldn’t I? It’s given me so much in return, and the least I can do is some decent upkeep of it.

I don’t know where my dodgy wank brain comes from. If it’s because all my orgasms are actually shite, I might as well just check out now and become a nun. I’m so fucking focused on getting the most out of every orgasm, just because I treat it as a learning experience. I’m still discovering what I like and loathe. It’s all a sexual journey to me, and I’m not even close to my destination, whatever that may be.

Last night’s orgasm was a good one, I’ll grant you that. But I’m irked by the fact that I don’t remember how it felt, or how it made me feel. Good, I guess, but that doesn’t seem enough. I want as much out of my orgasms as I want out of life. And believe me, that’s a LOT.

Sex is a journey. Whether you’re eighteen or eighty, there’s a lot to discover, and a lot to do. I’m twenty-one now. And I hope I learn more as the weeks, months and years go by.

Random to end on? Yessir…

Timey-Wimey Detector. I want one.

The Amazing Swinging Bisexual Tantra Machine

I’ve been thinking a lot about where I want my sex life to go off to. Things I want to try out, things I’d rather avoid, and of course, the all-consuming question of what exactly I’m looking for in a partner.

I should start this post by means of a confession. You see, dear reader, I’ve done something naughty. With some support from my Swingset-mate Cooper, I’ve tentatively registered on a website for swingers and sexually adventurous people. I don’t really know why I did it. Maybe it was a reaction against the overwhelming ache that I felt. That ache that has nestled itself firmly into my belly, telling me that there is something in my life that I need.

If only that shitting ache would tell me what I need.

I’ve not used the account much, but I think at some point that this will change. It seems like an intriguing scene to explore. I think I’m very lucky to count Cooper as a friend, because if it wasn’t for him and the Swingset-crew, I would have been non the wiser about swinging and non-monogamous relationships.

But the question remains if it’ll ever lead to anything. Am I really a swinger? Or is that something I’d just like to try out and dismiss? I don’t know.

What I do know is that I really do want to have a person in my life. I’ve done too long without any form of person (by “person”, I mean lover, boy/girlfriend and that) and I ache at the sight of happiness in my life. It shames me to admit that I get slightly jealous. I want someone that’ll cuddle me and tell me random things. Someone that has a laugh together with me and does a running comment during a particularly shitty movie or something.

I just need someone. Be that boy or girl.

I’ve already mentioned that I’d love to explore girls more, and it’s something I’ll take to heart when I next get my arse to London. I just don’t know what to expect. All I know is that I want to unleash myself.

The third point on my agenda of everlasting sexual frustration is something I’ve been keen on reading up about. Ever since I had Barbara Carrellas as a guest on the blog (and partly due to reading Betty Herbert’s account of her and H’s explorations of it) I’ve been curious about tantra.

Mainly because the misconceptions about the concept are still so huge. My first brush with tantra was through Sex and the City (you all remember the famous lingam massage where the dude jizzes on Miranda, right?) and I’ve been slightly weary of it ever since. But Barbara made me realize that this is not what tantra is.

In the interest on exploring my sexual interests, I’m going to invest in a copy of her Urban Tantra book. If it doesn’t work for me, then it doesn’t. But at least I’ll have tried it, and that’s something.

I’ve discovered that sex is a very trial and error thing. You can’t really learn until you try stuff, and if it goes tits up, at least you know why you don’t like it.

This pic included for artistic merit. Wha... yes it is!