The Melting Libido

You may have noticed the peculiar weather in this country as of late.

If you’re one of those people who try their best to ignore the heat, then rest assured that the papers will try to ram it into your brain on a daily basis. That and the imminent arrival of the littlest Royal-let.


You can’t really deny that this is prime fucking weather. As I’ve mentioned before, there’s something about summer that makes everyone’s hormones go absolutely apeshit. And I’m naturally all for that, because sex is an absolutely beautiful, amazing and ridiculously fun thing to have.

But really. Really though.

I’d be surprised if some people actually can muster up the strength to even get undressed. Let alone have sex that isn’t so uncomfortable you’d feel like a boiled egg in the end.

But I kinda want to. I kinda want to drag ILB by his tie and push him down on the bed and ride him until he screams.

Or I kinda want him to push me up against the wall and take me from behind, whispering dirty things in my ear until my body melts from desire and sweat and umph.

But this heat is so incredibly soporific that I would be surprised if it comes to that any time soon. Still, with all that’s been going on, I think we both deserve some extended edition lovemaking with each other. If we can stop falling asleep, that is.

The sleep in this heat is deep and dangerous. Well, it seems like it anyway. I drifted off so far away the other day that I didn’t even hear the alarm go off. Twice. Which, considering the fact that I sleep right next to it is quite surprising.

Still, sex will happen at some point. Maybe we’ll find a nice freezer to do the deed in….



Like A Feather/This I Swear

What follows are two scenes from the life of The Lady (aka moi) and Himself….


Like A Feather

I’ve brought a new plaything over. Unlike many of my playthings, it is both fucking massive and wrapped in pink wrapping paper. It is a hindrance from the time I leave the house to the moment I step over Himself’s threshold.

Mainly because my regular Tube connection is peckered this weekend. Therefore I find myself taking a bus, a different tube line and a train. Luckily, I arrive to the lovely surprise of Himself waiting for me on the platform.

I fall into his arms and hold him, just to reaffirm to myself that I haven’t made him up. We decide on getting food, and just as we leave the station, he asks me the inevitable.

“What’s that?”

“It’s a feather.”

“Oh. Okay.”

He knows what it is. It’s a tickle feather. A massive purple tickle feather I bought on a whim at Sh! the other day. Why did I bring it?

No, I have no idea either.

A while later. We’re on his bed.

“You promised me a backrub.”


He gets out babyoil (Johnsons, natch) and a towel and strips to his nuddyness. And like the expert that I am not, I massage/get Johnsons all over his backside. But he seems to like it, which is a good thing.

Suddenly, an idea manifests.

And the little demon comes out in me.

I take the feather out and start stroking him. And I stroke him to the point of near-insanity. I watch him get hard, and fuck it, it gets me off as well.

“Such a tease. So hard. So…”

I stroke. I tease. I blow, only briefly. This is great! I like teasing him! I can keep this up for hours!

“Please say stop.”


I throw the feather away and nearly rip my top off.

“I thought you’d NEVER ask!”

And our bodies clash in a frantic expression of just how turned on we both are.

It’s really swell.


This I Swear
We’re in his kitchen. His mother is baking a cake and reading a book on her Kindle at the same time. If nothing else, she’s excellent at this multi-tasking shit.

H is drinking coffee and talking to Mamma Himself. Himself himself is making pasta bake.

And I sit back in my chair and momentarily lose myself in the bliss that is this scene. The man I burned for for so long sneaks over and gives me a cuddle. It’s perfection.

And this I swear. This I swear with all my heart.

I love this man. And no matter what lies ahead, no matter what happens, I will always do.

This I swear.


xoxo The Lady.


Scene Selection

Written in longhand at café Bluu on Hoxton Square, over two Diet Cokes. Edited accordingly.

Warning, long post is long.

~ (more…)


Little news nugget for you. The whole concept of retail therapy is a myth.

I should know. This eejit treated herself to a manicure and new face cream and I still feel like stabbing someone in the face. It’s entirely my fault. I know this because that’s just how my brain works. I managed to completely work myself up into a massive frenzy between the time we said goodbye and the time I actually left Westfield.

Not that anything bad happened.

Au contraire, mon fraire.

Today was a massive day in Boydian history. I attended my first press event. Yep yep, an actual thing a writer does. It was the Windows 8 launch at John Lewis in Westfield Stratford. The staff was incredibly helpful and made me feel like I wasn’t a mahussive hack (who had forgotten to bring a notepad and pen, and so had to buy one in the London 2012 store next to the Stadium Suite, where the event was held). I desperately want to do this more often, by the way. I want to go into journalism.

After that, I found a shop that sells the BEST EVAR OMG macaroons in the history of ever. Seriously, every bite was like a tiny orgasm.

Then, I got a fast workshop on how to make a nori roll, by a Chinese cookery school that was demonstrating. The nori roll was amazeballs.

Then, I got my nails done. Bright yellow. Also amazeballs.

At the same shop (Tantrum, Westfield Stratford, scuse the promo) I got a customized bracelet for a tenner (it says LADY, of course).

Then I treated myself to a pulled pork sammich.

Then I bought face cream.

And then I went home and cried my eyes out because none of that really means anything after a while. Sure, the bracelet kicks bootay and my nails look stupendously good.

Still doesn’t make me feel like I can move mountains.

All I feel like is like the twat who bought face cream.

The twat who lives in a house with eleven other people (as opposed to her preferred residence, a pineapple under the sea) who she neither knows nor trusts.

Ach. I just feel like a twat.

A twat with face cream.

I don’t want to be a twat with face cream. I want to be not a twat in a nice flat with central heating and a kitchen that isn’t possibly lethal. I want a cat. I want to share my life with someone I love, and not feel like I’ve taken up residence in a backpackers hostel (stuck with nine Norwegians who are coincidentally all fans of Justin Bieber and know more about him than he probably does. This never happened by the way. It could happen to you though. Don’t hostel. Like, ever. PSA over now.)

Does that make me old?

I mean, I’m 21. I should be living it up and partying in Shoreditch (where apparently all Hip Young Folk go to do things to people with their tongues and other assorted limbery) with the rest of my flatmates. I should be off my tits on booze and should be sleeping around and and and.

Note. I did say should.

Doesn’t mean that I want. I could. But I don’t want to.

It’s in the Italics, really. What I want is peace and quiet, someone to come home to and a place where I can write. I want a job to support myself until I manage to crack writing.

And a cat.

A massive orange cat.

Get Yer Priorities Right

There now follows a short list of things I am going to do in the next few days.

  • Write an article for Singles Warehouse.
  • Write a review of Strictly for Dork Adore.
  • Meet Remittance Girl for dinner and discuss things that are writery.
  • Go to the press launch for Windows 8.
  • The Erotic Meet Mixed Media Meet.
  • Smut and Magic book launch at Sh! Hoxton.
  • A Workshop. Ooooeeer.
  • Velvet Tongue.

There now follows a list of other, less pleasant things I need to do in the next few days.

  • Make an appointment with the Job Centre.
  • Do groceries.
  • Do edits on a story that needs to be sent out next week.

There now follows a list of the things I desperately want to do, but are being made slightly more complicated by….. certain ominous factors.

  • Meet Sir Roger Moore at his book signing at HMV.

There now follows a list… Well, no list, just a teeny tiny rant. A smidge of a rant. A rantlet, if you will.

First of all, the bloody book, although I’m sure it’s brilliant, costs 25 quid. I do not have 25 quid. Neither do I have the will to turn up at 9 AM in order to secure myself one of two hundred bracelets that will allow me access to the signing AT FIVE THIRTY.

It would be a dream come true to meet Roger Moore and have him sign my copy of his book. But this entire kerfuffle makes me lose the courage to go through with it.

Then again. Then again.

My point in this entire kerfuffle of a post is that I’ve got a massive week coming up. I’m also feeling massively under the weather. The bitter autumnal cold makes me want to curl up in bed with a book and a hot drink. And a hot man. And a hot water bottle.

But, you know. I’m the Barenaked Lady. I’m a tough cookie. And it’s a pretty damn fun week coming up. Put on a scarf, jacket and warm sweater, self medicate and eat right, surround self with excellent company, and I’m pretty sure I can push through the scribbly throat.



Death Defying Acts

This morning, I woke up with a dry mouth and an ache in my bones. I knew what it was. I hadn’t eaten properly in yonks and all I wanted was a decent meal and a two liter bottle of Coke to greedily consume.

I felt unable to do anything for hours. My now-frequent nightmares had freaked me the fuck out and I just wanted to get on with my day.

But then I started thinking. Bad things, dark things. I started thinking about death and loss. Losing people I care about is my greatest fear and I let myself get caught off-guard. It was triggered by the Doctor Who Tumblr. Every word made me break out in more tears. The loss of the Ponds and the words. Just the words.

I’ll be with him. Like I should be. Me and Rory together.

I’m going to pull time apart for you.

Together, or not at all.

It made me hurt. Ache. And I don’t even know what for. I just felt like something had died in me. Is it like that when you make a new start? Do you feel like something falls off your shoulders and like you’ve left behind so much?

I lost.

But yet, I am winning. I’m bloody well winning this shiz, y’all. My life isn’t stable, by gods it is not. But I have left my shit behind and I have made a new start.

And however shitty it might feel to think about death, or loss or anything like that… Realize that you are alive. You are breathing and you are surviving. You are living and loving and my God, do you ever love with the passion of those two crazy ginger kids who traveled time and space to be together. You are mad. You are the Raggedy Man and the Oncoming Storm, and you feel like you are infinite.

Time is what we make of it. And I choose to spend it and live it to the fullest. No. Let me rephrase. I am chosing to BUST THAT SHIT RIGHT OPEN and spread my wings. I am the glitter goddess and when I am eighty and an aging theater queen of an erotica writer, I will look back on my life and remember nothing but the awesome shiz I did.

Last year, it was exactly ten years ago that I lost Nanna Boyd. She aged gracefully, and died not a week after I said to her “See you next time.”

Nanna Boyd is in my heart. And I know that she would want me to do what I’m doing right now. She might not always agree, she may frown and think I’m a bit off in the head. But she would be rooting for me every step of the way, damn it.

No more thinking about bad shit. No more self doubt and no more dark moments. I can’t promise all of that, but I can sure bust my proverbial nuts and be the queen I was born to be.

Apologies for getting slightly philosophical on you all. But that is how I feel.

Before I go, I want to share something with you all.

I was on the way back from Sainsburys just now, carrying some shopping as one is wont to do. In front of me was a guy with his headphones on. He was proper busting moves in the middle of the street and I couldn’t help smiling brightly.

And then he turned around. Saw me. And smiled back, equally bright. And I just thought.. fuck. He gets it too. He gets London.

My heart swelled. And I returned home in a brighter mood.


Cold As Ice

This morning, I woke up, still feeling stiff and unhealthy. Remember what I said about London cold being that slightly more bitter than cold anywhere else I’ve been? Well, it’s definitely true today. I usually walk around the house in a top, jeans and bare feet, but as I write this, I am wearing my boots and a knit jumper over my clothes.

I feel like an icicle.

Everything stings and aches and I just want a long lie-down in a warm room, with a duvet, good food and a good movie.

I’ve had the weirdest fantasies. They don’t just involve sex in front of a fireplace, they also involve sex in front of a fireplace while wearing wooly mittens and thermal joggings. I dream about warmth and comfort.

And sex. Like, lots of it.

Sharing body heat is absolutely marvelous. When you’re in snowy plains, the way to warm up is to strip down and get into a sleeping bag together. I’d say that’s efficient enough for me. It would work in London too, I think. All over central London, random tents would be set up with sleeping bags in them. You can just crawl into them and snuggle up in the buff to the one you love.

It’s an idea you won’t see on Dragons Den, but eff it, I like it.

Another thing I want badly is food. Not just any food, but those hearty winter meals that make you all warm on the inside. I could murder a bowl of cream of tomato soup with meatballs in it. Or a pot pie. Or beef stew. Anything that warms the cockles, really.

Great, now I’m dreaming of pasta and chicken and garlic and all that makes me go Woop Woop with a double capital W.

Forgive me, dear reader. For I am poor and out of good food.

The third thing I find myself craving is hot chocolate.

Who doesn’t, really? Nothing can do you more good than a massive hot chocolate with a few marshmallows drifting on top.

Seeing as I’m drifting away on a cloud of fantasies about drifting on hot chocolate… I’m leaving this post at that.


Ole Acid Bones

After saying goodbyes, I kept my head down as I walked out of the tube station. The sun had decided to show up, and I felt like toast in my leather jacket. I kept my head down, tipping my hat, pretending to be one of those mysterious detectives you see springing from the brain of a genius like Dashiell Hammett.

I was tired. Every limb in my body stung and I felt like collapsing on my bed and not getting up for at least a couple days. But I needed to snap out of my sudden headspace. It had been a lovely weekend, so why was I feeling like shit again?

My bones felt like they were made of acid. As I wandered around the local library, trying to distract myself from the nagging pains, I daydreamed of nothing more than just sleep and food.

Ole Acid Bones here eventually worked up the strength to walk to her place.

I collapsed on the couch and vegged out like the massive ginger tomcat I really am to two hours of Come Dine With Me. It would not surprise you if I said I had seen this one before…

Eventually, I got up again and heated the leftovers from last night’s impromptu dinner at a Polish place down the road. It tasted like grease, but my god, grease tasted good.

When I finally found the strength to collapse on my bed, I didn’t move for two and a half hours. My body was officially spent and aching. I felt lonely and unhealthy.

I woke up to less pain and more zest for work.

I don’t really know why I feel so unhealthy. Why this pain in my body feels like the strain of four months of adjustment to a new life just exploding. All I know is that I want to feel human.

I’ve debated with myself and with other people on how to do that, and the thing is just to take care of myself. Eat right, move, and stay healthy. Get plenty of rest and get adjusted to life in London.

I am getting used to the entire London thing. Mentally, I’m in a much better place. But physically, I just can’t cope. Is it because the seasons are changing? Is it because the London cold always seems slightly more bitter than anywhere else in the world?

Even as I write, my fingers feel slightly chillier. It can’t really help that the window is wide open and I can hear several animals having a sing song outside.

I know I’m getting slightly dramatic, but I just feel like I’ve given all I can for now, physically. The only thing that’s not failing is my libido, luckily.

Acid Bones is going to get her arse to an MD….


Cultural Differences

Seeing as I live in one of the more multicultural parts of London, I’ve had somewhat of a culture shock in the past few days. Having spent three months trying to figure out the aesthetics behind the Essex style, I have now spent the last week trying not to get blown away by all the nationalities that have passed me on the streets.

The weirdest thing about Willesden however is not the nationalities, nor anything else related to race or culture.

It’s the fact that none of the shops apparently take debit cards.

I have spent the last half an hour wondering around for lunch, and got sent away in three different places, because no-one could take my debit card.


But as I was saying, Willesden is a joy. Just a few days ago, I got to observe the man from the internet cafe in prayer mode. Just now, I got politely sent away because Friday is apparently a day of religion, and the cafe was observing a prayer break.

When I arrived back at the cafe, it seemed like the entire Muslim population of Willesden had turned up there. I watched, as person after person streamed out,  ready to go on with their weekends as planned. This little moment of silence piqued a curiosity in me.

I’ve had my on and off bouts of spirituality. It’s a healthy bit of curiosity that lead me to research Wicca and Paganism for a few years. You know me, dear reader. I was born curious. And now this. Trying to find my own definition of spirituality has been a long and winding road. And I have a feeling that it’s not yet over.

Not that I’m planning on converting to the Islam, but I just feel this urge to learn more about it. I like mythology, I like the stories behind things. I want to know!

Spirituality is a quest. Even if you say you’re not a spiritual person, I’m guessing that there is something that drives you in that way. Just me, I guess, but it seems like that.

Reality Bites

Come with me for a second.

It’s eleven in the morning. Somehow, I’ve managed to drag my tired arse out of bed. How I’m staying in bed till this late is beyond me. I have no job as of yet, so I don’t work on the ridiculous hours that my house mates seem to work on.

My room mate Sil wakes up at the same time. She sounds exhausted, and I feel bad for her, because I do not for one tiny second envy her job. We bid each other good morning and briefly compare notes on the night before.

Then, I get dressed. Mum calls, with a short brief on her day. I am mostly still in dream land. I text ILB, who was kind enough to help me with my CV the other day, to let him know I’m going to the Job Centre.

On the way, I buy breakfast. Breakfast in this case is cold pain au chocolate, which is still making my stomach a mess right now. I sit down somewhere and eat, before I gather sense and head towards the place I assume the Job Centre is at.

Now, I know what I’m like when I’m trying to find a new place. I look it up on Google Maps, try and memorize, forget the next day and end up on the wrong side of town. I still remember the first time I went to London Fetish Fair and nearly ended up… well, somewhere I didn’t need to be at all.

Of course, this is all a case of history repeating itself. I end up with my pants drenched from the rain (and ripped, may I add, making me look like a slattern), on a bus to Neasden. Neasden being literally five minutes away on foot.

I find the Centre after a short walk and actually stop and praise Jebus. It’s warm. It has WiFi. It’s… incredibly sparse. I sit down on a couch and    wait.

And wait, and wait again.

Eventually, I go look upstairs, where there appears to be more staff, only to get sent away immediately by a massive security guard with weird hair.

Downstairs, back in Sparta, I wait.

Until I get urged by a fellow waitee to ask the only person at the counters for help.

So, I do.

“Hello!” I say, trying to look my positive and charming self (whilst looking like a drowned kitten). “I wanted to know how I can apply for JSA.”

“Do you have an appointment?”


“Here is the phone number to call. Goodbye and thank you.”

And that’s it. I’m back outside in the grey wetness.

On my way back, I stop for a bap. I read The Mirror and have a little cry because I’m cold and I hate people.

On the bus back, I realize that I’m a massive tit and could have easily gone further on foot. Ah well.

I stop at the news agents and treat myself to The Guardian and a three-pack of Ferrero Rocher.

And I find myself back at the internet cafe again, sulking because I now realize that I need to set up an appointment first.

You may think that us sex blog folk lead a very glam lifestyle, but next time you’re out on the street, lost in the pissing rain, spare a thought for your friendly neighbourhood Barenaked Lady. Chances are, she is out there too…