Year, End

2014 is peeking on the horizon and 2013 prepares to sneeze and regenerate into the next year (or at least, I think that’s how Matt Smith regenerated into Peter Capaldi…). I reckon now is as good a time as any to take stock and set goals for the next 12 months, especially as I plan to spend the dying days of this year doing absolutely fuck all.  (more…)

Midnight Feast

“Happy birthday, Lady!”

It was a little after midnight when we finally made it upstairs – the early hours of my 23rd birthday. I sat on the bed and unwrapped my lovely presents, which included a scandalous amount of chocolate and a lot of glowing love.

I was already pretty pleased. And that was before I got to unwrap my last present…

Giggling, we stood in front of each other, with me peeling away his layers of clothing. Jumper made way for shirt, made way for warm and fuzzy chest. Trousers made way for boxers and made way for a shapely bum and a jutting, erect cock.

I practically ripped my own clothes off, diving in next to him on the bed. Well, after I’d had my fill of warm, naked cuddles.

He set about giving my body the once-over with his tongue and his lips. There was some joking, some faffing, but all of that (well, most of that) quickly went out the window as he set about exploring my pussy and its surroundings.

It felt great. It nearly always does, apart from the times when there’s something off – facial hair tickling or my clit deciding it’s suddenly too sensitive, or something like that. To be honest, there are only so many ways you can say “the sex was great” without actually making up words to describe just how great the sex was.

So yeah, the sex was fabulicious, his cock felt amazesome and in the end, we shared a couple of flimflanflandangistic orgasms.


To Minxy Malone, Thanks For Everything

Recently, I found an article on The Frisky asking people what the first book that they masturbated to was. It got me in a bit of a thinky-backy kind of mood, and even as I’m typing this, I’m scanning my brainbox for books I used to read to get aroused.


That’s what I did for a long while. Just read books, look for the dirty bits and read them over and over again until I got aroused. Nothing really came of it, other than a, quite frankly, very frustrating hunt for more dirty bits in other books. Seriously, once I figured out the books which tended to have a bit of fumbling in it, I was at the book store more frequently than anyone I knew.

Which is a sad thing, really. People should read more.

But anyway. The main problem with my modus operandi was that it felt like I’d bought up the entire store’s stock of romance novels after a while. We’d usually only get translations of books, and the lust does tend to get lost when taken out of the language it is originally set in. Or so I think.

The first book that got me properly hot under the collar (but, amazingly, didn’t yet prompt me to masturbate) was Intimate Adventures of a London Call Girl by Belle De Jour. I bought the book on my first ever holiday to London, in despair of it being our last night there. I lay on my bed in the hotel room, opened it up, and started reading.

And then there was that opening line. “The first thing you should know is that I’m a whore.”

That first line drew me in so quickly that I kept reading for a very long time indeed.


The first book that I masturbated to… I think it was a collection of erotic stories written by famous female writers. It was edited by Imogen Edwards-Jones and called In Bed With. You had people like Adele Parks and Esther Freud contributing, but under assumed, “x-rated” guises (a combo of their first pet and first street they lived on, I think, which made for names like Pom Pom Paradise and Tutty Monmouth….).

It was a total eye opener. Well, it was at the time. It wasn’t a very good book, I think. But it did make me broaden my horizon… because one of the stories (“Twice Shy”) addressed two subjects that I didn’t even know I would find arousing. I’d always been squeamish about anything to do with anal sex (thank you very much for that, Sex and the bloody City) and even more so about spanking. So, I was more than a little hesitant to even read this story at first.

Again, in hindsight, it wasn’t particularly an erotic masterpiece, but in the end, I got off on it. More than a few times, in fact.

So, those were the two instrumental ones. I’ve since had a lovely string of stories lead to an even lovelier string of orgasms (KD Grace’s Vegging in Best Women’s Erotica 2010 comes to mind…). And, of course, I’ve taken up writing erotica myself.

But you can bet your sweet behind on this: I don’t think that me writing erotica would have even happened if it wasn’t for those (and many other) books.

The fucking awesome orgasms that happened from reading them? Bloody lovely bonus.

I Am Furious Period

(And now for a healthy dose of TMI Realness, sponsored by weekly repeats of Father Ted.)

Here’s the deal.

I started taking birth control when I was 12. Back then, my periods had just started and were causing me immense pains. They’d also poke their evil head around whenever I was least expecting it, causing me more than one situation where it looked like I’d been the victim of a particularly furious animal attack.

So Mumma Boyd, ever so kind, shuttled me off to our GP, who prescribed me the Pill (after carefully enquiring if I’d had or was planning to engage in any sexual contact)(I believe my answer was “Fuck no!”).

I’ve been taking the Pill ever since. Those with mad calculating skills and recollection of the fact that I’m presently 22 will have figured out that it’s now been ten years.

The routine of taking it has been one of the few constants I had in my life in the past decade.

So when I ran out of my usual prescription last month, it was fair to say that I was panicking.

Before I left for the UK, I made sure I had enough of my medication to last me for a while, at least until I was properly settled. This included my Pill, of course, and when I reached the end of my last strip a couple of weeks ago, I duly made an appointment (well, ILB made it for me) with my new GP for a new prescription.

He managed to find me an exact match for the components in my old Pill, which I found to be good news. And then he told me that, because it had been more than seven days since I last took my Pill, I’d have to wait until after my next cycle to take my new strip.

It made sense. But all I could think about was “Bollocks, bollocks, shit, fuck, tits” (because situations like this turn me into Father Jack).

I was so incredibly used to being on my Pill, and having the components regulate my system that I felt quite lost. But I managed well, having sex with condoms and just keeping busy so that my mood didn’t drop.

But early last week, I had a panic. I could swear that I was due on Monday, and by Friday there was no sign of “Auntie Flo”. The panic was strong in this one, I tells ya.

But as is the case with Auntie Flo and having a cycle without my Pill to regulate it, she popped her ugly head around the corner at the most inappropriate time. You know, for old times sake and that.

In this case, we were in a cinema on the Haymarket, about to sit down to watch The Bling Ring. I’d been feeling like crap for most of the day, which was only aggravated by the throngs of tourists and the hot weather. And when I went to the toilet, I found out why.

Luckily I was wearing a pad, just in case.


The last couple of days have been hard. Without the regulation of my Pill, my periods have been harder, nastier and more painful than ever before. I’ve had spontaneous breakdowns, even more moments of irritability and just all the stuff that comes with having your period, but amped up to twelve.

But blessings due, because I get to go and collect a new batch of the Pill later in the week. And I will make a new appointment with the GP, to bring him up to speed.

In the meanwhile, I’m keeping hydrated, because this weather is driving me batshit.


Random Access Memories

As we walked out of the cinema last night (after a spur-of-the-moment Let’s Go See A Thing decision), the air felt heavy with the soporific heat of the impending summer. It had cooled down a bit, but I still felt sticky and hot.

It had been that hot for most of the weekend. We’d been down at his parents’ house, minding the cat while they were away. It was a lovely break from the proceedings of the last couple of weeks.

I sat in the lounge downstairs, fiddling with my laptop and reading The Man With The Rubber Mask and Himself was upstairs, making music. For once, I felt at peace with my surroundings.

Earlier that week, I dragged ILB to London (with minimal effort) as an attempt to centre myself. We went to Forbidden Planet and I nearly did a little geek-cry as I wandered around making a mental wish list of Things Wot I Must Buy. I remember my first visit to the shop, where I got so excited I put a dent the size of 200 quid in our holiday budget.

Next, we went to a little store on Monmouth Street called Mysteries, where they sell all kinds of magical doohickeys. Again, it was an attempt to centre myself (because I’m naturally drawn to witchy stuff). Again, I walked away feeling pangs of despair.

I couldn’t quite explain it. Maybe it was indeed money-related, or just a sense of not knowing where to start. It’s a sense I’ve been experiencing a lot lately.

That Friday night, after a lot of jiggery-pokery (and some sobbing), I stripped off and got into bed. A bed which had been the centre of our lives for a few months. A bed that I loved so much, it’s kinda ridiculous. A bed we made love on so many times.

And on Friday night, we made love on it again.

Every minute of it was brilliant. From the kisses to rubbing his penis against my wet lips, to watching him put the condom on, to the whispers in my ear as he made love to me. Right up until I watched the last drops of pearly come drip down on his chest after he’d masturbated for me.

It’s kinda strange. Sex is a thing that centres me.

But then again…


Reality Is Like Being Drunk (No, Wait)

(Sorry if this doesn’t make any sense. It’s been a long weekend.)

Sometimes, you’re at home from work (or in my case, working from home) and you’re doing the procrastination thing in front of the television. You flick through the millions of channels you seem to have, but still find nothing on. So you watch one of those reality shows, like Cupcake Girls, Extreme Couponing, Holy Shit, It’s Honey Boo Boo and the likes (yeah, I may have overdosed on TLC this weekend).

(More after the jump. Not that this is a long post, it’s just a bit bleh, so feel free to skip if you’re so inclined.)


In The Flesh And Out The Spirit

The four of us walked down the stairs and into the Alley Cat Bar And Club. My first thought was that it looked way tinier than I’d reckoned. It immediately put me at ease, because surely if the place was that small, fewer people would come and see me bumble.

It was my first erotic reading. At the first edition of In The Flesh London, no less. ILB held my hand and reassured me that it was going to be tip top. He ran over my story with me, telling me when to pause and when to be slow. Bunny White (fresh from The States) and Dorian Silver were also there, offering support and being incredibly good eggs about it all. Before the show, we’d met up and gone to Bella Italia to eat, drink and talk geeky stuff.

I was the third and last to read, so I had some time to listen to Liz Coldwell read about a hot werewolf and KD Grace talking dirty about breakfast. And then it was my turn.

I got up there, introduced myself and started reading my story.

And I fucking nailed it.

I think.

Afterwards, I did need a stiff drink. The event concluded with a performance by Moorita Encantada, who teased a snippet of a burlesque play she and KD collaborated on.

Later on, we ended up at FOPP, getting DVDs for ourselves. Even later on, we ended up on Westminster Bridge, where I cried because I didn’t fathom how the night could have gone so well.

Disappointingly, no dinosaurs were spotted on Westminster Bridge. The Nestene Conciousness was also nowhere to be seen.

Anyway. Here’s to many more of those readings. Skoll, I say.

Bye Bye Hello

Bye Bye

It was the Friday afternoon of the Bank Holiday weekend. He’d be leaving for camp in a couple of hours and I wanted to spend that time just cuddling and making jokes.

He had better ideas.

Frolicking about in bed, I was very aware of his erection. It’s a very random thing, that. It can pop up even when we’re just lying in bed, talking. Of course, I don’t object to it. I bloody relish it.

But a part of me wanted to just be held. I’d say it was the foolish part of me, because an even bigger part of me wanted him to pin me to the bed and shag me senseless.

I didn’t persist my (weak-arsed) protests.

“You. Naked.” I said, while I set to stripping down as fast as I could.

The sex itself seemed even more urgent, even more shattering than before. I wanted all of him, I wanted to be consumed by lust and spat out, satisfied.

When I saw him off a couple of hours later, I treated myself to a belated post-coital cream slice at the store. It was as good as the sex.



I peeked through the window for the millionth time, and finally caught a glimpse of something familiar. It was his dad driving off, meaning that he’d dropped him off at home. I rushed downstairs, hugged him and asked him about what he had done, the silly things that had happened and so forth.

He was happy. Fulfilled with the joy of going to camp. He told me about the boiler (called The Dean. Trust me, it’s hilarious in its context.) and about cigars and weird alcohol his mates brought from the continent. I decided to take him to dinner, to celebrate his return, and he happily came with me.

What I didn’t realize was that the restaurant was going to be quite busy, what with it being bloody Bank Holiday Monday and that. To keep a long story short… two and a half hours later, we finally slumped out of the restaurant, beaten and exhausted. My mum had left three calls on his phone (a phone she’d been calling all weekend, despite me pointing out many times that we were going to be incommunicado on the weekend) so I called her back. And then I just gave up and curled up with my book. If it wasn’t for his presence and Alexandra Heminsley’s words, I think I would have been very miserable indeed.


And so, our life resumes. Tomorrow, I’m reading at the first edition of In The Flesh London. Yes, I am terrified shitless. Yes, I will be resisting the temptation to go on the alcohol. And yes, of course you will get a full report of what it was like on Wednesday.

If you’re planning on coming, you will also get to see the wonderful Liz Coldwell and KD Grace reading. Suzanne Portnoy will be hosting the evening and I have been told there may be cupcakes. See, plenty of reasons to come. Tickets are hereways and it’s FREE! (In capital letters just so you understand how free it is).


The Way You Kill Me

There is a French idiom/euphemism for an orgasm that’s called La Petite Mort. It’s been interpreted to describe the post-orgasmic state of unconsciousness that some people experience after sexual activity. But you don’t need me to tell you that, because it’s widely known and I’m sure you’d have heard of it by now.

It’s a curious thing, really. Mort. Death.

I think I remember Remittance Girl talking about it at Eroticon. Something about experiencing a short and powerful “death” of the self as a separate individual at the height of pleasure.

I felt it. I feel it all again just thinking about last night.

It happened suddenly. From kissing to him on top of me. But it had been coming all day. Brief, playful bouts of flirtation and cuddling, saying “Oooh, you’re hard!” and all that.

And it lead to this.

It was fast and ferocious. *He* was fast and ferocious, jackhammering my pussy and fucking me absolutely senseless. For a moment, I thought I wouldn’t survive. That surely this amount of pleasure should be outlawed or at least bottled to sell on the mass market (because that shit would make millions, I tells ya) because OH MY GOD.

He didn’t show any sign of giving up. Again and again, we fucked, his moans becoming increasingly desperate and my breath more and more raspy. Until we finally had to call time.

I lay there afterwards, snuggled up in his arms, thinking about all the ways he kills me. All the ways he makes me live the little death.

And I’ve honestly never felt more alive.

Pleased To Meet You

So this is going to be one of those posts where I’m going to talk about something that happened to me that was not related to sex. But in a way, it was really sexy. Right, bear with me because I’ve got quite the day to relate to you.

As those who follow either me, my better half or both of us on Twitter know, we went to see James in concert last night.

This involved getting 47 to buy the tickets and then waiting five long months until the day of the show. And you know what it’s like when you wait ages for something to come. Suddenly it’s there, and you do it and then it’s done and you’ll spend some time recalling your fond memories of the thing. While possibly crying because it’s done.

Anyway. James were playing a two night stint at the O2 Academy in Brixton. So off we went, to Brixton, which in itself was an adventure because I shit you not, I have never been that far on the Victoria line. So when we got outside, my first impressions were quite good. It seemed eclectic and there was a store that sold MAC cosmetics and there was a band playing nice music outside the station.

We decided to wait for 47 and guest at the Starbucks next to the station, but they were both running late, so we weaved through the streets of Brixton towards the Academy to queue. Queuing for a concert is… an experience. I’ve not done it a lot in life, so to stand in the early evening sun with about thirty other strangers discussing James was a novelty. The cappuccino I had was making me sick and there was still no sign of 47 and guest.

Right up until we passed the security barriers, when the man himself appeared, grabbing his tickets off us and rushing to get into the building. They make the women and men go in through different doors, which I thought was quite weird.

Cut to inside the Academy (which is really beautiful, I must say) and all four of us are now seated and ready for things to kick off.

First there was Echo and the Bunnymen, who came on stage to Gregorian chanting, and who’s lead singer looked (from where we were sitting) like Noel Gallagher and Neil Gaiman had a love child together. They were dull as, and I spent most of the time trying to figure out what the song titles were. I came up with “Our Deirdre”, “Ginny’s Saving the World” and “Flan”.

Also, I’m not sure, but I think the lead singer was trying to tell us that he was from the North. Just saying.

The build up to the James portion of our evening was different. Even the music in the background was tense, as the roadies set up the stage.

And then James came out and Tim went batshit with his dancing and Saul played the violin and Larry made that guitar his bitch and the entire band was FUCKING AWESOME and I never ever wanted to stop moving and dancing because I swear I thought I was gonna die if I did and then they played LAID and I cried in my head because FEELS.


After that lovely experience, it felt like the entire crowd was headed towards Brixton station. Which was lovely as I am sure as shit never going out alone in Brixton after 6 pm.

We made camp in ILB’s parents’ house and slept far too little. This morning, we went for breakfast, which was lovely as I got to talk to 47 a bit more. A note about 47, dear reader : he is just about one of the loveliest guys I know. And he’s a great friend for ILB. I’m gutted that they don’t get to see each other that much anymore.

After breakfast, we went to pick up some plants from ILB’s grandma, who promptly roped us in for coffee in her garden and continued to question us until it was time for 47 to head to the station.

The rest of the day?

I think I’ve been sleeping.

So, to sum my inaugural James experience up: it was magical. The best gig I’ve ever been to. And I feel very lucky to share a love for this band with my better half.

James song?

James song.