Thursday, 27 December 2007

Cause and Effect

Sugasm #112 Editors Choice

I love the way that happens.

Half-conscious in the soft glow of the morning light with the remnant of a pleasant dream.

Experiencing the pervasive hot surge deep inside me; the pulse of energy as the ephemeral essence of the thought translates itself from my brain to transmit a shock of electricity that centres in the most sensitive part of the flesh between my legs.

Kick-starting a shivering chain reaction of activity coursing through me as my nipples stand to attention and the blood engorges the soft folds, until my entire being is focussed in that one place.

Overwhelming me with the uncontrollable desire to touch that spot. To tease out the pleasure that is teetering on the edge.

But how much better if a warm hand is drawn by the heat and a much-loved voice whispers in my ear 'You're wet baba'

Wet? Of course I'm wet.

From the slow realisation that I'm in your bed as the receptors in my body respond to the smell of your pheromones, followed by the touch of your skin.

All the little alarm bells are going off in the relevant areas.

Tiny excited cells rushing around making ready.

Sirens and hooters blaring the warning: 'Incoming, Incoming!'

And the lubricators prepare the ground for your imminent arrival...

Sugasm #111

The best of this week’s blogs by the bloggers who blog them. Highlighting the top 3 posts as chosen by Sugasm participants. Want in Sugasm #112? Submit a link to your best post of the week using this form. Participants, repost the link list within a week and you’re all set.

This Week’s Picks

Fighting The Dominatrix Stereotype “She wanted a man for a boyfriend, not a doormat.”

From afar “Say my name, over and over.”

Steely Dan* “My body is flexed, and held in place, and the onslaught is relentless.”

Mr. Sugasm Himself Pic(k) of the Day

Editor’s Choice A Brief History of (My) Fucking

More Sugasm

Join the Sugasm

See also: Fleshbot’s Sex Blog Roundup each Tuesday and Friday.

Thursday, 20 December 2007

Ode to Ruf

I love the way your smiles depress the dimple in your cheek
The way you kiss me roughly leaves me trembling and weak
I love the way your stubble prickles rough against my chin
And how your fingers softly stroke their way across my skin

I love the way you wake me with an early morning gift
I could never disappoint you by responding with short shrift
I love to snuggle backwards, feel the strength of your desire
Your body pressing closer til my nipples are on fire

I love the way Soduko makes your forehead crease and frown
The way you hold me tightly when my hormones make me drown
I love it when I lick your cock and listen to you moan
And suck at the last dribbles til your sighs become a groan

I love the way you pull me close when sleeping in our bed
The way you kiss me softly on my neck or on my head
I love the way we both ensure we're wrapped up warm and tight
Unless we're naked wrestling - which will end up in a fight

I love the way you mock me, saying 'class' don't rhyme with 'farce'
I'm surprised how much I loved it when you took me up the arse
I love it when you say my tits and bum are mighty fine
But most of all I love it cos I know that you're all mine

Merry Christmas Ruf
With lots of love x

Wednesday, 19 December 2007

Sugasm #110

The best of this week’s blogs by the bloggers who blog them. Highlighting the top 3 posts as chosen by Sugasm participants. Want in Sugasm #111? Submit a link to your best post of the week using this form. Participants, repost the link list within a week and you’re all set.

This Week’s Picks

Sex Worker Solidarity: Audacia Ray “Visibility on our own terms and the ability to uses our voices (and other mediums of expression) are key to the progress of sex worker’s rights.”

So Many Men, So Few Sluts “Everyone wants to avoid generalizations about men and women, yet they’re too powerful to ignore.”

This Time “She had That Look, and despite my earlier fatigue, I knew what was coming.”

Mr. Sugasm Himself Hombre Magazine’s Left Handed Ads

Editor’s Choice Love in an Elevator

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See also: Fleshbot’s Sex Blog Roundup each Tuesday and Friday.

Saturday, 15 December 2007

In-Car Entertainment - EastEnders vs Cake


A television programme on C4 recently revived some wonderful memories of my first sex with Ruf outside of his bedroom.

In 1994, the actress Gillian Taylforth (otherwise known as the sainted Kathy Beale from the soap opera EastEnders) sued The Sun for libel. The newspaper had claimed she performed oral sex on her fiancĂ© in a car parked on a sliproad to the A1 near London. When a police officer appeared at the car window, Ms Taylforth had explained that there was nothing untoward happening and she was merely providing her fiancĂ© with “abdominal relief” for an acute attack of pancreatitis.

During the libel trial, the entire court moved out to the car park to watch reconstructions of the alleged sexual act in the front of a Range Rover - once with the central characters showing the impossibility of such an action and then one with two members of the press corps, proving that, if you remove the seatbelt, you provide the headroom - so to speak. The programme I watched seemed to particularly enjoy this part of the proceedings, using looky-likeys for the actors. They also focussed on the rather enthusiastic press corps reconstruction.

In her testimony to the Court, Miss Taylforth presented herself as a sexually reserved character. But, whilst the trial was in progress, a film was sent to the newspaper’s advocate showing her at a party simulating masturbation with a wine bottle and using a sausage as a prop whilst boasting “I give very good head.” The film was shown as evidence midway through the trial and she lost her case.

Over a decade later in a rather less suburban setting, I pulled my Range Rover into a layby just off a major road in deepest Essex. We were supposed to be going to train and then to a friend's holiday flat but I had decided upon a small detour first.

However, when I had planned the whole event, I had not taken into account the fact that the previous weekend, the clocks would be put forward by one hour, thereby bringing full daylight into the equation. I had driven past this layby several times a week in the Winter. It was about 20 feet away from the main carriageway and, in darkness, would have provided perfect cover... but was just a little exposed for my liking in the actuality.

Ruf, of course, was having none of my reticence. It was very early in our liaison - probably only about the third or fourth time we had met with a view to getting physical - and we had not seen each other for several weeks. I had picked him up from the station in brilliant sunshine.

It had been a gloriously warm Spring day. Love and sex were in the air and, almost from the moment I kissed him on the cheek, I could see the protuberance in his jeans as he sat next to me in the passenger seat. To be honest, I was not any less excited at his presence, but the concern of the daylight factor was a slight dampener on proceedings.

I pulled over, engaged the handbrake and switched off the engine, supremely conscious of the roar of the traffic as it thundered past my right shoulder only a few yards away.

Whilst I was still detained by my seatbelt, he leaned over and kissed me and I was aware of the anxieties falling away, even as the car windows began to steam up.

Pushing him backwards, I reached forward and undid his jeans, slipped the object of my desire out of his boxers and, without undoing the restraint of my seatbelt, reached over the central console and licked him. Sensing my restriction, he pressed the little red button and released me. I could feel the fabric slowly easing its way back into its unused position, freeing my arms and my torso to move as they wished.

Keeping my head below the level of the windows to avoid detection by the outside world, licking and sucking and feasting on him as he lifted up my vest top and played with my pointed nipples. I became aware of the dampness in the air: the heat of our bodies, the wetness of our excited breath moistening the atmosphere, obscuring the windscreen, until it must have been obvious to any passing driver what was occurring within. I opened the passenger window and this started to alleviate the problem and lessen what to me seemed like the equivalent of a huge red arrow pointing at my car, advertising 'Oral Sex Happening Here!'

By this time, it was at least starting to get dark. The sky was streaked with the beautiful pinks and golds of a spring sunset, slowly darkening to the soft glow of dusk and the cover we desired. Climbing across the central console onto his lap as he reclined the passenger seat and lifting his tshirt to stroke the hairy chest underneath. Sitting proud and as tall as a small woman can whilst he admired the view. The approaching cars were switching on their headlamps which lit my half-naked body and then turned it red as their rearlights disappeared into the distance.

I could feel him pulling down my elasticated training bottoms, caressing the soft white globes of my fabulous arse as he reached up and captured my mouth, dismissing the last of my resistance. The fear, the excitement, the desire, the lust, the joy at seeing him again after such a long time. It was all jumbled up in one big explosion of emotion and I no longer cared about policemen or motorists, there was only one place that this could end but I couldn't ride him properly at that angle. I couldn't get the proper purchase.

Twisting myself around to face away from him, I slid my feet down the sides of his thighs and my sopping pussy backwards, which is when he shoved his thumb up my arse and penetrated me with two fingers. Jerking with delighted surprise, I came almost immediately, sticky and wet around his digits, riding his jabbing hand for another until he inserted his rigid member into the excited mess. Forcing me to place my hands on the dashboard to contain my forward motion, I introduced myself to a sort of reverse cowgirl, pressing onto him as he drove upwards. His hands were on my breasts, pulling me backwards into him as he thrust forwards, the rhythm gaining pace, faster and faster. And that's when it started. The shrill scream of my fulfilment, muffled at first and then increasing in volume until it was echoing around the enclosed cubicle of the car. My forehead beating a tattoo against the misted windshield with every thrust - bang bang bang interspersing the continuous yell of an orgasm that threatened never to end... until he pumped his muck inside me, shivering and shaking as he held onto me.

Did we go and train? Well, what do you think?

We went straight to the loaned flat. We had far better things to do...

Thursday, 13 December 2007

A Difficult Conversation

In the weeks leading up to the day when The Catalyst finished our relationship, I was falling to pieces and anorexically in a very bad way, hardly eating anything. My subconscious was reminding me that I was living in cloud cuckoo land. A woman in her forties, no matter how much of a MILF he seemed to find her, had so little to offer a young married man in terms of anything really. I couldn't possibly compete for long with a gorgeous blonde half my age and he would definitely be dumping me and returning to her imminently.

Three years ago today, on the evening of the day it had all ended with The Catalyst, I drank brandy. I needed it to numb the pain and give me courage. I had decided it was time to have A Difficult Conversation with my Husband. I had to try, once and for all, to explain to him how miserable I was with the current state of affairs. Our marriage was unravelling before our very eyes and I had to try, one final time, to talk to him about it. And this time, there could be no tears - not that there were any left as I had been sobbing all day over my loss.

Despite everything, he is not a bad Husband. He works hard to provide a lovely home and comfortable existence for us. I believe that a lot of women would give their eye teeth to have the calm, stoic man that he appears. In fact one of our friends once said she wished she was married to him. Her husband was out on the town 'on business' at least twice a week and their relationship was a series of volatile explosions and passionate reunions. My husband told her that he was sure she would be bored of him within weeks.

If we could only sort out the affection and the children issues, we might stand a chance. I didn't hate him. I don't feel that emotion even now. I probably never will. All I have ever wanted is to love and cherish my Husband as I vowed to God that I would do and to feel loved and cherished in return. I am sure that he did love me in his way but I am clearly 'High Maintenance' and it was not enough. His attitude over the children just exacerbated everything. He wanted all the good bits without any of the tough love and forced me into the disciplinary role which just wasn't fair.

Writing these things down is incredibly painful. I feel immensely disloyal to everything that I have held dear and tried to keep together all these years. But I have learned that if I don't say the words and then try to let go of them, they just fester and grow, putrefying inside my mind. So now it is up to me to evict them before they can do any more damage.

My Husband came in late. He had been to the office Xmas party. Not exceptionally good timing on my part, but this just had to be done and done whilst I was still brave enough and desperate enough to be capable of doing it. I had to act before I sank back into the miasma of depression which would allow the anorexia to take over.

I told him I needed to talk and he sat down at the other end of the sofa. At least he was on the same sofa. Normally, on the rare occasions that we watched anything on the television together, I would be sat on one and he would come in and sit on the other.

So with at least one cushion space separating us, I told him how unhappy I was. How I hated the way that our relationship was deteriorating. How I wasn't sure if I loved him any more because he was so cold towards me and that I was terrified that I was going to follow in the footsteps of my own mother and bolt into the arms of the first man who showed me any affection.

I explained that I was fed up with having the same argument every few years with me trying to explain tearfully why I was unhappy and him saying he couldn't help it, he couldn't change and I would just have to deal with it.

I tried very hard to articulate my feelings about both the state of our marriage and our parenting skills without appearing to apportion blame to either party, just to point out that neither were particularly successful at that time.

He thought for a moment in his considered way and he replied that he wasn't sure he loved me any more either. He said it was very difficult to love someone who was never there (I trained three evenings a week and one weekend a month... partly trying to escape from him, but also conquering my own demons). However, he said, "whatever happens, we have to stay together for the children".

Not 'I love you/I care about you and I want to make this work' or even 'I hear what you are saying and we will try to solve this together in the future'. Never had I felt more strongly that we were two people pulling in different directions.

And that, basically, was it. To give him some credit, he took the next day off and took me Xmas shopping and made me food, which I tried very hard to eat. He did actually hug me too. Once, maybe twice. And allowed me to cuddle him the following morning as he went off to work.

That weekend, we went to a family party and he told me I looked nice, if a little thin and, of course, that night he put his arms around me in bed and initiated sex. Afterwards, I lay there in the darkness with tears rolling down my cheeks. I was no longer allowed to even pretend that I was with The Catalyst. This was how my sexlife was going to be from now on - cold, sterile and empty. The gratification of his need... but no longer of mine. It wasn't that he did anything wrong or that his technique was lacking. But, for me, without passion, there can be no satisfaction.

I realise now that it was the last time I would let him possess me physically.

As usual, within days, everything reverted to normal and we were back to the same old same old again. I was part of the white noise of his life once more. Virtually unnoticed. Translated, in my eyes, as unworthy of attention.

Except that a week later, I had my drunken encounter with Bear.

In a moment, everything had changed.

Tuesday, 11 December 2007

A Marriage Unravelling

Before we got married and, therefore, long before we had children of our own, my Husband and I would discuss our feelings about their upbringing. I thought we had agreed on a strategy. I was very wrong.

Whenever I hear people say 'We're going through a bit of a rough patch, so we're going to have a baby...' I look at them in horror. Our already rocky relationship was pretty much torn apart by the advent of our children. Not to say that it was their fault in any way whatsoever. But raising them and the quandaries with which we were faced because of the differences in our views about the best way to bring them up exposed the cracks in the foundations of our relationship as surely as any of the other challenges of married life.

After the arrival of our second child, my Husband and I really started to grow apart. We had been together for fourteen fairly uneventful years but it turned out that we had completely different views about the upbringing of our children. I firmly believe in giving them boundaries but reasonable ones, which will encourage their confidence and independence without pushing them too far too fast or holding them back unnecessarily. I also believe in discipline and that it should be delivered firmly and instantaneously so that there is no confusion over what infringement has occurred and what the punishment is for.

My Husband's father was incredibly strict with his children when they were young and kept them confined in a technical backwater without a telephone, a television or a car for many years after their peers had such things. I believe this is why my Husband is the archetypal gadgetman but also what made him want to be 'friends' with his own children.

In addition, he has a habit of letting people do things they shouldn't - even to his own detriment - because it is easier for him to go with the flow than to say no. He has to argue the toss all day at work and so, at home, he likes a quiet life.

Now, this would be all well and good if we could find a way to work together but, sadly, my Husband is also not a believer in the 'United Front of Parents until such time as they can discuss a problem sensibly together'. If he disagrees with something I have said or done in relation to the children, he will say so immediately, in front of them. He also doesn't believe in backing the other parent up even if he does agree with them. His view is that it is too intimidating for a child to have two parents shouting. So, if one of our offspring spoke rudely to me, even in his hearing, he would not say 'Don't speak to your mother like that!' It would be down to me to deal with that issue - as well as the argument in contention.

Needless to say, my children are not stupid and the upshot is that they both know that they can run to Daddy to get the go-ahead that Mummy will not give but also that there is every chance that Daddy will not support Mummy if she institutes a grounding or other punishment and if she is not there to enforce it, they will be able to subvert things because Daddy is too soft/lazy/stupid to carry it through.

I have tried very hard through all this not to criticise my Husband in front of his children. I think it is poor form and directly contradicts the United Front of Parents. Sadly, he doesn't agree with this ethos either and so I have been the butt of his humour and mockery ad nauseum.

Eventually, sick to the back teeth of always being the bad guy, I explained to both my children that it might seem as if I was deliberately trying to thwart their attempts to have a good time but, in fact, every decision I made was to try to do the best thing for them, to keep them safe and still having fun, whereas their father would do what was best/easiest for him whether it put them in danger or not. I still feel guilty about this now but I felt it needed to be said.

Coupled with this was the fact that my son did not sleep through the night until he was five years old... unless I was in bed with him. I tried all those 'put him in his cot and let him cry for a few minutes, reassure him but don't pick him up' things. After he had been crying for an hour, my Husband would storm past me, tearful and half-asleep outside his door, and pick him up, undoing anything I had managed to achieve in those painful 60 minutes. It was not until my Husband had to go into hospital for a week that I managed to make my lovely boy understand that he had to stay in his bed and go to sleep on his own. It was hard but we at least got him to sleep for several hours on his own before coming in to our bed.

Sometimes it seemed as if my Husband would get out of the bed, only for my son to get in. On occasions, I would be sandwiched between the two of them. There was always someone wedging me into the furthest corner of our kingsize bed, trying to grope me but no one ever seemed to want to tell me that they loved me or that I looked nice.

Every couple of years, it would all get too much and I would explode in pain and a 'straw that broke the camel's back' pointless rage. I would explain to my Husband how much I needed to feel loved. How much I wanted him to hold me and reassure me that we could get through this. But it seemed that every attempt at affection on his part took place within the confines of the marital bed and became some kind of definitive precursor to sex.

I'm a woman. I need to feel loved and desired before I can enjoy sex. Looking back I recognise that he was trying to feel cherished too but for him that could only be achieved through sex. For a few days after one of our 'conversations', he might try to be more demonstrative around the house. All I needed was an unasked-for peck on the cheek when he came in from work or his arms around me spontaneously as I did the washing up. It wasn't rocket science but it appeared to be impossible. My anorexia peaked and troughed throughout this time but he never said anything, not even when the weight had fallen off me so that I was almost skeletal. He just never made the connection, or if he did, had no idea how to deal with it, despite my repeated requests for physical and verbal affection.

Again, in retrospect, I can see that his way of showing that he cared was by cooking and trying to feed me. Anyone with half a brain should be able to see that that is probably going to be a bit of a double-edged sword when the receiver has an eating disorder but that fact just seemed to elude him.

I think the crunch came for me when we went out for dinner with some friends. It was hard for us to get babysitters. This is partly my fault because I wouldn't leave my kids with the local 15-year olds, mainly because my son was so difficult about going to bed without me. I was really only happy for my parents to do it but, around this time, my stepmother developed Alzheimers so it wasn't fair to ask my dad to come over or to have them there very often and my mum was looking after her own elderly mother who needed constant care. So we probably went out as a couple once or twice a year. On this day, I made an effort, as I usually did if we were actually going out, although I lived in big tshirts and leggings the rest of the time. On our arrival, one of our friends kissed my cheek and told me I looked lovely. I felt as if I was positively glowing at his approbation. If I asked my Husband for a view on my outfit or appearance, his reply would be: 'You look fine'. He always said that.

You have to remember that we had been together for nearly 25 confidence-eroding years, the drip, drip, drip of his sarcasm sapping away at my self-esteem, and that this emotional void had been in existence for over ten years before I met The Catalyst.

Suddenly, a gorgeous young man found me attractive. A man with a beautiful wife who was half my age was ignoring her to pay me compliments. I was like a bee round a honey pot, I just couldn't get enough of all these wonderful endorphins that were flooding through me.

Of course, it couldn't last...

Sugasm #109

The best of this week’s blogs by the bloggers who blog them. Highlighting the top 3 posts as chosen by Sugasm participants. Want in Sugasm #110? Submit a link to your best post of the week using this form. Participants, repost the link list within a week and you’re all set.

This Week’s Picks

Body Image In Art, Porn & Media“Imposing it upon myself, or accepting that someone else has the right to impose it upon me, is something I can refuse to do.”

The Importance of Getting Tested for Sexually Transmitted Infections“I am taking care of myself. I wish they would do the same.”

When Natural Doesn’t Feel Natural at All“I’d kept mine neatly trimmed for so long, then cleanly shaved, that I couldn’t remember what I look like in full and natural form.”

Mr. Sugasm Himself Pic(k) of the Day

Editor’s Choice Darkroom Fantasy

More Sugasm

Join the Sugasm

See also: Fleshbot’s Sex Blog Roundup each Tuesday and Friday.

Sunday, 9 December 2007

Historical Sex

I have been watching The Tudors, a rollicking historical adventure series on Fridays 9pm on BBC2. I am a huge fan of that period of history and my personal heroine has always been Anne Boleyn, a much maligned woman who single-handedly caused the English Reformation and gave us the monarch as Head of the Church, instead of the Pope.

The historical inaccuracies within The Tudors can be intensely irritating for a purist like myself but I can understand the reasoning behind some of the errors. The most glaring one is the combination of Henry VIII's two sisters, Margaret and Mary into just one - Margaret, who the programme makers fictitiously married off to the aging King of Portugal because they had already had Henry meeting Francis of France in the splendid spectacle of the Field of the Cloth of Gold... thus, ruining the true timeline.

In reality, his elder sister, Margaret, was married when she was 13 to the King of Scotland, who was about 30. It was a diplomatic alliance to bring peace with the Old Enemy north of the border. After over ten years of marriage in which Margaret conceived six children (although most of them did not survive beyond infancy), King James promptly tried to invade his brother-in-law's country, whilst Henry was himself out of the country attacking France. He was killed at the battle of Flodden Field, leaving Margaret a pregnant widow trying to navigate the treacherous waters of Scottish politics and rule in her only surviving son's name.

Henry's younger sister, Mary, was forcibly married to the aging King of France, who was 30 years her senior, despite the fact that her affections lay elsewhere. He died after only a few months of poking his lovely teenage bride. She then had to live in seclusion for another two months to ensure that she was not pregnant, all the time being courted by the new young King, the womanising Francis I, who was desperate to bed her but dare not for fear of being supplanted on the throne by his own offspring.

After the required period of mourning had expired, she eloped with her true love, Charles Brandon, Duke of Suffolk, the best friend of her brother, Henry VIII. In all the romantic novels of the time, it is said that, when she agreed to marry the King of France, she exacted from her brother the promise that when Louis died, she should be allowed to marry whomsoever she chose. Naturally, the King had forgotten this and was furious at the loss of an important bargaining tool in his international diplomacy. He banished them both from Court, although he later relented because he missed his friend and his favourite sister. It is a wonderful love story in itself and they had three children together. They were also the grandparents of the ill-fated Lady Jane Grey, who later became Queen for nine days due to the political ambitions of her father-in-law which lost both of them their heads.

The writers of The Tudors could have completely ignored Margaret and just followed Mary's story and called her Mary but, since Henry's elder daughter (the future Mary I or Bloody Mary) was also called Mary, it might have confused those less familiar with English history.

The final episode of this series (or Season Finale as you Americans insist on calling these things) starts off with Henry (Jonathan Rhys Meyers), so desperate with desire for Anne Boleyn, for whom he has now been waiting for several years, that he is wanking very convincingly into a covered pot held for him by his servant! On BBC2 at 9.01pm! What is the world coming to :)

It ends with him no nearer to his divorce after four years of legal wrangling and their desire getting the better of them in a leafy glade. Clothing is thrown off dramatically, she rides him bare-breasted as he fondles her. Then he is on top, thrusting into her passionately and you can tell that the pinnacle is drawing near when he suddenly announces 'I'm going to come', at which point she says 'You mustn't' and pushes him off her. All very cheesy - the limp, stilted dialogue has been a bit hard to take in places and I hope the writer will address that in the next series.

I must also complain about the rather strange inclusion of a homosexual relationship for the composer Thomas Tallis but I guess they needed to get all types of sex in there to appeal to everyone in the audience.

It was Rups with his piece on anti-erotica which got me thinking about my own relationship with sexual literature which directly relates to the above series.

My first experience of sex in books was 'Murder Most Royal' by Jean Plaidy. It was about Henry VIII's relationships with Anne Boleyn and Catherine Howard. Nothing too bawdy, just a lot of heaving breasts with faces buried in them and women getting their heads cut off because of the accusation of adultery. Jean Plaidy could do non-erotic sex very well and it certainly piqued my interest in romanticised historical bodice-ripping type sex, which I'm quite sure had/has an effect on my interactions with men even today. As an 11-year-old, I was very susceptible to the concept of holding out for the one you loved and loving until death, but also the idea of dying for love.

I avidly watched the television serial 'The Six Wives of Henry VIII' with Keith Michelle and, later, the film. There was also one of my favourite films of all time 'Anne of a Thousand Days' with Richard Burton (the best actor ever with the sexiest voice) and Genevieve Bujold, who epitomised how I imagined Anne Boleyn - her appearance, her mannerisms and her French accent. That film focussed on the passion of the love story, the dynastic implications of the need for a male heir, the machinations of court politics which destroyed their love and, finally, the jealousy that caused the King to have the woman for whom he had given up so much murdered.

We also have to remember that the child of that liaison, Elizabeth, inherited so many of their personal talents that she went on to become the greatest Queen in our history, but also experienced great personal torment when it came to the men she loved and she was never prepared to totally give herself to anyone. This phobia can only have come about from the terrible example she had witnessed - her mother's relationship with her father.

My fascination with the whole story has never waned and, although I moved on to more books about other characters in that period and also the same time in French history where things were even less repressed, I always return to it when there is a new book on the subject.

The problem with Anne Boleyn is that we know so little about her. So many of her memories were expunged in a great purge when the King married Jane Seymour. Papers, relics, portraits - all destroyed because no one wanted to admit to having had anything to do with the disgraced adulteress, the enchantress who had cuckolded the King. A few things still remained - a small number of portraits that were hidden away by the remaining members of the Boleyn family, some of the letters Henry and Anne exchanged in their courtship (which had been stolen and found their way to the Vatican), the entwined initials H and A worked into the framework of a palace ceiling or as part of a clock or in some overlooked bedhangings.

There was also a great book that I read recently by Eric Ives with new information which has shed new light on the real woman. Rather than the witch with a sixth finger and unpleasant mole on her neck who bewitched a King, we see the large number of charitable donations, the fervent believer in the New Faith, the intelligence and bravery in the face of a phalanx of enemies who had determined upon her destruction.

Philippa Gregory in her book, The Other Boleyn Girl, puts forward the theory that Anne Boleyn was actually unfaithful to the King in a desperate attempt to try to conceive a child in the face of her knowledge that he was becoming unable to get an erection (possibly due to his syphillis?). The story goes that she slept with her homosexual brother, became pregnant and miscarried of a malformed child. There is a film of this book due out shortly which should be interesting.

Reading historical romances encouraged me to start experimenting with my own writing. I first put pen to paper and realised that I had literary pretensions with the start of a novel. Yup, it was about the adventures of Anne Lea, fictional Countess of Essex who won the devotion of the married King Kevin of England and ended up having her head cut off when he fell in love with someone else. I'm blushing just thinking about the hideousness of the whole thing... but, hey, in this blog you get all my confessions so I might as well let go of that one. Fortunately, the exercise book containing this tome did not survive the cull when I threw away my childish fantasies and moved into my own flat.

When I was in my mid-teens, I was distracted away from history for a while.

I had discovered Harold Robbins and modern sex.

My friends and I used to hang around the local bookshop at lunchtime on schooldays, flipping through the novels and holding books upside down by their spines to see which pages they opened upon. These were always the juiciest bits :)

I am ashamed to say that I was in with the wrong crowd at that time and was encouraged into the world of shoplifting. I'm afraid that 'The Pirate' was the first book I ever stole.

But, what a book!!!!

I can't remember the plot exactly but I know there was lots of swearing and the use of drugs - swallowed, sniffed and poured onto external body parts - to enhance sexual stimulation. I was also introduced to the words fellatio and cunnilingus. All completely alien things to my virginal eyes... but, boy, did I want to get out there and give them a go!

To this day, I remain imbued with a deep longing to feel champagne and some sort of fizzy powder (I imagine sherbet since I'm not into cocaine) poured onto my clit just to experience what it feels like.

Anyone care to elaborate on their own literature-inspired sexual fantasy?

Friday, 7 December 2007


I often wonder when I lost it.

The intimacy I once shared with my Husband.

I know there was a time when we knew each other's bodies very well and enjoyed them frequently... in a totally vanilla way naturally. But what happened? Where and when did that mutual affinity disappear?

Was it the advent of our children and the divisions that grew over our inability to agree about the correct method of raising them? Or did it absent itself long before, when we saw so little of each other due to our busy working schedules? Was it obscured by our differing levels of expectation in terms of displays of affection? Did it become irretrievable through my resentment of his attitude towards me? Maybe we just frittered it away in tiny pieces of dislike as we grew further and further apart? Or perhaps it just imploded during one of our five-yearly outbursts of acrimony at the disintegration of our partnership.

However it happened, it is just as surely and irredeemably destroyed.

All that is left is two people who share a house, a bed and a common concern over the future of their children.

Someone asked me recently whether I thought that "toys" are natural in relationships that have true intimacy? Or are they actually a distraction from the lack of intimacy within the couple?

It certainly made me think.

Toys didn't work in my marriage. I did try once with my toothbrush in an attempt to save things but, because we had lost the intimacy, irrevocably mislaid the rapport of two people who really adore each other's bodies and minds, we had forfeited the pleasure of toys. It wasn't 'comfortable', just forced.

In my relationship with Ruf, I believe we do have true intimacy and the toys are just an extension of that. We play with toys for him and for me and they were a part of our lovemaking right from the start. The idea is to get the best possible orgasm for both of us and to see if accessories help or hinder.

We use them when we have a whole day or, even better, an entire weekend just to enjoy each other. However, if time is short, then there is no room for them. We need to express our feelings using just our bodies. It has to be skin on skin. Does that make sense?

But if we didn't have the basic foundation of a relationship where we want to pleasure each other physically and mentally, where we know each other's bodies like the backs of our own hands. From head to foot and all orifices in between, there are no secrets. If we didn't have that, combined with an amazing mental connection, I believe the toys would indeed be purely a distraction from the fundamental lack of intimacy between us. A way to try to improve the physical side of our sexlife, without attending to the emotional content.

How many couples do you know who wander from one life-changing experience to the next - marriage, children, moving from house to house. Each time looking for that missing component within their relationship, trying to achieve that sense of complete fulfilment. For some, that search will encompass the use of toys - a way to improve their sexual connection. But if you cannot achieve the optimum conjunction through skin on skin, if you don't feel desire just from the touch or the presence of that other person, then how can you expect to attain it with the aid of artificial devices?

Intimacy is an amazing gift between two like-minded souls, but if it is not nurtured, you can lose it in the blink of an eye.

Wednesday, 5 December 2007


I want you to watch me from across the room, responding to other men flirting outrageously with me.

I want you to see the lust in their eyes, notice their hands fondling my waist and my hair, totally enveloping me with their hugs and pressing their lips against my cheek.

I want you to be excited by their interest... not jealous, but gratified by the knowledge of your ownership; completely secure because, even though you cannot claim me in public, you are the one who will be taking me home tonight.

Once there, I want you to leave your marks upon me. When I am back in my other life in the cold light of day, I will admire the red contusions on my alabaster skin and glory in the memories they evoke. The ferocity of your mouth, your teeth biting on the delicate flesh of my breasts and bottom, making me dizzy as you suck at me proprietorially.

I want to sit on your face and have you devouring my innermost secrets, before slipping out from underneath and taking your possession from behind. My back against your chest as you grip my hips to control me and pull them back against you. And then, with one hand, pressing my neck forwards and up, forcing my face into the wall as you slide into me.

I want you to admire my back stretched out defenceless before you. The proud musculature of my shoulders, the definition of my slender waist as it curves softly into my glorious bottom. Your hands holding firm on my hip and neck as you pump harder and harder, relishing the thud each time my skull hits the paintwork.

I want to know that you think about those other men, imagine their envy and revel in your mastery.

I want to hear you hoarsely whispering: 'You're my fuckbitch... my thing... to do whatever I want with.'

'My fuckthing.'

'Mine!' as you ride me, screaming, into oblivion, spraying your scent between my legs as surely as if you were marking your territory.

For you are my man and I belong to you.

Tuesday, 4 December 2007

Sugasm #108

The best of this week’s blogs by the bloggers who blog them. Highlighting the top 3 posts as chosen by Sugasm participants. Want in Sugasm #109? Submit a link to your best post of the week using this form. Participants, repost the link list within a week and you’re all set.

This Week’s Picks

From virgin cocksucker to blowjob queen ” I love to play and tease with my hand and tongue, lightly licking, sometimes using my panties or another soft fabric to run across the shaft.”

Interlopers “Oh yes, I’ve seen it all before, I know what you’re here for.”

Old Friends “His cultured voice warm, approving, promising; it makes me wet every time, an uncontrollable Pavlovian response.”

Mr. Sugasm Himself The Count

Editor’s Choice Hot and Cold

More Sugasm

Join the Sugasm

See also: Fleshbot’s Sex Blog Roundup each Tuesday and Friday.

Monday, 3 December 2007

The Friend

Some guys are just the bestest friends. They are there for you when the shit hits the fan, when your Husband is being difficult, when the kids are acting up, when your martial arts journey hits a dead end. Always ready in a crisis with a kind word and a motivational peptalk.

The Friend is one such man.

I first came across him on a forum where I was enthralled by his writing style - some might call it ranting, but to me it was erudite and eloquent, with an amazing wit driving the message home.

It transpired that he trained at a dojo not too far from me and, when I became dissatisfied with my teachers of that time, I pitched up to get a taste of what his instructors had to offer. We became very firm friends and, although he left the dojo to continue his martial arts journey on another path, we continued to see each other on the seminar circuit once or twice a year and exchanged catch-up emails every so often. I was incredibly pleased and flattered that he made a 300 mile roundtrip from his home to the venue where I took my black belt, just to watch me finally make the grade and then write me a wonderful valedictory speech on the forum we both frequented

Some people might have wondered at the nature of our friendship, but the one thing about him that remained constant was his enduring love for his wife which permeated every conversation. I was, therefore, very bemused and upset to receive an email from her saying that they had become estranged and could I keep an eye on him for her. It put me in a very difficult situation because it became apparent that there was trouble in paradise and all was not well with their relationship. I continued to try to reassure her, without giving away anything that he was telling me. I really did feel like piggy in the middle but I tried not to pass on anything that was revealed to me by either side and to remain impartial over any disputes.

One day she asked me if I thought there was anyone else. I assured her that at no time had he mentioned any other women and that he was focussed on improving his education and retaining his employment in difficult circumstances. It was then that it occurred to me that her suspicions might actually extend to me and this was later confirmed by my friend. Apparently she was always making comments about my presence 'in his life' in that we had similar interests and attitudes to things.

He told me that he would have loved for her to ask outright whether we had ever been intimate because it would have given him the opportunity to make this reply:

'The only time we were ever 'intimate' was when we were rolling around on the floor at a seminar in front of about 30 people. She got on top of me, dropped an elbow in and broke my rib... and I rather felt that meant that a shag was out of the question...'

I really hope they can work things out.

Sunday, 2 December 2007

Aries and Aquarius

Having My Cake and Ruf - I think this says it all really :)

Lets101 - Free Online Dating

Been spending the weekend with Ruf and watching him fight for his next grade. Lots of testosterone-fuelled rampancy... and that was just me - back tomorrow :)

Thursday, 29 November 2007

HNT: Rehabilitation IV - The Return of the Cake!

Well, come on, the franchise slasher/porn movies can do it, so why not me...?

'When you get here, I am going to feast on your cunt.'

These were the words that had been ringing in my ears for almost a week. We had been discussing the Kivin technique, which I had heard of before and seen described as part of a programme in the series 'How to have sex after marriage' which was on C5 Thursday 9pm. The Kivin is a method of licking across the flesh just under the clit whilst holding it proud between the pressure of two fingers on one hand and pressing on the perineum with a finger of the other hand. You're supposed to be able to feel the pulse there increasing with the woman's arousal, I believe.

Anyway, Ruf and I had been formulating the mechanics of this in our heads ready for our time together the following weekend. It has been a long time since he was last able to go down on me. After the termination, I bled for over five entire weeks until I got a proper period. A few days into that I had my IUD inserted, which resulted in continuous bleeding for another 3.5 weeks.

I know Ruf would lick me if I asked but, to be honest, I don't feel comfortable having his mouth there when I'm in that condition so I prefer to dissuade him and pleasure him instead.

Hence, it had been ten weeks since he had last pleasured me cunnilingually. It had also been ten weeks since he had been able to shoot his hot stickiness inside me but, secure in the knowledge that the IUD was where it should be, it was now time to test its efficacy.

No condoms, no blood and no fear.

We were both getting very excited about the prospect of the coming few days.

When I finally arrived, he came out to meet me and help with my bags. It had been three weeks since we had even seen each other. His shaven hair had grown and he had several days of beard. He looked so sexy in a sort of half-pirate/half-terrorist way and, when he smiled, the appearance of the dimple in amongst the stubble tipped me over the edge so that I could barely keep my hands off him!

After dropping all the luggage in the hallway, he took my hand and led me into the lounge, sitting me down on the sofa. Kneeling in front of me, he started to remove my boots and my socks, whilst caressing my calves and shins.

And then he reached up and kissed me. Soft, gentle, searching kisses, reclaiming me from my other life. Evicting the woman who is someone else's wife, casting out the frightened girl who had struggled through all the emotional and physical turmoil of the preceding weeks... and setting Cake free.

His hand undoing my belt and the buttons of my combats, he slid them down and then sat back to admire the view.

The sheer pink polka dot thong hiding very little of the delights underneath, his fingers started to investigate his property; pinching and tweaking at the lips before sliding the fabric aside and saying hello with his mouth. Tracing the contours that he has come to know so well. Licking and sucking and probing until my sighs, giggles and squeals were quite uncontainable.

Reaching back up to share the flavour with my mouth as his hands divested me of the remainder of my clothes. Sliding down my bra straps and burying his face in my half-released, alabaster-pale breasts before unclasping the fastenings and dropping it to the floor as he dragged the thong down with the other hand.

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I was almost cross when he hardly took time to savour the full effect of the pink polka dot lingerie ensemble but, before long, I had forgotten that I even cared as his face disappeared between my legs to bathe in my excitement.

Pulling him up by his ears, I licked myself from his lips and stubbly chin, before tugging at his clothes and helping him to relieve himself of their encumbrance... until he was naked. My beautiful man! All soft pale skin and dark curling hair. Grasping him by his rigid cock, I kissed his mouth and led him into the bedroom, drawing him under the covers to possess me. Sliding him straight inside - bareback, with no preamble. Just our mouths and our bodies pressed against each other as he penetrated the tight wetness and pushed his way to my core.

His love whispered into my ear as he pumped gently. My arms and legs gripping him and enveloping him as I came, murmuring his name over and over and begging him to let go and make me his, culminating in the shuddering release of his passion, slick inside me for the first time in so long... Neither of us hampered by that tiny unspoken fear of repetition that had held us back. It was glorious.

We have come a long way in the last few months. Older, chastened and a little wiser and yet refreshed and replenished. Understanding and accepting the people that we are and the situation we are in. There are no certainties about the future, only the way we feel about each other in the present and that it is too precious to give up without a fight.

The weekend passed in a blur of passionate embraces in our bed, experimenting with some new toys, revisiting some positions that had been precluded by my predicament; dozily wrapping ourselves up in each other, snuggling naked to snooze under the duvet as he refracted, skin pressed against skin at every opportunity, before waking to renewed vigour. The bed a Pandora's Box of metal and plastic accessories as the sheet became a stained rag - spattered with a random pattern of damp patches denoting the bodily manifestations of our lust, punctuated by complete hand prints of lubricating essence.

There are still certain positions of deep penetration that are not as pleasant as they once used to be and I'm not sure if this is psychosomatic or a physical actuality from the device that has been inserted but, to all intents and purposes, our repertoire is back to where it was before The P Word caused a temporary hiatus in proceedings.

It's sooooo good to be back x

Sugasm #107

The best of this week’s blogs by the bloggers who blog them. Highlighting the top 3 posts as chosen by Sugasm participants. Want in Sugasm #108? Submit a link to your best post of the week using this form. Participants, repost the link list within a week and you’re all set.

This Week’s Picks

Half-Nekkid Blow Job” We could hear people walking past and talking so they’d be able to hear us as well.”

Masturbation on a Memory“I let the first time I had sex with your flash back though my mind.”

Reality Check: Handling Long Calls“While I get my share of quick cummer calls I have several clients that like to talk for hours.”

Mr. Sugasm Himself Christian Friis

Editor’s Choice A Non-Monogamy Lexicon

More Sugasm

Join the Sugasm

See also: Fleshbot’s Sex Blog Roundup each Tuesday and Friday.

Monday, 26 November 2007


I was trying to categorise the writing style within my Blog recently and the best I could come up with was:

Barbara Cartland meets Playboy... but without the Silicon.

How would you describe your Blog?

Sunday, 25 November 2007

Tits Up - date

Gok Wan said the average bra size for UK women is 36C.

Our survey of blog readers received 42 votes as follows:

2 (4%)

7 (16%)

11 (26%)

16 (38%)

6 (14%)

On 'How to Look Good Naked' Wednesday C4 8pm, Gok is going around the country helping women to feel good about their naked bodies and he has discovered similar facts to those highlighted by Trinny and Susannah (Undress the Nation ITV1 Tuesday 8pm) only a few weeks earlier: Women are wearing the wrong size bras. They have gaps between the fabric and the flesh. They have flesh busting out all over. There are even women who appear to have four breasts!

His top tips to remember in calculating whether your bra fits are:

1. Lift (or better still, get someone else to stand behind you and put their fingers under) the straps of your bra at the topmost point of your shoulder. If the fabric stretches more than 1" upwards away from your shoulders, then your bra straps are not tight enough. The straps have little buckles on them for loosening and tightening - USE THEM to adjust for optimum support every time you don your underwear!

2. The flat bit in between the two cups should fit snugly against your body. If there is a gap, your bra doesn't fit.

3. If there is any seepage ANYWHERE - from underneath the cups, bulbousness over the top of the cup or flesh squeezing out by your armpits - the cup size is too small.

Ladies, we need to look after ourselves because a bra that is too small looks horrible, feels horrible and will not support your beautiful bosoms!

Remember, if you wash your bra in the washing machine, this will have an effect on the elasticity of said garment. Sometimes they can shrink and sometimes they can expand so, if you are wearing a bra that is more than two years old and is washed once a week, the chances are that it is probably not adhering to your cupcakes in the way that it did when brand new.

Check it out and if it's seen better days, go down to a good bra shop, get yourself properly measured and invest in a new model. One word of caution: Please remember the discrepancy between measurements that Trinny and Susannah experienced and when you try on the different styles in what is the recommended size, bear in mind Gok's golden rules as listed above.

Inspired by the bravery of the average woman in the street who has been prepared to reveal all for Gok or Trinny and Susannah, I have started to fully appreciate the beauty of my own boobtastic chest in addition to my fabulous arse. And I've stopped worrying about what I consider to be a blubbery tummy. Almost every woman who has ever carried a child to full term has exactly the same 'damage'. We/I have to stop worrying about these things and rejoice that our bodies did such a fantastic thing and still lived to tell the tale. These pointers - a bit of saggy skin, a few stretchmarks - are all just signs showing that our bodies did what they were meant to do.

Do we not see our menfolk proudly preening their beer bellies in front of the mirror? Surely, as women, we should stop beating ourselves up for the changes that have occurred in our own bodies through the most natural act in the world when our men certainly won't be denying themselves an extra pint or pie for fear that we might suddenly dump them. I'm not saying that we shouldn't be doing things to try to tighten things up if that is what we want to do but we should be doing exercise and eating a little less because we want to look good for us - not just because we fear that our mate will find us unattractive and go off in search of a younger model.

These programmes should be compulsory viewing for all of us with body issues because we don't all have the stick-thin figure of Kate Moss or the voluptuous hour glasses of various movie stars that bombard us from the television. We all have different beautiful shapes - bells, vases, columns, cellos, apples, pears, to name but a few. We just have to learn how to dress them to maximise our assets. But, above all, we need to learn to love our bodies and ourselves for without that inner beauty, we are lost in a sea of self-esteem issues.

This was another issue that was brought out in C5's 'How to have Sex after Marriage'. So many women who hated their appearance and had no self-confidence as a result. That lack of belief meant that they were scared to initiate intimacy with their husbands at all - and certainly not with the lights on! You men can help here. I know it's high maintenance, but we desperately need to hear you tell us how desirable we are and how beautiful you find us. I know, I know. But if you say it often enough, we have to believe :)

So ladies, we all need to stand in front of a mirror and chant the mantra 'I am a beautiful woman and I am gorgeous.'

Say it and believe it... because YOU ARE!!!!

Rant over. Cake gets off her soapbox...

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Saturday, 24 November 2007


If you would rather read an erotic story than a meme, please move down to the next blog entry about The Driving Lesson.

As Tagged by Waynecoff. In some cases it was impossible to pick out eight things in each category and in others there were more than eight, so not the easiest meme. But then I thrive on not conforming so...

8 passions in my life

My children - so that's two really


Martial Arts


Maintaining my friendships

The proper use of the apostrophe

8 things to do before I die

Be satisfied that Ive done the best I could

Be satisfied with my martial arts performance

Dandle my grandchildren on my knee

Have a three-some

Have a partner with whom there is mutual adoration and who satisfies me in every area of my life even if I am high maintenance

8 things I often say


Tidy your room

Hang your blazer up and put your shoes in the cupboard

Do your homework

Regret what you didn't do, never what you did

You've got to want it

Don't think, feeeeeeeel

Why can't you just love me?

8 Books I read recently

Life and Times of Anne Boleyn

Harry Potter and The ?

The Bubishi

The Story of the Egg

The Northern Lights

The latest book in the Dynasty series by Cynthia Harrod Eagles

8 songs that mean something to me

Dirty Little Secret - All American Rejects

I know I'll never love this way again - Dionne Warwick

Starlight - Muse

Barbie Girl - Aqua

Wake me up inside - Evanessence

Living on a Prayer - Bon Jovi

Total Eclipse of the Heart - Bonnie Tyler

Lola's Theme - Shapeshifters

8 Qualities I look for in a friend



The ability to listen and not be too judgemental

The ability to tell me the truth without being too harsh


Similar interests

Similar experiences

8 People who I am passing this on to:

I hate chain letters and I also detest tagging loads of people because you end up with the same blog subject everywhere, so I will pass this on only to Gypsy

Thursday, 22 November 2007

The Driving Lesson

Take the next turning on the right and pull over. Remember, mirror, signal, manoeuvre please, Mr. Smith"

"That's the ticket. You're doing very well. Now, if you could just pull into this small gap, down the beaten track to the end. Put the car into neutral, engage the handbrake and switch off the engine, please. I think we'll run through some of the finer points of the Highway Code. You should bear in mind that this will be done under strict test conditions so I will not be able to help you."

Checking the top sheet of my clipboard, I place it carefully on the floor in front of my seat and duck under your outstretched arm to slide across the central console. Making sure your hands are replaced firmly on the steering wheel in the correct position at '10 to 2', I straddle your lap and start unbuttoning your shirt. You have a rainbow of different coloured garments but you're wearing the black today. It's the one I like best. My favourite shirt on my most gifted pupil. So, one button at a time, trailing my finger down to the next and kissing your chest as it reveals itself to me. Running my tongue over the tattoo that runs down the top of your arm from your shoulder, licking the space between your nipples - slight detour to the nipple bar for a suck - soft kisses over your solar plexus and down, lapping at the smooth little rolls of skin and the ripples of muscle underneath, feeling something pressing up against me through your jeans.

I take off my glasses and place them carefully on the dashboard, followed by the clip from my hair and shake out the cloud of soft curls. Kissing you full on the mouth, inserting my tongue as your lips open to receive it. My hands are on the button of your trousers and you are throbbing as I gently pull down the zipper. I have to look down to check things out and it's so beautiful, just smiling up at me. I am compelled to stroke it with one hand, whilst I reach under my blouse and undo my bra with the other so I can press my naked nipple into your mouth. I can feel myself exploding inside as your tongue touches the tip, your lips encircle it and suck...

It's no good, I have to have you inside me so I lift up my skirt, push aside my thong and slip onto it, slowly pressing down to take the first couple of inches inside me. Your hands move to touch me, just sliding them down my spine and feeling me shiver at their progress. Watching the goosebumps coming up as you suck harder on my nipple and I push it against your tongue. Resting your fingertips lightly on the small of my back, tickling your little fingers against the curve of my bottom and then starting to push carefully into me: slowly, slowly in and then out again as I touch myself, pressing and circling my fingers and then leaning my other hand behind me between your legs and stroking your balls through your jeans whilst my mouth admonishes you:

"Mr Smith! Keep your hands on the steering wheel and your eyes on the road even if we aren't moving. You'll never pass the test if you don't obey the rules of the Highway Code!"

Rising up and down on you and gripping your thighs with my knees, feeling my muscles screaming with the pressure as I hold you deep inside me, clenching my pelvic floor and drawing your further in, leaving you conscious of nothing more than how wet I am and how much I want you. You gasp at every contraction, feeling me press down hard against you, listen to my moans of desire. So full and so happy and knowing that any minute, any second, we're both going to feel that rush, that exhilaration of total release as my body sucks yours dry.

And then my fingers are pressing into your shoulders and we're writhing against each other... mouths, torsos, groins... as hard and as fast as we can, draining every last ounce of energy until everything is exploding, wet and hot as we collapse against each other...

Readjusting my clothing and rebuttoning your jeans and your shirt, I slip back under your extended arm, the hand still fixed on the steering wheel. Regaining my position in the passenger seat, I use the mirror behind the sunvisor to check my hair and reapply my lipstick before consulting my clipboard to tick the requisite boxes on the sheet.

"Congratulations, Mr. Smith, you have just successfully satisfied the needs of your examiner with regard to the criteria for this section of your examination...."

Tuesday, 20 November 2007

The Future Mr Cake

It was the first days of January of a new decade. The great glamrock/disco/punk leviathans of the '70s had drawn to a glorious close, the term Britpop had not yet been coined and we were about to begin the time of the New Romantic with its hermaphrodite confusion of Beau Brummel-type fops.

My relationship with the Cherry Picker was over, my liaison with the Sugar Daddy was drawing to a close and, after a busy New Year's Eve, I had several dates lined up for the following week.

I was having an early evening drink with the Cherry Picker at the local Rugby Club and, on my way back from the Ladies, I was accosted by a group of my father's friends. Chatting away flirtatiously, I became aware of someone I had not been introduced to previously. He was great fun and, when the other guys drifted away to get more drinks or take a leak, he remained. Quietly confident, he was intriguing and clearly somewhat older than my usual beaux. I never returned to my place beside the Cherry Picker. It transpired that he was 26 and the younger brother of a friend of my father's. I laughed and commented that most of my father's friends had beer bellies and would buy me a drink, insist on kissing me because it was The New Year and then get progressively more drunk and more revoltingly lecherous as the evening wore on. He replied that 'he was not like my father's other friends'. Looking sidelong at him, this was quite obvious. He was handsome, tall, slim and athletic and played scrum half for the second team. He was also softly spoken, erudite and funny. I think I rather liked him right from the start.

After an hour or so, I remembered that I was supposed to be meeting another friend for dinner so I had to make my excuses and leave. He was very reluctant to let me go and kept making reasons for me to stay but I had not seen my other friend for ages so I had to go. I got my coat and, as I passed him on the way out, he asked if he could see me again. Consulting my diary, I realised that I couldnt actually fit him in until the following Wednesday, due to my previous engagements. Undeterred, he took my home phone number (no mobiles in those days) and we agreed that he would pick me up at 7 on the Wednesday evening and take me out for dinner. Dinner? None of the other young guys were taking me out for dinner!

The other dates turned out to be tedious dullards, even the one who took me for Sunday lunch, who was the most acceptable of a bad bunch. I was obviously very drunk that New Year's Eve... or very desperate!

The Future Mr Cake picked me up at the appointed time and drove me to a not-so-local bijou restaurant. There were candles and soft music and only one or two other couples. He took my coat, pulled out the chair and helped me to sit down. He encouraged me to choose the most expensive steak from the menu and then entertained me with funny stories for the rest of the evening. By the end of it, I was quite smitten and, when he kissed me very gently on the lips to say goodbye, my heart just melted.

By the February, I had decided that he was the one and, when my father was out for the evening, I invited him for dinner. Not being the world's greatest cook, I can remember that the fishfingers were burned... but the coupling afterwards was very successful.

It's really hard to go back and recall just how I felt nearly 30 years ago but I know I was totally in love with him.

I was 18 years old and I had spent the previous year running a four-bedroomed house for my father and younger sister, doing the housework and shopping as well as attending College fulltime and successfully completing my assignments by their due dates. I was also dealing with my mother's departure, my father's drunken attempts to cope with her desertion and abrogation of responsibility to her family... plus the physical manifestations of my anorexia.

The Future Mr Cake seemed like an angel sent to rescue me and make me happy. It's not surprising that he was duly accorded the 'knight on white charger' status that my romantic spirit needed to escape. Trying to reach back through all the tears and the resentments to the two innocent young people that we used to be. Before it all withered away. Just attempting to reconnect with that confused girl and how she felt makes me so sad because I know that there are so many good times that I have forgotten. So many memories that have been overwritten by acrimony and antagonism.

I know that he was quite worried about the age difference of very nearly eight years. Coping with what I was having to, I was very mature for my age but there were still many things that gave him cause for concern. However, I was very pretty and bubbly and he admitted that he had been watching me for several weeks prior to that January day, trying to pluck up the courage to ask me out and I truly believe that he loved me too in his own way.

He used to kiss me back then. Tenderly and passionately. And on that first night, he built me up to a point of no return as he removed my clothes and slipped his fingers into me. Like the Cherry Picker, he too knew what he was doing with his digits and soon I was coming just as hard as I was used to.

He whispered: 'What am I going to do with you?' as he reached over to his jeans for the condom but it was unnecessary. I had been on the Pill since well before the advent of the Cherry Picker so, for his first time bareback, he just slid into me and thus I opened the door on the sexual side of a relationship that would take 25 years to finally founder.

Sugasm #106

The best of this week’s blogs by the bloggers who blog them. Highlighting the top 3 posts as chosen by Sugasm participants. Want in Sugasm #107? Submit a link to your best post of the week using this form. Participants, repost the link list within a week and you’re all set.

This Week’s Picks

5 Advanced Deep Throat Techniques “Suck your man’s penis into your throat, and, while it is deep in, start to hum.”

MILF = Men I’d Like to Fuck “He knows my body p e r f e c t l y and knows exactly how to make me squirm with pleasure and always knows the right thing to say.”

Reconciling Desire & Reality (part 2) “The excitement of sharing her, the excitement of my arousal THEORETICALLY should mean a heightening of our own sex life.”

Mr. Sugasm Himself

Our fearless leader tells me he’s crazy busy so I’m presenting one from the vaults.

The Six Types of Porn Movie (and How To Get Into Them)

Editor’s Choice Primed

More Sugasm

Join the Sugasm

See also: Fleshbot’s Sex Blog Roundup each Tuesday and Friday.

Sunday, 18 November 2007

Parental nightmare

This week one of my worst fears as a parent was confirmed.

My teenage daughter and I have always had a very open relationship with regards to discussing matters sexual. I am extremely proud of that. She can and does ask me anything that she is unsure of and I will answer as honestly as I can and display absolutely nothing judgemental in that explanation.

From the age of 10, when she first asked about condoms, I have stressed repeatedly that they are to be worn at all times when involved in a sexual situation. I worked on the basis that if a handsome young man plied her with alcohol and then tried to persuade her that he would still love her in the morning, even in her drunken stupor, she would still have me sitting on her shoulder hissing 'If you have unprotected sex, you will get AIDS and you will diiiiiiiiiiie. Use a condom!'

And yet, she revealed this week that she had been to the Family Planning to have something checked out. They have told her that the burning when she passes urine is not an STI but, more likely, a case of cystitis - a condition to which she has been prone since she was a small child. On learning of this, I immediately plied her with my sovereign cystitis remedy - a pint of water with a teaspoon of bicarbonate of soda in it and reassured her that the problem could be cured within the day, without recourse to the doctor or nasty-tasting and hard-to-swallow antibiotics, if she drank this concoction on a regular basis.

I then proceeded to tell her the Golden Rules of the next few days. No drinks containing caffeine, other than very weak tea. No acidic fruit juices. Lots of water and cranberry juice. But, more importantly, no sex and no vibrators. She looked at me curiously. Yes, cystitis can be brought on by over-enthusiastic masturbation or copulation.

'Well,' she informed me, laughing excitedly. '***** did have a very big dong!'

Yes, I had to try very hard not to pull that face too!

***** is a name that I have not heard mentioned before. I was aware that she had been having sex with her previous boyfriend of six months and of that relationship's demise... but knew nothing about this chap.

As the day wore on, the questions started to formulate in my head. Who was this guy? Why was she going to the Family Planning to get something looked at, rather than mentioning it to me first. I know that she went to them for contraception - the Pill AND condoms - she discussed it with me before she went.

Slowly, the realisation dawned and, the next time we were on our own, I asked her. 'Did you think that you had an STI because you had had unprotected sex with *****?' My heart just sank when she gave an affirmative answer.

I am quite devastated to be honest. All those years of trying to drive the message of safe sex home in as many different ways as I could, telling her where my condoms were kept, even offering to buy her her own supply. All that for nothing because she has still played Russian Roulette with her life and is now telling me not to fuss.

Apparently, she had used a new purse and had forgotten to transfer the condom she usually kept with her and yet, despite all my warnings, she went ahead and had intercourse anyway. I told her that in some ways it would have been better to give him a blowjob - certainly there were still risks through swallowing but nowhere near the exposure of full-on unprotected sex.

I tried to assess the damage by asking pertinent questions about her knowledge of his sexual behaviour but she refused to answer and by keeping on I would have just made matters worse in terms of her telling me things in the future.

So, I just said that for peace of mind (for both of us), perhaps she should go back to the Family Planning in three months and ask for an HIV test. I know that it takes this long for the antibodies to be present in any blood sample so to have one done now would be pointless. If she did turn out to be positive, it would be better to know sooner rather than later so that any treatments could be commenced immediately.

My daughter has always been very feisty and dumped her recent longterm boyfriend because he admitted that he had feelings for someone else and was torn between my teen and the other girl. Basically, she told him that if he felt he had to make a choice, then she would make it for him and he could f*** right off! Go, teen, go!

So, I'm not sure that I need to talk to her about not feeling obliged/needing to have sex with any young man who shows an interest because I don't think she does. I think she places quite a high value on herself. Up until now, I have always been pragmatic about her attitude to sex and have never said 'Don't do it', rather 'Do it if you feel you want to do it because you care about someone and you would enjoy doing it with him/her, but always do it SAFELY'. I wanted her to feel empowered rather than inhibited by her sexuality.

I can only hope that this will be a one-off and that she will ensure possession and use of a condom at all times in the future... and I can only pray that the outcome of the test will prove to be negative.

Friday, 16 November 2007

Genetic Frigidity

I asked my mother why it was that my Grandma never got married again after her husband died. She said it was because Grandma didn't like the physical side of marriage. Apparently she used to tell the anecdote that she would stay downstairs until she thought he was asleep but, on numerous occasions, as soon as her foot touched the bottom-most stair to go up to bed, her husband would call out 'I'm still awake'...

Between them, her four sisters only managed to produce three children and one remained a spinster, stating that she couldn't find a man for whom she wanted to give up her independence. We should, of course, bear in mind that this was in the period after two World Wars, where men were in short supply due to the vast number of casualties.

I can remember my own mother staying downstairs finishing chores til late into the night and I can also vividly recall the sounds coming from my parents' bedroom as my father tried to insist on his conjugal rights and my mother would decline vociferously.

In my own marriage, I too have been guilty of only coming up to bed when I hoped my Husband was asleep. The most memorable was the night I had done a grading and achieved a serious martial arts belt - brown. There were still three big steps to get to black but brown was regarded as getting your foot on the first rung of the ladder. It had been a hard grading, lasting nearly three hours with lots of tests to make your brain do complicated routines under the dual pressures of fear and fatigue, ending with several rounds of sparring against the higher grades. I was physically exhausted after the ordeal but my mind was flitting about like a mad thing and the adrenalin was coursing through my veins, making me nauseous and flighty.

I spent several hours on the computer trying to calm down and when I did finally go upstairs, my Husband stirred in the bed, obviously still awake. I informed him that I'd just succeeded in getting my brown belt as I disappeared into the bathroom. When I slid under the covers a few minutes later, his immediate reaction was not to voice his congratulations but to roll over, reach for my breast and try to subjugate me to his will.

I was having none of it. I had just fought off several other men, I wasn't about to submit to this one so he was sent back to his side of the bed with a stinging verbal flea in his ear that I was still more in the mood to punch rather than fuck... The power that my martial arts training gave me in view of having the courage to fight rather than submit has played a major role in how my life has progressed since then.

But I'm still left worrying about my sexuality - not my gender or persuasion, but my enjoyment level. I chose to deny myself fulfilling sex and sometimes any sex at all for so many years because I thought I was ugly and my body disgusted me. The fact that my Husband couldn't tell me, let alone make me believe, that he found me attractive exacerbated my mental revulsion. His accusations through the darkness across the cold marital bed that I must be frigid or a lesbian only made things worse.

I know that there is definitely no questioning my sexual preference because Ive always much enjoyed the company, and indeed the admiration, of men, lusting after them in all their shapes and forms and inadequacies.

Discovering sex toys made me understand that I wasn't frigid per se because I could get orgasms from them and The Catalyst's compliments helped me to start to believe that I might not be so unattractive. However, his good opinion had been formed from carefully selected photographs that I had sent. He hadn't seen the full horror of my body in real life so how could he be trusted.

Thus, it was Bear who made me start to believe. A man at least a decade younger than me who found me attractive enough to stray ever so slightly from his marriage just that once.

But I wasn't always so cold in my marital bed. In the beginning, I had enjoyed, instigated and fantasised about sex with my Husband. Maybe my mother and my grandmother had also had those feelings at the beginnings of their marriages but they had all gone away. Perhaps I was genetically programmed to lose interest in my partner once the initial instinctive lust had run its course?

And yet with Ruf, two years have gone by. Two years during which we have made love/fucked/mutually masturbated hundreds of times. If you say that we spent time together at least one weekend every month and interacted at least ten times as a very conservative average, that is a minimum of 240 sexual encounters, lots of them in broad daylight where my body was on full display. It doesn't sound as if I am frigid or, indeed, as if I am starting to lose interest.

If you compare that to the ratio of people who actually live together in the early days of their relationship, would they still be achieving a minimum of ten times per weekend twice a month? Maybe, as they say, familiarity breeds contempt and having sex on tap running in tandem with the mundane drudgery of maintaining a joint home cannot possibly compete with the intensity of sex that can be attained when you see someone only twice a month and set aside whole days purely to enjoy each other. So if I were to put my relationship with Ruf onto a more permanent footing, would I regress to that genetic frigidity after a year or so?

It is a question that concerns me greatly.

Thursday, 15 November 2007


I'm sorry but I need to do this because, currently, Sugasm is in bigger print than my beloved in my tag cloud.

This is a situation which cannot be allowed to continue.

A new post entitled Genetic Frigidity will follow in the morning...

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Tuesday, 13 November 2007

Masturbation Memories

A friend has lent me a manual on parenting issues in the modern world and I left it lying on my bed whilst I came down to catch up on my emails.

When my 13 year old son came in from school, he went upstairs, saw the bright yellow book and, for reasons unknown, began to peruse it.

The first I knew of this was when he came down clutching the small tome and, opening it to the offending page, demanded to know why I was reading a book that contained a section on 'Masturbation'.

As usual, in these situations, I responded without any sign of shock or fluster - I've had a lot of practice in this field now. So, hardly moving my eyes from the computer screen and behaving as if the question had no more import than if he had asked me what was for tea, I replied:

'Well, why not? Masturbation is a perfectly normal function and it's quite ok to do it so long as you don't end up with a crusty carpet.'

This is a throwback to a friend's teenage boy whose bedroom carpet had loads of sticky rough patches where he'd been entertaining himself whilst lying on the floor reading his porn magazines and so I always associate teenage wanking with crusty carpet syndrome.

He looked at me curiously so I continued. 'Just try to catch what comes out in a tissue, rather than letting it spurt over the carpet where it dries all crispy.'

'But...' he started and then stopped, adopting a sort of sheepish posture.

'But... what?' I looked away from my screen at his little red face with the twisted, half-curious/half-mortified grin.

'But, what about girls? It says in that book that girls masturbate too. How does that work?'

'Of course girls do it as well. It's a perfectly normal thing to do. They just rub their bits in a nice way and it can make them have an orgasm too.'

I can see from the look on his face that he doesn't really understand so I go through the whole penis/vagina thing with the emphasis on the fact that the area needs to be lubricated in order for it not to be a rather dry and uncomfortable occurrence.

'And so when girls have an orgasm because it feels nice, it's like a lot of extra wetness inside them.'

'Oh,' he said and wandered off to digest and assimilate all this information.

Now, I realise that there are a whole load of tangents that I probably should have gone off at to deal with some very salient issues like how the lubrication for the penis/vagina bit gets there in the first place and possibly mutual masturbation, but that didn't occur to me at the time and sometimes you need to give them a chance to work with the more basic stuff before overloading them with additional facts and further questions. Sometimes there can be just too much information.

A short while later, he returned and starting being irritating in that relentless badgering mode that children have when they want to get their own way about something they want to do that certainly isn't the homework to which they should be attending.

'For goodness sake,' I eventually huffed. 'Can't you go and masturbate or something?'

For a moment he looked quite shocked and then slunk out of the room giggling conspiratorially...

But it got me to thinking. My son is 13 and I don't actually know if he does wank in the form that I understand the term and, if he does, how did he find out what to do?

So I'm addressing these questions to you males out there in an attempt to try to find out more without embarrassing my poor son with a whole load of personal questions.

How old were you when you first masturbated?

How old were you when you first ejaculated?

What made you want to do it?

How did you work out what to do? Did you talk about it with your mates? Learn about the mechanics at school or from a book?

Were there mental stimuli involved (like naked women pics) or was it a purely physical pleasure?

Enlighten me...