Sexual Mores

Moving off on a tangent from my post on Internet Responsibility, I started to think about my own sexual journey and that of those people that I have come to know through blogging.

Remembering as ever the vanillaness of my background, I ask what may be very ingenuous and naive questions:

Would so many of us have tried all these different sexual positions, toys, bondage, fetishes if it weren't for our easy access to new ideas about such matters from the Internet? Would many of us have remained perpetually vanilla through ignorance/embarrassment?

Would we have met so many people of a similar persuasion with whom to interact either in virtual or actual reality?

And are we pushed onwards into deeper and darker realms because of our desire to achieve the next thrill, the next big orgasm? Searching and questing for something bigger and deeper every time to satisfy our ever expanding desire. Is there actually a summit to the mountain we keep on climbing... or a bottom to the pit into which we are descending?

Does our Internet access amplify our kinks?

Or are these only natural practices in which humans have been indulging since the dawn of time...?

Internet Responsibility

I was thinking about the role of the Internet in certain sections of today's society.

When I was a child, our infants school backed onto some woods and there were tales of a nudist camp and of a man who used to lurk and peer out of the trees through the mesh fence at the children. Then, we just used to treat the idea of him as some kind of bogeyman - a bit like the Cybermen or other baddies from Dr Who. Nowadays, of course, the word paedophile would raise is ugly head at the very second a strange man looking at children was mentioned.

In those days, people who were arrested and sentenced for child abduction and molestation were very few and far between. I don't know if that's because it just wasn't reported in the same hysterical way it is today or if it really was a less frequent problem. Then, we were warned about not talking to strangers, not accepting sweets from strangers and not getting into cars with strangers. We had so much more freedom. I was walking home from school with my sister and our friends with no adult from the time I was in Junior School - that's year 3 in today's money. School was a mile from our house and we thought nothing of it. In the holidays, aged 10 or 11, we would cycle down to the park opposite our school, leave our bikes unpadlocked near the edge of the field (and still expect them to be there when we returned several hours later), cross the stream and go and chase each other through the cornfield behind. Playing Kisschase and Spin the Bottle and Postman's Knock. Climbing trees, jumping the stream, hide and seek. Staying out from breakfast til teatime with no sign of a responsible adult.

By the time my teen was 11, I was quite surprised to learn that kisschase was actually banned in their playground and that their birthday parties were all trips to the cinema, bowling, team laser shooting, discos, that sort of thing. No one had birthday parties at home with jam sandwiches and fondant fancies, nor did they played Postman's knock, or Spin the Bottle any more.

These days, just the whiff of what might be considered an unnatural interest in children is punishable by trial by neighbourhood gossip and vigilante action. A complaint can be registered seemingly without there being any actual physical evidence with untold damage done to reputations, both personal and professional.

Because of the recent highly publicised cases, we seem to live in a climate of fear today. All school assistants, both paid and voluntary have to have CRB checks - even if it is only to help out on a school trip by making up the required number of adults to children. Carers in nursery school or primary school - even female ones - are not allowed to take individual children to the toilet on their own. Men have to think very carefully about helping out in any capacity at events involving children. I can remember my own dad piling about ten of us (aged between four and eleven) into his car on a Sunday morning, no seat belts, to take us all swimming at the local pool. Over the course of two or three years, he taught at least five of those young friends, both boys and girls, to swim by letting them rest their bellies on his arm and getting them to kick and swim with their arms. As their confidence grew, he gradually let the air out of their armbands and removed the support of his arm. Today, people would look askance at such behaviour.

Whilst I believe that these new measures to protect our children in both school and afterschool activities are positive steps to ensure their safety, I do worry at the amazingly high numbers of convicted offenders who appear to have been able to get jobs in close proximity to children in the decade before these restrictions were brought in. Was there always this volume of paedophiles or has there been a sudden proliferation in the last 15 years due to some other external factor?

Back then, the child molester was seen as a dirty old man in a raincoat, who shuffled surreptitiously along in his shame, thinking he was the only individual in the world who had these unnatural urges. Trying to hide himself away and keep his distance from any temptations, although sometimes unable to resist the urge to lurk and peep.

With hindsight, of course, we now know that he was far more likely to be a respectable family man with a houseful of either his own progeny, step or foster children that he could interfere with at will; or a highly respected professional with access to young people through his work with organisations relating to children; or even wear the uniform of an ordained religious man. This person had no need to abduct children for his own devices, he had a whole pool of them from which he could select and groom. And he could persuade himself that they had tempted him, coerced him into his actions.

Today, things are slightly different again because he can stay in his house and download images from the Internet to satisfy his cravings - up until recently with total impunity. He has access to photos and data and, worse, to forums because, through them, he can interact with other people of a similar persuasion. Instead of feeling guilty and sickened by his desires because no one else feels the way he does, there seems to be a whole bunch of people out there who have similar compunctions, encouraging him that his desires are not as unnatural and perverse as he originally thought and can be satisfied and acted upon. According to the media, it would seem now that there are gangs who will procure you a child to your set specifications, providing you have the money to pay for it and your computer will grant you an entree to them.

The Internet may have a lot to answer for.

I'll be out in 2 mins, I'm just brushing my teeth...

Sugasm #99


I am indebted to The Man with Secrets for emailing me with details of the Tingle Tip. He had read my posts about my secret love affair with my Oral B and my subsequent fears that overuse might be damaging the sensitivity of a particularly fragile part of me.

When I went to the Tingle Tip website, I discovered that LoveHoney were also suppliers of this rather interesting toy. I have been an occasional tester and reviewer for them, both here and on their site but my latex allergy causes a few problem in terms of limiting the number of items that I can try out. So, it was with great excitement that I received a positive response to my request to be the first to review the Tingle Tip.

At first glance, it looks just like a normal Oral B toothbrush attachment, although obviously without the bristles, just a flat pink plastic disc instead. It comes with a dear little soft carrybag.

Whilst Ruf is normally very excited by the appearance of my toothbrush, he didn't seem terribly interested in this at first because it looks so benign. It was only when I switched it on and placed it on his balls that he realised the full intensity of the experience.

Lying in bed, attending to his favourite appendage with my hands and tongue, I decided to use the time to pleasure myself simultaneously. So I lubed us both up with some Tracey Cox Tingle Lube and went to work. One hand and my mouth for him and the other hand holding the toothbrush for me.

The first sensation as it switched on was electric, making me jump. The most important thing about the Tingle Tip is that, because of its size, it has the most amazing directional control. It can access parts of you that the larger wand stimulators just cannot get to, so you can focus on any particularly sensitive and responsive areas and really find the spot at that moment. The combination of this and the toothbrush motor which is far more powerful than a standard clitoral vibrator and you have a blissful, if rather noisy, playmate.

Within seconds, it was taking me to places that normally take a fair amount of effort on Ruf's part to attain. He was getting harder and harder at my obvious arousal. As one orgasm after another ripped through me, my face and chest were flushing, my mouth was a big O of wonder and the muscles around my hole were fluttering. Opening and closing from the intense stimulation, crying out mutely in their desperation to enclose something hot and hard. He was almost coming from the efforts of my palm but I needed him in me... not my hand.

I wanted so much for him to penetrate me, to add to the most exquisite sensation I was experiencing but my mouth was no longer working properly. It took huge concentration to reconnect my mind's focus from my groin to my mouth. The words came out one at a time with great gaps and gasps in between, begging him so plaintively, he couldn't fail but respond.

Unselfishly drawing back from his own climax, he put on the obligatory condom, pushed me onto my hands and knees and entered me from behind. One centimetre at a time, he slid oh so slowly into me and then retreated out again. His withdrawal just as protracted and lingering as his entry. It is so hard to describe to you the power of the orgasms that were hitting me as he was doing this, over and over in tandem with the intense vibration on my clit. Wave after wave of explosive energy. You may need to ask his neighbours about the decibels I was reaching as I screamed with abandon.

Ruf started to increase the rhythm, pumping in and out of me harder and harder as I chased the shooting stars that were flying through my brain and my body dribbled its pleasure from every orifice until, finally, I could take no more. It was too much in my current weakened state. My hands, arms and legs were shaking so uncontrollably from the onslaught that I could barely support my own weight, let alone his as well. I began to worry that I might damage myself since I was still in the recovery part of the ordeal I had undergone less than three weeks before. I had to switch it off and promptly collapsed into a heap on the sodden pillows.

After a few moments to catch my breath, regain my composure and reassure myself that my body wasn't about to spontaneously combust from the inside out, I realised how incredibly selfish I had just been.

I leaned over and attached myself, hand and mouth to my beautiful man's rigid cock and did what was necessary to reward him for being the selfless diamond that he is x




Would I recommend it?

Oh yes, it was another screamer :)

And the beauty of it is that it works for the solitary female wanker as well as couples. With liberal applications of lube, the plastic disc was far less harsh, friction-wise, than the brush head on my delicate areas so I will be able to increase my own personal usage.

For busy mums who barely have a moment to themselves, it will be a godsend. After a couple of practice sessions getting to know the most receptive places, a solo clitoral orgasm of extremely satisfying proportions can be achieved in a matter of seconds, providing the ultimate release from the rigours of giving childcare and the boredom of housework. And if you find yourself with a little more time to be leisurely, the insertion of a couple of fingers into either orifice can provide the most delightful completion of the experience.

All under the cover of: 'I'll be out in two minutes, Im just brushing my teeth'.

Sugasm #98

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 #99? 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.
Note: Details of the Sugasm #100 celebrations will appear in Tuesday’s post request.


This Week’s Picks

Anal, her perspective

“This entire anal sex episode had started some months earlier, on a theoretical level.”

When the Muse Wants to Fuck

“Participles, linking verbs, superlative adjectives… You want more?”

Chef

“He’s already at work, but he’s left an order behind on the scraps of ordering paper that we have all over the house.”

Mr. Sugasm Himself

The Secret Diary of a Callgirl

Editor’s Choice

Whipped on this day: 1791


More Sugasm

Join the Sugasm

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

Condom Conundrum

I hate condoms.

French Letters.

Prophylactics.

Whatever you want to call them, I dislike them intensely. For years and years I used them with my Husband. The three times that we didn't, I fell pregnant. Naturally, I never let him near me without his wearing a hat. He would do what he had to do in the darkness and then disappear to the toilet to dispose of it. No wet patches, no problem. Half the time I didn't even bother to wake up.

When Ruf and I got together, he got himself tested for everything to ensure he was clean. The first visit, I was well beyond mid-cycle and had had the symptoms that told me I had ovulated almost a week ago. He hated condoms because they stop him from coming so I agreed to let him go bareback. The first few times he pulled out before he came but, eventually, I just wanted him to stay there. I was pretty sure it was safe and I wanted him to come inside me. It was glorious. I have loved it every time. Sharing that most intimate of moments and holding him safe in my arms when he was at his most vulnerable, feeling him shooting into me and then gradually spilling out.

For 18 joyous months, we played Russian Roulette with my cycle until one month I just took a chance. My periods were still pretty regular, with one or two exceptions so why I just didn't think I was fertile at my advanced age, I don't know. It was stupid and I have recounted how I paid the price for that stupidity. To have to do so again would be construed as extremely careless.

As a result, we have this horrible situation with the condoms - he finds it really hard to come when wearing them. And it is made all the worse by the fact that I have a latex allergy. Fortunately, this does not seem to affect my nether regions so we can use normal condoms. But it does affect my face and my hands very badly. This means that I cannot touch or be touched by anything that has had the latex on it - his hands, his cock... It makes for a very interesting conundrum for one who adores sucking out the last remnants of her man's come so he can fully experience the aftershocks. We have tried the non-latex Durex but these are akin to wearing a plastic bag on your dick and so their reliability in terms of staying in place is rather suspect.

So we are looking at other methods of contraception. At my age, I really don't want to have to start taking the Pill with all the consequent side effects and possible cancer risks.

The latex allergy means that a cap is also out.

The idea of an IUD fills me with horror due to the story I have recounted before of my friend who had to have hers surgically removed from her pelvic cavity six weeks after her baby was born with disabilities but also because the whole idea just makes me feel so squeamish, particularly it's insertion in the light of the nature of the procedure that I underwent recently.. However, if you have thoughts that can reassure me (by comment or by email if you are shy), I would be most grateful.

It is not fair to ask Ruf to have a vasectomy because he is still young enough to want to have children in the future if things don't work out between us.

So, I would welcome your suggestions and experiences as, at the moment, there seems to be only one viable option.

I shall be visiting the doctor tomorrow to discuss having my tubes tied.

Rehabilitation.... Part 3

Driving back in the torrential rain at stupid o'clock in the morning, I have time to reflect on the past weekend. The fear and the disappointment of the first night, the gradual reawakening of the following day and the revelations of the Sunday. As dawn starts to lighten the sky around Luton and the traffic grinds ominously to a halt, I know I'm going to be late for work but it gives me a chance to remember the previous 24 hours...

The fun we had with my new toy in the morning.

Watching a film snuggled up with him, under the duvet that he insisted on getting for me when I shivered and reached for my fleece. Settling me comfortably on the sofa, before sitting down beside me and tucking me in all protectively, his hand resting over the top of mine, our fingers entwining.

Then, later, it is 2am. I have to get up to drive back in less than three hours. We have been cuddled up in our bed talking on and off since midnight. Our hopes, our fears. The things that are troubling us about the future, about our different ways of coping with all that has happened. Sometimes it's hard and we have to try to address the obstacles and the silences of things that should not be left unsaid. But, when all is said and done, nothing can get in the way of our bodies and their mutual desire.

Kissing and then more kissing has the usual effect. Caressing and stroking every part of one another. Playing and teasing, tormenting and worshipping, our instincts take over, intensifying our passionate need for each other in an attempt to leave a lasting memory before we have to be apart again.

There is, however, a place we have to go before I can leave. Unfinished business that cannot wait or it will become an issue. But it has to be achieved slowly and deliberately. He will not make me, but I know that I must go there, to lay the ghosts, to face the demons before they can fester and multiply.

There is no problem now with arousal and reception, he can enter with impunity and does so. Starting from the bottom with me on my side, hands searching and finding, fingers interlocking and palms pressing against each other with equal and opposite force to achieve maximum penetration as he slides in and out of me.

Then to the rear with me half on my front, half on my side. At first, too deep to countenance but with gentle patience, gradually achieving his goal. Each of us twisting obliquely so we can kiss again. Sliding around so that I am completely on my back with my foot on his shoulder, feeling him deep inside me as my other leg curls around his back.

And, finally, dropping the leg from his shoulder, slipping it down his arm and around his hip so he is encircled, as we make it all the way around to missionary; the place we originally started so many hours ago. He hesitates but I am determined to cross this Rubicon and pull his face down to mine so I can kiss him and reassure him. Holding me close, with my arms and legs wrapped tightly around him, he takes me all the way there, shrieking with delight, my nails gripping into his skin. Lying enfolded in my embrace, every part of our skin touching the other's, he is, at last, home. I can feel him on the brink as he whispers his love for me and kisses me deeply before pulling out and away, reinforcing my trust and leaving me undamaged.

He rolls onto his back and waits. He knows how this will end. Each of us with one hand taking him back to the edge and my mouth sucking him into oblivion, silky and sweet upon my tongue.

For the moment, we are both complete.

Rehabilitation... Part 2

One of the things about our relationship that I adore is that we can talk about stuff so easily.

I had texted him about my fear only hours earlier and he had responded by saying that it would be alright and we would sort it out. He is, after all, a sex god :) My response that his sex god status was only as good as my next orgasm suddenly seemed vaguely prophetic.

Lying in the darkness, I tried to analyse the problem. How could I have changed from that 'take me now slut' to this pathetic creature? I came to the conclusion that it was purely and simply fear. I was scared that we would not be able to regain our amazing physical connection due to the mechanics of the procedure I had undergone and I was terrified of getting pregnant again, having to go through that for a second time. The very fact of him entering me unprotected, even with no intention of ejaculating, and my body went into spasms of terror, trying to block him off and stop him.

And so we talked for a while and tried to reassure my flakey cunt. It wasn't long before we were kissing again. For so many years I had forgotten how much I loved to kiss. Before Ruf, it had been such a long time since I repeatedly snogged a partner as part and parcel of making love. His mouth on mine, our tongues intertwining, our drool mixing and exchanging has the most amazing effect on me. Working me up into such a heightened state of arousal as his fingers work their magic on my clit and I know what's coming. The thing I love him to do. 'Finger... fuck.' I hardly need to even finish the second word before he is sliding them into me, finding my gspot effortlessly and taking me to the first orgasm. Arching up into him, pushing against them as I moan and writhe.

His cock is hard inside my palm as I pull him towards me and rub him around my clit, hearing him groan with desire. But he knows he must change things from before, take away the fear. He dons the protective layer that we both hate so much and flips me over onto my knees, pulls the supporting pillows under my belly and does me doggy. I am wet, wet, wet as he slides gently into me. The fear starts to dissipate. This is safe, it feels nice. I like this... just as I always have. The change of angle means that I'm not thinking of stirrups and horror but of previous pleasures. The rhythm of his pumping gets stronger and harder and I realise that I am not broken at all, just a little temperamental. The familiar sensations start to build within me taking me to a place I love to go, panting and moaning, culminating in a scream of satisfied achievement...

But the condom means that he does not get there too.

Rehabilitation... Part 1

It was so exciting driving to his house knowing that I was going to be having proper sex again. The anticipation almost beyond bearing. Ok, ok, so last time there were seven hand/blowjobs in one weekend but, although I love to give them, it isn't quite the same. This time I get to play properly too. You cannot imagine how much I have missed it, missed him... that intimacy... the feeling of being complete that only comes when he is inside me and whispering his love in my ear. The hours have passed so slowly today.

Racing up the M25 and the M1, through the roadworks, willing the miles to go past. Until, finally, where the M1 meets the M6 and there is that big curve to the left, DJ Sammy's Heaven thumping on the cd, foot down, past the lorries and into the rain. But it doesn't matter. Nothing matters but getting to him.

Tubthumping up the main road leading to his City, slowing things down for suburbia and the joy of parking. The rain has stopped as I unload the car and ring the doorbell.

That first awkwardness of arrival. It's been a long drive and I have to transition from someone's wife and mother into his lover. Finally his arms are around me and our mouths are searching hungrily. Stripping off clothes and into the warm haven of our bed. Touching and aching and melting. Intimate parts laid open to each other's fingertips. Wanting but waiting for the optimum moment, he tells me about the one time. How he will slide into me one centimetre at a time so I can feel all of him again. I want him. I want him. My clit is soaking under his fingers. Ready, so ready.

And then he is there, sliding into me and it is not as I remember. It is still tight, but it isn't wet. It's as if my vagina is afraid of him. Terrified. I want him to persevere, to reassure my innermost part... but it hurts. The pain so reminiscent of that other.

He waits a while and we try again. It is no different.

Silent tears start to fall in the darkness.

The woman who had made love with such reckless abandon looked on in horror as this woman shrivelled and recoiled from him.

I am broken.

HNT (Hopelessly Narcissistic Thursday) - What I Want...

I want to be lying naked on our bed, my head propped up by pillows. On my back, legs apart, masturbating with my electric toothbrush; one hand playing with a pointy nipple.

I want you to be nude too - all thick dark hair and hard muscle, handcuffed to the chair at the end of the bed with a grandstand view of the action.

I want your cheek to dimple as you smile encouragingly down at me.

I want to see your cock stiffen as you watch me play, admiring my pussy as it moistens and engorges in reaction to the attentions of the Oral B.

I want you to be unable to touch yourself, purely to be aware of the sensation of excitement that runs through you - from your mind to your toes to the tip of your hardening member.

I want you to ache at the frustrating impotence of your situation, unable to reach out and touch, so near and yet so far; to entreat me to release you or at least to smear my juice on your face.

I want you to yearn as I moan and whisper how much I want you; to be mesmerised by the way the build up of the orgasm interferes with my brain/mouth connection and stops me from being able to speak properly.

I want you to shiver with desire as you watch the lips of my cunt opening wider and wider to accommodate my excitement; to long to touch the soft fluttering of the muscles around the entrance as I giggle my way to a climax. Opening and closing, calling to you. Willing you to free yourself and enter me.

I want you to work your fingers and wrists, to liberate them from their confinement and stand over me, proudly erect, with that look on your face. The one that says 'I'm going to fuck you now and there is nothing you can say or do to stop me!'

I want you to flip my hips over so that I'm half on my front, half on my side with one leg long and the other slightly bent.

I want you to kiss my slender calves and thighs, my soft, round, beautiful bottom and run your fingertips down my spine, feel my body quiver with anticipation as the goosebumps erupt all over me.

I want you to wait for me to start to come again from the endless torment of my toothbrush and then to penetrate me mercilessly with your hot, hard cock. To take me screaming to fulfilment as you plunge in and out of me.

And then I want you to photograph me, spent and helpless from the onslaught of your passion. Lying in the liquid telltales of our lust, my toy discarded as I try to catch my breath...

Sugasm #97

The best of this week’s blogs by the bloggers who blog them. Highlighting the top 3 posts as chosen by Sugasm participants. Well done to Radical Vixen, Z and Al Sensu on their top-pickage… nice one, guys.


Want in Sugasm #98? 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



The Manifesto of the Cuntcentric Hedonist

“I’m not being selfish, I’m being altruistic when I open my legs and offer my body up.”


No reservations, part 4

“By this time, said balls felt twice their normal size and very full.”


Sex Work And Religion: The Violent Priest

“We were to seduce one of the young ladies in the church’s choir.”


Mr. Sugasm HimselfJBS Underwear


Editor’s ChoiceThe Top 10 Reasons to avoid “Pregnancy & Sex” bulletin boards



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

Once and once only

Lying safe in Ruf's arms, the sadness of the week's events starts to ease away. At first, I couldn't look at him, couldn't let him hold me for fear I would crumble completely. But, finally, when I'd avoided him for long enough, sidestepped and obfuscated with jobs that needed to be done, he determinedly took me in his arms and held me still. Lay down with me on our bed and made me safe, gave me a secure environment in which to cry if I needed it.

And so we talked and talked. For once I was able to tell him of the anger, the pain and the hurt, admittedly only with my back to him and secure inside his embrace with the warmth of his body to reassure me. Sometimes it did not go well and frustration and anguish made me do things that I should have threatened to do long ago to see the full extent of his own unacknowledged emotional commitment to me. I will never forget the look on his face as I started to get dressed with a view to going home. I heard the fear and sadness in his voice when he pleaded with me to stay and I began to understand the magnitude of his feelings for me, empathise with the reasons why he feels the way he does with regard to our future. Until, finally, I started to relax under the fervour of his kisses.

We both know that I am not allowed to have sex, penetrative or oral and, indeed, I have no desire for him to touch me there yet. I still feel dirty and squalid from the terrible thing that I have done with its unpleasant physical manifestations and repercussions. But that doesn't mean that his kisses don't make me feel as sexy as they always do. It certainly doesn't mean that I don't want his lips on mine, his fingers caressing my skin and, better still, my nipples. My breasts are still those of a pregnant woman. The hormones have not diminished sufficiently for the additional fullness to have disappeared and he takes advantage of the extra cupsize within his palm. They are firm and bouncy and not at all painful as in previous pregnancies. But they are extremely sensitive to his touch in a very positive way. He ravished them continuously the last time I visited and discovered new ways to excite me that I hadn't ever felt before. Squeezing the nipples and lightly pinching them in a rapid burst, he is amazed at the effect it has on me. I can feel my excitement mounting, the incredible exploding sensations in my head as the nerves in my brain register the exquisite pain being experienced by the nipples. And all the time kissing me, our tongues meeting and entwining and searching each other's mouths.

At which point he pulls away and focuses on the movement of his fingers at my breasts as he starts to whisper. How much he cares about me. How much he wants me. The extent of his excitement about the next time I visit when he will be able to fuck me again. But then he throws in a twist. In 11 days he will make me come just by teasing my nipples and he will only penetrate me once in the whole weekend.

Whispering and whispering: the glory of my breasts, his desire, his need, his plans. Once and once only. How he will take me to the pinnacle of excitement just by pinching my nipples. How much he loves me to come for him. That he adores the definition of the muscles in my back and shoulders, arms and legs. How beautiful I am. The soft rush of his voice in my ear, rippling over me, exciting me beyond my ability to contain it. The rough touch of his fingers on my nipples gripping and pinching, releasing the pressure for a moment and then reapplying, arousing me more than I could ever have believed possible. Forgetting everything that has happened; all that has been said, all that has been done is washed away by the power of his words and the magic of his caresses until I can think of nothing but the pressure of his fingers and the blood pounding in my ears as I pant with sheer unadulterated desire for him. Moving closer and closer to a point of no return. Unable to rationalise or analyse, only lust. Wanton and desperate, I cling to him, panting and helpless, and pray for the passage of time so he can fulfil my need. My fists gripping the hairs on his chest as I try to stay with him in the here and now, attempt to maintain the last vestiges of control... because I am afraid of what will happen if I surrender myself totally and come for him in my fragile physical condition.

So I pull away and go down on him instead. Give myself a little breathing space but his fingers follow and regain their mastery as I take him, hot and hard in my mouth. Licking and sucking and teasing, the way he loves it. Taking him higher and higher until he spurts into my waiting mouth; holding it there as the aftershocks run through him and then sitting up to let it dribble over my glorious breasts like a waterfall. It would just have appeared so much sexier if only I had got the angle right and not managed to miss my tits completely, leaving the overwhelming impression that I had just gobbed the lot onto the bedsheets... at which we both collapsed into hysterical laughter.

But now, every time I close my eyes, I can see his face, hear his words and rekindle the fabulous sensation of his touch. My nipples harden and elongate at the thought of his fingers. He has verbally chastised me for not being able to recall his words or his intentions verbatim but I remember the way he made me feel, the way he made me lose control.

I long for him and the time passes so slowly that I have to keep checking the clock to see if it is still working.

Obviously I am a little afraid of that first time but I know that he will be gentle. He will wrap me up in his love and, when he thinks I am ready, he will make me whole again... once and once only.

My libido is returning. I have my mojo back and I know he can still turn me on big time.

Our sex can still go awry in the most amusing ways and we can still laugh about it.

There are four days to go and my excitement is mounting.

The Management is pleased to announce that:


Normal service on this sexblog is about to be resumed.

Madeleine

http://www.timesonline.co.uk/tol/comment/columnists/janice_turner/article2456672.ece

I read this article with a growing sense of agreement but also a vague feeling of distaste. As a mother myself, I can understand Janice Turner's point of view. I am so tired of being made to feel afraid for my children's safety by the relentless press coverage.

When that terrible man wreaked his havoc with guns blazing in the classroom at Dunblane, my own daughter had just started school. I can remember going into the playground on that awful afternoon. You could have cut the fear in the atmosphere with a knife. We were all terrified by proxy.

Again, when Holly and Jessica went missing in the summer holidays, my daughter was the same age. It was incredibly hard having to explain to her that she couldn't trust anyone - not even the school caretaker. The hideous blanket press coverage of the disappearance, the search and the discovery and, finally, the trial and conviction, with all its consequent revelations. Followed by all the months and years of arguing over the correct legislation to protect our children from people with similar tendencies.

The case of Sarah Payne, snatched whilst playing with her friends in a field not far from her home highlighted every parent's worst nightmare. It is so hard to convince a child that they are not invincible and would not be able to fight off a grown man, even if they have done some martial arts training. I even did demonstrations for my own kids and the children I teach showing that a normal sized man could pick me up under his arm and run off with me without any difficulty, no matter how hard I punched and kicked. Once he'd grabbed me, he had the upper hand. We repeatedly demonstrated how to maintain a safe distance from someone who was trying to engage us in conversation and how to 'leave the scene quickly and safely to go meet a male family member'. But a week later, the kids would still allow themselves to be approached sufficiently close to be snatched and dragged away.

When Madeleine first disappeared, I have to admit that my first thought was 'But why was she left on her own with two babies? She was only three.' As parents, my Husband and I went on holiday to be with our children. We specifically targeted hotels that would allow us to eat with our children at a reasonable hour for them. Where this proved impossible and dinner was served just too late for them, we would sit with them whilst they had the kids' tea and then spend the evening sitting in our adjoining room with the door ajar, watching tv and eating whatever was available from room service. Some hotels were good enough to let us order from the restaurant menu and bring it up to our room. Despite people's insistence that we should use the hotel babysitting service, we never left them on their own, even when the oldest was three times as old as Madeline. We had seen how the intercom-based hotel babysitter worked and if no-one was sitting at Reception, no-one was listening to what our kids were doing.

However, I can't help but feel sorry for the McCanns. They will have to live with the consequences of their action and the public's admonishment for the rest of their lives. As parents, many of us do things that are viewed as 'taking a chance with their safety' that in another age would have been seen as the norm when children had to learn to survive and be independent and fend for themselves in far more dangerous circumstances.

Sadly, in the absence of any real evidence or obvious suspect, the finger of suspicion was always eventually going to point in the direction of the parents. It seems strange to me, as a regular viewer of CSI, that it is so far down the line that forensic evidence has been brought into play and we will have to await the results of that line of investigation and the possible refuting evidence before that can be relied upon.

Always at the back of my mind is the face of another little boy who disappeared back in the early 1990s. I remember his story well because it was such an unusual thing to happen and his photographs showed such a cute little boy. Three year old Ben Needham was on holiday with his family in Greece when he vanished. Despite a big campaign, he was never found.


As Janice Turner says in her final paragraph:

Given that Madeleine has almost certainly died one way or another, maybe it is easier to accept a parental accident. Yes, let it be a banal domestic: we can guard against that, or so we think. Anything but the cunning, predatory stranger we watch for constantly but can never see.

Words

The first time I heard this record, it was being sung to Judy by its creator. He was on one knee in front of her whilst Richard looked on lovingly. She appeared to be completely mortified in that strange, gauche way she has and I can remember cringing with embarrassment for her because it was just sooooo twee.

From then on, it was never a song that I particularly enjoyed, partly because of the memory of that first rendition and partly because of the saccharine-coated sugaryness of the sentiments expressed therein.

However, a few weeks ago, when I made the return drive from my visit to Ruf with the vague suspicion that I just might be pregnant and the concern about the impact that revelation might have on our relationship, the song came on the radio.

There, in the middle of a traffic jam, I heard these words and they hit and connected with the feelings in my heart so overwhelmingly that I just couldn't help it.

I'll never know what the future brings
But I know you're here with me now
We’ll make it through
And I hope you are the one I share my life with

I don’t want to run away but I can’t take it, I don’t understand
If I’m not made for you then why does my heart tell me that I am?
Is there any way that I can stay in your arms?

I felt the catch at the back of my throat, the hot sting of the tears prickling my eyes, tried to fight it but then the coup de grace:

‘Cause I miss you, body and soul so strong that it takes my breath away
And I breathe you into my heart and pray for the strength to stand today
‘Cause I love you, whether it’s wrong or right
And though I can’t be with you tonight
You know my heart is by your side

and it all overflowed as I burst into floods of tears, much to the consternation of the lorry driver in the very narrow lane beside me.

Yes, I know my hormones were in overdrive but, honestly. How pathetic! Reduced to a snivelling wreck by a few silly words.


Wiping my eyes angrily on the back of my hand, my tshirt and finally having to resort to a handful of tissues, I tried to contain the tsunami. Searching frantically for my sunglasses and desperately trying to avoid the solicitous gaze of my neighbour, I slapped at the radio button to switch it off, but the words were already in my head, looping a repetitious circle of blubbering, self-destructive emotion.

60 miles down the road, it took a large portion of chips and tomato sauce, stuffed into my mouth inelegantly as I continued to drive, to eventually put paid to the trigger in my mind but now, nearly three weeks on, the song still reverberates through me.

Nearly three weeks on? Gosh, how quickly the time passes and heals because now it is different. I am no longer pregnant, although I'm still trying to deal with the diminishing hormones, but I just find those words and, indeed, the rest of the song so evocative in their expression of hope in the face of confusion, that they actually make me smile as I look to the future.

So, I think I need to say 'Thank you Daniel Bedingfield'.

Night Ruf x

Embarrassment of Riches

I was listening to Chris Moyles on the radio earlier this week and he was interviewing Paul McKenna about his new book, which is called something like 'I can make you rich'. PM was explaining that part of the book deals with improving yourself financially but the bulk of it is to do with actually assessing the parts of your life that are already rich. So, the pleasure you get when you watch a sunset or spend an evening with friends, that sort of thing.

It made me think about all the good things in my life. I've spent a lot of time on here angsting about this and that recently, so sometimes it's good to properly reflect on the more positive aspects.


How it feels when my children hug me - even if I do always have to grab the teen and stand on her foot to hold her down and make her :)

The amazing feeling of pride when my children achieve a new step on the ladder of maturity. Just watching them grow up and learning to be independent of me.

I work with kids every day and the pleasure I get from their welcoming smiles and waves when they see me.

Snuggling up in bed with a hot water bottle and a good book.

The exhilaration of completing a really exciting training session where you know you've achieved something mentally and physically... even the ones where it's only exhaustion.

The smell of clean, freshly pressed laundry.

The satisfaction of a house well cleaned.

Relaxing in my pool with my eyes closed after completing the number of lengths I set myself that morning, with the sun on my face and the reflection of the ripples on the water against my closed eyelids.

That moment when a new song comes on the radio and it hooks you completely so you can't stop singing little bits of it in your head. Then every time you hear the first few bars of the introduction, you get that bubbly feeling of anticipation deep inside.

The warm camaraderie of a chat on msn or googlemail with a good friend.

The kindness of people who don't have to care but do anyway.

The thrill of watching my new blog header appear before my eyes thanks to the efforts of Angela-la, a very special friend.





The excitement of the drive to Ruf's, my body tingling at the prospect of the hours ahead.

Lying on the sofa watching a film with him, cuddled into the circle of his arm with my head on his shoulder and my hand stroking his chest hair.

Snuggling under the duvet with him when we make that cocoon of love and wrap it around each other before dozing off.

When he wakes in the middle of the night, pulls me into him and kisses the back of my neck or my shoulder.

Every time we make love... nuf said x

Just thinking about all the things that give me pleasure, that soft warm glow in the pit of my stomach, I understand that I am truly blessed.

I'm wondering how many of you have suddenly realised that you are also millionaires?

The Voice

Talking and talking and talking. I cannot cry but at least we are communicating about what we want from this, even if it's hard to find the answers. Round and round in the same circles, hitting the same dead ends, the same self-erected barricades and all the time I can't help but be aware of his nakedness. It calls to mine, even in my current state. Lying there stretched out under my fingers, nude, hairy and hard, full of testosterone, aroused just by my presence in the bed. Our bodies connect so perfectly. They understand what our minds just cannot seem to grasp. I watch my hand as it reaches out to touch. It is unstoppable.

'What the fuck are you doing?' It is the voice inside my head. The voice of reason, my self-respect? 'This is the man who has told you he loves you but he cannot commit to you and he doesn't know why. How can you even be thinking of doing that? He doesn't deserve you.'

'He loves me. You heard him, he said he loves me and he doesn't want me to leave. He was so upset when I tried.'

'But you didn't leave did you. If you had, maybe he'd realise what he might be missing out on and be prepared to fight for it. And he doesn't love you as much as the last girl. He was willing to commit to her at the beginning, he told you. Even if it did all go wrong in the end. He still remembers how he felt about her. And he doesn't feel that way about you. But then why would he? Look at you. He knows he can have you without even trying.'

'But it didn't work out with her. And I'm still here, after all this time. I just have to hang in there. I know he loves me and wants to be with me. He's just scared of the nature of the commitment here. We both are. It's so different, not like anything either of us has experienced with anyone else. He'll recognise that those feelings are telling him how much he wants me eventually. I just have to be strong and give him time to work it out for himself.'

'Yeah, right! Like your husband? Haven't those 27 years of 'hanging in there' taught you anything? It just doesn't happen like that and it's because you're such rubbish. Nothing you can do or say will ever change that. You know that this one is just using you. To him, you're nothing but a fuck gap until something better comes along. I mean, what man could want more. Someone who adores him, is willing to drive hundreds of miles just to come and pleasure him in whatever decadent way he chooses AND then cleans his flat whilst he goes out to football. You're just a Winky; a house elf that likes to fuck.'

His body is calling and I try to shut down my mind. This is something I love to do. I won't let her spoil it. My hand tickles and teases, touches all the most intimate parts of his body. Until I can hear his moans and sighs of pleasure instead of the horrible words in my head. Curling and gripping and stroking. Caressing and sliding. He fits my hand so well and it seems to instinctively know how to please him.

He's whispering, 'Suck me, please suck me'

I want nothing more than to put my mouth around him but the voice in my head has hit some nerves. 'Beg for it. This time you have to beg.'

Whereas he would never normally be so submissive, some of our previous conversation must have hit home. He knows that in my current unbalanced state, I am completely unpredictable and he sees the need for a conciliatory gesture and fast. 'Please suck me. Please, I'm begging you. Begging you...'

'Yeah, yeah, but he's only saying it cos he thinks that the way you are at the moment, he might not get what he wants. He isn't doing it for you but for him.'

I'm ignoring her and kissing him hard. I can feel the wetness between my legs and I remember that sex is not allowed. I wonder if I should be doing this, whether just me getting excited could cause some damage. But I can't help myself. When we are together our bodies just take over. It has been that way since the day I first kissed him. So I whisper tiny butterfly kisses down his chest and belly, moving my mouth closer and closer to the goal as my hand continues to stroke him.

'Please suck me.'

He's watching as I kiss the tip, the lightest touch of my lips on his skin and I feel the shiver run through him. Licking down to his balls and then back up again, softly at first. Each upward stroke getting firmer, using the flat of my tongue over the firm crinkly skin of his scrotum and up the smooth shaft to the top, rolling over and flicking. Leaving trails of saliva slick and wet. Teasing and nuzzling the frenulum with my tongue before finally encircling him with my mouth and exulting in the moans escaping him. Now it is I who have the power... and I glory in the knowledge.


'Power? What power? You're just a whore that he doesn't have to pay for. A slut who does whatever he wants to please him because you're so frightened of losing him. What's the matter with you? Have you no self respect at all?'

I try to shut it out as I go back to pleasuring him with my hand, faster and firmer, feeling his balls harden and his cock lengthening even further. He's almost there. His breathing is faster and he's gasping and clenching his body and, as I feel the moment arrive, I pull his foreskin up over it in an attempt to hold the fountain in. The first drops escape, spurting outwards over his belly as I envelope him in my mouth. Sucking so gently, so gently, prolonging the orgasm, drawing it out for the longest possible time, taking each residual pulse of spunk into my mouth as he moans above me. I love it. The taste, the sensation as it slides down my throat, the knowledge that he will remember that one for quite a while. I look up at him stretched out above me and he returns my smile.

'Pathetic. Quite pathetic. It's obvious why no man will ever love you the way you need. You really don't deserve to be loved at all. How can you expect him to think you're worth hanging on to when you so clearly have no sense of your own value?'

Her viciousness turns the triumph to dust in my mouth as the tears start to prickle at my eyes. I turn my face to the wall again and fight them off.

I will not cry because of this and I will not listen to her any more. Her relentless savagery has starved me into submission too many times. Her faceless loathing, her disappointed tirades of invective at my uselessness. Her determination to destroy any happiness.

I know how he feels about me. I have seen it in his face, heard it in his words and felt it in his actions. Sometimes there is so much of it, he can wrap me up in it like a cocoon. He does not necessarily love me the way she needs to be loved but we can find a way to close the gap between her needs and his.

What does not destroy us can only make us stronger. I will use what has happened to reinforce my resolve; use these rampant, wayward hormones to make me speak out when something hurts me, instead of feeding her by remaining silent and repressing as if it doesn't matter. It does. I do.

But he is right too. I can see that. We have to progress in real terms and we will find a way.

In the meantime, I shall give him a while to recover and then I shall pleasure him again... because I like to do it. And this one will be without the vicious vocal distraction to accompany it.

Mars and Venus

Men and women are so different. They react and deal in such a completely opposite way.

He thinks that by objectifying it, making it a thing, it will go away without touching him. She reacts by humanising it, making it into our baby, something that is loved but cannot be attained, in the hope that it will be easier to do what has to be done.

He believes that because he said he loved her yesterday, he doesn't need to say it again today. She fears that because he has not said it again today, it must no longer be the case.

He is convinced that, although he thinks about her all the time, it isn't cool to text her unless he has something specific to say. She works on the basis that knowing someone is thinking about her all the time is deeply sexy and self-affirming so she tries to send him things so that he knows that she is and he will feel like the wonderful man she thinks him to be.

He decides that a relationship that is different to the ones before, evincing feelings that are considerably stronger but not what he would expect, makes this one less permanent, a fantasy, despite the fact that the others ran their course and ended badly. She considers that having feelings that are this intense over such a long period means that this relationship must be meant to last.

He presumes that if he doesn't commit to her, he can remain detached, even when it is blatantly obvious that his world will be missing something major without her. She concludes that if he won't commit to her, she cannot maintain her self-respect and stay, even when it is patently clear that that is all she wants to do.


But when they lie next to each other in their bed, where everything is safe and warm and their minds start to switch off and lose control, their naked bodies take over and make everything right. There is no question that they love each other and want to be together. Is it any wonder that bed is the place they want to spend the most time? Away from the harshness of reality and judgement calls.


If only they didn't have to use their minds and think.

Aftermath

Tomorrow evening I am going to drive up to see Ruf for the first time since it happened. I am so afraid that, besides my poor baby, there will be other casualties of A Day.

In all the trauma, the woman who had made love with such reckless abandon sat and watched in horror from the sidelines as events unfolded. Will sex forever be associated with the pain and anguish of that day? Lying in the foetal position with my face turned to the wall, I sometimes wonder if I will ever feel that lust again? I am not allowed to have sex or do anything strenuous for two weeks. Perhaps this is good in that it gives me time to recover physically and mentally but in other ways I just want to get back into the saddle so to speak, to make sure that our relationship is still as it was.

Most of the time I've been so strong, keeping everything going as if nothing had happened. There has just never been any time alone to cry properly. So many plates to keep spinning, so much stuff to sort out. I know I desperately need to shed the tears and I'm frantically clinging to the certain knowledge that he will hold me for as long as is necessary and soothe me when I get there. It's like being on a tightrope with the light at the end. If I can just keep looking ahead towards that light, I will make it but I'm so terrified that when I see him, I will just dissolve and there will be this horrendous, emotional ball of resentment exploding all over him. So I wont be able to voice the words I really need to say.

I want to tell him that I love him and, therefore, I also loved our baby and, in a very strange way, I enjoyed being pregnant for that short time - even if it did make me feel like shit. You will not believe the number of people who told me how well I was looking over the last couple of weeks and, in retrospect, I guess my skin was blooming. God knows how, with all the chips and crisps I was eating. Maybe the apples counteracted it. Needless to say, my face is now starting to erupt as the hormones continue to ebb away, spiking into unpredictable rushes of hideously irrational emotion that are so hard to contain and repress. Sometimes it all just overpowers me and my eyes fill up and overflow, despite my best efforts to control them and I want to sob and lash out hysterically until the the intensity fades away to let me feel like myself again. That's when I need him so badly. Not to call me because that would make the crying worse but to just hold me - even if it is only virtually through a text. Today was the third day. The day the Baby Blues always hit and even though I did not carry this pregnancy to term, it seems it was not to be an exception to the rule.

At least I'm lucky in that the bleeding has almost stopped so I don't have to wear big pants and sanitary towels any more. My belly and back still give me discomfort that requires paracetamol if I try to overdo things and I need to keep drinking bicarbonate of soda in lots of water to stave off an attack of cystitis. I suppose when you've just had your innards vacuumed, if you're susceptible to it, it's gonna be triggered.

Of course, I didn't like doing what I had to do but there was no option and I try to comfort myself with the thought that, statistically, the chances of our baby being born undamaged were not good. So it had to be done... and it hurt, both my body and my mind but in a weird, masochistic way, I'm glad. To sit here having emerged unscathed from the nightmare would be wrong.

And now I need to be with my man; to have him hold me really tightly and let me cry for our baby from the security of his embrace. I want to talk to Ruf about him with love, not with that furtive sense of brushing him under the carpet. It happened. For a few brief weeks, some positive proof existed of the strength of our love. We made a baby together. He was conceived in a blur of white hot passion by two people who wanted each other so badly, yearned for that ultimate connection over and over again. Each time it was never enough, we just needed to go back there again and I will remember that intensity for the rest of my life.

Yes, the outcome was a terrible thing but I won't say that I killed our baby again. I had to hear myself enunciate those dreadful words once... for me. But emotive, melodramatic language of that nature is not good for either of us. I am coming to terms with what happened. Once I have cried with his father, hopefully I can draw a line under it and we can move on together. I know he has read my last few blog entries now and I just wish I could tell how he really feels about everything. Men are such strange repressed creatures sometimes and it's so hard to know how this has affected him when I can't actually see his face, especially in this heightened emotional and hormonal state when I can't really trust any of my instincts. I want so much to feel reassured that everything is going to be ok but our love is so wrapped up in sex that I feel bereft at the thought of not being able to make love, to heal each other and make things right our way.

The really stupid thing is that I'm worrying about what to wear... I mean, what the fuck? But I am. Normally, I would be going for a weekend of hot, rampant fucking, in sexy lingerie and some outer layer that he would enjoy gently removing or forcefully ripping off.

This is all so surreal. For the first time ever, I won't feel confident and sexy as I try to pack my bag and get myself ready to start the journey.

Because I can't offer him sex, only tears.

What on earth is the correct outfit for those?

Terminal Blunderer

Today I feel the need for a little light relief...





And so we come to the last of the married men that year and forever...

In the summer The Catalyst, out of the blue, I got an email from Mr Bumble. I knew of him - he was the friend of a friend and lived in the next big town - but we had never actually been introduced, just attended the same social gatherings. Knowing that in my previous incarnation I had been a Secretary/Personal Assistant, he wondered if he could prevail upon my organisational skills to help him run a business event. Me being a bored housewife and him being an extremely attractive much younger man, it seemed quite foolish of me to even consider refusing, once Id checked with my friend that he was not a potential axe murderer anyway.

We had lots of discussions via email about the organisation of the event, how it should be run, who should be invited, venues, dates, etc., carrying on over several weeks. And, as is my wont, I was my normal flirtatious self. Nothing blatant, just the odd risque comment here and there, which he obviously found flattering and tried to respond to in a rather self-conscious way. The thing about MrB was that, although he was very beautiful, he was also incredibly shy and lacking in confidence. At one point during those weeks, we were actually at the same place at the same time attending the same function but he hardly spoke to me. He just stood across the room watching me and smiling. It gave me a good opportunity to study him as well and I discovered that I was very taken with the way he moved his hands when he spoke. They formed really beautiful shapes, some of which quite took my breath away, which was the most bizarre sensation - to be so strongly affected by the movement of a man's hands...

The next time we were exchanging emails, I told him about the effect watching his hands had had on me and I tried to explain exactly what movement it was that had caused it. He eventually suggested that it was because it resembled a caress. It was the first time that he had ever really openly flirted with me and yet, even here, there was very little sexual undercurrent.

Sadly, what MrB did not tell me was that he left his computer open at his inbox all day whilst he went to work. On this particular day, his wife had decided to use the computer and had seen this exchange of emails. Even though there was nothing very damaging in there, she went ballistic. She was furious and refused to let him continue with organising the event whether I had anything to do with it or not. She said he clearly couldn't be trusted... with anyone!

Naturally, when a woman tries to stop a man from doing something, his desire to do it increases exponentially with the ferocity of the enforcement of the ban and the next time I was on Messenger, there he was getting in touch. He said he bear to lose my friendship and the email exchanges had been the highlight of his dull days. Well, what girl isn't going to feel flattered by that? And, remember, I was a girl who was getting pretty much no attention at all so I was especially vulnerable... and behaving especially stupidly accordingly.

Our chats on Messenger were still quite tame affairs. We discussed lingerie and my clothes sizes and the problems we both had within our marriages - spouses who were unable to demonstrate their feelings in terms of tactile affection. He clearly loved his wife very much but he felt completely shut out by her cold behaviour. Even when he tried to hold her hand or cuddle her, she would pull away and he was very lonely. At the end of each conversation, he would ensure to erase the history and archive and even my username was Danny on his screen.

After a few weeks of daily chats, he sent me an email from a new address. No greeting or explanation, just these song lyrics:

Hello, is it me you're looking for?
'Cause I wonder where you are
And I wonder what you do
Are you somewhere feeling lonely or is someone loving you?
Tell me how to win your heart
For I haven't got a clue
But let me start by saying ... I love you

It was the most romantic thing anyone had ever sent me and I was quite blown away and, at the same time, quite terrified by the extent of his feelings and their sudden revelation, especially bearing in mind the trouble he was in at home.

I didn't reply straightaway. I knew that I should tell him to stop, that he was putting so much at risk but that neglected part of me loved the attention, loved the danger, the romance.

A few days later, I got another email begging me to come onto Messenger as he had to talk to me. It transpired that he couldn't stop thinking me and things had got so bad that he was distracted in his work and had done something wrong, causing him lots of disciplinary problems. But none of it mattered, he just wanted to be able to love me.

I was starting to get a little scared by the intensity of his desire and the speed with which the whole situation seemed to be getting out of control. I texted him at work and told him he had to cool down a bit, it was all too much, too soon and he was scaring me.

Then there was silence for a few days. Nothing by text, email or Messenger. I was sort of relieved and yet strangely concerned. My instincts were all going into overdrive because something was not right.

Then I got an email from yet another address. He had been texting me but, unfortunately, he had been sending the texts to his SISTER!!!! At first, she had said nothing but then his wife's mobile had died and she had borrowed MrB's Company mobile which he had accidentally left at home that day. He had neglected to delete the texts he had sent to me/his sister and, being suspicious, she had read his inbox and sent box and found them and wanted to know what on earth was going on that he was sending such things to his sister. Bear in mind here that I have no idea what these texts said as I never received them but there was the small matter of the text from me telling him to cool down which was incriminating enough. Not surprisingly, she had told him that he was never allowed to contact me again by any means and this email was to say goodbye...




... Very nearly a year later, we were both at the same function again. I knew he was watching me. Every so often, he would try to catch my eye but I kept to the bargain and stayed away from him until the end where we were all hugging each other goodbye and so I hugged him too. His body was warm and hard as his arms went around me and he held me tightly against him. I reached up to kiss his cheek and whispered 'Goodbye' before I walked away.

Two weeks afterwards I received an email from him:

You're just too good to be true
Can't take my eyes off of you
You'd be like heaven to touch
I wanna hold you so much
At long last love has arrived
And I thank God I'm alive
You're just too good to be true
Can't take my eyes off of you

I love you baby and if it's quite all right
I need you baby to warm the lonely nights
I love you baby, trust in me when I say
Oh pretty baby, don't bring me down I pray

Oh pretty baby, now that I've found you stay
And let me love you baby, let me love you

He truly was the most romantic man I had ever encountered and he asked if he could talk to me again the following weekend on Messenger. He wanted to try to explain.

That Saturday evening, his light appeared on Messenger for the first time since it had all blown up in our faces. It transpired that we were both watching 'The X Factor' and as Andy the Dustman came on for his turn and the music started, we were both hysterical with laughter.

You're just too good to be true
Can't take my eyes off of you...

Sometimes life really is stranger than fiction!

He was away on business for the whole weekend. He had reinstalled Messenger on his Company laptop for the first time in almost a year just to talk to me. He still cared about me and wanted to talk to me but realised that he couldn't because it would destroy his marriage and so he wanted to say goodbye properly. He also needed to tell me that his work meant that he would be moving away to another county.

We chatted for nearly 12 hours that evening and for several hours the following afternoon. Late into the night on the Saturday, the subject had come around to cybersex but, in the end, we agreed not to go down that road. Our feelings for each other were somehow too pure to move on to that type of relationship. It would have spoiled everything that even his blundering had failed to eradicate or sully - two friends who loved to talk to each other and really cared about each other in a way that was almost ethereal.

I would like to think that at some point in the future, his light will appear on Messenger again and I will be pleased to spend some time with him. I will never try to steal him from his wife and he will never try to leave her but, because she views our very conversations as a threat to her security, I will not encourage him.

Nevertheless, I can't help having very happy memories of him and it's really nice to know that, somewhere out there in that big wide world, there is someone who sometimes thinks of me fondly too.

A is for Abortion

Once again, I may have to crave the indulgence of my reader if this account sounds in any way flippant or lighthearted but I have ever been one to face up to my fear by laughing at the funny side of things and dealing with what happened on this particular day turned out to be no exception.

I cried silently a lot on Sunday night, lying beside my Husband with hot tears rolling down my cheeks, trying not to sob aloud. I am quite practised in this art but, eventually, the emotion racking my body convulsively became too much and I had to go downstairs and let rip until I started to feel better. When I did, finally, go back to bed, it was so hard to sleep, I was sure I could feel the baby moving inside me when I lay on my belly even at this early stage and the nausea was very trying.

I'm afraid I crumbled completely on Monday morning, not just because of the enormity of what I had to do, but because of the sudden absence of Ruf, who had been out with the boys the night before after a particularly successful football result. It transpired that he had left his phone behind when he went out and so couldn't contact me. He does this on a frequent basis because he's a forgetful numpty but, naturally, I had visions of him dead in a ditch somewhere, in addition to the fact that I felt completely abandoned when there was no contact from him and no response to my frantic texts. As is always the case, the sense of isolation and general self-pity made me well up far more effectively than anything else ever could have. I had to text Angela and tell her not to be nice to me under any circumstances as the floodgates would undoubtedly open. So we spent the next 20 minutes discussing Ruf and the various reasons for his sudden silence before dissing his uselessness, which helped a great deal because it allowed my emotionamometer to move from pathetically weepy to angry in several giant leaps. Anger is always a good emotion to fortify you when you have to face up to something unpleasant.

I probably have not mentioned this before but Angela is not one of life's natural compasses. On numerous occasions, despite clear and detailed instructions, she has managed to locate my house only via an unexpected detour of about 20 miles - each time in a different direction. This day was almost no exception where it looked as if I might be about to be treated to a tour of the highlights of Birds of a Feather country but, fortunately, she spotted the road we needed as we drove past it and was able to turn around fairly promptly. Since I am the heroine of this piece and a little delicate, we will, of course, conveniently gloss over the fact that, on this occasion, I was supposed to be in charge of directing her from the detailed instructions that she had laboriously written out...

On arrival at the Clinic, the receptionist told me that, even though I was busting for the loo, I would have to hold on because I had to have a full bladder for the scan. 45 MINUTES LATER, I was ushered, walking in a very peculiar fashion, from the crowded waiting room into the scan room. Fortunately, I have a very strong bladder, together with amazing will power...

However, during this waiting time, my errant lover telephoned. I have never been so pleased to hear his voice and he quickly managed to work his way back into my affections, as well as restoring my good humour. Looking around the room was the most bizarre experience. Women of all ages, colours, shapes and sizes. Ruf wanted to know if I was the oldest one there, a question for which I will assuredly punch him on Friday evening. Those of us who were there for a surgical procedure had been advised to wear big pants, not thongs, as sanitary towels would be required afterwards. It is alarming how many people believe it is fashionable to have big pants not just peeping out from the waistband, but fully exposed by the huge-waisted jeans that they wear. Countess Cake looks aghast at this hideous fashion faux pas from the ivory tower of her big tshirt and jogging bottoms. People were moving in and out relatively quickly but some were there to have the tablet termination and some for the other procedure so some came and went quicker than others.

Back in the surgery, I hopped up onto the couch and asked if my baby was still alive. The nurse pressed the scan tool against my belly, only to almost drop it as the being within lurched in a frantic fashion. 'Did you feel that?' she asked. 'I think that should tell you that it is very much alive.'I guess it's because I am so skinny that the effects of the movement of a baby of 9 weeks gestation can still be felt. I asked if I could see him so she turned the screen around. The scanning machine was quite old so nowhere near as clear as some of the ones today but it was enough that I could see him moving around frenetically. It was impossible not to smile. I asked her if she thought it was a little odd to be asking to see something for which my future plans were not very optimistic. She was quick to assure me that everyone deals with this situation in their own way. That was one of the overriding impressions of the whole day, the way the staff were so non-judgemental, cheerful and supportive in such difficult circumstances.

This nurse told me that, at 9 weeks, the tablet termination was not really an option so it would have to be surgical. She suggested that I be sedated, rather than have a general anaesthetic. I reminded her that I was supposed to be having the procedure without any anaesthetic at all. She looked at me and said 'At 9 weeks that is going to be very uncomfortable'. She then asked if I had had anything to eat and of course I had because it had specifically told me to on my letter confirming my non-anaesthetised choice. Basically, this meant that there was no choice anyway so I just tried to fight off the fear and get on with it. She told me that a nurse would be holding my hand the whole time and that there would be distractions. I suggested naked male dancers would work for me and she said she'd see what she could do. At least I was now able to empty my bladder.


Finally, 90 minutes after I had arrived, I was called up to the waiting area for theatre. There were already three girls there and I was told that they were breaking for lunch so I would be out in about another 90 minutes. Poor Ange! She was still sat out in the car. But she was brilliant as always, taking it in her stride and seeming to be able to sort out the logistical difficulties that I was causing in her own life without batting an eyelid.

The waiting was the worst thing. Knowing that it was going to be very uncomfortable did not really help. Sitting in that room as more and more women came in. Each one appeared in the doorway with that same look on her face as she surveyed the number of women in the queue before her. Each one desperately looking anywhere other than make eye contact with anyone else. I was of course one of the older ones. Most seemed to be in their 20s and a couple even younger.



It was as if the delay was giving me the opportunity to reassess my position. Giving me one last chance to waiver and change my mind. Take myself and my baby away from this nightmare and place ourselves in the hands of Destiny to see what would happen. But, all the time, the ghastly spectre of reality hung in the air. The picture of what might be - alone in a Benefits bedsit, with no Ruf, no Husband and no children, trying to care for a disabled child. I just couldn't take that chance.

Finally I got called in to a little room where they talked to me about future contraception, what was going to happen and apologise for the delay. I was taken off to the toilet and told to wee and equip my pants with a sanitary towel. About 30 minutes later they called my name and took me down to the theatre area. Dressed in a big tshirt with a surgical wrap around my waist, wearing my socks and holding my knickers scrunched up in my hand, I entered the place where it was all going to happen.


I put my pants under the pillow as instructed. They helped me up onto the table and put my ankles into a sort of stirrup type contraption holding my legs wide apart. Doused me with a local anaesthetic and inserted a speculum. So far so good. A rod of some kind was inserted and then a sort of tube up the centre of it right inside my uterus. No worse, and in some ways easier than a smear.


The nurse holding my hand started chatting to me and, as things started to happen at the business end, I announced that now would be the time for the naked male dancers that I'd been promised. The anaesthetist, bless him, volunteered to start stripping off but the nurses were afraid for my sanity if he completed the process.

This is the point at which the panting breathing that I had learned 16 years previously when I attended all those National Childbirth Trust classes about how to knit spaghetti and give birth without pain relief suddenly came into play. I had never used the exercises at the time, having had two caesareans and bemoaned the fact vociferously to all who would listen. Still, it just goes to prove what they say that a skill learned is never wasted.

I could feel this incredible 'drawing' sensation inside my lower belly. Pant pant pant, just about copeable. Keep talking, keep answering their questions. Don't think about it. Pant pant pant. A short gap. Pant pant pant. Don't think about it. Keep talking. Pant pant pant. A few seconds respite.

The pant pant pant became a f- f- f- f- pant pant pant. The short break. F-f-f-f-f-fuck pant pant pant.

And then the last two were the most excruciating pain you can ever imagine where the f-f-f became fuck fuck fuck at the top of my voice followed by a shit shit shit as I tried to breathe through it. They were all so kind and tried to calm me, before he went in for the final one. No amount of pregnancy breathing and martial arts training could ever have prepared me to deal with the torture of having the last remnants ripped and sucked away from me. Like period pain, someone had said. My Arse!!! Someone had inserted a seering white hod rod of torment and was tearing out my soul. It felt as if my insides were being wrenched out and I'm afraid I screamed just as loudly at his removal as I can remember doing at his conception. I am trying very hard not to imagine what effect this cataclysmic ejection had on my baby. And, in retrospect, I'm so glad I didn't have anaesthesia. How, at some point in the future, could I look my baby in the eye knowing that I had had the luxury of sedation to protect me from the agony of his demise.




And then it was over and I was apologising profusely for my disgusting language as they laughed saying they'd heard far worse. The curious part of me wanted so much to look into the receptacle to see the remnants of my dead child but something inside held me back. Perhaps one memory too far.

My shaking legs were gently removed from the stirrups and they let me recover a bit, put me back into my knickers, before helping me off the bed and into another waiting area where they put me on a sort of reclining chair with my legs in the air. The effect of having gravity taken off my battered innards was bliss like you cannot imagine.


In the same room was the girl who had been operated on prior to me. She had been sedated and was lying woosily in her chair drinking tea. She would not be allowed to drive for 48 hours - which is the main reason I selected to not be anaesthetised, the fact that tomorrow I have to go to work and ferry my kids around since everyone is going back to school.

They gave me water and paracetamol and, later tea and biscuits before talking to me about my aftercare and the things that I am and am not allowed to do. But one good thing was that, almost immediately, I noticed that my previously ever-present nausea had disappeared.

No strenuous physical exercise and no sex - even oral - for two weeks. I have, of course, told Ruf that I believe this may include the giving of oral :) But, trust me, if I ever feel like I could possibly want to have sex ever again after this, I will be using a contraceptive. I intend to visit my doctor to find out about getting my tubes tied. Apparently there is a spike of massively increased fertility at both the beginning and at the end of your reproductive cycle and I want you all to be aware of this so you don't make the same mistake I did, thinking that you are too old to fall pregnant. Don't believe it and please, please learn from my mistake and subsequent painful lesson.

Ange drove me all the way home and then went back to sort out her kids and getting them back to school tomorrow. Words just don't seem to be enough to thank her for hanging around for the best part of five hours and being my taxi and my support on what was a very unpleasant day.


I still have to wait to see if the operation has been totally successful. There is the chance that a tiny part may have been left behind which could lead to an infection. There is also the chance that there may have been some damage to my uterus from the operation which could cause further health problems. Four and a half hours later, I was bleeding heavily and had cramping period-type pains requiring some more paracetamol. It was not much fun. But Life has to appear as if it is normal so tea had to be cooked, lunchboxes needed to be filled, schoolbags prepared, arguments refereed.

Needless to say, I didn't sleep very much last night. I missed the presence of my baby. This morning I went back to work. It was harder than I imagined physically and the bleeding, which had eased off during the night, increased again. I think my body is still in shock and my mind is starting to feel the effects of the diminishing hormones so that my eyes are filling up at the slightest thing and my emotions are all very fragile.

And you have no idea how many pregnant women I saw this morning.

T is for Truth

So I said, right from the start, that I would be completely honest with my Reader and hold nothing back - other than carefully selected details to protect the innocent... as well as the obscenely guilty.



Obviously, I never quite expected it would end up going down this road but I shall endeavour to maintain that honesty. You, of course, may feel the need to avert your gaze from time to time and be excused some of the gorier details but that is your choice. I warn you, over the next few days things may get a bit rocky and emotional.


I am acutely conscious that the more cynical reader could accuse me of exploiting the situation to entertain. But I am also mindful that this is like my diary. The place I write down all my thoughts. To avoid this subject at all would be wrong and I would be bottling stuff up inside. Perhaps somehow maybe this will do some good in that there might be someone out there in the same situation who just wants to see the facts in black and white to help make their own decision - be it in terms of the future of a pregnancy or a more informed decision over contraception.


And that trying to write it down for you may help me to make sense of the jumble in my head in a cathartic way. If I can make you understand, then maybe I can learn to forgive myself.




Having my cake and eating it too was always my goal but I got careless. We have effectively been playing Russian Roulette for over 20 months and our luck had to run out eventually. I should have listened to my body but I didn't and now I have to deal with the consequences. I'm just so scared - about the implications of it, the fallout, the collateral damage to our relationship. I have to believe we can get through this and be even stronger for it but it's so hard not being with you. I just wish I could be wrapped in your arms and hear you say everything's going to be ok. I so need to absorb some of your resilience to add to my resolve.


I feel like a hypocrite. Not only for having insisted that my teenager indulge in safe sex under all circumstances... and what have I been doing! But also because I wrote on djkirby's blog about how I wasn't sure I could terminate a disabled child. And here I am killing my lover's baby for no other reason than that it is inconvenient. People have said that having the surgical procedure without an anaesthetic is going to be unpleasant but maybe I deserve it. Deserve to feel the pain.


Prior to Thursday, I did not really believe I was pregnant, I couldn't feel the usual telltale symptoms. By Thursday night, I was very much aware of the distension in my lower abdomen, that feeling of tightness, particularly when I lay on my belly. When I turned onto my back, it was impossible not to put my hand on the almost imperceptible curve and equally impossible not to feel love for him.

What peculiar paradox is this? This thing that I need so desperately to be gone pronto before it ruins my life is, at the same time, the child of the love of my life. In other circumstances I would be so happy to be having this baby. I've found myself talking to him, trying to explain why it has to be this way.

I know it sounds silly but someone once told me that miscarried and terminated children still go to Heaven (or whatever you want to call it) and are cared for by our dead relatives until we can be with them. Ruf laughed in his no-nonsense, matter of fact way but it's something I've always wanted to believe since I lost my second baby. She was only a couple of weeks gestated but that doesn't mean I love her any less and it was comforting to put her into the care of my Nan. I know, I know, I'm giving genders to foeti(?) with no possible way of really knowing but that's how their essence speaks to me.

If I really am nine weeks pregnant, then this little man is a truly tenacious spirit. He has stayed put through some pretty gruelling training sessions and some inordinately ferocious sex that would surely have displaced a lesser soul. But, knowing myself and Ruf and our characters, how could he be anything else? So now I have to connect with him and make my peace, to send him away knowing that it wasn't that I didn't love him or want him but that circumstances just made it impossible for him to be born without hurting my existing children.

So I sit here and try not to torture myself over all the permutations and ramifications of this latest turn of events but, in truth, I would not change a thing. I would put my feet firmly on the same path and do it all over again tomorrow. In a heartbeat.

As Edith Piaf said: 'Je ne regrette rien'.



I have had the most amazingly exciting two years of my life. I have never felt so alive, so beautiful and so loved.


But now I have to pay the price and try to get through the next 24 hours.

I have to.

I'm so sorry but there is no other choice.

Tagged - Questions from the Past/Future

That Bitch Fille tagged me. LMAO. Thank you. It takes my mind off other matters.


*What side of the heart do you draw first?

Left - doesn't everyone?



*Can you dive without plugging your nose?

Nope, it was a source of great amusement to my family throughout my childhood but at least I can dive. Used to swim for the school and it was such a pain trying to synch my nose pinch with the whistle. I hate jumping in feet first and have always refused to.



*What color is your phone?

Silver and black brick. I hate it. 18 month contract expires in a couple of months tho so next month I shall be in the shop trying to find a nicer one.



*Who would you want to be tied to for 24 hours?


The more I think about this, the more I realise that I wouldn't like to be tied to anyone for that length of time. I like to poop in private. Oh, alright, I suppose if I absolutely have to answer, it would be Brad Pitt in that cute little leather number he wore for Troy.



*Where are you right now?

At the computer trying not to feel sick.




*How do you feel about carrots?


Not a very satisfactory dildo. I far prefer a good cucumber. Oh, you didn't mean...




*How many chairs at the dining room table? 6



*Who is the best Spice Girl?

I've always liked Posh. She's a good Essex gel like me.




*Do you know what time it is?

Just before 3pm







*What would you do if you were stuck in an elevator?

Remain calm for a while and then..... PANIC!!!!!!




*What's your favourite kind of gum?

Yuk, nasty stuff. But if I absolutely have to Wrigleys Spearmint.





*T or F: All is fair in love and war?

False. There are always codes and standards of behaviour that need to be adhered to.




*Do you use words that you don't know the meaning to?

I'm very anal about words. If I don't know the meaning or someone questions my use of it, I have to look it up and then I will use it ad nauseum...




*Do you like to sleep?

Mmmmmmm, especially with Ruf.




*Do you know which US states don't use Daylight Savings?

Don't be ridiculous, I'm from the UK. We have British Summertime or the other one - Greenwich Mean?



*Do you know the song Sugar We're Goin' Down?

Yes, yes, yes. It was actually one of my favourites for a while. Fall Out Boy.

We're going down, down in an earlier round
And Sugar, we're going down swinging
I'll be your number one with a bullet
A loaded God complex, cock it and pull it






*Do you want a bright yellow '06 mustang?


I'm not sure I even know what one looks like. Yellow is not my fave colour. Id far prefer a nice black BMW Z3 or Audi TT.




*What's something you've always wanted?

A sports car.... or a man who knows how to love me without being told.







*Do you wear a lot of black?

When I'm dressing up to go out, yes. It's the only colour that goes with white.




*Describe your hair.

Bobbed. Very short at the nape of the neck and longer at the front. Brown with blonde highlights so the overall impression is blondish. I arrive at Ruf's looking pristine, within minutes he's turned it into a tangled jbf (just been fucked) mess.




*Are you an adult?

Well I thought I was until this week where I seem to have been caught out like the most immature teenager.





*Who is/are your best friends?

They know who they are.




*Do you have a tan?

I wish! I'm so white I've given up trying, I only go red and peel so I'm fostering that Nicole Kidman transparent look and wearing factor 60 sunblock.







*Are you a television addict?

Used to be before I discovered blogging. Anything Star Trek or Stephen Bochco, the original CSI and Boston Legal I still make time for.







*Do you enjoy spending time with your mom?

Not really. Sometimes I feel like I'm her mother.





*Are you a sugar freak?

Nope. Can go without chocolate, cakes and sweets for months or years. Despite my name, I'm more of a savoury snacker :) My weakness is potato salad and sausage rolls, steak and kidney pudding or roast lamb with roast potatoes and gravy. Mmmmmm.





*What is your favorite movie?

Always loved the Sound of Music and there are several other films that if they're on, have to be watched even though I know them word for word - The Terminator, The Long Good Friday, The Lord of the Rings trilogy, Jaws, Star Trek II - The Wrath of Khan.






*What's your sign?

Like Fille, I'm an Aries. Adventurous and energetic, Pioneering and courageous, Enthusiastic and confident, Dynamic and quick-witted; and On the dark side...Selfish and quick-tempered, Impulsive and impatient, Foolhardy and daredevil.



*Where do you wish you were right now?

In bed with Ruf.




*Who did you copy this from?

That Bitch Fille :)





*How do you know them?

Her blog was the second one I read after Fussy Bitch and our situations are quite similar so we just got chatting.





*Would you have sex with them?

Look, I know she's desperate to have me, gagging for it even but she'll just have to wait her turn... LMAO









So now I shall pass the tag to Anonymous Boxer