Wednesday, 31 December 2008

HNT: Favourite

Osbasso asked us to choose our favourite HNT for the New Year edition.

I found this really rather hard. As someone who for over two decades didn't find her body terribly attractive, the last year has been quite a revelation for me. I have discovered that I'm actually rather fond of it. How much of this is down to Ruf's vocal encouragement and how much down to the kind comments that have greeted some of the images he has captured photographically, I wouldn't like to say. There were so many pictures that I loved that it was impossible for me to make a personal selection so, in the end, I posted the three pictures that got the most comments from you guys.

I managed to find the original photo so, instead of a thumbnail, you now have a more life-size image.

At Osbasso's instigation, my interpretation of the Venus de Milo seemed to be met with some approval.

And, finally, Twinky cleans the bathroom floor...

As to the prose, well it's been a year of pushing sexual boundaries both physically and in my fantasies. I enjoyed writing all of them down but there are several which stand out for me - the shower scene and its aftermath because of the incredible intensity involved. Although I must also give a mention to In Plain Sight which was a fusion of fact and fantasy and seemed to strike a chord with quite a few people. Of the fantasies, I think it's a toss up between An Unnecessary Journey, Raw and Headhunter.

With thanks to everyone who has inspired me to write, commented or just read anonymously x

Here's to 2009 and the hope that the passage of time will continue to be kind to a little old lady who has only just discovered her beautiful body, complete with its lust-filled imagination.

Happy New Year!!!!


Tuesday, 30 December 2008

Making it Real

They had been there previously in a lesson and she had lost comprehensively at the real-life simulation. It was time for a rematch.

Locked in the room with him forcing her back against the wall and ripping at her clothes, she is horribly aware that this is not a drill.

Last time, she had lay down and allowed him to assume his mount. Now, she is taken down to the hard laminate floor unceremoniously, his legs straddling her body, hands around her throat, choking the life out of her as she scrabbles at his wrists and arms, trying frantically to reach his face, his eyes. Panic and confusion interfering with her thought processes so that the memory of even the most practiced of escapes eludes her.

Just like before, every time she bucks her hips, she forces his weight forward into his hands, further cutting off the blood and air to her brain. With the soft, velvet darkness approaching, perforce her struggles quieten. Sensing the lack of fight, he relaxes his grip slightly, just enough to bring her back as he alters his position and moves into her guard. His legs between hers.

She remembers how it was before and notices the difference. Tonight, there are no other couples laughing and squealing, pretending to engage in the same fruitless quest for the reality of dominance or escape. That day there was a pact between one pairing. An agreement to keep the force as realistic as possible within the controlled environment of the self-defence class. The consequent admonishment of the teacher that, with her unsuccessful efforts, she had just become a statistic had been rather alarming.

This time there are no rules. Just a man reaching under her skirt and dragging at her thong before fumbling for his zipper. Focussing his attention on readying himself, he momentarily takes his eye off the ball. She has used the intervening years wisely and learned well. The slightest decrease in pressure is enough. Intertwining her arms around his and kicking down with her foot against his knee, she twists violently knocking him offbalance. It is not quite enough so she slams her foot down against the ankle, shrimping and escaping out from under him.

But she is not quick enough to escape. From the ground, he lassoos her with his calves and she lands awkwardly, the roles reversed so that she is on her knees between his legs. Ripping at his shirt and plunging one hand through the luxurious dark hair on his chest, gripping hold and smashing her other palm heel into his throat. His legs lift and tighten around her waist, squeezing her ribs painfully and her instincts take over. Elbows forcing backwards into the two delicate spots on his inner thighs, she hears him exhale sharply and swear. But he releases the pressure enough to force herself up and out. Hampered by her trailing underwear, her knee drops forcibly onto his thigh as she scrambles out and over, laughing inwardly as he yelps, before landing her entire bodyweight across his chest, elbowing him in the throat and attempting to control his arm.

Before she knows what is happening, his other hand is between her legs. Like a guided missile it seeks out its target and locks on until she finds herself lying across him, holding convulsively to his forearm, all thoughts of the wristlock forgotten as her vocal chords involuntarily signal his successful gambit. His triumphant whisper of 'I told you!' is accompanied by the trickle of warm liquid running down her inner thigh.

The loss of concentration is punished and she is flipped onto her back again. Knees up, she fends him off, once, twice and, on the third time is subdued. One hand maintains contact with her throat as the weight of his landing body forces the air out of her. His knees forcing hers apart whilst the other hand pulls at the remaining clothing between them. Forcing his way into her.

No more the silken seduction of a four-year courtship or the preparatory skirmishes of frantic foreplay, just a hard cock plunging deep inside her as he holds her down and she submits. The no-frills end of a long, tortuous, twisting battle of will they, won't they.

Crescendo after crescendo of violent pounding in search of some sort of completion culminating in an abrupt denouement when the doorhandle rattles and his wife's voice shouts:

'*****, are you in there?'

Monday, 29 December 2008

Sunday, 28 December 2008

Sugasm #155

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 #156? Submit a link to your best post of the week by emailing me directly at radicalvixenatgmaildotcom Participants, repost the link list within a week and you’re all set.

This Week’s Picks

I’m kind of … insatiable. “She’s gasping already. Each breath a moan, each touch connected to the noises she makes.”

The most spankable day of the year “And for spankos, they are a high holy day to be approached with all the reverence and gaiety of a Pagan-cum Christian holiday.”

Private club “It’s that kind of club - the kind you have to know about, the kind that doesn’t even have a name.”

Sugasm Editor Sex Work And Honesty: Being Childfree

Editor’s Choice I Wonder

More Sugasm

Join the Sugasm

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

Christmas Telly - The Highlights

It was a close run thing between Gavin & Stacey's Christmas Special and Wallis and Grommit's 'A Matter of Loaf and Death'.

James Cordon and Ruth Jones delivered their usual pitch-perfect script and fantastic performances as Smithy and Nessa, the main support characters to the eponymous heroes, whilst Nick Park's plasticine magic continues to utilise a whole raft of famous film scenes to illuminate the wonderful world of a man and his dog. I will have to watch it again just to be sure that I didn't miss any of the wordplays, pastiches and cinematic homages.

Both are still available on iPlayer and highly recommended - it's not absolutely necessary to have watched the two series of G&S but I think it probably works better if you do. Mind you, I suspect that sales of the boxset will be given a huge boost by those whose curiosity has been stimulated by the excellent Christmas Eve showing.

The much vaunted new Christmas episode of The Royle Family was a very disappointing third. It just didn't have the same je ne sais quoi as the last festive special with Nanna's death. There wasn't really even that much of a joke after the first 20 minutes of Denise's lack of cooking skills. The funniest line 'Christmas isn't really for kids is it?' had already been shown several times in the trailer.

As far as non-comedy is concerned, the Christmas episode of Dr Who was a blinder withe the two Doctors (David Tennant and David Morrissey) and an evil Dervla Kirwen leading her Cybermen. Excellent fun and suitable for all the family on Christmas Day.

Friday, 26 December 2008

UnderRated: Cadburys Wispa

I'm not much of a chocolate eater but I have always had a huge weakness for the Wispa.

To be honest, I was sad but not distraught when it was withdrawn from sale since it was a temptation. And we anorexics don't really like temptation.

However, more recently, when I seem to have the condition under control to the degree that I will occasionally treat myself to a chocolate bar, the absence of my favourite Cadburys bar became something of a problem.

Green & Blacks is very nice but it tends to come in big bars which sit in the fridge and shout at other people to finish them when I've satisfied my immediate need for a couple of squares.

Lindor chocolate balls are a long-established weakness that is only indulged at Christmas due to my propensity for polishing off an entire box prior to lunch and suffering from a faceful of zits a week later.

I spoke to my mole at Cadburys, expressing my sadness and it was he that told me of the first whispers. They were thinking about bringing it back. As a test. To see how popular it was.

When this eventually came to pass, there was still no sign of them in my local stores and when I emailed him plaintively, he procured and despatched two of the sought after bars. That man is a hero!

It was just as good as I remembered. Soft, sweet and moreish. Melting on the tongue and satisfying the craving without the kickback of a headache and sugar rush afterwards.

And then came the best news of all. Wispa was coming back. PROPERLY.

I joined the Facebook appreciation society in anticipation. It was just such a shame that it took so long to filter down to my local shops. And then, when it did, I had to resist temptation for a little longer. After all, I didn't want to feel as if it was some extension of obsessive/compulsive disorder. So I tormented myself for a full month after they first appeared in our stores and rewarded my self-control after a particularly exhausting and stressful week.

Ahhhhh.... bliss!

Thursday, 25 December 2008

HNT: Three Wishes

Gosh! I have absolutely no idea how to deal with this one. To select three individuals from so many?

I guess what I'd really like is for all the single bloggers to find love with the partner of their dreams.

To all the unhappily married bloggers, I'd send the gifts of courage and understanding and a big hug.

And to everyone else the eternal cliche of Peace on Earth via the resolution of the credit crunch and the energy crisis... so that's a Star Trek future then :)

Merry Christmas one and all... ho ho ho


Tuesday, 23 December 2008

43 hours

I'd had enough!

The silences were too frequent and too long. I didn't care that this might be how you dealt with the difficulties within our long-distance relationship, I only knew that it hurt too much. That I needed some reminder of your presence in my life even if it was only to say goodnight. The lack of communication just seemed symptomatic of my previous relationships where I did all the legwork and continually justified my presence in their lives. But particularly I thought of the man whose name I bear. Was I just swapping one emotionally repressed, tightlipped fuckwit for another?

So, in the tearful depths of the darkest hours of the night, I resolved to end it. To make my next visit the last one. Leave you with the memory of the mother of all fucks and say goodbye. I no longer cared about how good it was when we were together only how it was when I couldn't be with you. The cold emptiness in my life seemed somehow magnified when I compared it to the thrill of exchanging countless messages with you in the early days.

Perhaps it would be better to finish with this heartache and find a fuckbuddy who lived closer. A man who could satisfy my physical needs without impinging upon my emotions.

The decision was made. The outfit was chosen. The final words were being written in my head.

And then in the wee small hours of the morning, I woke from a dream about you. Where I could see your face and your body, feel your arms around me and the crinkle of the chest hair against my face. I ached for you, longed for you, lusted for you. Reaching out to the phone beside my bed, I sent the text.

It was 3am.

At 3.01am the mobile vibrated your reply. How much you missed me and were looking forward to seeing me. How you couldn't sleep for thinking about my visit in a couple of days time.

It quite took me aback that we should both be awake at this time, each thinking about the other. I knew I had to give you another chance. At least to explain.

So I made the journey, took you to your bed and had my wicked way with you. And then told you how close you had come to being dumped.

43 hours.

You looked genuinely shocked and quite clearly had absolutely no idea.

We talked about compartmentalisation, my needs and your resentment. Your admission that you subconsciously punished me for not being there by not feeding my habit and putting cyber distance between us as well as real miles.

I think we understand each other and the depth of our emotional entanglement now. You will make every effort not to push me away but I will not get overwrought if it appears that you are.

I believe we have both kept to it. The discussion made us reassess our relationship, put in some proper controls and goals.

Since that day, I could not have asked for a better lover. A man who makes me feel so beautiful and special but allows me to be independent without being threatened by my writing. Who makes me laugh and feel so alive. Who rejoices in the lusty and vocal celebration of my orgasm and actively encourages such a crescendo with the view that it is a pleasure for him to precipitate such a reaction. This is a joy indeed.

It is impossible to deny that we have something incredibly special.

Merry Christmas, Ruf x

I know, I know, it's Johnny Depp but, if I can't have Ruf, better him than lots of self-indulgent photos of Mariah!!!

Monday, 22 December 2008

Sunday, 21 December 2008

Pan Am 103

At just after 7pm twenty years ago today the transponder signal for the Pan American Airways Boeing 747 known as Clipper Maid of the Seas split into four separate readings and then disappeared off the screen altogether.

And so began two decades of legal wranglings over who was responsible. With so many political shenanigans it is hard to be sure even now that the correct man is actually held in Greenock prison and he is awaiting a second appeal since the Scottish Criminal Cases Review Commission has found that 'he may have suffered a miscarriage of justice'.

The only thing that is really known is that all 243 passengers and 16 crew were killed as an explosion ripped through the fuselage and destroyed the aircraft's structure, causing a wing, containing 91,000kg of fuel to fall through the air and land on Sherwood Crescent in Lockerbie obliterating two families and several houses as it exploded causing a seismic event that was recorded by the nearby British Geological Survey as measuring 1.6 on the Richter scale.

The wreckage of the rest of the aeroplane drifted in the wind and was distributed over a wide area, including the front cabin section whose image will remain in our minds forever. My thoughts today are with their families who may never know the perpetrators or the real reasons why.

The story of the fate of the plane, passengers and crew can be read here.

Saturday, 20 December 2008

No Matter What...

Some time ago, Ro wrote a piece called 'Suffer the little Children' and talked about the damage caused to those offspring caught in the middle of warring parents.

I was the older child left behind who tried to step into her mother's shoes and took on the running of the house when I was just 17. Looking so like her, I took the full force of my Dad's drunken grief at her desertion. Looking back as an adult, I know he would be mortified if he realised that that was what happened because that would never have been his intent. He did not physically or verbally abuse me personally but I had to listen repeatedly to his outrage at her 'abrogation of her responsibilities'. He didn't need to tell me. I had already had to grow up pretty damn quick in order to make sure that people ate properly and that some semblance of normality in terms of housework and the observation of festivities, such as Christmas and birthdays, was observed. I was, in effect, her whipping boy for several years.

I am also the mother who, when asked by her children about the more obviously distancing behaviour of their father towards me, tries very hard to rationalise and make light of it. I have accepted that I cannot do what I always wanted and provide them with a good role model for how to be part of a tactile, loving and affectionate partnership. It is impossible to achieve when only one of you has that ability. But that does not mean that I cannot shower them with affection and assure them of both their parents' love for them. I refuse to let them think that there is a possibility that I will desert them because of it. I have my cake and eat it too in an attempt to maintain some sort of stable and secure upbringing for them, just as much as to achieve sexual and emotional satisfaction for myself.

Through friends' separations/divorces, I have seen the wrangling that goes on over maintenance and access with each side using the children as pawns and filling their ears with nastiness about the other parent in an attempt to give/receive more or less of their presence. I am sure there are two sides to each story but, sadly, so many supposedly amicable separations deteriorate into acrimonious recriminations.

I will do whatever it takes to avoid entering into an arrangement where that type of behaviour could become a possibility. I would hate for my children to think that their time with either parent equated to how much or little money should be exchanged between those parents.

People repeatedly tell me that I am selfish. Selfish to make Ruf wait. Selfish to take my husband's money and live under his roof whilst having a relationship with someone else. Selfish to spend one weekend in four away from my children.

Many of them tell me that they left their children when they were babies and manage to maintain a good relationship with them through weekend access. Others tell me that my children will have a better upbringing splitting their time between two happy parents.

Babies and even young children under five are often not emotionally capable of feeling the same level of resentment and abandonment as a hormonally unstable teenager in the face of the dissolution of their family unit. They adjust more easily and they are certainly not able to enunciate those feelings either verbally or through (self-)destructive actions to the same venomous degree. It is totally different. I know from bitter experience how damaging it can be.

I refuse to do it.

Maybe I am selfish. But I simply will not run away whilst their living environment is not a war zone and it is still possible to maintain at least an approximation of a 'normal' life.

I am quite sure that they are well aware that their parents' marriage is rather different to those of some of their friends. They have already commented on the lack of affectionate gestures between us and the distinct difference in parenting style in terms of attitudes towards their behaviour. They are not blind or deaf to my open-mouthed astonishment at some of the stranger exchanges. But for as long as it is possible for me to suck it up and carry on regardless, I will continue to be the best parent that I can be and attempt to bring them up in accordance with principles that are designed to turn them into loving, free-spirited, considerate adults.

Steering them through the vicissitudes of their teenage years is probably the most daunting task that I have ever undertaken and doing so as part of a non-united couple makes these troubled times even harder. The addition of the seasonal festivities only compounds the problems.

But, for now, my children will continue to live with both their parents, who love them in their own way... no matter what.

Thursday, 18 December 2008

HNT: Tree

Sometimes you need help to put the star on the top of the tree...


Tuesday, 16 December 2008

I will make noise...

According to the advertising on C4, The Devil's Whore tells the epic story of the English Civil War through the eyes of a spirited aristocratic woman who is drawn to the anti-monarchist cause at a time when England dared to execute its King and search for an alternative means of government.

The first episode saw Lady Angelica Fanshawe, darling of the King's Court, married to her childhood friend, Harry, to secure the family fortune.

And then her confusion in the marital bed when he expressed his horror at her gaspingly approving responses to his lovemaking. 'Are you a whore, Madam? Wherefrom these noises in the night?'

'You will not make noise,' he commanded and we witness her consternation as he places his hand over her mouth to ensure that it is so.

But, later, with the love of her life, Colonel Thomas Rainsborough, she finds a man who is quite unperturbed at her assertion prior to their coupling that 'I confess that I will not be silent...'

How many women in those days must have suffered from sexual repression as well as personal abasement before their male masters? In a world where only whores and courtesans were allowed to express any enjoyment in carnal activity and women were meant to be silent wives in harness to their husband's property.

As Rainsborough tells Angelica in his description of his future wife:

Such a one as lives and worships in freedom. One who knows how to truly love a man and be loved... Not a painted child who knows nothing but a thousand years of privilege and calls it breeding or manners, calls submission duty and lives only to please a man and pass on his property through his sons. I will have a free spirit, Madam, and a beautiful one. ...I may not find her but I believe that she will find me.

He was a man ahead of his times in his determination that all men and women should be equal, with none subservient to another and his rather naive and romantic belief that it could ever be so.

John Simm plays Edward Sexby, another such man, who worships Angelica and has made it his business to protect her because of the joy she brought into his life, even marrying her knowing that she did not love him. Eventually, of course, she appreciates his worth and understands the continuity of his devotion enough to return his feelings.

In Rainsborough and Sexby, Angelica found two gems. For to have a man who rejoices in the lusty and vocal celebration of a woman's orgasm, who actively encourages such a crescendo with the view that it is a pleasure for him to precipitate such a reaction is a joy indeed. A man who wants an independent woman with a mind of her own, not some placid underling that he can isolate and mould into doing his bidding. It made me realise that it is a concept which appears to be as rare today as it was then. I love to make a noise but it is only possible with a man who can create the environment where I feel comfortable enough to release all the inner tension and let go.

It was most disconcerting to find in Andrea Riseborough a woman who is as thin and white as myself. To see her naked in bed with her lovers was very strange because I am so used to seeing actresses who have been enhanced both surgically and in terms of skin colour but she did look very beautiful in a very non-conventional way.

The puritan ethos of enjoying nothing has always made me view the time of the Protectorate with a certain disdain. My sympathies lying absolutely with Charles I, I was a staunch Royalist. Because, for all the Roundhead complaints, the lifestyle of what was considered his decadent Court was as nothing compared to that of his son, Charles II, where licentiousness reigned supreme, almost in a reaction to the decade of frugal circumspection that had gone before.

And yet the way Peter Flannery has dramatised the Civil War and romanticised the cause of the Commonwealth for a change has caused me to think again. Well, that and the gorgeous Michael Fassbender playing Rainsborough.

I couldn't find a picture that satisfactorily reflects his Devil's Whore incarnation so I shall have to inflict upon you a half-naked version of his character in '300' to illustrate the persuasiveness of his role.

If only this programme had been around when I was studying this at school, I would have been a much more receptive student. Battles like Kineton, Marston Moor and Naseby became more than just dry dates on a page, as did the politics of the time. The innumerable parliament names, rump, long, short, etc., etc. The various different factions and beliefs - Levellers, Ranters, et al. Suddenly I understood the reasoning behind them.

I read that Peter Flannery spent several years touting his project between the BBC and Channel 4, originally envisaging 12 episodes but this was cut to four when it came to actual funding from C4.

He has succeeded in producing a work that not only makes a rather dull period of history quite enthralling but one which has at its centre a vital, independent woman who is not afraid to live her life to the full through sex, joy and hope.

The life and times of Angelica Fanshawe. A historical heroine in the grand traditions of Sergeanne Golon's Angelique and Juliet Benzoni's Catherine, the literary idols of my teenage years.

It's available to watch from Episode 1 on C4OD.

Highly recommended.

Monday, 15 December 2008