Monday, 31 August 2009

Mute Monday: Light(houses) and Light

I know they're not lighthouses but they're great examples of Star Trek Lights!

I asked Ruf what he thought of when I said 'light' and these are his immediate thoughts:


Saturday, 29 August 2009

Dirty Sexy Money

I finally finished watching the season 2 finale of this last night. It had been half-finished for some time.

When I first started to watch, this would have been unthinkable because it was so well-written but, a season later, I am not totally surprised that it became one of the more high-profile victims of the Writers' Guild action last year. Many promising shows were cancelled as a result of the hiatus that occurred with no scripts being produced. Dirty Sexy Money started really well, with a good plotline and the excellent Peter Krause (previously from Six Feet Under), supported by Donald Sutherland, Blair Underwood and some other lesser known cast members. It provided me with quite a few TV Bon Mots, but it gradually deteriorated in terms of fanciful plotlines. Whether this was the result or the cause of the decision to axe it, is unclear.

I remember when Chris Moyles announced on his radio show that Dirty Sexy Money had been cancelled. He was half-way through watching the first season on dvd and I was awaiting the start of the second on terrestrial television. I agreed with him how disappointing it was because it is so infuriating to find out that a story you are enjoying is going to be incomplete. You just know that the finale will end on a cliffhanger that you are never going to resolve.

Very frustrating.

It's not worth buying as a boxset to keep forever but the first series is definitely worth watching via rental.

Thursday, 27 August 2009

HNT: Sleepy snuggle

As my friends on Facebook will know, I've been spending a fortnight shacked up with Ruf and there have been some interesting developments. More of which over the next few weeks.

In the meantime, my new camera has a timer... and I've worked out how to use it so that there can be more shots which include Ruf.

Recently, I received a complaint from one of my faithful readers because the new mouseovers mean that some people cannot click to see the second picture.

I shall try to remember to include a link to rectify this in future x


Tuesday, 25 August 2009

Syphilis and the Family Tree

Ruf and I watched a fascinating programme recently. It was the Martin Freeman episode from the series 'Who do you think you are', where they help celebrities to trace their family trees.

The first forty minutes of the hour-long programme were interesting, following his grandfather, Leonard's, death just prior to the evacuation of Dunkirk and the revelation that his great grandfather, Richard, was born blind and fathered Leonard late in life, but it was after that when things became totally captivating.

Finding evidence that showed Richard as a young man at work as a respected organist in a church in Worthing, Martin learned that Richard had fathered more than six live children with one wife before marrying again after her death and fathering about six more. He then left his position under mysterious circumstances and surfaced again in Hull, where he married a third woman, who, like him, was also blind. Together they had another six children (including his grandfather, Leonard) before Richard died at the age of about 70. His wife, Ada, went on to marry again twice more and finally left this mortal coil in her nineties.

It was amazing enough to imagine two blind people bringing up six children on their own but then Martin started to investigate further and discovered that they had actually produced 12 live children, only to have six of them die very young.

Visiting a paediatrician at Great Ormond Street with four of their death certificates, they deciphered the writing and realised that all four had been born and died within a period of about 6-8 years with the main cause of death being 'failure to thrive'. At that time, the most common reason for this was congenital syphilis, an illness which can also cause blindness, either at birth or in the first few years due to the glazing over of the cornea.

It transpired that Ada had not been born blind, but had lost her sight at the age of three and the death certificate of her older brother showed that he had died a month before she was conceived of 'constitutional syphilis' at the age of just three months. This meant that he presented with symptoms that were undeniable and could not be listed as mere 'failure to thrive', confirming that the most likely cause of Ada's becoming blind as a small child was that same illness.

Now, I don't know about you guys but I always thought that, if not caught early enough or if left untreated, syphilis was fatal, going through varying symptoms including a horrible facial rash which eventually caused your nose to fall off, before you went gaga. It would appear that my sexual education is somewhat lacking.

The consensus of the experts was that Ada had been born with congenital syphilis (ie caught from her mother and transmitted during the pregnancy) and recovered without treatment because it is possible in certain cases for the disease to 'work its way out of the system' over a period of four to six years. However, having had the disease once does not mean that you are then immune. She had, then, been re-infected by her husband, Richard, passing it on to her own foeti in utero. She then recovered a second time and went on to have more children who were unaffected by the disease. Apparently, if a woman who has born several healthy children suddenly goes through a period of 6-8 years where she has a series of miscarriages, still births or neo-natal deaths, then syphilis is the most likely cause.

Kassovitz's Law of 1875 dictates that 'the spontaneous gradual diminution in intensity of syphilitic transmission'. So a number of births will be miscarriages, then stillbirths, then unhealthy children who die quickly, unhealthy children who survive and then back to healthy children again.

Syphilis is a sexually transmitted disease which first appeared in the 1490s in Southern Europe and rapidly spread across the continent, where it was also known as the French Disease. Due to its extreme contagiousness and hideous symptoms, it was as feared as the Plague.

Many have said that Henry VIII suffered from it and this was evidenced by the ulcer on his leg and his inability to father healthy children. However, this is not totally born out by the evidence - based on Kassovitz's Law. Catherine of Aragon was pregnant six times. She gave birth to four boys who lived for a few months or were stillbirths. Then she had a healthy daughter, the woman who became Bloody Mary, followed by another daughter who died after a few weeks. In that time, Henry also fathered the illegitimate Henry Fitzroy, Duke of Richmond, who went on to die at the age of 17. Anne Boleyn's first child was Elizabeth, followed by two miscarriages. Jane Seymour's first and only pregnancy produced Edward VI, who, although not the most robust of children, did survive until he was 16.

It was not until 1928 and the arrival of penicillin that a cure was found.

In the late 1890s/early 20th century, syphilis was very prevalent and extremely contagious. Most people passed it on without even knowing that they had it. Whether the disease or the method of its contraction had anything to do with Richard's sudden departure from his respectable job and lifestyle in Worthing, we will never know, but it certainly makes for some salacious conjecture.

Statistics show that one in ten people in Britain had the disease. So, as the sexual health expert said: 'of all the people currently engaged in genealogy searches, at least 10% have a sporting chance of finding syphilis in their family tree'.

It's certainly a very sobering thought.

Monday, 24 August 2009

Mute Monday: The Dark...


Sunday, 23 August 2009

Sugasm #171

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 #172? 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
Kiss Me If You Can
“I love the buildup, the discovery.”

Back To School
“Back at school a stolen glance across the corridor shows me you haven’t forgotten either.”

On Critics and Criticism
“But is it fair? Is it right?”

Sugasm Editor
Review: Babeland’s Under The Bed Restraints

Editor’s Choice

More Sugasm
Join the Sugasm

Friday, 21 August 2009

OverRated: The Yellow Brick Road

The Wizard of Oz was a huge part of my childhood. It was certainly on the television every Christmas, if not every seasonal celebration and I fear I started to mould my life upon it.

Like the Lion, the Scarecrow and the Tin Man, I thought that if I could just reach... well, the next level in whatever I was doing, I would achieve the goal I sought. Be it courage, a brain, a heart... or just someone who would appreciate all my finer points and learn how to love all the crap that came with them.

The opening piano chords of Elton John's famous song inevitably bring a lump to my throat and tears to my eyes because it always made me think about saying goodbye to that dream. Somehow, so much more poignant than Candle in the Wind.

And, now I've done it. Turned off the path and away from the promise of the Emerald City with the Wizard who will wave his magic wand and make everything right. Taken my life into my own hands.

I may not be like Elton's boy going back to hicksville from the glitz and glamour of a penthouse lifestyle but things will certainly be different from here on in. However, the afternoon that I spent with one of my more difficult children in my flat recently where we just chatted and hung out without any rows gives me hope that I can look forward to a better future.

Because I took the plunge and made it so, rather than waiting for things to miraculously come right through the wave of a magic wand.


Thursday, 20 August 2009

HNT: Ironing

Cleaning and ironing are the times when I think. Mull over what is troubling me. Sometimes, I deliberately hoover and wash floors to get rid of any adverse tension.

Ironing is sometimes the chore that gives the most difficult time mentally. I cannot throw it around and vent, as I would the hoover, or scrub vigorously to cleanse the unhappy memories. And yet, I have always found it to be very therapeutic, regularly standing for two or three hours in front of a film to clear a huge pile without giving it a thought.

These days, however, it causes me a few uncertain moments because I could just give the shirts a cursory once over to get rid of the worst of the wrinkles but I still apply to each one the care and attention that I always have, inhaling the delicate residue of his cologne and smiling sadly.

This is when I realise that I still care about the father of my children. My husband in name. That little flutter around my heart that remembers how much I once loved him and wanted the best for him.

To me, when you care about someone, you do things for them, you look after them, their physical wellbeing, their day to day life, try to help them and make life easier for them. Nurturing and cossetting. These have always been my watchwords when it came to love.

Part of me wishes that I could eradicate this feeling as I move onto the next difficult sleeve.

But I can't. The truth is that, no matter how cold he has been to me emotionally in return, he has still kept me warm, fed and financially safe for the last three decades. Perhaps I look upon him almost as a father figure and am grateful.

Or maybe it's just that a small part of me will always love him and, therefore, want to look after him.

And this photo really made me laugh because the perspective is very strange. As I'm sitting as tall as I can in lotus position, it looks like someone else's disembodied hands are curving around from behind me trying to grab my boobs but the iron box gets in the way.


Picture courtesy of:

Wednesday, 19 August 2009

Pleasurists #42

Pleasurists is a round-up of the adult product and sex toy reviews that came out in the last seven days from bloggers all around the sex blogosphere. Did you miss Pleasurists #41? Read it all here. Do you have a review for Pleasurists #43? Submit it here before Sunday August 16th at 11:59pm PDT. Please re-post this list on your own blog if listed.

Want to win some free swag? All you’ve got to do is enter.

Madame Editrix

Scarlet Lotus St. Syr

On to the reviews…



Anal Toys

Toys for Cocks

Lube, Massage Oil, Bath Stuff, & etc.


Adult Books

Adult Movies/Porn

Sex Furniture



Pleasurists adult product review round-up banner

Tuesday, 18 August 2009


Sugasm #175

"Sometimes I miss you so much that I am pitiful."

She didn't think so. She thought it was the most wonderfully romantic thing for me to feel that way about her... and voice the emotion.

But my need for her makes me feel so weak, so dependent. Pitiful indeed. For she is married to someone else. Another man's wife. Not my girlfriend at all. I am just a paramour. A man who provides her with the sex that she doesn't get at home. A sad bastard who cannot get a woman of his own. A short, fat cunt. Lonely and alone.

So, when she told me she was leaving him and setting up on her own, I was nonplussed. Suddenly, the possibility that she could be mine opened up before me. Trying to support her whilst she dealt with all the trials and tribulations of a marriage breakup, comforting her and holding her as she cried over the dissolution of her security for the previous three decades, fretted over her guilt and sadness, worried for her children, I came to realise the depth of my love for her.

When she snuggles up to me in bed, all warm and naked, pressing herself into my flesh. Watching her as she dances around my flat wearing next to nothing. When she organises me to make the most of my business and finances or cleans my kitchen floor whilst I'm out. Waking up to the joy of one of her early morning blowjobs. When she's screaming like a banshee as she comes over and over again and I'm grinning like an idiot that I can do this. And, later, as she kisses me and strokes me and tells me I'm beautiful.

Sure, I have told her I love her many times before. And I did. I do. She is this wonderful person in my life. A lover... and a friend that I could never imagine not wanting to have contact with.

But it is more than that. There have been so many women, but I've never felt this way about one before. And, suddenly, it began to dawn on me.

I don't just love her, I am in love with her.

She makes me feel glorious.

Monday, 17 August 2009

Mute Monday: Rock


Saturday, 15 August 2009

Durex Play

A few months ago, Victoria at Durex asked me if I'd like to review some of their Play range.

I have to say that, at first, I wasn't terribly enthusiastic, having purchased my own bottle of Durex Play Tingle some months before and suffered a bad irritation because it was too strong for my Menopausally-sensitive ladybits.

Having advised her of this rather unfortunate reaction, Victoria assured me that Tingle had the strongest effect of the range but that the Feel and Heat versions were much more subtle and so we agreed that she would send me a bottle of both.

In the meantime, after the ministrations of my Kegel8 Tight and Tone workout, my pussy was feeling much less fragile so I decided to retest the Tingle. Sadly, although the effect was not so dramatic as previously, where I found myself having to shower for about ten minutes to relieve the itching and irritation, the area around my clit still felt very uncomfortable for a couple of days afterwards, requiring several applications of Canesten to relieve the symptoms.

A really good thing about the Durex Play range of lubricants is that they are free from animal derived ingredients, which means that Ruf, who is a strict vegan, is quite happy to use them. So, keeping Heat at Ruf's and Feel with me, I gave them a thorough test.

Both are water-based, so can be used with all my silicon toys and are very light to the touch, not requiring very much in terms of quantity to make things nice and slippery.

Neither of us was terribly conscious of any particular increase in temperature when using the Heat version, but it worked well otherwise, lubricating both sets of genitals for mutual stimulation and also to ease penetration when my own juices were not up to it on a couple of occasions.

Whilst I was away from Ruf and flying solo with my toys, Feel definitely helped me to do quite happily what it said on the bottle. It was soft and gentle with no unpleasant after-effects, so I would certainly recommend it.

Another point in its favour is its accessibility, as it is readily available in both Tesco and Sainsburys so, if you're not brazen enough to watch it move along the conveyor and be scanned by the spotty teenager earning his beer money for the next semester at Uni, you can just slip it under your sausages and use the self-check-out facility.

And, no, they weren't deliberate double entendres ;P

Thursday, 13 August 2009

HNT: Joanna Cake takes a bath

I haven't had a proper bath in years.

At Ruf's the hot water comes through so slowly that the bubble count just doesn't ever quite reach adequate so, whilst ok for cleaning purposes, even with candles it still doesn't reach the optimum relaxation point.

At the house, the bathroom is always full of other people's clutter and mess and the process would, inevitably, be interrupted, so I never had the enthusiasm to bother. I would take a shower instead.

In my new flat, the bath is small and the shower attachment needs replacing but the water pressure produces wonderful bubbles. However, it is clean and tidy and the candles - vanilla tealights and a big cranberry monster, if you're wondering - combined with the peaceful and harmonious atmosphere made the occasion of my first bath a truly wonderful thing.

And, even better, Ruf to sit on the toilet and chat with me, before enveloping me in a soft, fluffy white towel, drying me off and leading me down the hall to christen my bed.


Tuesday, 11 August 2009

Love's Labours Lost

I thought, after becoming a Mother, that I was cured of my eating disorder.

Breastfeeding and the general wear and tear of motherhood meant that I had to eat properly. Nature has built in her own survival instincts for the sake of the baby.

We would go for long walks, my daughter in her pram and me pushing, chatting to her, laughing with her and watching her sleep.

The birth had been a long and difficult affair and there were feelings of isolation. I didn't immediately feel the 'bond' because of all the drugs but I came to love her dearly.

She was my comfort blanket and I didn't want to be away from her. The same thing happened when she was joined by her brother. An easier, although still assisted, birth. I was awake and handed my manchild, whereas I had to be woken up to groggily become aware of my daughter at the second attempt.

I still laugh because I remember thinking I was lying on a beach, the bright lights of the operating theatre constituted the hot Mediterranean sun. I could hear the waves lapping at the shore. Someone showed me a baby. A child with a fabulous ski-slope nose that I had always craved. I said 'What a sweet baby! But what has that child got to do with me?' and drifted back off to sleep. They woke me again and I think I became aware that this child was mine.

The next thing I knew, it was very early morning and the sun was pouring into the room in which I was sleeping. A baby was crying but I didn't know why. And I couldn't get out of bed. I couldn't move. That's what happens when you have an emergency caesarean and your stomach muscles have all been cut.

I felt a bit useless after the birth. I had knitted spaghetti with the NCT and vowed not to have any drugs. I had wanted a natural childbirth in all its agony. In the end, I was begging for the epidural but it didn't work properly so I had almost a whole day of 'therapeutic' pain before the spiralling descent to an emergency general anaesthetic-controlled caesarean was a huge disappointment to me. The dimensions of my body had meant that my baby was unable to get out through the natural route.

I was a failure.

But, worse, the man I loved, the man who was my life partner had not been there for me. He does not do pain or emotion well and, I believe, was very uncomfortable that events unfolded in a way that meant I could not be the cool, calm, confident earth mother who popped her baby out in the shelter of a bush, strapped it to her breast and carried on with the farming.

His way of dealing with a situation that was beyond his control was to be detached. Totally separate from me. Throughout the labour, he sat on the other side of the room with the nurses, joking and drinking coffee and eating cake. Instead of staying to comfort me the following evening when I was distressed, he went out with our relatives to wet the baby's head and couldn't understand why I became even more upset. He just couldn't comprehend the massive anti-climax that I felt. Couldn't come to terms with my reaction to the drugs, the situation, the emotional turmoil that assailed me. And yet, all I wanted was for him to hold me and hug me and make it better as I fought the drug-induced fug that seemed to have overtaken me.

I felt isolated, disconnected and unsupported. Everything that I had planned in terms of the perfect birth had disintegrated. In retrospect, perhaps I had more than I ever knew invested in that one event. I wasn't aware of thinking it at the time but, perhaps, I had built it up to be 'my moment'. The one where I came out of the shadows and proved that I was worthy. Being a good mother was a critical point for me.

I don't totally blame him for running away because I was like a madwoman, talking at hyperspeed, unable to eat the disgusting hospital food for almost a week and ghostly white, with a dangerously low blood pressure as a result. They tried to give me a transfusion but it just made matters worse when, for whatever medical reason, the whole thing went at a snail's pace and was abandoned. It was after visiting hours and so he went home, leaving me there trying to deal with my split personality, severed stomach muscles and a baby who desperately needed milk that wouldn't come into my breasts because of my emotionally and physically debilitated state.

I failed as a woman, as a mother and as a wife on so many levels in that week.

But he did bring in a casserole on the seventh day and I finally was able to eat. That's what I clung onto. He did care and his way of showing it had always been to provide food. And, for once, it was very welcome.

I can remember that, in the early days at home with my daughter, I still expected someone to knock on the door and demand to have their baby back. There were so many drugs in my system that I was like a spotty zombie for six weeks.

But my daughter and I did bond. We did everything together. If there was an arranged activity, we would be there. And everything else we did at home. Music, cooking, playdough, painting, dressing up, colouring, dancing, singing, reading, watching her favourite television programmes and videos and, above all, laughing.

And, although I didn't want to ever have sex again as a result of the trauma I had experienced (and indeed would not for over a year), her father and I were intimate through our love for our child. Heads close together, we cuddled our offspring as she lapped up the attention.

From the outside, we must have been like the perfect family and for a year we lived that dream.

Monday, 10 August 2009

Mute Monday: Jo(h)nny