Monday, July 20, 2015

random words

Often as I'm drifting off to sleep, my head writes things. Sometimes they're coherent and I like the language, so I struggle out of my comfy half sleep and write them down.

I just one I filed away the other week. I do remember writing it, but I have no idea what the larger idea was, or what earthly use it will ever be to me.

So I'll just stick it here as written.

This is why I don't write long form work...

I lay in my little bed in the cottage and listened to the arythmic bump and scrape and shuffle of the boat bobbing against the dock. Gradually the impact grew more rhythmic, and when it was accompanied by a soft groan I realised it had been assimilated into the sound of my sister having sex in the room next door.
I listened dispassionately. Really, I thought, I’m too young to be exposed to this sort of thing.
That wasn’t actually true. I was of an age to start finding out. My friend Cally had recently thrown herself into sex with an exuberant energy, her enthusiasm and willingness to learn making up for her inexperience. She shared her newfound knowledge with me in whispered snatches and I reacted appropriately, smiled and filed it away in some later to be opened box in my mind.

I couldn’t imagine being bothered. Not with Cally’s smoke and cider scented Darren or the grimy construction workers who filed into the pub on Thursday and Friday evenings, cement dust greying the rough lines on their fingers.

Who might this ingenue teen find to explore her desire with? A billionaire dom? A vampire? Some class of lesbian? I've a horrible feeling it might have been her sister's boyfriend, now that I think about it, but I can't remember why. Hmm. 

Thursday, July 16, 2015

An Open Letter To George Hook

Dear George Hook,
So in this article, you seem to be saying you didn't say what Nuala Nic Dhomhnaill thought you said about implied consent in a relationship. Instead ... this is what you meant... 

So now you are sharing a bed with someone and obviously a sexual congress takes place on a regular basis, because you're living with somebody. Now is there not an implied consent therefore that you consent to sexual congress?" he asked.

Yeah, the difference isn't very clear to me. But why is it so hard to fathom the idea of consent? Why would being in a relationship imply consent at all times? Didn't we make marital rape a crime (finally, in 1991 - seems that before that they thought it might get in the way of 'reconcilliation')? Not that it's made much difference, as we've still got shit like the case you've been pontificating on, or this one that popped up when I went to search for the criminalisation date, because I couldn't *imagine* it could have been as late as 1991.
You're not alone in this either, George. Possibly because men of your age and attitude are still the influential voice of the coutnry. 
But back to the complexity of the issue, George... if you're in a relationship, consent is implied, eh? What if they're having a poo, George, is consent implied then? Or if they're sick with a fever, or they've just hit their head. Or maybe if their parent's died, and they're too sad to say no clearly... would implied consent still work then, because you're living with them?
What if you're living with them but you're not actually in a relationship but you had sex once before? Is consent implied then, if you never officially withdrew it?
Yes, George. You need consent Every Single Time. And you don't fuck anyone when they're asleep unless they've specifically asked you to and you've agreed the terms. It's scary to me that people have trouble with that idea. Have a wee look at this handy cartoon if you're still confused. Please.

Sunday, June 21, 2015


When it comes to kink, I know exactly which side of the sub/dom line my inclinations fall. Control is something I'm lacking, not that I revel in. Tie me up. Tell me what to do. Take that cake away from me.

But... but... what does appeal about switching, I realise, is the opportunity for access. To have an open invitation to touch. Call it neediness, call it a Taurean desire for tactile contact, call it dyspraxic impropriety, explain it however you will, but oh, to be able to hold your hand, to squeeze your butt, to slide my hand between your legs whenever I want. To run my fingers through your hair, stroke your cheek, put my mouth on you, put my tongue in your ear, slap you, pinch you, penetrate you, knead you, need you... this is the appeal. Oo, gimme.

Yes. I would love an open invitation to be grabby. To own you. Not 24/7, but just to be able to revel in you, and not sit on my hands all the time, wondering if it's ok to touch. To stop worrying about sensibilities and boundaries and propriety and whether or not my affection or my desire will upset or intrude or discomfit.

The more I think about it, I realise how intensely personal this post is. I was going to make it writery, but I'm not sure I can. There are too many things bound up in it - too much stymied need that Freud would have a field day with it (yes, I just need to suck something, ok?). Perhaps it has to do with lack of love in childhood, or the experience of growing up less than attractive, feeling like the consolation prize. Fat girls are so grateful for the crumbs of attention you throw their way, isn't that how it goes? And then choosing a life partner who wasn't that into physical contact or PDAs...

And anyway, while I may not be great at self control and routine, I do revel in being bossy. So god, yes, strip and get face down on that bed, please, and grant me a pass, open up, let me play.

Monday, May 4, 2015

Thoughts on beards and...

A silly thing crossed my mind this morning.

So, beards are good, right?* We like beards. While a stubborn few cling to the idea that to be clean shaven is to be neater and more formal, more socially acceptable, the hipster men of our present generation (not to mention all those adventurous non-hipster masses who came before) have reclaimed The Beard that is their birthright, and have embraced the joy of being fancy once more. And most of the women of the world share in their hirsute delight.

There's a thing, though, that I just thought of. Would you agree, that there's a particular stubborn pungency to the smell of cunt juice that clings to one's fingers as it dries? It's tenacious; not unpleasant, but strongly lingering. If not washed off straight away, it tends to hang around through the day, subtle, yet evident.

Perhaps you see where I'm going with this? One of the things we beard-appreciating ladies appreciate is the added sensation of stubble or hair on our tenderest parts when our men go down on us. Yes? That extra tactility (it's a word, I just checked) of a hundred wiry hairs biting just a little into our sensitive, pinkest skin. It's a delicious cruelty that makes us writhe against your face that little bit more.

But oh! How hard the aroma of us must cling to those face-forests thereafter! And how tantalising, disturbing, alarmingly evocative it must be to walk around with a constant reminder of the services you performed earlier wafting into your nose, embued as your beard is with tiny beads of love-cream. It must be difficult to get anything done.

There's something wonderfully animal about it all. N'est-pas?

I'm sorry, I couldn't resist. 

*I am choosing to ignore that disturbing article doing the rounds about the dubious bacterial load that beards carry, but would implore all beard wearers to wash their hands carefully as often as necessary. 

Monday, April 27, 2015

Matthew 7:3-5

I'm a horrible reader. I need to find my inner Zen when it comes to reading things.
I trip over one word that wrankles for some reason, and I'm out of the game, it's like I'm wearing a hair shirt, metaphorically, writhing around in discomfort, my brain firing out alternatives and reasons why the word's wrong. And often it's a word that everyone is using - but I can't enjoy the writing anymore. Typos, word misuse, personal pet peeve words... ugh. I'm awful.

In the last few days, I've come across the phrase, 'I let out a whelp', which was meant to be meant as a yelping sound, but as far as I know only means a newborn pup. I know 'whelp' is an exclamation sometimes, but 'a whelp', no - so what I had was an image of a woman tied to a bed in the middle of a gang bang giving birth to a puppy spontaneously, and that was it, it was all over for me.

I have similar reactions to to commonly used words. One is 'want' in place of 'desire' - when did that start happening? You're overcome with want? Want is a noun now? I thought it meant a lack, as in 'for want of a nail, the shoe was lost'. Now it suddenly means desire. And every time I see it I get shaken out of the story and think, grr! Same for 'hit'. For me, hit is a verb, and as a noun it means a chart topper. But it's used in place of smack, or stroke, or blow now, thirty hits to my butt... nooo, please no. It sounds so clumsy.

Anyway, yes, see how my train of thought works, in the middle of nice stories? And the worse thing is, I am also tormented by my own petty pernicketiness. It's not fun to feel like this. It's not fun to jolt over extraneous apostrophes as if they were tripwires. It's pants. And I don't know what to do about it. How do I put down the red pen? 

Tuesday, April 21, 2015

fat jokes

I have this very attractive colleague, he's 42, if I remember correctly, he mountain bikes competitively and is in great shape. He's very funny, good at being overly familiar in a nice way, very kind, full of teasing. He brightens the day, really, I appreciate his presence.

Yesterday, though, I think he horrified himself by saying something out loud I suspect he meant to say in his head.

I was lamenting the lack of a blind in my classroom, as no one can see the board. There were just himself and another young colleague in our tiny staffroom after work. I wondered if there was anything I could bring in to hang in the window that would do to block the shine, as I don't think a blind will be particularly forthcoming.

He instantly piped up, 'A pair of your knickers?'

Now, generally in my workplace, which is female-dominated, we don't do fat jokes. Generally, here, it's impossible to lament your fatness, even as an obese person, because someone rushes in to tell you you're fine. Actually, I'm not sure that goes for me any more, as I've clearly crossed the line at this stage, but still. There tends to be an elephant in the room during these conversation, still, these days, and yes, that elephant is me.

So... though Dan's joke was gasp-worthy, slightly shocking, funny in its utter meanie rudeness (you're not supposed to mention the gigantic nature of my ass!) it was also refreshing, and a little comforting in its honesty and chilled outedness. I really don't think he meant to say it, but I'm glad he did. And I also kicked him, as really, if manners maketh the man, telling a lady she has a huge arse get you kicked in your own one.  


I am so very white-skinned that my boobs are kinda see-through in bright sunshine.

I'm trying not to be grossed out by that.