A Brief Hiatus

Just to announce a little break from the blog. Not by choice, I assure you, but lots of exciting things are happening at the moment and there just aren’t enough hours in the day! I’ll be back soon, with lots of new experiences, opinions and debates to share. Until we speak next, have fun!

New story out now!

In ‘The American and the Londoner’, a feisty young American is tamed by an enigmatic artist. Expect new experiences, power play and maybe a hint of romance. Published in the May issue of Scarlet Magazine.

Defining Sexual Attraction

The other night a group of friends and I were trying to determine our ‘type’; trying to identify the kind of people we were attracted to. After charting the years of our sexual and relationship history, everyone seemed to go for a certain kind of person, except me. Other than liking someone to be of a good height, I’m really not fussed. Physique, career, eye colour, wealth, hair (style or the lack of it)…none of it really matters.

I was trying to define what I found sexy, and it was incredibly difficult. I think it’s something immeasurable. For me, it’s charisma, life experience, attitude. Definitely confidence, too. So often I find myself as the teacher, not the pupil, and now I understand that I want someone to show me something new. I’m attracted to people who have done more than I have, who have something new to offer intellectually or emotionally. That is sexy.

Physicality is pretty insignificant really. Obviously, there must be something about them that is attractive, but that may be a smile, broad shoulders or good hands. It’s not necessarily that whole perfect package that I’d look for. This is probably terribly unfair, but I tend to view people who are particularly physically beautiful as somewhat 2D. It’s like I can’t get past the superficial, as though their beauty is masking their personality and character.

It’s the same in literature, too. Who are the sexiest characters? Are they ever the beautiful aristocracy? Not usually. It’s Heathcliff. The Vicomte de Valmont from Les Liasons Dangerouses. Dacre’s Zofloya. Maybe even Stephen Dedalus from Ulysses. They are all interesting, out of the ordinary. They offer that little something extra.

Perhaps this is why a lot of erotica doesn’t really do it for me. The men and women are all identikit and there’s entire pages devoted to exactly how they look, not how they act. It’s never real. There’s no flaws, no misadventure, no genuine discovery.

Sexual attraction is complex and I guess there’s a certain charm in not knowing the root of my preferences. I’m not interested in delving into Freudian analyses or the like, I prefer the appeal of the unpredictable. One thing I am prepared to resist, however, is my attraction being filtered through a series of images pushed through magazines, television, the internet or hearsay.

A Firm Grip

Although I would prefer this to be a fuller, rounder bottom, this feels so incredibly good!

On Sexuality and Aging

All the time I hear that when I’m older, I won’t place so much importance on sex. Personally, I’m doubtful. Yes, I’m only in my mid-twenties, but after being sexually active for quite a few years it’s still as important as it always was and I can’t imagine life without exploring it. Maybe I’m highly sexed, who knows? Against whom do you judge sex drive?

Don’t get me wrong, I’m not all about the sex. I’ve recently opted for singledom (again) as although the chemistry was mind-blowing with the ever-so-lovely recent ex, other areas of the relationship weren’t quite right. Typically, I do want it all! But it was that chemistry, that real electric connection, that made me stick it out as long as I did. Right or wrong, when weighing up potential suitors, sexual connection is almost at the top of the list.

Why should the fact that I’m 10, 20, 30 years older mean that I should no longer have a libido or be interested in a sexual connection with another person? Yes, I appreciate that life’s stresses will impact upon sex drive, but quite frankly I find the implication that someone of my age or younger cannot experience real stress or trauma to be a little insulting. Of course, biological changes (the menopause, for example) may be an issue, but until then I intend to make the most of the wonder that is sexual interaction.

Say I’m single and looking for a relationship when I’m middle-aged (whenever that is). I don’t see why I should be content with just good conversation and the knowledge that my partner is reliable and loving. What if I want that and a healthy sex life?

There seems to be a couple of issues at play here. One, that there’s a subtle, pervasive consensus that sexual interest fades with age, and two, that someone who likes sex is somehow untrustworthy or unfaithful. Yet there’s a huge difference between someone who likes to get laid and someone who truly appreciates what good sex really means. All I can hope for is that I am fortunate enough to connect with someone on a personal and sexual level throughout all stages of my life.

In Appreciation of a Little Pain

A few days ago, I was spanked. The new beau and I were quietly watching the film Secretary (one of my all-time favourites, not particularly for the sex) when he suddenly asked if he could spank me. My immediate reaction was to laugh it off…but when I went to kiss him, he told me I would get no kisses – nor anything else – until I got on all fours for him.

I was flustered with surprise and strangely felt a little embarrassed. I’m not sure why; at  being asked maybe, at wanting him to, at the prospect of it… either way, I knew it was going to happen and the anticipation was delicious.

Previous partners have ‘played’ at spanking. A couple of teasing taps now and again, the occasional tentative slap to gauge my reaction. Never before have they been delivered in earnest though, never with delight and arousal and dedication. Until now.

He tells me my bum is pert and biteable; he tells me to leave my underwear on. He gets behind me and traces his fingers down along my spine.

Down, down he goes. Down to the edge of my french knickers, further, to the top of my thighs. He feels me through my underwear. I am wet, ready and waiting.

Thwack. He begins.

Left first. Then right. Then left, then right, then left. Again and again he works, increasing in intensity, and I am shocked at how good it feels. It’s not pain I feel, but pleasure, millions of electrical impulses sparking all over my body.

The sensation is addictive and I want more. Lots more. I’m beginning to crave him, needing him to touch me, to take me there.

I wonder, why haven’t I asked for this before?

Sticky, Messy Indulgence

Delicious!