Lady Laid Bare

Passionately Curious - Curious about Passion

Not Complaining – Masturbation Monday


Welcome to Masturbation Monday – a meme created by erotica writer Kayla Lords as a way of getting your week off to a less crappy and more sexy start. The idea? Write about masturbation or anything else that gets you and your readers turned on. And because I made myself a promise to write more masturbation erotica, I’m now going to make it my mission to participate on the regular (or at least as much as I can).

The image above is the prompt for this week, and I turned it into this erotica short, called Not Complaining.


There is a languidness to her movements. But she’s fine with that. It’s the middle of the summer. The sun’s rays are hot to the point of overwhelm. Languidness tends to be the default mode for most things when the weather’s as merciless.

She isn’t complaining. On the contrary, she likes it when she takes her time.

They’re sitting against the wall of one of the stables, the only one providing enough shadow to cool down their flustered bodies. It was Michaela’s idea to strip off completely – again, Stevie isn’t complaining. She’s content wearing nothing but her hat, with her lover’s head resting on her shoulder and her hands wandering around her body.

It’s the early afternoon. Warmth at its highest, her brain at its foggiest. She yawns, trying and failing to keep track of the to do list reeling off in her mind. Michaela kisses Stevie’s shoulder, caressing her bare breasts.

“Turn your brain off.”

She takes one of her nipples between her fingers, gently rubbing it. Enough for Stevie to come out of her fog and into the feeling of Michaela’s touch. It takes her a while to realise she’s actually said something.

“What’s that?” she says, trying to repress another yawn.

Michaela chuckles. “Turn your brain off, Stevie.”

“What makes you think it’s on?”

“I know you. You’re sitting here, with me, but you’re cleaning out the stables and calling the repair man to check on the fence in the lower field in your mind.”

“It needs to be done.”

“Baby, it does not need to be done right now. And you’re certainly not gonna get it done through telekinesis. You might as well just give in for now. Relax. Enjoy.”

“Who says I’m not enjoying?”

“You’ll enjoy more when you stop thinking about next year’s sheep sheering season.”

She shifts, sliding her hand from Stevie’s breasts down to the thatch of dark, curly hair covering her mound. Stevie can’t keep her legs from falling open. But she’s not complaining. Instead, she’s moaning, relishing in the delicateness of Michaela’s touch. She hasn’t even gotten to her clit yet – instead, she’s taking her time, teasing her lips, getting her wet. She closes her eyes, letting her mind drift away from life on this vast, seemingly unending land. Away from daily tasks and waking up at 4 in the morning.

“You, Stevie Farrell, are a bad-ass. You are intelligent. You are gorgeous. You are one of the most capable, level-headed people I have ever met.”

She whispers love into her ears, continuing her teasing as she goes along. She grows needy for release, her mind diverted on the single track of Michaela Cannon’s fingers and words and warmth. But Michaela keeps teasing because she knows Stevie well enough by now to know that’s how she likes it. That’s how she shakes off the stresses of managing this farm, even for just a few hours – by easing herself into pleasure like it’s a warm bath at the end of the day. By being teased and tantalised to the point where she can’t bear anymore.

And she’s not complaining. The day is long, the weather is hot and her girlfriend’s touch is just the ticket to make her switch off from thinking about the later.

It’s the now that counts. And for now, she’s doing nothing but riding the waves of pleasure.



Click the big friendly button to read more Masturbation Monday stories…




In between the shiny metal of the nipple clamps and collars, they pop out at me. I grab one of the display ones, giving it a closer look.

We’re in Sh! Womenstore, having drifted here after SceneGirl’s birthday celebrations not too far away. He’s sitting down, chatting to Renee in an attempt to recover from some chest pains. I’m letting my curiosity roam free, touching and ooh-ing and aah-ing and giving the person behind the till upstairs fair warning that I’m likely to accidentally turn something on without knowing how to turn it off again.

It’s been a while since I’ve been there. Already I got to experience the tingle of spotting both a copy of Spy Games (which I edited) and several copies of Come Again: Sex Toy Erotica (in which the opening story is my Dare You To…). I’ve held a newer model of the Stronic, marvelling again at it thrusting into thin air. I’ve gazed longingly at lubes, squeeling with joy at the flavoured ones.

And now, this thing. Or these things, if you will.

They’re the Kinx Dual Masseuse Nipple Suckers They come in a set of two, in a rosy-lilac colour. The way they work is through pressing the bulb shape onto your nipple, creating a vacuum of air. Never let it be said that I am hard to amuse because I spend the next five minutes gigging like a little shit while squeezing them.

Of course I bought them. Once natural curiosity towards a shiny toy hits good and hard, I can not be stopped. It doesn’t happen often – if it did, I’d probably have to dedicate an entire cupboard to Stronics and nJoy Pure Wands. But these suckers looked cute, were low of budget and appealed to my love of nipple play.

Thus, the suckers came home with us.

We tried them the same night, getting a bit too caught up in the novelty of doing things like attaching them to your forehead and yelling  EXTERMINATE. I did however like how they felt on my nipples, even though it took us a while to actually grasp how to best make them work. The next night, we tried them again, this time also making time to try them out in the other way they were suggested to us.

I’d never even considered the idea of trying suckers on my clit. It appealed to me though, because curiosity and that sort of bumph. He set about attaching one of the suckers, wriggling it around to make sure it wouldn’t instantly dislodge from my clit. After a good couple of minutes in which nothing really happened, he carefully removed it and gasped at the sight of my engorged labia and bud. It wasn’t a pleasurable feeling -  I think for me it’ll be more of a use it for the thing it says on the front of the package kind of thingy in the future.

But the look of sheer admiration, of fascination for my vulva, that lit up his face? That more than made up for a little bit of uncomfortable.

Project Emmanuelle – Emmanuelle Vs. Dracula

Emmanuelle Vs. Dracula title

Yep. At some point in the character’s life span, yonks after Emmanuelle’s origins as the bored housewife of a French diplomat looking for something more from her sexual experiences, she got out the stake and holy water to combat Dracula.

And, you know, some other dude. Continue reading

Sex Wizard

I strip out of my clothes, content with letting the air hit my naked body. Early start at work, an unpleasant heat regardless of the pissing rain making fabric cling to me. It’s a day I’m glad to see the end of, a day in which cool air and soft sheets and bare skin on bare skin are my reward. I’m buzzing with the kind of low-level arousal that tends to travel with you during summer – a sort of hey, it’s the weather for it even when it is most definitely not the weather for anything except lying in bed and watching several back-to-back hours of iZombie on Netflix. Weather that was made for doing absolutely fuck all apart from surrendering to its cushioning heat.

I don’t quite know how my brain comes to it… well, actually I do know how my brain comes to it. A tantalising combination of dabbling on the Tube sites for shits and giggles and spotting several videos from a website called Lubed, along with finding just the right woman on Chaturbate and watching her writhe helplessly in the throes of arousal. But something prompts me to ask if he fancies indulging in a particular kink of mine tonight, even just a little bit. A kink which I kind of forgot I had until I was reminded of it in the most delicious way.

Reader, I must confess – I am seriously into the sight of glistening skin.

It’s why I nearly jizzed myself with happiness when I saw the links to those videos. I wasn’t even aware there was porn which catered so specifically to this turn-on – but there it was, a glimpse of a whole website dedicated to lube drizzling on tits and abs, to sticky and wet fucks and the glee of making a great big mess with personal lubricant.

Now, as we’re both still in the process of unpacking from our move, I haven’t the faintest idea where our actual stash of lube is, despite me clearly remembering packing it. For that matter, I’m also not entirely sure where the rest of our towels are. But what we did have to hand, right on top of the chest of drawers next to my side of the bed, was a bottle of Body Shop lavender massage oil. Which would not only do the job quite nicely, but would also make less of a mess. It would do. For now. Besides, I was already soaking wet from watching our cam girl of choice on Chaturbate – she was naked, spread out and at the mercy of an OhMiBod vibrator inside her, which pinged every time she got tipped. Judging from the wall of yellow in the chat box, the constant beeping sound of tipping and the fact that she was pretty much constantly grinding and moaning, she was having a pretty goddamn good night of it.

And then, with one of the Lubed videos in the background, he liberally went to town with the massage oil, coating me with the scent of French lavender and letting me relax after the tensions of the past few days. I spread my legs, wanting to see how turned-on I could get without actually touching my clit. I rubbed my labia around the area of my clitoris, amazed at just how effective it was. It was so effective in fact, that I didn’t even see my orgasm coming.

It was the kind of orgasm that can make you feel like a sex wizard. Congratulations, you have levelled up and just discovered how to stimulate the internal bits of your clit. Have a mind-meltingly good climax. Next level – get the towels ready? Can’t say I’m not hoping…

Self-love with a side of awkward…

For someone who’s so evangelical about masturbation, I have a slightly alarming confession to make. One that I seriously need to rectify in the future (watch this space, I guess, probably…) because I don’t see why not, actually. I, Jillian Boyd, erotica writer of five years, haven’t really written a lot of straight-up masturbation stories. Sure, I’ve done the odd scene featuring a bit of self loving, and I’ve made reference to characters privately giving in to their lust for the one they can’t yet say the words to.

But man… oh man. Masturbation is bloody great. So great, they’ve dedicated the entire of May to celebrating it. It was the start of my sexuality blossoming outwards – a start which I wrote about a while back, for Girl on the Net - and it remains an important way of connecting to both my own body and my partner’s body.

So, why not take what I love in real life and let it bleed into my fictional scapes? Why not take masturbation, the catalyst of so many people’s sexual lives, and just let it star on its own? Be the headline act? It’s something I’d like to make an effort to do – heck, maybe I’ll even compile an anthology full of the stories I come up with. But for now, I wanted to share with you one of the instances where those references to characters first giving in to their lust in private come in to play.

The story? Sign Your Name, from the anthology Inked: Sexy Tales of Tattoo EroticaThe situation? Shira, a student on adult learner art course, is compiling her final portfolio on the subject of dancing and its ecstatic beauty. She’s kind of become the artist-in-residence at her friend Heather’s dance studio, where she sits and sketches the instructors – all the while engaging in a blossoming flirtmance with Latin dance instructor Oscar…

 “Yeah, it’s an adult learner’s degree. I’m taking it at that big new place near the Seagram building.”

The statuesque older blonde – Rosalind, teaching Tuesday ballet – let out a low whistle as she leafed through Shira’s sketchpad.

“Christ, is that me?” she said, stopping at something she’d drawn earlier on. “Wow, you’re making me look good here!”

“I wanted to capture the lines you were making when you were doing barre work, specifically.”

“I’m very impressed – mind you, I can’t draw for crap but I can see when something’s pleasing on the eye… like this drawing…”

Shira felt her cheeks warm, as Rosalind bent down to look at a not-even-remotely-subtle doodle of a very topless Oscar, mid-shirt switch.

“Oh, don’t pay attention to that one. ’S just a bit of playing around.”

“What is? Hi, Rosalind. And, hello, our artist in residence.”

On cue, Mr. Just a Bit of Playing Around walked into the bar area, dumping his backpack next to a chair and taking a seat in between the two women. Shira could have died a thousand happy deaths just looking at him up close – those bedroom eyes were even more like an invitation when they were looking directly into hers.

“Shira Caplan,” she said, taking up the invitation and meeting his gaze head-on. “Heather’s an old friend of mine from college.”

“Good to finally be able to talk to you. I’ve been… well, yeah, kinda curious ever since I first saw you.”

Right at that point, a throng of young ballet girls and boys manifested through the doors, chattering away, to the amusement of their teacher.

“Ha. Timely.”

Rosalind rose from her chair and nodded to the pair, before rolling her shoulders back and taking in a deep breath. Shira had watched Rosalind teach this particular class before – she’d almost fallen onto the floor laughing from the sight of the statuesque Brit in leotard and pointes chasing one of the more rowdy  boys around the room in an ultimately successful attempt to get him to hand over the remote to the stereo. It was amazing to her how the different teachers not only had their own style of movement, but their own style of making their classes get the hell on with it.

“Can I have a look? I’m amazed how much you seem to get done during your time sitting here.”

She contemplated just putting her sketchbook back in her bag, thereby sparing her the blushes of having Oscar see a few of the more… explicit sketches. She contemplated it for about three seconds, before twatting the little Yiddish angel of consciousness off her shoulder and shifting the sketchpad towards him. Something told Shira that Oscar knew full well what to expect – and that he kinda liked it, too.

“Very cool. So, are these the final product, or are you planning something else with them?”

“Some of these will be in the final portfolio, yeah. As a sort of look-at-my-process kind of thing. I’m gonna use most of them as the basis for other pieces. And I’ve been going around town, seeing shows and getting some basic sketches done. I’ve been toying with the idea of getting a few live models to pose for me, but I’m not too confident about asking.”

He’d stopped leafing through the sketchbook as she was explaining herself, his eyes resting on a quick sketch she’d done of him, surrounded by all kinds of doodles that would, at first sight, seem completely random and out of place.

Only Shira knew what they were meant to be. And the fact that he was looking at them, biting his bottom lip as he appraised what he saw and not even knowing what most of it was, made her wet.

To mark your body with my design.

To sign my name across your heart.

I will it to be so.

I will to make it so.

The words just popped up in her head, like an incantation out of a book of spells. Was it bad that she wanted him to ask? Would he – this stranger who she’d only spent time observing – run for the hills if he found out what was on her mind? There were many, many things she was expecting to happen, bracing herself for, even. But then Oscar leaned forward, close enough for her to catch a hint of the scent of leather and woodsmoke, making her light headed.

“Heck, I’ll model for you. Name a place and a time and I’ll be more than happy to help you out.”


That… she wasn’t quite expecting.

“Oh. Oh, it’s okay. Really, it’s just an idea for now. I’m still ironing out the kinks in the project as I go along,” she said, waving her hands around in dismissal. “It’s fine. You’re all doing enough for me as it is. I can’t really ask more of you.”

Shira suddenly felt fidgety. She rummaged through her big bag, producing a hair elastic and setting to work on fixing her dark brown mane into a braid. He watched her fingers go through practised motions, and took a deep breath.

“Alright. Let me know if you change your mind, Shira,” he said, standing up and slinging his bag over his shoulder. “Shira… I like that.”

“You like… what, my name?”

“Yeah. The sh sound. The rah at the end. It feels good rolling off my tongue…”

She felt her cheeks flush, her clit aching with the desire to feel what that tongue of his could do to it. Shifting, she was painfully aware of just how wet she’d gotten.

“It’s of Hebrew origin. Means poetry. Or singing. I’m no good at either, though.”

He chuckled. “I don’t know what my name means. Now I’m sorta hoping it’s is good at dancing. Right. Artist in residence, it was lovely to finally hear your voice. I’m going to go home and have a cold shower while thinking about it.”

He turned to leave, but not before fixing her with a grin that reduced her to a puddle of melted former woman.

“Good night, Shira.”

The way he let her name dance in his mouth lingered on in her mind long after she’d left the studio for the evening, long after she’d lain in the dark of her bedroom basking in the sticky-fingered afterglow of God-knows-how-many orgasms.

To mark your body with my design.

To sign my name across your heart.

I will it to be so.

I will to make it so.

For Tabitha Rayne – gorgeous, intelligent, wonderful, extremely stylish, extremely Scottish – and her Self-Love Is In The Air blog hop. Did you know she invented a sex toy? Like, the very one in the picture below? And you can, like, win one and stuff? Click the banner to see how you can do this, to read the other posts in the hop and to generally have a blimmin’ good afternoon reading.


Show Me Something Good – Eroticon Live Meet+Greet

So, two weeks until Eroticon Live and yeah…


I cannot stress just how much I am not ready – as ILB mentioned in his post, flat problems, work and general health bumph have all combined to wreak mild havoc on our lives these past few weeks. I’ve only now gotten to actually writing my full presentation, and as much as I am glad that we have both tickets and a hotel to stay in, we will eventually need to book a way of actually getting to Bristol.

But first things first. Please allow me to re-introduce myself…




NAME (and Twitter name if you have one)

I am Jillian Boyd – @JillyBoyd on Twitter.

If you had the opportunity to rename yourself (or your blog) what would you pick?

I already went through the renaming of both blog and self and I’m quite attached to the way things are right now.

What are you most looking forward to at Eroticon Live and/or is there anything you are nervous about?

Well, I’m rather looking forward to giving my workshop on Sunday afternoon. There are… certain things I am nervous about, yes, but I’m sure I’ll manage. Other than that, I’m excited to meet some new people and just generally to be in Bristol again.

Have you planned which sessions you will be attending or are you more of a spur of the moment kind of person?

Apart from the one I kind of have to be at for it’s-my-own-session purposes, I’m probably going spur of the moment. I am however definitely FROW’ing it at Charlie Powell’s session about sex and disability.

What essential items to your life will be bringing with you to Eroticon Live? (you can have a maximum of 5)

- Phone

- Notebook (and pen)

- My bag

- Some paracetamol because the weather is fucking with my sinusses at the moment

- Gum

A new cocktail has been made on your honour, what would be the key ingredient and what would it be called?

I don’t drink alcohol, so it would have to be a virgin something or other. Cold-brew coffee as the key ingredient, and name it the I Am So Awake I Can See Through Time, PLEASE HALP MEH I HAVE NEVER BEEN SO JITTERY. Long name, but you get the sentiment.

And finally… Complete the sentence; I have yet to…

finish writing my presentation.


Read all the other Meet and Greets at Molly’s blog – and don’t forget to write up one yourself if you’re coming.

Little Stitches – for BOAW16

Written for August McLaughlin‘s Beauty of a Woman BlogFest 2016 – check out the other entries by clicking the button at the end of the post.


It sounds strange, but lately I’ve found myself wishing that I can write my libido back to life. That I can use my skills as an erotica writer, my imagination and my fingers clacking on the keys of my netbook keyboard to write it back into place properly. To reach into my brain and body and jiggle the chemicals around just enough through the power of rewriting it like an edit to a story. Would that it were so simple. Would that libido wasn’t an incredibly complex mess of science, chemicals and circumstances.

Sometimes it feels jarring to me how the lines of my comfort zone have shifted, moulded anew through the lens of depression and fatigue. I try. Oh god. I try to think myself into the mindset for sex, which feels unreal and still goes wrong in the end because my brain has become really brilliant at backtracking, especially from PIV-sex.

I’m trying my best to figure out why that is. And in the meanwhile, I take little steps. Little steps like a few nights ago, when we lay naked on the bed and joked as he lubed me up and played with me, first with his fingers, then with the Doxy. It didn’t lead to much more than an orgasm of sorts, but it was good. I’m also trying to masturbate more, just to remind myself that masturbation is a thing I enjoy and it helps me relax.

I look to the amazing Crista Anne and her post from last year’s BOAW, and this quote basically echoes my own experiences.

When I am in dark places due to my mental illness, I can orgasm as a way to remind myself that there are pleasurable feeling to be had. Not a cure for my depression, not a fix, but a tool that I’ve used as long as I can remember to keep myself going. My ability to find pleasure in the darkness saved me more times than I can count.

Little steps.

Little steps of reconnection.

Recently, I’ve found that my low libido, oddly enough, has also had a negative effect on my ability to write erotica. So now I also find myself wishing I could use my skill as a writer to write my… writing… back into place. To reach into my brain and body and jiggle those self-same chemicals around just enough that the words start flowing more naturally, to stop making them feel like an old car in desperate need of a fix.

If that makes any sense. I wouldn’t blame you if you couldn’t make sense of it, because I sure as shit can’t.

But I can make sense of this: two parts of my life, two very important ones, are ripped at the seams. Not unfixable, but it’s going to take time. These two parts are connected, somehow; parts of the quilt that is my life. And when you’ve got a rip in the fabric of a quilt, you get out your needle and thread/sewing machine and you try your best to join the pieces back together.

The pieces haven’t been lost, though. Libido is there. Erotica writer is there. Neither of these pieces of the quilt will unravel and be lost just because I’m not using these pieces enough. It just takes time. Little steps. Little stitches.

Waterolor beautiful girl. Vector illustration of woman

Project Emmanuelle – Private Collection: Sex Goddess

WeirdShitThere is an image that’s often found floating around the internet which, if I think about it, describes both the Natasja Vermeer Emmanuelle films and the Brittany Joy Emmanuelle films. It’s the one at the top, but with Dorothy standing in for Joy and Vermeer being portrayed by Alice.

Natasja Vermeer is a Dutch model and actress, mainly known for portraying Emmanuelle and for her campains for PETA. That, and a very early one episode role on a Dutch sitcom called Oppassen!!! (which I am not shouting at you, by the way – there really are three exclamation points in that title). She seems to have mostly focussed on modelling since then, and there’s very little else I can find on what she’s done that wasn’t Emmanuelle.

Except that she also sings and did some songs for the films. Nice.

Anyway, as you may have guessed, I am starting Project Emmanuelle out properly by focussing on this series because it’s just so fucking weird. It’s not the kind of weird that we’ll cover when we get to Emmanuelle Through Time but you can tell. You can tell it’s a path they’re coasting towards. By now Emmanuelle has dabbled in space travel, high-tech body kinesis gadgets and magic perfume, but baby, you ain’t seen nothing yet.

Come with me as I introduce you to the world of Emmanuelle: The Private Collection and its first part, Sex Goddess.

Specifically, come with me as I introduce you to Abigail. You’ll be hearing a lot about her. Like, A LOT.

Emmanuelle Private Collection: Sex Goddess

Year: 2004

Director: Yamie Phillipi

As Emmanuelle: Natasja Vermeer

Other cast: Molly Green, Sid Stratton, Lora Romanoff, Abigail Spielberg …

Series: The Private Collection, made between 2004 and 2006


The plot blurb

Emmanuelle is haunted by a seemingly spectral poet, who awakens within her lust for life. As she pursues this vision of artistic beauty, her friends become afraid that Emmanuelle is losing her mind. No one could be prepared that the answer to who that poet holds the answer to so much more.

Jesus, the state of this summary…

As you may have guessed, The Private Collection is the Emmanuelle franchise diving into the waters of the paranormal. Sex Goddess is presented as a kind of spiritual take on the classic Emmanuelle first-movie-in-the-series-origin story, which usually features the catalyst event that takes her into the situation which will unfold throughout the seven/eight films in the series. How this will pan out in Vermeer’s future instalments is something we’ll cover once we get to them. For now, let’s talk about that sex goddess, shall we?

In the opening to the film, we get introduced – via the medium of bloke-doing-a-voice-over-to-some-stock-footage-of-a-carnival – to another sort of origin story. Namely, the one of Abigail, who is the sex goddess/spectral poet come to haunt our intrepid protagonist. They come back to it a couple of times throughout the movie but it bears extremely little relevance to the rest of the plot. Other than establishing that Abigail is some kind of god of poetry and sex, who enjoys frolicking with a WHOPPING MASSIVE SNAKE.

In case you missed that bit of snake-related subtext.

In case you missed that bit of snake-related subtext.

Anyway, Abigail first materialises to Emmanuelle when she’s listening to an audio recording of one of her poems while masturbating. The experience proves to be powerful, but quickly gets confusing when her friend… flat mate… fellow student… person shows up with a broken camera asking her to fix it. Sure enough, Abigail starts haunting Emmanuelle through it and spouts so much sexy poetry at her that our Em becomes convinced she’s real and that they’re meant to be together.

Oh hai, phobia.

Oh hai, phobia.

Of course, this behaviour (complete with endless wails into the ether of “Abigail! Where are youuuuu??” with Vermeer’s Dutch accent turned up to eleven) unnerves the bejesus out of her friends. Slightly. I think. To me, there’s never any sense of proper worry, only a mild annoyance from the forementioned friend who Emmanuelle convinces into a dinner with her poetry professor because one of the books she’d brought home contained the poem by Abigail that’s been driving her potty.

There are two or three main liaisons in this one – one earlier (and rather disconnected-feeling) sex scene sees her having a tryst with a music teacher in the garden. This is capped by an appearance from Abigail, of course. But it’s Emmanuelle’s scene with the poetry professor that still gets me giggling like a little shit. Because by then she’s so obsessed with Abigail and so convinced that she’s real and she’s in love with her that, when the professor starts babbling randomly about the poet being inside him, Emmanuelle loses all common sense and begins to think that he is, in fact, Abigail.

To the point where she visits him at his house and greets him with “Hi Abigail!”

She does have an on-off lover in this one – a guy by the name of Steve, who doesn’t seem to know how shirts work as he rarely has one on – but he’s kind of forgettably douchy. In one scene, right after Emmanuelle turns baking cupcakes into one of the most pointlessly erotic things you will have ever seen, they have a sort of phone sex bit where, upon the mention of cupcakes, he says something along the lines of “I love it when you get all domesticated”. She then calls him Abigail in the midst of climax so fuck you, Stevie-No-Shirt.



Actually, he does turn up towards the end (avec shirt) but… yeah, the ending is hard to explain, kinda. I’ll try my best.

Emmanuelle meets a mysterious woman who appears to know Abigail in the same fashion she does. They have sex – without a doubt the best sex scene in the entire film – and the woman suggests she has a way of contacting Abigail. This turns out to be through some kind of spiritual ritual where all the characters Emmanuelle has encountered in the last hour and a half show up in a strange flurry of not-quite-an-explanation. What I think we’re meant to take from this, as we watch Emmanuelle leave Stevie-No-Shirt with a suitcase and a need for adventure, is that Abigail’s manifestation awakened something in Emmanuelle that she didn’t know was there. The flame of her hedonism has been kindled, and she’s now off to travel the world and live her best artistically sexual life.

I think.


End notes

Although Natasja Vermeer is definitely more into stepping into the shoes of Emmanuelle than Ludmilla Ferraz was, there’s something weirdly disconnected about the love scenes she has with the men in Sex Goddess. Maybe it’s because none of the male characters are very developed – you never see the music teacher again, the poetry professor is incredibly one-note (and also somehow involved with her mate, which for a second made me think they were conspiring against Emmanuelle) and Steve is… well, Steve, I guess.

The sex scene with the mysterious woman is much better, but it’s not saying much. It’s a very low-key, odd start to this series, but it has brought me to some conclusions.

- If Emmanuelle is to have an established lover, this person needs to have more than one dimension. They need to be a strong and developed character of their own accord, not just a witless shrug of a human being.

The camera friend

The camera friend

- Similarily, if she’s got an established best mate (or a group of them – a topic to be covered in a later instalment) there needs to be something more there than just someone who flaps around with ghost cameras and is a bit dismissive of what their mate is saying while she’s clearly in need of an understanding, listening ear.

- If you want to add an element of the supernatural/sci-fi/paranormal, make sure you actually explain what needs to be explained properly, and not through some vague voice-over bits.


Read my take on Emmanuelle in Rio here – Tweet along with #ProjectEmmanuelle – Watch and leave your own thoughts in the comments

Project Emmanuelle graphic

The Two Questions – for Wicked Wednesday

Until recently, I thought that one of the most impossible questions for me to answer was “what do you want me to do to you?”. There are several factors to that line of thought, not in the least the factor which is me being naked and turned on and getting wetter and wetter at the expense of every logical thought in my head. What I want? This is what I want. What you’re doing to me, right now, is what I want. More of it. Turn me on with your fingers, lips, hands, your cock and your thrusts. Get me there and beyond and get me there again because I want you to make me fly.

There is no one clear answer to that question. There is only a very unclear waterfall of verbal grunts and half remembered words. I know what I want and yet having him ask me so clearly, matter-of-factly, makes it hard for me to remember how to put it into even the most basic of words. I stumble. My brain can’t process the countless answers that come up all at once, like a line of F1 cars with the KERS on coming round the final bend to the finish. So often, what ends up coming out is a huffed “don’t ask me that – just do what your instinct tells you to do”, which doesn’t really lead anywhere other than straight towards a “but I don’t know”/”I don’t either”/”what do we do now” meander.

Until recently, and because of the way my brain worked in those situations, I thought that out of all the questions I am faced with regularly, this one was the pincher.

It’s not, though.

The real fucker among questions is “how are you doing today?”

I get this question a lot because it’s a part of daily customer chit-chat at my job – along with complaining/rejoicing about the unbearable shit-arsedness/gloriously wonderful happiness of the weather and asking if they’re up to anything good today. It’s a difficult one to answer for several reasons.

1) Jokes about how it’s still early morning can (duh, Captain Obvious) only last you so long.

2) I get this question SO MANY TIMES in a day that “good” tends to stop being a word that sounds like a word in my head and feels like normal speech on my tongue.

3) Especially in the last few months, I’ve been so wracked with the big beast of depression that I’m afraid the real, 100 percent messy as can be answer might cause them to inch away and leg it out the door.

So I share bits. Fragments. “Bit tired, really.” or something like that. Of course, with my colleagues I can be open because they listen and they empathise and they offer a listening ear and a hug and are wonderful human beings. But sometimes the having to grin and say “good, good” to customers gets to me. It causes little fractures in my soul – the truth wants to get out, all messed up and ugly and gnarly. But there’s only so much you can share with these virtual strangers who only see you in this context. Fragments it is.

It’s not so with other situations. Friends and family, who you don’t see as often, will want to know more than just a “good, good”. Fragments can’t get you far with their questions. But I’m often left wondering if the full truth will, or even half-truths and . And then I find myself longing for the moment where he asks me, naked and wet and aroused, what I want him to do to me. Because no matter how many meanders we end up on in our quest to get to the point where he’s doing what he does so brilliantly well, it’s often still easier than grinning and telling people I’m fine when all I want to do is to let out in the open that I am not.

Wicked Wednesday... a place to be wickedly sexy or sexily wicked

Sex Noises

Grunts. Moans. Little cries of “yes” and “more”. Breaths hitching, names being called, the dizzying heights of ecstasy vocalised. I love it. I can’t get enough of those little sounds of sex, the little noises that add to the sensory wave of fucking. I write them into my fiction with pleasure, picturing the soundscape alongside the tangling of limbs. Heck, one of the first things I discovered when I started this blog was Sonic Erotica, and that was just about the sexiest thing I’d ever wanked to at that point.

And I know I’m not alone in this. This month’s Glamour, however, would like me to feel otherwise.


Enjoy Sex Noises

We’re just letting you know we’re still here – do you think we groan like horny walrusses when we’re on our own?

(from The Glamour List – 11 things we pretend to do (but actually don’t)

I know this is meant to be a funny, back of the magazine list article, a sort of a little cherry on top of what you’ve been reading. But there was something about this statement, smack bang in the middle of that cherry on top, that made me want to facepalm until I could do so no more.

Who is the “we” at the start of this sentence? I mean, I kind of don’t really want to entertain the notion that the writer has decided to be the voice of all vulva-havers and speak out about this mutual secret dislike for sex noises we all apparently share. Nor do I want to know why apparently sex noises are only meant to be made to remind the person you are having the sex with that you’re indeed still underneath/on top/spooning/[insert position here] them, and that you haven’t suddenly decided to waltz off to catch up on Supernatural or something.

What I would like to know is why these kinds of statements are still being made in women’s magazines, even in articles that are just meant to be a laugh. Yes, I probably am taking this too seriously, but I can’t sit here and deny that, hey, it hit a nerve with me. Sex noises are one of the many forms of communication between two (or more) people during sexual activity, and I am all about communication.

Of course, everyone experiences sex differently – hello, Captain Obvious. Some people are loud and vocal, some people can bask in near silent ecstasy. Everyone has different ways of expressing themselves during sexual activity, of communicating what they want. And I believe that none of those ways should be dismissed in such a throwaway, Sex and the City-style kind of fashion.

And no, “we” don’t groan like horny walrusses when “we’re” alone – unless “we’re” so bored that making random animal noises seems like a brilliant way of self-entertainment. But seriously, is that what you’re wanting to say to the person you’re having sex with, the person who is moaning and grunting and all that? That either they sound like that or that you’re just making that noise for the sake of it? Because that almost, almost sounds like this little one sentence listicle statement is playing in on that ridiculously false old chestnut about women not actually enjoying sex.

But hey, it’s all just meant to be a bit of a laugh, right?

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