Cool Me Down

Post title inspired by Margaret’s Cool Me Down, which is a Lady Laid Bare approved ABSOLUTE BANGER.

There is a grim physicality about summer weather. At least with autumnal cold, we know where we stand. We stock up on knitwear, layer ourselves, strap our boots on for winter walks. We know how to warm up.

After the scorching hot weather we’ve had in the last week, I’m not entirely convinced we remember how to cool the fuck down.

When I talk about grim physicality, what I mean is that summer has a knack for making you hyper-aware of bodies. Not just your own (this will not be a post about body confidence though – bear with me) but pretty much of everyone around you. Your day becomes its own version of the video for Bitter Sweet Symphony – except it does so for everyone else too, so in a way we are all Richard Ashcroft.

Commutes are a sweaty, toasted nightmare. Tubes are sardine cans. Walking through Central London is a never-ending, perspiration-doused game of live action Frogger, even on the sidewalks. Everyone is angry at everyone else for no particular reason. Temperature differences between inside and outside are, to put it mildly, shocking in some places. Sex? Surely, that’s not something you think about in this weather (at least, not in the conventional sense, anyway). You’re already sticky and panting. You’re already extremely aware of every inch of your body, because every inch of your body is aching and glossy with the sheen of perspiration.

Sex? Fucking hell, even walking to the supermarket’s a bit much. Or to the Tube.

The latter of which was what I was doing earlier in the week. I was on my way to work. It was, to put it mildly, a balmy afternoon. The kind where no-one would particularly frown on you cracking the window open to get air into your bedroom.

My street is on a bit of a hill, so when the weather goes bat-arse bananas hot like this, I occasionally stop to readjust myself. I was doing exactly that, near the top of the hill, when I heard a noise from one of the houses.

A deep, lustful, resonating moan.

Followed by more moans, the telltale moans of a woman in the throes of some very sexy time indeed. The house’s window – what I assume was the bedroom one – was open, but the curtains were drawn. I was, briefly, glued to the spot. Was it someone watching porn? Was it someone using the quiet hours of the afternoon to have a wank? Or was it two people, having summertime sex with scant disregard for the fact that one of them was moaning so loud most of that part of the street could hear it?

Not a clue.

Not that I was meant to have a clue – I was just meant to walk by, on my way to the Sardine Tin Express, my body a vessel for hot, hot heat and elbow jabs of strangers.

Still, regardless of all that, it was sort of nice to be hyper-aware of bodies in a different way for just a few moments. A reminder that sex doesn’t stop existing, and doesn’t stop being fun, even in the hot weather. If not for yourself, then for others.

Who knows, maybe sex is a viable way of cooling down. If not physically…


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Neck Deep

It’s hard to write when you’re neck-deep in a depressive episode. Anything, really. Even a shitting shopping list, or a note.

Your brain feels like a constant attack of sharp and noises. Everything about your body feels off, and not in a way that makes much sense. Yesterday, I spent a chunk of my late shift at work with the uncomfortable sense that I had too many teeth. Sometimes I seem to phase out, losing seconds of time by just going too deep into my own head. My surroundings seem to melt around me, until I snap back with a start.

Sharp. Jagged, loud, at once both intimidatingly, vastly huge and so tight and small it almost chokes me. Tears come frequent and terrifyingly hard – accompanied almost always by a weird, sinking feeling in the pit of my belly.

It’s been a month since my last proper post but this depressive episode has been running for a good while longer. I’ve spent a lot of time beating myself up for not *doing anything creative*, like a break from writing or making things suddenly nixed those things from who I am. It doesn’t, though. Laura Jane Williams’s writing, especially her new book Ice Cream For Breakfast, was partially responsible for helping me see that, along with Ruby Tandoh and Leah Pritchard’s amazing zine on mental health, Do What You Want.

Right now, I’m learning to preserve my energy, taking small steps and focussing on my day job, and taking care of my basic needs and wants. Day by day, I just see where I get and keep breathing. Forcing myself to write – for whatever non-essential reason my brain conjures up – makes me want to hate writing. I can’t stand the tortured creator myth because it seems so counter-productive to me to put your art at the front at the cost of something of yourself.

So I’m not.

I’m temporarily abandoning ship on writing fiction for submission. And I’m not going to force myself to live any experience for the sake of content on this blog (which is something I’ll tackle on another day, as this deserves a post of its own). It’s my way of taking care of that something of myself I feel like I’ve abandoned.

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eLust #93

aurora glory header elust 93
Photo courtesy of Aurora Glory

Welcome to Elust 93

The only place where the smartest and hottest sex bloggers are featured under one roof every month. Whether you’re looking for sex journalism, erotic writing, relationship advice or kinky discussions it’ll be here at Elust. Want to be included in Elust #94 Start with the rules, come back May 1st to submit something and subscribe to the RSS feed for updates!

 

~ This Month’s Top Three Posts ~

A dress to die for

Pushing Past

Necessary.

 

~ Featured Post (Molly’s Picks) ~

Kink lite, Kink life
Disturbance

 

~Readers Choice from Sexbytes ~

The Contract

*You really should consider adding your popular posts here too*
All blogs that have a submission in this edition must re-post this digest from tip-to-toe on their blogs within 7 days. Re-posting the photo is optional and the use of the “read more…” tag is allowable after this point. Thank you, and enjoy!

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Scene from a Date Night

we’re out on a date in a restaurant nearby. my chair faces the window looking out on the high street, bathed in that evening spring glow.

my mind is flitting. too much work mulch, not enough “focus-on-the-love-of-your-life”. my mind flits and my eyes flit, and then i spot them.

a pair of pigeons. sat on a roof in my direct line of sight. they’re cuddling, it looks like. in that birdy way, their cooing heads occasionally forming a little heart.

i point them out to him and we watch, for a while.

then a third pigeon shows up. sits at a distance, watching.

“They’re shagging, aren’t they? We’re basically watching pigeon sex happening.”

“Yep.”

they’re shagging. in that evening spring glow – a beautiful, tentatively warm day – we are sitting in a restaurant watching two pigeons having sex on a roof.

briefly. before either of us can say anything else, the third pigeon intervenes and an actual fucking soap opera breaks out on that roof. feathers fly. one pigeon is unceremoniously pushed from its perch. it’s over in seconds but it takes us a short while to process what the hell we’ve just been observing.

and then the food comes and we talk and laugh and my brain stops flitting and starts shutting the hell up for a change. it’s nice. so very, very nice to reconnect in this most basic way considering we haven’t really had the chance to do so in the past few weeks.

pigeon-related drama and all.

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Cables

so i google “can you feel your depression in your head”

because there’s no other way I can express that sense of my brain

being much like a tangle of cables.

but apparently some people report feeling a something

like a pressure or a fullness there

it’s odd, really.

but it makes sense considering how

at certain times

that tangled cables feeling consumes most of the rest of my body.

a horrid kind of bondage

with rope made of brain chemistry and a yapping little voice

repeating the same damn things over and over

until you’re almost breathless with the knowledge

of how badly your mind can turn on you.

 

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Eroticon 2017 – I Herd U Lieks It

Quite.
Quite.

Friday, noon

“I’m hungry.”

“Me too. Well, we’re out and about now. Nando’s?”

“Yeah, why not?”

Friday, evening

This is only the third time I’ve ever been to Camden. It’s the prevailing thought in my mind as we swerve through throngs of Friday night revelers. There’s a sweet scent coming from everywhere.

I’m on the look-out for people we know. We get to the hotel, and as I wait for him to get back from the bathroom, someone spots me. A tall, redheaded vision of stunning – it takes me a few seconds to realise that it’s Rose, who I haven’t seen in several years. She bolts towards me, and we hug exactly like that, like old friends meeting again.

The three of us kind of hang on to each other for most of the night. A bit of familiarity. A lot of new faces. But it’s okay, because it’s one hell of a nice venue to get to know new faces in.

I get the chance to properly connect with Marvy Darling. I bond with Sarah Brynn Holliday over our shared and very intense love of bread. I get to squeeze fellow film geek Cheryl again. I find a geek sister in Emmeline Peaches, stare in wonder at Gryph’s magnificent beard and get bought a drink by Mr. Doxy himself. All in a room with a jaw-droppingly stunning view of Camden Lock’s shimmering waters.

By the time we scatter out – some of us off to an after party, some of us (and by that I mean me and ILB) off to Subway because we accidentally forgot food was a thing, I feel kind of lightheaded.

Eroticon. Yeah, baby, yeah!

Saturday

It feels weird to be so aware of a clock ticking by. I know that at some point I need to leave because I have my day job to tend to. So Saturday isn’t a day where I can relax into it. But I learn so much. Oh god, do I ever.

The Sex and the Mainstream Media panel (chaired wonderfully by Girl on the Net) is a great way to kick things off – and I come away from it tickled by the flame of inspiration for the first time in weeks. Sarah Brynn Holliday’s Sex Blogging as Feminism & Social Justice session takes that tickle even further and proper ignites something, as does Malin James’s flash fiction session.

Although that one does start with me running up to Malin to tell her that I need to leave midway through her session and also please don’t think me rude but day job and also lovely to meet you, person whose writing I fucking love and have also been published alongside a few times.

So yeah. I have to leave halfway through – although I leave with Malin’s kind reassurance that she’s putting the presentation up on her blog later – and switch gears to “work mode”. Which, actually, works fine. And so does the switch back to “Eroticon mode” when ILB shows up at the end of my shift to take me to the gorgeous venue for the Saturday night entertainment.

I eat chips with curry sauce and chat to Ros Ballinger, who later brings the house down with her fantastic show Idiot’s Guide to Kink. I catch up with Rubyyy Jones after A FUCKING AGE, finally getting a chance to tell her in person that I’ve been following her work from afar and am so happy to know her. Chris Coltrane MC’s the night and makes me properly snort laugh several times.

I do my best to ignore the scratching in my throat.

not today satan

Sunday

This time, I don’t forget breakfast exists. And I still keep
meeting new people – finding myself at the table with fellow geek Val Prozorova is a delight – while discovering more about the other new people I’ve met. And the sessions… oh, the sessions.

At Dr. Kate Lister’s session, I feel seen somehow. I sit in the front row, feverishly taking notes and pictures. I feel like an academic even though I am most definitely not.

At Jasmine and King’s session, I am shocked time and time again as they lay bare not just the level of racism in porn, but the blasé attitude that many white performers and producers seem to take when confronted about it.

During lunch (thanks, Chaturbate!) I swerve around in the hall and take in chats with the Fuck.com guys, the Hot Octopuss gang (it is here that I get a sneak preview of their upcoming Queen Bee toy – HOLY SHIT the vibrations) and the lovely Victoria Blisse who I haven’t seen in however-long. Afterwards, I sit front row for the pitching session and once again become acutely aware of time ticking by.

The last session I attend (on using your blog to educate) sends me back to work with a full-on fire in the belly – and even though I don’t really get the chance to do the rounds and say goodbye (thankfully, I do get the chance to give himself a quick hug and a “see you at home”) I feel okay. Walking through Camden, the watery and hesitant sunshine casting everything in an awesome glow, I feel okay.

And right then, okay is fine by me because I’ve spent a long time not feeling okay. I’ll take okay as a starter.

The rest will come.

Eroticon. Fuck yeah.

 


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Tension

“Am very tense. Can I cash in that spanking later?”

I sent him the text while on the Tube home from work. It was late. I was, indeed, pretty damn tense. Just as I’d been the night before – I’d walked home from the station with a desperate need for a release only to find him half asleep.

“Aw shit. I was going to ask you if you could spank me.”

“Oh. I could still spank you!”

“No, it’s alright. I’m a bit done with today, anyway.”

Sleep helped that night. But as I shifted in my seat on the Tube, uncomfortably sitting with the stress of the past few hours, I knew it wouldn’t this time.

So I waited until I got signal. And I texted him to say that I was running late and stressed and spank now yes please thank.

His response?

“Yes!”

This time, there was no brain static. No sneaky anything spiral catching me while I was walking down from the station. There was nothing but a desperately nagging need for some sort of sexual release. It was the first time in a while I’d felt my libido focus like this.

It was nice.

It continued to be nice, from the first sting of the crop on my soft bottom. Like a welcome hiss of cleansing pain.

Slap by slap, I felt myself relaxing. Sinking under, deep into my body. Surrendering and letting the tension wash away while my skin and body throbbed contentedly.

I was needy after that spanking. Very, very needy. And for what felt like the first time in ages I managed to communicate what I wanted from him, to him. I wanted him to make me come, plain and simple.

Or, you know, not that simple because I still have no idea how he managed to do it. It involved the faux-leather tongue of the crop, my clit and his fingers doing something that I still get shivers about when I think back.

It was, for want of another word, gorgeous. The kind of orgasm where you forget things like how shirts work and what your name is. The kind that, and I shit you not, actually gave me sex flush.

The kind that made me go “I GET TO WRITE THIS ONE, I GET TO WRITE THIS ONE.” because #sexbloggerlyfe

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Ten Things I Took Home From Eroticon 2017

One of the people I met at Eroticon 2017 (trust me – a proper write-up is coming as soon as I actually remember how to brain) was the lovely Jenny Guérin – who came up with the idea for a listicle meme giving a quick overview of what we’d taken away from the weekend. This could be anything, whether it was an item or an idea or even a mark on the skin in some cases.  

I am nothing if not a sucker for a listicle, so, here goes.

Appreciation for my own multi-tasking skills

Considering the fact that I was juggling this year’s conference with my day job, which was luckily rather close by. I figure, looking back on it, if I can make two rather important parts of my life sing in harmony like I did, I can take on lessons from that and apply them in my writing. I am one tough cookie…

STUFF

Holy shit, goodies for days, my friend, all thanks to the godlike fantastic sponsors who I want to thank from the bottom of my heart for supporting this conference. Seriously, between my Hot Octopuss t-shirt, my Fuck.com shirt/notebook/mug and the gorgeous printed cards from Luke & Jack (plus, a shit tonne of awesome other stuff including BOOKS from Victoria Blisse’s book stall) … I am giddy.

“Cheer for me, motherfuckers!”

It was a fucking joy to reconnect with Rubyyy Jones and watch her work the room at the Saturday night social like a Boss with a capital B. The social also gave me a chance to finally chat with comedian and awesome friend Ros Ballinger, and a chance to marvel at just how much of a filthy beast Chris Coltrane is (clue – very, very much).

Plans and connections

Both in a work sense and in a holistic sense. I met and learned from so many lovely folks this weekend – Sarah Brynn Holliday, Jet Setting Jasmine and King Noire, Emmeline Peaches, Dr. Kate Lister… the list is long and and filled with love.

A call to action

I’m going to echo Girl on the Net’s point here, basically. I attended Jasmine and King’s session and let out several very audible gasps of horror as they eloquently laid out the level of racism in porn and what we as writers could help with doing about it.

My people

God, but I found my people once more. The list is way too long to put here, so I’ll save that for the more general round-up, but GOD YES I LOVE PEOPLE GIMME.

ahem

“No-one does what you do quite like you”

When I see certain quotes, I often say “I want that on a t-shirt”, or “I want that embroidered on my wall”. Thanks to Girl on the Net, I have this heap of truth on a mug.

A renewed confidence

This is a biggun’ right there. One that, much like the first point, is something I can apply in both my work as Jillian Boyd and in my day job.

A shameless love for vintage erotic media

Dr. Kate Lister’s session on the Sunday not only inspired the bejesus out of me, it made me positively giddy.

Lube

Because of course. Of course.

And sooper sekrit number 11 except not really a secret – a whole lot of love for GOTN, Molly and Michael for taking Eroticon on and putting on something really quite special.


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Songs Again

I took a minute till the penny dropped, you know
My tears don’t fall too often
But your knife is cuttin’ me deep

I hear her sing it on the BRIT Awards. It’s Saturday afternoon and I’m off from work, and I’m tentatively playing around with words for a submission.

There’s a sentence in my head that somehow, with a little help from her voice, flows into a paragraph onto the page. Her lyrics and the words in my head don’t match in theme but fuck it, she’s helping and I’m writing and the prose feels sensual and raw and still like me.

Later on I’ll think of what she’s actually singing. And I’ll be reminded of moments I didn’t want to be reminded of. Moments where I’d been made to feel like a dirty little secret. Moments where who I used to be was turned against me and I let it happen because I didn’t know.

And I’ll be glad because she’s fucking done it, hasn’t she? By chance, this random repeat of Emeli Sandé’s performing Hurts at the BRITS a few days ago gives me, better late than never, the right words to express to myself what I felt back then.

Sometimes life happens out of sequence. It’s less than 24 hours earlier that I come to the realization that I am done with letting that kind of pain have such a power over me.

Her voice gives me a wave to write on. Her lyrics give me the right words to express old wounds.

When all that’s left to do is watch it burn
Oh baby, I’m not made of stone, it hurts

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