Lady Laid Bare

Passionately Curious - Curious about Passion

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.”

Okay.

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.

Self-love-is-in-the-Air-Hop-768x539

Show Me Something Good – Eroticon Live Meet+Greet

So, two weeks until Eroticon Live and yeah…

I AM NOT READY

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…

 

Quite.

Quite.

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.

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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.

FUCK'S SAKE, M8

FUCK’S SAKE, M8

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.

Probably.

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.

9

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?

F***ing Ridiculous – for Masturbation Monday

Based sort of on a scene in one of the few episodes of HBO’s Girls I’ve seen, in which the character of Marnie goes to an art party and gets to know an artist who states, point-blank, that they will have sex at some future point. Not then, but at some point…

-

By the time the bathroom door falls shut behind her, she’s a trembling wreck. A raw nerve of arousal, skin prickling with sweat and need. He’s a prick – a self-absorbed, artistically up himself prick who she wouldn’t have even given a first glance, let alone a second one had they not been introduced to each other by a friend of a friend about an hour earlier.

Or was it two hours? Five hours, five minutes, five seconds… prick as he might be, he’d made her into a babbling, spaced-out mess, switching out her perception of the passing time – and just about everything else that made sense on Earth – for nothing but the feeling of her aching clit and the wetness dampening the knickers that had done nothing but aided the friction in her jeans along.

“Well, this is fucking ridiculous,”  she thinks, her chest heaving with the inability to just catch her breath, catch her breath so she could go splash some water in her face or whatever, and rejoin this gallery launch looking at least partly normal.

But he’s in her head now. One dangerous step away from being in her veins, his voice echoes as she gives into instinct, undoing the buttons and flies of her jeans.

Fucking. Ridiculous.

Her fingers slip under the waistband of her messed-up knickers, down to her needing clit. She leans back against the locked door, silently moaning as the excrutiating ache of him and his way with words is washed away by immediate, hard waves of ecstasy. She frigs herself like she’s a teenager again, a walking and talking mass of libido with no patience for playing a masturbatory long-game. In her mind, she’s back in the dark of her old bedroom, under the cool and comforting softness of her sheets. She can almost taste how wanton the thrill of having discovered her pussy had felt, past just exploring and right into indulging as much as she could, whenever she could.

She’s 31 now, and not under the comfort of her old sheets. She’s in the women’s bathroom of a gallery, jerking off to the mere idea of this delicious fuckstick dickhead of a man and his way with words. Words that had made her think he, deep down underneath the swaggering bravado of an up-and-coming artist who’s doing the rounds at the launch of his first exhibit, he wasn’t such a fuckstick after all.

Ridiculous.

So. Bloody. Ridiculous.

As her hips bucked against her fingers and her body gave in to the mounting pleasure, the thoughts in her head fell still for a moment. In that wonderful way everything seemed to fall aside, leaving her deep in her body for the first time in however long.

Ridiculous.

But how could it have been when it felt so, so…

Not so?

 

Masturbation-Monday-badge-small

On sex blogging and low libido

A couple of weeks ago, the ever-excellent Dangerous Lilly wrote honestly and openly about something that can seem like a curse when you make your crust (or at least some part of it/or do it for whatever reason you do it) from writing about your sex life. Low libido is something that can feel frightening if you’re a sex blogger – I know this because it’s something that affects my sex life as well.

Lilly mentions being thankful that she’s no longer the “sexy” sort of blogger who writes erotica, takes sexy photos and writes about her sex life. I wanted to write my take on it from the point of view of someone who, technically, is that kind of blogger (in that I write about my sex life and write erotica).

To start with, this hasn’t got anything to do with my antidepressants. It has, for a part , a root in my depression. In the last few months, it’s been a constant unwanted companion. I like to compare it to the feeling of constantly lugging around a backpack: on the worst days, it’s full to the brim and feels much like carrying around a selection of bricks. On the better days, the feeling’s lighter. Less bricks, but they’re still there. The backpack is never empty, but on the better days it doesn’t feel like you’re in constant danger of toppling over.

The root of this upsurge lies in things like residual trauma from what happened with my mother last year, the stress of coming into a new job in a new area and letting my body get used to it, the lack of sleep caused by housemates who like cooking at three in the morning and having loud and (from what I can hear – which is quite a lot) frankly quite dubious sounding phone calls that last all through the night. Not to mention the pressure I put myself under, a pressure which for the last few months mainly centered around my fiction output and the balance of trying to edit two anthologies at the same time.

That last one especially did a number on me. The editing period of the second anthology leaked over into the Christmas period, which is a very high-pressure period in the day job. I spent many of my days off wanting to do nothing more than fajita wrap myself into my duvet and not come out. Of course, this causes discontent with the authors you’ve accepted into the anthology because if you don’t keep them in the loop (which, I am shamefully bad at this) they’ll start to question what the hell is going on. And it made me heavy with a weird kind of guilt. Because I was already pushing myself harder than I’d ever had, and I knew that I needed to take it slower on my days off. But there’s the lingering knowledge that something’s not being done. Something people are needing you to do. And you know that if you drop yourself right in and don’t stop and take a minute to reassess how you’re going about, things will go wrong. But the feeling of letting people down weighed on me so much.

We’ve had sex a couple of times in the last few months. The last time, a few weeks back, I nearly cried with joy at the feeling of him inside me. Sometimes my body and my brain are actually in agreement over how much I want it and need it and want him and need him. Sex and talking about it is such a major part of my life that it leaves me slightly baffled and plenty worried that it’s just not been on my mind much as of late. And when it’s not on my mind and I’m not having it as much, this blog does not get written in. And that same guilt I mentioned above adds a leaden weight to the brick in the backpack.

I am essentially feeling guilty for not having sex, or not thinking about sex in a way that I can write about it on this blog. Which is also not exactly a blessing for my already low libido as it now feels like every time I catch myself thinking I fancy pouncing on my boyfriend, it is immediately followed by the thought that I’m thinking this because I have to for the sake of the blog.

In case you weren’t aware, I fucking love my boyfriend and sex with him gets better and better every time because we keep discovering each other over and over again. The fact that my body and my brain are doing a great big Gallic shrug at the notion of letting me experience my boyfriend like that is as upsetting as the little voice that tries to convince me I don’t actually want to have sex for any other reason than content.

Project Emmanuelle: Emmanuelle in Rio

A couple of months ago, on one of my Darkest Nights (those being the nights when depression gets the best of me) I did something so spectacularly ill-judged, I still shudder to think about it.

It’s not as exciting as you might think, but it is relevant to this first Project Emmanuelle post (welcome, by the way – I’m sure we’ll figure out a point to all this somehow). You see, I thought it would be A Good Idea to search Netflix for so-bad-it’s-good movies, thinking that watching one could lift my mood. I am, after all, a card-carrying member of The Cult of The Room, so I figured it was a sound idea.

In retrospect, Oliver Hirschbiegel’s Diana was not in the least the right choice.

Plenty were the times I had to ask ILB (who is older than me and can remember more about those days than I can) if the things that were happening on screen were liable to have actually happened. Watching Di turn up at a chicken shop at three in the morning to meet with her lover, for example. Or Naomi Watts’ earnest delivery of the words “I’ve been a mad bitch”. Even now, as I’m writing this, I can’t really believe that this is a film we both sat through voluntarily.

It’s much the same feeling I had when, after a fairly decent streak of Emmanuelle films, ILB told me we needed to watch Emmanuelle in Rio. Not because he’s a fan, no. On the contrary, here are my soft-porn aficionado boyfriend’s own words on the matter.

I’ve mentioned Rio on this blog before, and I think it’s a fair assumption that I don’t like it. It’s confusing, messy and lazy; there isn’t any sex and what there is isn’t always very sexy, and worst of all, there’s an incredibly boring narration over the top of most of this thing by Ludmilla Ferraz, who for some reason is playing Emmanuelle – and never does so again. Which is a good thing, too, as this woman is so incredibly boring that it’s difficult to stay awake, even during the sex scenes, which are also boring.

But, as he told me, it would be good to watch in the interest of getting a complete picture of the history of the series itself. And, more importantly, in the interest of getting a 90 minute masterclass in how to absolutely fucking not make an Emmanuelle movie.

To paraphrase the great Latrice Royale, this is some romper-room fuckery right here. So, come with me as we dissect the recipe for Emmanuelle-related failure, with a sunny Brazillian backdrop.

Emmanuelle in Rio

Year: 2003

Directed by: Kevin Alber

As Emmanuelle: Ludmilla Ferraz

Other cast: Hoyt Christopher, Simone de Morais, Francielle Soares, Juliana Batista …

Series: None, as this was the only film made with Ferraz as Emmanuelle (and judging from what I could find about her online, the only film made with her in it, ever).

EmmanuelleInRio1

A very, VERY misleading tagline…

The plot, as per IMDb

Beautiful fashion photographer Emmanuelle (Ludmilla Ferraz) arrives on the beaches of Brazil for a shoot where she’ll be working with some of Rio’s top supermodels. While on the job, Emmanuelle catches the eye of a music video director, and before long, the two embark on a steamy romance.

“My name is Emmanuelle. And I am in Rio.”

Let’s establish a couple of things first. As you and I will explore over the coming weeks and months, Emmanuelle is nothing if not a sex-positive hedonist, preaching pleasure through both words and deeds anywhere she ends up. She enjoys sex, enjoys helping other people learn how to enjoy sex and is a general good sort with a decent sense of humour. In general, this is a theme you will see in most of the incarnations – for now, we’re not yet bringing Sylvia Kristel’s original into the picture.

Emmanuelle is also an engaging, flirty narrator. Someone you’d genuinely feel comfortable spending some time listening to. Someone who wouldn’t judge others for their sexual adventures. And, naturally, she practises what she preaches and has steamy encounters of her own.

Got that? Good.

Because the first mistake Emmanuelle in Rio makes is the fact that Emmanuelle herself has exactly ONE sex scene in the entire movie. One. Right there, at the start, as Emmanuelle (who is, for the purposes of this movie, a fashion photographer either sent to or already in Rio for an assignment) is doing a photo shoot with a male model. Not only is it an incredibly drawn-out lead-up to the actual sex happening, it’s also accompanied by Ludmilla Ferraz’s voice-over. And this is mistake number two: Ludmilla Ferraz narrates with the enthusiasm of a professor droning their way through a university lecture on the history of the sofa. While tripping on Novocaine.

Emmanuelle and the male model.

Emmanuelle and the male model.

So, this charisma vacuum of an Emmanuelle only has the one sex scene, despite the introduction of Harry later on. Harry, played by Hoyt Christopher, is the director of a music video Emmanuelle is helping out with. I’m not entirely clear on whether they’ve actually met and hooked up before this, or whether this is the first time they encounter each other. Not that it matters as Harry is only there to be shouted at by Emmanuelle, because the script clearly forgot that she’s meant to be a nice sort. They make up various times, mostly through the medium of some footage of them going to a late night carnival party – footage which is used again later on. The same footage.

Problem three, you ask? Apart from the whole filming of the music video, there’s bugger all in the way of plot. Or other sex scenes.  There’s an attempt at a plot in which one of Emmanuelle’s friends has a crush on the guy whose music video they’re filming, but he seems to not give her the time of day. And there’s also an attempt (an even vaguer one) at a plot involving Danielle, the daughter of an unseen character or something, I don’t know, who comes to stay with Emmanuelle because she could do with mentoring or whatever.

Seriously, it’s that vague.

Danielle opens the door to a man named José, who has come to speak to Harry about the video. Who this dude is exactly is of no relevance to anything, as he is never seen or heard of again. All he’s there for is the sex scene that follows, one that is partially accompanied by Emmanuelle’s voice-over going off on one about Danielle’s “hopelessness in the ways of love” and her being a disappointment.

The great icon of sexual liberation and hedonism ends her voice-over by informing us that Danielle is behaving like a common whore.

Oh hai thar, mistake four.

If you want to read about the sex scene between Danielle and José, ILB did a wonderful analysis of it in one of his Soft Porn Sunday columns. And to be fair to it, it’s just about the only interesting thing in this entire film. It’s not sexy, not in the least. But it’s kind of fun? I guess? I mean, it’s more fun than Ludmilla’s voice-over, or the other subplot which goes nowhere until the end where it turns out that the singer guy actually did notice Emmanuelle’s friend and thought she looked like an angel and they have sex and he sings a song for her.

Then again, being stuck in traffic is more fun than this movie. Much like watching Diana

End notes (or: “what have we learned”)

As you will see in the coming months, there are a few basic traits that carry through in the various incarnations, as I mentioned earlier. None of them are to be found here, as this Emmanuelle is not only wildly damaged by the shoddy script and mauling of the character, but is also played by someone who is visibly having no fun at all.

Because of that, the one sex scene she does have doesn’t spark. Ferraz’s scenes with Hoyt Christopher, even the ones where they’re fighting, are devoid of life. The subplots go nowhere, fast. There’s a sort of but not quite explored thread in which Harry brings up the subject of Emmanuelle joining him back in the States, but Emmanuelle dismisses it as him wanting to “possess her”. Which is not really the vibe I’m getting from Harry’s demenour (if you’ve ever seen Hoyt Christopher on Sexcetera, you’ll kind of have an idea of what Harry’s like) but ‘bokay.

Emmanuelle has fun in life and in sex. Sure, she may have her solemn moments, but at the end of the day she still finds joy in sexuality and in helping others find their inner hedonist. In Rio, there isn’t any fun. There’s just the endless drone of that flippin’ voice-over. That and the utter disbelief at what’s been done to this character.

PS – Apologies for the poor quality of the pictures. These were the only ones I could find that had anything at all to do with the movie and weren’t part of a screenshot collage.

 

Project Emmanuelle graphic

Angus, Thongs and Thank You, Louise

I discovered Louise Rennison in secondary school. And I firmly believe that her writing, at least for a part, shaped me as not a writer but as a human.

There are some books and authors that helped me on my way to becoming the short-arse smuttist I am right now. But when I found Angus, Thongs and Full-Frontal Snogging (translated edition, of course) and buried myself between its pages, it was like I’d found a bit of me that was being held down. A bit that, due to my very unusual school situation, hadn’t actually come to fruition. It was literary teenage golddust, in the form of a girl called Georgia Nicholson.

If you’re not familiar with the book (Young adult, humour, epistolary, part one in a 10-book series), I present the blurb.

Angus: My mixed-breed cat, half domestic tabby, half Scottish wildcat. The size of a small Labrador, only mad.

Thongs: Stupid underwear. What’s the point of them, anyway? They just go up your bum, as far as I can tell

.Full-Frontal Snogging: Kissing with all the trimmings, lip to lip, open mouth, tongues … everything.

Her dad’s got the mentality of a Teletubby (only not so developed). Her cat, Angus, is trying to eat the poodle next door. And her best friend thinks she looks like an alien — just because she accidentally shaved off her eyebrows. Ergghhhlack. Still, add a little boy-stalking, teacher-baiting, and full-frontal snogging with a Sex God, and Georgia’s year just might turn out to be the most fabbitty fab fab ever!

Georgia has a mother, a father, a three-year-old sister named Libby and a really fucking strange cat named Angus. She’s got a friend named Jas, along with the other members of the Ace Gang. And she’s got the mother of all teenage crushes on the aforementioned Sex God, the older Robbie. Georgia’s got a good heart, despite being a bit self-obsessed and difficult. She challenges and talks back to authority figures. She swears. She’s inappropriate. She tries to impress Robbie by bleaching a strip of her hair blonde, only for it to come off in her hand because fuck bleaching hair is what that is.

Georgia is a genuine teenager, blossoming into her sexuality in her own awkward, funny, sometimes painfully wrenching way. And I totally, utterly fell in love with her.

I steamrollered my way through the books (although I’m sad to say I didn’t finish the series), lapping up every word. I laughed. I cried. I rooted for Georgia and Robbie and got sad when Robbie fucked off to New Zealand. And then I was happy again because the Luuuurve God (an Italian guy called Massimo) entered the scene. And of course, the ever present Dave the Laugh because every teenage girl needs that friend where it could always be something more than just friends.

Basically, Georgia was (and remains) my hero. In between these pages, she showed me things I wasn’t experiencing. She showed me things I was experiencing, proving that I wasn’t alone. And she made me laugh like a drain while doing it. Georgia made me feel okay about those awkward moments and weird bits that come with being a teenager.

So when the news broke the other day that Louise Rennison had passed away, I felt… like shit, really. This was the woman who’d given my teenage self something to hold on to. Words to cherish when life got crap. The knowledge that it’s okay to come into your sexuality and your adulthood with massive bumps and awkward silences. And now she was gone.

I spent a few days mulling over this post, wondering whether it would fit on this blog at all. But I came to the conclusion that it really fucking does. Yeah, this is a blog about sex and relationships. It’s also a blog about past aches, about being 17 and yearning for love, about wanting to kiss and wanting a Robbie of my own.

Thank you, Louise. Thank you for Georgia, thank you for your words, thank you for writing with the kind of honesty that inspires me at 25 as much as it did at 17. I shall be wearing my best boy-entrancers in your honour.

Incidentally, I started this post a few days ago and, due to work, only got to finish it today. Which is great because I can tell you about how I was on my way back from an event at work last night. I stumbled through the tube carriage, grateful to find a seat – a seat opposite a woman who couldn’t have been that much older than I was, buried deep into a book and breaking out into giggles on more than one occasion.

That book? Dancing in my Nuddy Pants: More Confessions of Georgia Nicholson.

As it’s World Book Day today – if you’re looking for a cracking read, whether you’re 17 or in your 30s, get the Georgia Nicholson books from The Book Depository. Free shipping and all. I promise you won’t regret it.

Also – Patreon pimpage time! If you like my writing, please do consider becoming my Patron on there.

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