On High Heels – for Kink of the Week

“But the truth is, I want to be some woman’s work boots, not her high heels.”
“Work boots?” What was sexy about that? And did women have work boots?
“Yeah. You know, the boots she pulls out when she wants to get down and dirty, hiking or gardening or boating or painting the kitchen. The ones she relies on and trusts and lives her life hard and good and on her terms in. Her favourites.”
― Erin McCarthy, Hard and Fast

I make absolutely no secret about the fact that I am a short-arse. It’s right there, in my Twitter bio along with the fact that I wear glasses as both are two home truths in my life. It can get mightily inconvenient at times, and I often find myself wishing I had Mister Fantastic-like stretching powers just because it would make certain things a little bit less of a kerfuffle.

You’d think then, that I’d be a sucker for a pair of high heels. And I am… kind of. Not in the way you might think, anyway.

For my graduation, I got a pair of high heels from my mother to wear, as a present. I don’t even remember why I was so excited to get them because excitement quickly gave way to terror visions of tripping over a mic extension cord and falling on top of of our head of year. Still, I wore them and graduated without any major trippage occurring. In the years since, I’ve only owned one other pair of high heeled shoes. Both pairs were gorgeous, both pairs in the end only got a few outings.

Aesthetically, I fucking love high heels. Done well, they’re like tiny feats of architecture. I refer you to Rebel’s post on this subject, and the picture of her amazingly detailed and gorgeous Iron Fist shoes – I mean… LOOK AT THEM. Hours of delicate crafting, right there.

But personally, I don’t think I’d ever invest in a pair again. There’s a couple of reasons for this:

  • I have arthritis in my knees and even though I’ve often said on this blog that my body is an entity I am still learning to suss out, I am pretty fucking confident on matter of keeping whatever structure my knees still have in tact for as long as I can;
  • The idea that some people really think you’re less of a woman if you don’t wear high heels pisses me right off, especially (in my situation) for the reason mentioned above;
  • The few times I have worn them, they’ve never felt right to me;

High heels and I, we’re always going to have a complicated relationship. However, boots are a different matter. A pair of sturdy, chunky boots on my feet seems to have the same effect as a pair of high heels can have on others. I walk taller. Stand stronger. Feel like I can navigate my way through life (and London) with some form of confidence.

I trust in my boots like some trust in their high heels. They’re my favourites – the ones I rely on. But that doesn’t mean I won’t ever stop admiring a beautifully crafted pair of heels.

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Got Your Back – for Kink of the Week

A few years ago, my boyfriend’s back inspired me to write a poem. I love the feel of it, the muscles and curves and softness. Running my fingers over the expanse of it, gently scratching… I never knew how sensual a back could be until I had his to touch.

So, as someone who adores her lover’s back, taking part in this edition of Kink of the Week (all about backs, but of course) was a no-brainer.

His back

We’re both creatures of touch. We like cuddling, lying entwined and letting the world fade away. And touching his back is one of the most potent ways of helping him relax. I am more than willing to give – as I said, I love the feel of it. He’s got the most gorgeous dip into the lower half of his back, leading down to his bottom. It’s the place I love to rest my hands, sliding them under his shirt or jumper and relishing the warmth and comfort.

It’s where I rest my hands when we kiss.

He’s ticklish. I kind of try to be very careful when I touch him, because understand that when I say ticklish, I mean he will fall the fuck apart in a sea of giggle-spasms. So when I touch his gorgeous back, I tend to put just enough pressure in to make it feel less like infinite feathers and more like actual my fingers. I scratch him, gently, which makes him make noises that make me smile just thinking about them.

His back is poetry to me.

My back

I am nothing if not a constant knot of muscle tension. My back has been a source of irritation for plenty of years, and my day job – as much as I love it – doesn’t tend to help. So to have loving touch lavished upon me is a treat for every sense.

Somewhere in our bedroom, I’ve still got a bottle of lavender massage oil. But, as regular readers of this blog know, I tend to lose bottles of fun stuff – and it’s not just lube. Still, massage oil isn’t something I really need when I’ve got his touch. Little scratches, like I give him. Kneading. Feathery flicks.

I’m getting shivers from thinking about it.

Is it a turn on? Perhaps, just because it’s intimacy and I am a sucker for intimacy. Good thing he is too. We love lavishing intimacy on each other, and we love each other’s backs.

It’s a sensation that makes me mellow. Something that makes me un-knot.

Feathered

One day, early on in our relationship, I brought a purple tickle feather with me on a visit. It was still a time of getting to know each other’s bodies, not to mention getting to know the bit of my sexuality that involved a partner.

It was a big feather. Rather a bit of a piss to carry around with me on the train, but carry it with me I did. And I presented it to him with a glint in the eye – a can we? may I? 

That afternoon, I used the feather as a tool to get better acquainted with his body. Specifically his back. His poem of a back, his strong centre. I let a purple tickle feather be my guide to discovering an until then unknown quantity – one of many.

And wherever that damn thing is now, I can’t thank it enough for teaching me.

 

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Baby, Come and Kiss Me Quick

I’ve mentioned before on this blog that I’m neither very good nor very confident in initiating sex with my boyfriend. I like to think that I’ve been conditioned by plenty of outside resources over the years that I should make a big freaking deal out of it – a performance, if you will.

And as I’ve also mentioned before, that rarely, if ever, goes well.

But one thing I can and will wholeheartedly say I am confident in is my kissing skills. It took me until the age of 20 to get my first kiss, and naturally I was about as good at it as a daddy-long-legs is at dancing a tango. Good god though, was it ever exciting. It wasn’t too long after I started this blog, and it felt like with that first kiss I had sealed something profound – the start of a new chapter in my life.  Level 2.

Yes, I may have been shit at it at first, but I HAD BEEN KISSED. And I quickly developed a want for more.

It’s five-ish years laters now. I’ve been with my boyfriend for three of those years, and he kisses me in all the ways that have made me fall in love with the act itself. A kiss between lovers is a versatile act – it can act as anything you want it to act as. A show of affection. A statement of intent. A punctuation of a sentence. Kisses are as gorgeous, messy, wild and take-my-breath-away as sex can be.

And sometimes a kiss is all you need.

Sometimes I get my best life from those kisses that sweep me off my feet and make me dizzy. The kind that, wherever you are at the time (and I’ve had these both in public and in private), briefly rob you of your coherence and sense of direction.

You cease to be human just for a second. In that moment, you are an ethereal creature, walking on air. Sometimes, that’s all I need. Sex be damned – although of course, if it leads to that, I ain’t gonna protest – because those kisses, given in the way only he can give me, making me feel the way only he can make me feel…

Goddamn, but those are the best kind.

As an aside, the title for this post is a snippet of lyric from Nathan Sykes’s song Kiss Me Quick. I absolutely love this song (to the point where it came in on Superdrug yesterday and I had a little boogie in the queue for the till) but what made me love it even more was that, in googling the song for this post, was Nathan’s explanation of the lyrics.

It just came around, when we were out just outside of London in the countryside, I was working with LDN Noise and we were just chatting about nonsense and I just said, I’m really bad at flirting, honestly.  So we wrote a song that can flirt for me, it’s as simple as that.  Obviously with the album there are songs that are a lot deeper lyrically, and a lot are very personal to me about relationship and things that I’ve gone through and this was just as simple. We were just laughing and joking about the fact that I can’t flirt. So that’s what we wrote “Kiss Me Quick” about and it ended up being my debut single.

It may come as not at all a surprise to you that I’m now seriously considering writing a song that can initiate sex with my boyfriend for me.

Wait, that sounds dodgy.

 

Written for Kink of the Week – check out what other people wrote on the topic of kissing by clicking those big red lips below.

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KOTW – Silk Stockings

Cover of a June issue of Silk Stocking StoriesWhen I was a kid, back in the 90s, there was a show on TV called Silk Stalkings. If you don’t know Silk Stalkings, it was aired in the early nineties and featured two detectives solving sexually-based crimes of passion – the Silk Stalkings of the title.

As I said, I was just a kid. I’d never watched the show so I didn’t know what it was about, or that its title was a piece of wordplay on “silk stockings”. Stockings, in my mind, were the beige-y, ugly things my grandmother wore underneath her trousers.

I never thought I’d change my mind on the subject. It’s hard to say exactly when I did, but I think it happened on a visit to Harmony on Oxford Street. I was wandering around a bit aimlessly, just allowing myself to get lost among the toys, lubes, books and lingerie. The lingerie was gorgeous. Another thing I never thought: that I’d start to enjoy shopping for bras and panties. When you’re an awkward kid on the larger side, shopping for clothes in general is like listening to your nan talking about anal sex.

The only thing I enjoyed about it was looking at bras and stockings and slips and so on. Reaching out and feeling the material, letting the silkiness slide between my fingers, tracing the patterns on the most indecently beautiful bras… and then going home with about three version of the same standard bra I always ended up with – beige, white or black, because I was doomed to never find a shop in which they stocked something in my size that actually looked like those gorgeous “fantasy”bras (as my mum called them).

The fancy, sexy, gorgeous bras seemed so out of reach that I never even considered stockings until that visit to Harmony. The pictures on the boxes were daring me, not taunting me. They were telling me to give them a go and not turning me away in judgement. And my good grief, I had the pick of the lot. Red, black, white, sheer, fishnet, hold-up, and even full body stockings.

The full body stockings intrigued me. They shouted at me the loudest and I don’t even know why. Looking at them, at the woman on the box telling me that it was okay. It was okay to want to buy these and I’d look so good in them. And in that moment, I realized that it really was okay to want to buy these.

So I did – and I never wore the body stocking because I fucking lost the package.

I have worn plenty of pairs of stockings though. The first time I wore a pair on an evening out was at an Erotic Meet event – it was the night that, for the first time, I felt like it wasn’t out of reach. That something so sexy, sensuous, lush as a pair of stockings (in this case couples with a pair of gorgeous pillar box red heels) was something I could wear. That this was something available.

I’ve developed a massive love for stockings since then. I love how they look on me. The softness against my skin, the feel as I slide them on. I feel like another person. I want to walk tall in them. I want to show off my legs and dance around like a 40s screen siren. I want them to be the only thing I’m wearing when I’m on top of him at the end of the night, fucking him wearing nothing but silk stockings and a big grin.

I still haven’t seen a single episode of Silk Stalkings, by the way. But I like to think that, just like Red Shoe Diaries, it was the name alone that made me wonder about something that seemed so alien at the time. I like to think that the name alone sparked a curiosity in me, a curiosity that may have just led to me typing the very first words in this blog, three years ago. It’s funny, the endless amount of things a name alone can do…

Kink of the Week

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