Let’s Play a Game

It’s funny where ideas for blog posts can come from. Or when they come to you.

Yesterday, I was on the bus back from a staff meeting at work. I was reading Alexander McQueen: Blood Beneath the Skin. There’s a mention of an interview he did with i-D – he was asked to give three items he’d take to a desert island. His answer, paraphrased? “Not a sewing machine, let me tell you. Poppers, a vibrator and a shit tonne of Coca-Cola.”

It made me laugh. And then it made me think. Specifically, it made me want to have some fun with Desert Island Discs.

If you’re not familiar with the show, it’s a long-running radio show in which a guest (or “castaway” as they’re referred to during the programme) chooses eight recordings (usually music), a book and a luxury item they’d take with them to a desert island. That general idea, combined with McQueen’s answer to that question, gave me the idea to do my own sex writer spin on it.

Which, for about two seconds, I wanted to call Desert Island Dicks… but that says literally nothing about what I’m doing here so.

Here’s how I’m going to go about. On the radio show, you get to pick ten things – I’m dividing these into three sections, plus a bonus. Three erotic fiction books/pieces/anthologies. Three sex toys. Three porn scenes/films. One bonus wildcard item.

Let’s go.

Three erotic fiction books/pieces/anthologies

– Orgasmic (edited by Rachel Kramer Bussel)

Contains at least three of my all-time favourite erotica shorts (The London O by Justine Elyot, Making Shapes by Lily Harlem and Chemistry by Velvet Moore), is generally a fucking brilliant anthology

– Diary of a Library Nerd (Kyoko Church)

I bought this in Victoria Station on the way to Eroticon this year, and I read most of it on the coach back. I would have read all of it but it took quite some restraint to not do so. This is that kind of book. A book so fun, so sexy, so emotional, you want to hover it up with your face.

– The Things That Make Me Give In (Charlotte Stein)

I *love* Charlotte Stein. I make absolutely no secret of this. She is a fantastic person. A fabulous friend. And a writer who manages to expertly combine the sensual and the emotional in a way that feels so achingly real. This is an entire collection of stories by her. Of course I would take it with me.

Three sex toys

– The Doxy

I KNOW. It’s mains powered. It wouldn’t do me a lot of good on a desert island. But, you know, it’s THE DOXY. I would want it with me regardless.

– nJoy Pure Wand

Five years. Five years since I started this blog, five years since I first heard about this gold standard sex toy. I still haven’t got one. But if I had one, I’d take it with me and make up for lost time as I would have plenty of time to do so.

– Fun Factory Stronic Eins

Again, I don’t own one but I have on many a trip to Sh! geeked my brains out over it. It thrusts. It fucking well thrusts. Mate.

Three porn scenes/films

– Literally anything by Pink & White Productions

I don’t really need to tell you how much I love Pink & White, right?

– Instructed

A collaboration between Pandora Blake and Ms. Naughty, Instructed stars Pandora and her lover D, but also not. You see, D is there in spirit and voice but not in the flesh – yet.

D has written her a note featuring explicit instructions which Pandora must follow to the letter. We can hear his voice telling her what to do, dominating her from afar. It is as sexy as it sounds.

– Anna’s Mates (Anna Span, Easy on the Eye Productions)

Anna Span. The legend that is. This is one of (I think) two or three of her films I own (or owned, as I haven’t a fucking clue where it went) and it has some of my favourite porn scenes ever.

Special bonus wildcard

– Liquid Silk lube

Of course.

 

If you fancy giving this a go, leave a comment with a link when you do!

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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?

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Public Private part one: On the Tube

There now follows part one in a two part series of things I have recently seen happening on public transport. Because sometimes, when you least expect it, something will set off your sex blogger/erotica writer sense while out and about. It can be when you’re walking down the street, or when you’re in a shop and accidentally overhear a conversation that is definitely not meant for public ears.

In case number one, it was on the Tube. A Sunday evening, and I’d hopped (well, as much as you can hop with two giant backpacks and a big shopper bag on you) onto the Tube after the scintillating hundred hour journey back from the homelands by coach. Worn out, because the last week and a half had been one of the most terrifying of my life. Tired because… well, coach journey and practically no sleep and heat and such.

I managed to sit down without knocking anyone over, which was a definite plus. As I caught my breath, I noticed the couple sitting opposite me. He was classically attractive, with two buttons undone on his shirt and an air of City dude who’s not used to this weather about him. The fact that he was wearing tight jeans said as much.

She was on her phone, occasionally pausing to tell him something. American accents from both of them. Her hand on his be-jeaned leg. Very high up.

So high up that she was, in fact, touching his crotch with her fingers.

Maybe it was the insanely long time I’d spent travelling by coach. Maybe it was the lack of sleep and heightened anxiety levels I was coming down from. Maybe it was a combination of all of that completely frying my brain.

But it went there. My mind completely went there and started filling in the story like dirty Mad Libs.

I imagined her hand resting there, fingers occasionally moving just so that he can feel it. His cock twitches, not straining yet but the arousal’s there. They banter with each other, but there’s something in her eyes, something that says “as soon as I get you off this train…”

He sees it, he knows it’s there and he loves it. He shifts, discreetly adjusting himself. He tries not to give into his need for friction because he knows that the possibility of his cock punching a hole right through his jeans is real.

It was as far as I got before the couple got off and disappeared into the cavernous hallways of their Tube stop. He did indeed adjust himself – that wasn’t a figment of my debauched imagination. And as he and his girlfriend prepared to leave the train, I’m pretty sure I didn’t imagine the faint outline of a semi in his jeans…

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