Due to the line of work I’m in, I didn’t really stop working during the holiday season. It felt strange to see all the days blur into one. To temporarily forego the actual names of the days in favour of Christmas Eve, New Years Eve, and so on. Even stranger still to jump back to plain old Tuesday.

Strange, but kind of nice. As the clock ticked over to twelve on New Years Eve, it felt nice to just breathe for a second. Celebrate that this lovely, but stressful period was drawing to a close. And reflect on what lay ahead.

One step at a time, one day at a time is my motto for this year. It has to be, considering my previous motto (DO ALL THE THINGS DO THEM NOW OH MY GOD wHy AM I sO TIreD) wasn’t exactly doing wonders for my mental health. Nor was it doing wonders for my libido. The mind is insidious like that. It’s like my depression had been talking at me about my sex life for so long that I eventually had to go “sure, why not”. The same old drone became so fucking boring that in the end my mind just flicked a switch turning off my sexual needs and wants.

And then got that switch jammed for A Very Long Time Indeed.

So, in life as in my sex, that’s going to be how I’ll try to roll from now on. And already it’s kind of working. Taking baby steps has already made me feel a bit better, a bit more relaxed about my body and about being touched. I’m wanting to work on getting back to masturbation first – that’s a jolly one that I maybe didn’t actually talk about last year come to think of it.

I think that one’s actually borne more out of being too tired to even take my shoes off at the end of the day, let alone go to town on myself with fingers and vibrator. Maybe it’s a mix. Part mental health, part tiredness, with a glazed cherry of are you fucking kidding me though on top.

One step at a time, one day at a time. That’ll do for a resolution.

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Tick Tock (for Wicked Wednesday)

Written for this week’s Wicked Wednesday prompt – Countdown. Warning: gets a bit dark.


Tick Tock


welcome to your life

You write this down in the margins of the notebook you’ve got in your backpack. Notebook, book, pen, gum, condoms, lube. The standard kit for when you make this journey.  Sometimes you’ve got an extra pair of shoes in there – the nice sensible ones for after a night out with him. Sometimes there’s a length of rope, and right now the thought of it makes you grimace because that length of rope seems like such an abject metaphor for this non-relationship.

welcome to your life/ welcome to the bed you made

There’s a song in your head and you’re wanting to busy yourself with writing down the lyrics you think you remember. Much like how you often busy yourself writing down the moments between you and him that you think were golden.

passing time does make fools of us all

The train chugs along a stretch of parkland and it’s one of those annoyingly bright and lovely days. You look outside and you catch glimpses of people, blurs of joy and ice cream and prams and skateboards. Actual solid golden moments being made, probably.

And you?

You find yourself on another train, another Saturday where your end destination is on top of him. Under him. Whatever. What-the-fuck-ever. This time tomorrow you’ll have been spat back out of his flat and into yet another train carriage. Your sex life is a hobbling train carriage of monotony. Your love life doesn’t exist. This is nothing but an arrangement made entirely for the convenience of his penis.

Never at your place. Always the travelling, always this fucking rickety train, always the gaping void where the cash in your wallet and the feeling in your soul were meant to be.

Just sex. Only sex. Sex is the beginning and the end. The touch of his hands on your tits. The feeling of his tongue on your clit. The rough and the smooth. The rough and the rough. The sex is all there is.

It’s alright. The sex is alright. That’s the word that comes to mind when you think about the time you spend locked in this penis-arrangement. In this time bomb that tick, tick, tocks its countdown to whenever it’ll explode. When this sexual puppet master of yours will cut you loose in a way that he’ll no doubt think is ugly and shattering.



But you’re counting down along with that time bomb because the realization that it will only be him that thinks it to be ugly and shattering is a profound one.



for freedom and for pleasure

doesn’t last forever

welcome to your life

But for now, all you can do is sit back in your seat on the train and wait until it pulls into that station. He won’t be there to pick you up. He never is and he doesn’t think he has to. He just knows you’ll turn up at his door, knickers wet and body desperate.

All you can do is sit back in your seat. Wonder how many seconds are left on that time bomb.

Welcome to your life.

Tick. Tock.

Tick. Tock.

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Wicked Wednesday #221: Read It and Weep

I could write epic poetry about how important books are to my life. Not just as a writer myself, but as a person who has at various points in her life turned to the written word for escapism, inspiration, knowledge, a laugh much needed, catharsis craved. I read voraciously – fuck, I’m reading right now, in between writing this and bumbling around online. As this week’s Wicked Wednesday theme is reading (it’s fundamental, don’t cha know?), I thought I’d forgo writing flash fiction for once, in favour of some idle musings about reading and books (with recommendations added in for good measure).

How I read

As a writer, I’ve found that keeping my reading choices as broad as possible (so, not just keeping to erotica as my be-all-end-all genre) has helped me to improve my craft so much. Bits and bobs of inspiration, whether it be a new way of telling a story,  or a jumping-off point for a plot, come and tack themselves on the notice board in my Memory Palace. It’s much the same with film, one of the other major cornerstones in my life. Atmospheres, words, moments, all sticking in my head like raw material. Fabric waiting patiently to be stitched together into a quilt of story.

As a person, outside of what I do when I’m doing writer-y stuff, books have been so important to me throughout my life that, if you asked me when this love for the written started I’d probably ehhhmmm… myself inside out. I’ve always read. I’ve always loved losing myself in stories, both fictional and (later in life) fact. As someone who has spent most of her adult life battling depression, reading is one of the things that still gives me relief. It makes the endless feedback loop of shite in my head come to a momentary halt. It makes my morning commute way less painful. It makes my heart sing to hold a book, it makes me giddy to come across something and think YES YOU, I WILL READ YOU NEXT.

Both points of view feed into each other, as much as they can stand separately. I read to enjoy both as a person and as a writer. It just means that as a writer my brain will be attuned slightly differently to the book in front of me.

What I read

Would you be at all surprised that my answer to this would be “fucking anything that I like the look and sound of, mate”? Because it totally is.

Okay, but seriously, narrow it down a bit

In fiction: sci-fi, fantasy, romantic comedy, thriller, YA.

In non-fiction: biographies, works on sex and relationships, works on feminism, works on mental health, comedy, investigative journalism, histories of film

In comics: Marvel, Image Comics, stand-alone graphic novels, Kate Beaton, Noelle Stevenson, Matthew Inman, Allie Brosh, Erika Moen.

Online: any long-reads that pique my interest

Offline: my house is basically wall to wall copies of Total Film/Empire/SFX/Sci-Fi Now

And in erotica?

Themed short story anthologies (anything that catches my eye, again), erotic romance, thrillers (think Kristina Lloyd and Tiffany Reisz).

Most recent read

Last Call at the Nightshade Lounge by Paul Krueger (which is great).

Most recent thing what you wrote yourself?

Stuck with You: A Short Erotic Romance.

Recommend me something!

Right, I could sling titles and names at you all day, but these are off the top of my head.

– Carrie by Stephen King

– Mad Girl by Bryony Gordon

– Furiously Happy by Jenny Lawson (also Let’s Pretend This Never Happened)

– Any of The Oatmeal collections (drawn by Matthew Inman)

– Hark, A Vagrant!/Step Aside Pops by Kate Beaton

– Hyperbole and a Half: Unfortunate Situations, Flawed Coping Mechanisms, Mayhem and Other Things That Happened by Allie Brosh

The Wicked + The Divine by Kieron Gillen and Jamie McKelvie

– Sex Criminals by Matt Fraction and Chip Zdarsky

– Patsy Walker AKA Hellcat! by Kate Leth and Brittany Williams

– Anything you find online by Hayley Campbell

– The Diary of a Teenage Girl by Phoebe Gloeckner

– Bad Feminist by Roxanne Gay

Drawing Blood by Molly Crabapple

– A Gentleman in the Streets by Alisha Rai

The Psychopath Test by Jon Ronson

– Let it Shine by Alyssa Cole

Seriously, I could go on for a while.


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Wicked Wednesday #215 – At Night

This is a piece of short erotica written for this week’s Wicked Wednesday prompt – “Night World”. If you want to see the accompanying picture, shot by Molly Moore, visit this week’s page here.


At night is when I think of him the most. When I miss the way he touches me, talks to me, whispers love into my ear and on to the surfaces of my skin. At night I miss him the most because nights have a sharp air of loneliness about them. The dark, illuminated by amber dots of streetlights, is a harsh mistress. It teases you, taunts you with the empty space next to you in bed.

I look out of my window, down into the little cobblestone backroad where the Friday night stragglers and Saturday night lovers pass and lean against the brick wall for support when they kiss or try and get their bearings through the haze of alcohol and whatever they might have been sweetly smoking. The pulse of lust glows through the streets, the summer heat having its way with the minds and libidos of the lovers of this city.

My lover never leaves my mind. Summer heat or not, he’s always there even when he isn’t there for me to hold and taste and inhale. He’s there when I let my hands slip between the folds of my labia, dipping into the ever-growing needy wetness and stilling the throb in my clit with the strum of my fingers. He’s there in little words or moments that make me smile to myself because they make me think of his voice or his laugh.

He’s there when I spot them, at an hour of night where most of the city has given up and gone to bed. They’re giggling, staggering, pawing at each other with a lust that’s messy and almost teenage in its wantonness. I can see her, backing against the metal of the doorway across from my living room window, a doorway to a storage room at the back of the pub on the other side. I can see him, kissing her all over, her moaning with the joy of new lust, new love or just something for the night only.

Whatever it is, it makes me ache for him. So far away, only available through webcam pixels and laptop speakers. So far away and always so close.

At night is when I think about him the most. When I wish with my heart and body and soul that the day where we can be as messy and lusty and carefree as the two people outside my window is now.

Abscence. Heart.

At night is when I feel it grow fonder.



At night is when I feel it.

And how I wish, I always wish the daylight would break right then and there. Another day ticked off the endless waiting list. Another day closer to wild and carefree.

But until then, the view outside my window, late at night, will have to do to keep me company. To remind me that I am not alone in wanting.

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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.

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Erotica – Dancing on My Own

Moira Shearer In The Red Shoes

Taking part in Wicked Wednesday this week and writing a bit of off-the-cuff erotica. The prompt is “Green-Eyed Monster” aka jealousy. I decided to play around with it a bit, and ended up with this. Well… It’s not quite erotica, but I hope you like it anyway.

Title taken from Robyn’s utterly heartbreaking anthem Dancing On My Own.

I don’t know why I’m here.

I’m standing in some dark corner in a club, Chelsea or somewhere else posh, I’ve forgotten. Holding a drink like it’s my lifeline and just… standing. Watching and almost drowning.

I don’t know why I’m doing this.

I thought I was… you know, a grown-up. Someone who can put something as petty as jealousy aside and just let go and move on. But I couldn’t. The green-eyed monster sits comfortably on my shoulder, watching along with me. Whispering seeds of doubt and insecurity into my ear.

Does she dance better than I do?

The first time we danced together, we fucking went for it. I mean, it was lock-eyes-across-the-room, no-one else exists but you, go for it, touch him, touch her, touch each other.

We didn’t take long to end up tangled naked between your sheets, with the Camden streetlights illuminating your incredibly un-Camdenlike apartment.

It was all in the same night I fell for you. Hard.

Does she do all the little things I used to do for you and with you?

Does she do them better? Do her eggs Benedict on Saturday mornings, when you get back from your night shift taste better than mine? Does she hold your hand, walking down Regents Canal in a more dainty way than I did? Does she bake with you, does she watch repeats of shitty shows with you, does she hold you whenever you’ve seen too much on the job and does she…

Does she…

Does she kiss you better than I did?

Do her lips taste like some sort of insanely addictive drug that you can’t live without? Does she hold you in a different, more pleasing way? Does she like it when you push her against the wall, and claim her lips, consumed with hunger and need and greed and want as much as I did?

Does she make love better than I did?

Tell me. Tell me what she does that I don’t. Tell me how she kisses your chest. How she runs her fingers through your curly hairs and how she tells you she wants you. What she looks like on top of, beneath you. What she feels like inside. How she arches her back as you slam into her, how she says something like “God, baby, you’re so big!” and how it doesn’t annoy you because this is still the thrill of the new and you don’t want to tell her that dirty talk makes you cringe just yet.

I’m still in the corner, watching you dance with her. Watching you kiss her. It’s… so much worse than I imagined, and I want to beat myself up for letting the green-eyed bugger on my shoulder seep into my mind like that.

I loved you. I love you. And watching you like this, watching you with someone else… hurt doesn’t begin to cover it.

So I make a decision, right then and there. I cast aside my lifeline and put my drink on the nearest table. Turning on my heels, I start walking, right across the room, right past you (why can’t you see me) and to the exit.

Turn around and look says the green-eyed monster. Look at what you’re leaving behind. But what’s the use? I’m not who you’re taking home, not anymore.

So I fling the beast off my shoulder. Walk away and I don’t look back.

It will be bad. It will hurt and I’ll cry and rage and scream, but it will get better. And I will get used to dancing on my own.

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At The End Of The Night – Wicked Wednesday #96

I’m joining in with Wicked Wednesday this week, and I believe it is my first time doing so. So, I think that warrants a bit of an introduction, for those of you who don’t know it.

Wicked Wednesday is a weekly meme, hosted by the lovely Marie Rebelle. Every week, she sets an optional prompt (this week’s being “write a story from the point of view of a glass sitting at the edge of a table”), and you can either follow the prompt and write an erotic story/take a picture relating to the prompt or just write an erotic story/take a picture without using the prompt.

So, here’s my take on this week’s prompt, a piece of erotica titled At The End Of The Night

It always begins when the large man in the apron places me and my colleagues on the tables. He meticulously cleans us, assuring that we at least start the evening without any spots or stains… it’s not how any of us will end the evening – some of us don’t even make it past the first hour. I pity them, lying shattered on the floor. They do miss out on all the fun.

At six o’clock in the evening, they trickle in. I’m ready, as always, to receive what’s coming to me. I always enjoy the variety of people who take me to their lips and drink whatever type of red or white or bubbled concoction they’ve picked from my full body. I like listening to them as well. Always such interesting secrets revealed…

Sometimes the daily grind can get quite dull, I grant you. Thursday nights, I mostly spend staring into the middle distance, envious of any of my colleagues who do get to indulge in the company of people enjoying wine and whatever the tall French man in the kitchen whips up at his stove. I envy the feeling of their rims being touched by lips, soft, large, voluptuous…

But then Friday comes along and all at one, I am filled with excitement. Friday is when I see Her.

She’s a regular set of lips who comes in every Friday evening. And because fate works in mysterious ways, I always end up being the vessel for her choice of poison. Her lips are the softest, most beautiful lips I’ve ever had the pleasure of feeling on the rim of my body. If I had skin, I am certain it would break out in shivers.

She enjoys my company as much as I enjoy hers, it seems. Not that she’d know it was me, always me that trembles with delight every time she pulls up the chair and sits down to fill me up with red, white whatever. She’s always alone, but never really alone because I am with her, and I am relishing in her fingers tracing the outline of my hard stem, her painted lips leaving a rosy red outline on my rim.

I think it is the closest I will get to what I’ve heard human beings call “making love”. I imagine she’s good at making love, whatever that really entails. I imagine it’s touching lips, fingers tracing outlines, full body against full body and leaving stains and marks at the end of the night. I imagine it must feel good. It must make her feel like she’s truly alive.

So on the Friday she doesn’t walk in alone, a pang of a strange emotion makes me wobble on my very base. Two chairs being pulled back, two glasses being sipped from. One pair of strong, masculine hands stroking her fine, slender fingers. She laughs at his stories, he laughs at hers. They talk about touching lips, fingers tracing outlines, full body against full body… They talk about their love making, and I am at once forgotten, the sharp red concoction in my body resting as they talk and talk like people do in restaurants.

At the end of the night, the man in the apron collects me from their table, as they walk out hand in hand. He wobbles, and spills the remains of the red concoction over his white uniform. It’s fitting, I guess… it’s close to what humans call a broken, bleeding heart.

© Jillian Boyd, 2014


Read the other takes on the prompt and other Wicked Wednesday entries here.

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