Songs Again

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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The whirring of his electric shaver comes faintly through the closed door of our bedroom. If I close my eyes, I can imagine what he looks like when he’s doing it. Concentration on his face, a steady hand as he trims his stubble to his usual short, yet beautifully present length.

Facial hair has always done it for me. Not so much mustaches, but a good bit of stubble or even beard-age on a man. I don’t exactly remember how far back this one goes, but I do seem to remember it flaring up a few times during my years of watching ER.

Carter? Kovač? Benton? St. Doug Ross himself? All hotter with a little bit of beard going on. It was a kind of formal education in one of my most enduring turn-ons. And it’s an education that has left me with the perfect man to cater to that particular one.

I like his stubble. I’m a bit of a sucker for it, no matter how much or how little of it there is. It’s never a full thick beard, nor is it the polar opposite. It’s just right for me. I’m like Goldilocks with his facial hair. It’s a treat for me. A treat I love to stroke. A treat the feeling of which I like lingering around my lips after a kiss.

It tickles a bit, yes. But only a little bit. The good kind of tickle. The kind you remember with a grin. The kind you want to feel again, whether on your lips or on your cunt.

When he goes down on me, I don’t tend to mind it. Again, it’s just the littlest tickle.  He knows what he’s doing, and I know that I can in turn tell him if something’s not feeling right. Including the stubble. It works for us.

And I will always not mind it, because it’s part of him.

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Another Sex and Love Q&A

Sometimes, in between the Avengers gifsets and Harry Potter headcanon posts that cloud my Tumblr dashboard, I strike it lucky and find one of those Ask Me Anything lists, relating to sex and relationships. I tend to save them in Notepad, ready and waiting to be whipped out on a day where blogging inspiration is hell to the low and I need a bit of a prompt to give myself a kick up the arse.

I bet you can’t guess where this is going.


Yes, it’s time for another Sex And Love Q&A with Lady Laid Bare! Such excite! Much question! Many sex! Some questions deleted/edited at my discretion!

What’s your favorite position and why?

Me on top, because I have full view of my partner and his face in the throes of ecstasy. Which is hot as eff.

What’s one thing in particular that makes you want to tear off your lover’s clothes?

When he puts on a Scottish accent.

What’s the best sex advice you can give?

Keep hydrated. Seriously. Otherwise, you’ll end up having a massive headache and that’s a mood killer, for sure.

What’s your sexual orientation?


Are you okay with rough sex?

Depends on what happens during the sex. If there’s something going on that crosses my personal limits, then I wouldn’t be okay with it and I would make it known.

Do you prefer sex or masturbation?

I like both, and I love a bit of post-sex mutual masturbation.

What’s your fantasy?

Currently, it’s a toss-up between having a lie-in and going on an actual holiday.

Do you like to spank/be spanked?

I love being spanked. It’s one of my biggest turn-ons, and I can pride myself on having a decent pain threshold. I’m absolutely crap at spanking other people though, as I can’t really put enough power behind my strikes to deliver a decent blow. Especially when I’ve got an implement in my hand.

Do you like teasing or would you rather get straight to the point?

I like teasing when the situation calls for it. When you’ve got two people who are absolutely gagging to have each other, I usually find that I can’t be arsed with teasing (both giving and receiving) and I would quite like to just get down to foreplay.

Are you sexually active?

In that I do have regular sex, yes.

Why aren’t you fucking anyone right now?

Because I’m writing this blog post and my other half is at work. And it’s the middle of the day and my day off work and I’m currently very busy watching Come Dine With Me.

Does penis size really matter?

It really, really does not. Not a lot of people come from vaginal stimulation alone, so deft fingers and a tongue which knows what it’s doing are things that can help you along a lot more than the size of a cock.

Are you comfortable naked?

Sometimes, yes. It’s still something I’m learning. My body has changed so much over the past few years, so I’m still getting to know it the way it is now.

Have you ever 69’d? Did you enjoy it?

The lying down 69’s quite wonderful. Neither of us are up for the challenge of the full on, straddling one.

Have you had any unwanted pain during sex?

Oh god, the leg cramps. So, so many leg cramps.

Five turn ons.

Scottish accents, beautiful eyes, great sense of humour, beautiful cinnamon bun, too good, too pure for this world.

Describe the best sex you’ve ever had.

In our hotel in Bristol during Eroticon 2014, after the Saturday night party. Completely carefree, bed was amazingly soft, later on we stood in front of the window looking out over the city, both absolutely naked. It was brilliant.

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Flash Forward

All things concerned, it would be really easy to just write a post dismissing the entire of 2014 as utter crap. It was a year of violence, death, horrors and injustice that we will no doubt still feel deep in our bones as we stagger out of it into 2015. You can bet that at least half of the year-end (and shows – don’t watch 2014 Wipe if you want to have a nice and placid day without weeping into your pillows) will remind you of what 2014 was.

And if I was going to write a post dismissing my 2014 as entirely utterly crap, that would be plain lying because it wasn’t.  It wasn’t a happy year, but it was a year full of things that, in thinking about them, fill me with happiness, however small. I saw my mother for the first time in ages, I walked the streets of my old stomping ground and sat down on a bench to eat a waffle in them, I edited an awesome anthology, I went to a wedding that will take quite a bit to beat and, for two surprisingly sunny days in March, I attended Eroticon Mark 3 and had a whopping great time. And, most importantly I planted seeds for things to come.

So, instead of writing a long post about looking back on the past year, will you, dear reader, accept a short post on looking forward to some things to come?

– I will be editing another anthology, for which I’m still taking submissions until the end of the month – it’s all about sexy spies and delicious detectives. Read the call here and, if you decide to, submit your story (word count between 3000 and 7000 words) for Spy Games.

– I’ll be published in a couple of anthologies, some of which I’m not yet allowed to tell you about but three of which you might have heard me chattering about on Twitter. You can read (or in fact, listen) to some stories what I’ve done written in Rose Caraway’s Dirty Thirty Vol. 1, Best Erotic Romance 2015 and Appetites: Tales of Lesbian Lust. More info on those (and others) will be on its way in the next couple of months.

– I’ll be attending Eroticon 2015, which, yay!

– This blog is celebrating its 4th anniversary on February 15th, and I might do a thing that relates to it…

– And I will be… well, I will be many things. I will be working my arse off on new short stories. I will be telling you tales of sex, love, relationships and things that go a bit wrong. I will (still) be utterly baffled at things that I see happening at work, out and about and on the TV and internets. I will be taking better care of my own body and soul. I will be reading voraciously, I will be watching a lot of films and I will be (most likely) writing about them on Dork Adore. I will be visiting my mum more often. I will be having plenty, plenty of orgasms and we (ILB and I) will (hopefully) be having a truckload of sex. I will be turning 25 at the arse end of this year. And I will be doing plenty more things that you may (or may not) hear about.

Hi, 2015. It’s nice to have you here. Finally.

I’m really quite fond of this picture, as you may have guessed.

PS – The lovely Jenne from Clitical (the go-to site for all the facts about female masturbation) featured me in Clitical’s Erotica Authors Spotlight – which you probably will have missed in all the party hubbub yesterday. Check it out!

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Totes Emosh, Dead Amaze

I love Christmas. Don’t get me wrong, because I really do bloomin’ love it. I love it even more now than I did as a kid, because I spend it with a lovely bunch of people and it’s always ridiculously fun. However, I also think that the holidays are a hyper-emotional minefield. How emotional it gets depends on many, many factors, but there will probably be a couple of moments where you just want to give up and cry your eyes out.

I had that moment. I just didn’t expect it to come on Boxing Day, watching Miranda on catch-up.

Miranda, I should explain, has always been a hyper-emotional minefield for me to watch. And yes, I can hear you all laughing at the notion that Miranda, a half-hour sitcom about silly things happening to a tall woman with a penchant for spontaneously bursting out into a medley of Heather Small’s greatest hits, has made me cry on several occasions. Cry. Yes, cry. Because if you look past those silly things happening, Miranda’s chemistry with (and not-so-secret-love-for) chef Gary is the thing that fucks me up time and time again.

Watching Miranda and Gary sometimes brings back painful memories of unrequited loves from the past. Of times where I was fully convinced that I’d be “good as a mate” and nothing else for the rest of my life (not kidding, this was actually said to me by the first boy I ever loved – and yes,  it hurt like a motherbitch). I knew what “good as a mate” meant. Scratch the surface of “good as a mate” and you’ll discover the stinging truth – you’re not good-looking enough for them. You’re not smart enough for them, not witty enough for them or whatever it is they’re thinking that spells out “you’re not enough”.

When I watch Miranda, and when I hear some character making an off the cuff remark about Miranda and her life/job/looks/love life, I hear the surface being scratched. I hear the layer peeling away and I feel the sting.

To me, it’s the same with watching Laura Linney’s character in Love, Actually finally get a chance with the man she’s been desperately in love with for two years (and a bit) and then… well, losing that chance. It’s painful for different reasons, but it conjures up much the same in the way of memories. And does the added job of making me think a heck of a lot of “what if’s…” (actually, that entire film is probably worth its own blog post…).


But Miranda and Gary are most likely going to end up together. Even if, at the end of this second-to-last episode and after getting engaged, they end up apart. You know that, because of the laws of silly sitcoms. A happy ending is probably in the future. And knowing Miranda Hart, she’s probably going to not want to leave everyone with an aftertaste as bitter as an EastEnders Christmas special.

That still doesn’t change that, after watching this episode, I had to go for a walk to compose myself. Never mind that it was pissing with rain out there. I had to go and erase memories and yearnings and thoughts that I didn’t want to be dealing with. Thoughts as recent as way back when I started this blog, and yearnings as far away as being a teenager obsessed with escaping reality. A teenager who just wanted someone to, for once, not give her the Good As A Mate spiel. A teenager who sat slumped in the bathroom, crying after coming home from a class holiday to Barcelona because she’d spent the last week forced to watch a guy she had desperately loved love someone else right in front of her.

When I came home from that walk, drenched in rain and hurting in my heart, I opened the door to the living room and took a good look at the scene in front of me – Christmas tree lit, ILB’s parents cozily watching Christmas television and warmth all over the house. I grabbed a mince pie and centered myself. Now is now. Miranda is a lovely, silly sitcom with a happy ending in the making. Karl (Love, Actually‘s mysterious, enigmatic graphic designer) was a colossal idiot for not asking Laura Linney’s character out on a date before she left to tend to her brother. And I am in love with a beautiful man, who is in love with me, too.

Now is now. Joy is joy. And I am in this moment, in this season of heightened emotions, filled with joy.

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We both know we’re going to fuck later that night. The sexual tension’s been in the air for so long, if you were to stick out a knife you could probably butter your toast with it. We both know it, but it’s just a matter of when it’ll happen.

We take a shower together, because we’re economical like that (read: like to fondle each other under the guise of “lather-rinse-repeat…. as needed“). I relish the feeling of the hot water on my skin, muscles relaxing and mind aching for him to touch me. Washing his back, I take full advantage of the situation and maybe do it for a little longer than someone normally would. I love his back. I love digging my fingers into it in the heat of passion and wondering if he’ll feel the memory there in the morning.

I finish first, towelling myself off and making a half-arsed attempt at getting dressed. Then I have what I hope to be An Inspired Thought – I lean against the wall, wearing nothing but my top and start fingering myself. I try to get his attention, hoping to God that he sees and (somehow) gets an instant hard-on from just how sexy I’m being. Of course, this does not happen as the shower is by then so fogged up the only thing you’d be able to see through it is more fog.

I quickly give up and go to the bedroom. Lying on the bed, the room lit by nothing but the soft sepia glow of the bedside lamp, I stretch myself out and start masturbating. The air cooling down my naked body combined with the intenser than usual pleasure makes me feel mellow and relaxed. I don’t know if it was because it’d been a while since I’d last came, but every little flick of my clit seems to resonate throughout my entire body. The pleasure makes me wetter, and my orgasm is gloriously messy and dizzying. It made me wish I had a couple of toys and the whole day to myself just for the purpose of having more orgasms – I felt full and greedy for pleasure.

I can’t decide on what it is I wanted tonight – images swirl in my head, of hot cum decorating my tits, of mutual orgasms and my lips locked around his cock. I wanted all of it.

And then he comes in, freshly showered and mouth and eyes wide open at the sight of me. “Oh hello.” he says. “What are you grinning about?”

“Orgasms.” I reply,  watching him as he blow-dried his hair faster than I’d ever seen anyone do in my life.

“Did you just have one?”

I nod. He quickly abandons the hair dryer and sidles up next to me.

“So… what do you want me to do to you?”

My head fills again with the vast amount of sexual possibilities. I can ask him to lick me. I could ask if he wanted me to suck his cock. Maybe I want him to masturbate over me. Maybe I want to masturbate for him. Or maybe I just want to mount him and ride his cock until… Until.

But for now, I start out with one simple request. “Touch me. I need it.”

And he obliges. Sometimes, it’s best to start simple.

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The Kissy Kissy

I knew he was up to something. I knew he wanted me, badly. He told me later that he’d been undersexed in the past few weeks, and I couldn’t fault him on it – so was I.

The playful, teasing, kissy kissy, want you, want me dance had been going on all day, with moments of work being interrupted by moments of “God, I wish I could jump your bones right now.”

We’d had sex a few days ago, which was nice, but a bit marred by the fact that the sofa bed we’re sleeping on is incredibly creaky. It’s almost like the bed’s going “Hello, I would like it to be known that there are two individuals getting it on on my back here.”

Which isn’t handy when you’re actually staying in someone else’s house, let alone his folks.

But when it came down to the dirty bits, this time, I had no problems with the creaky noises. I was focussed on one thing: getting him off. He was reclining supinely on the bed, his erection jutting out and ready for my hand.

It ended up being messy. It ended up with him teetering on the edge of a huge orgasm whilst simultaneously trying to get me towards an orgasm with his fingers. I think he rather liked just how wet the act of me jerking him off made me.

Just a hunch.

By the time he was inside me, I didn’t feel like I was properly on this planet anymore. I’d had an orgasm which knocked the wind out of me, and was still flying when he penetrated me.

And for a long time after we’d finished too.

I liked the look on his face. I liked the way he said “Because you’re in love with me” and then said “I’m in love with you too” with that silly and adorable look in his eyes.

Kissy kissy. Want you, want me.

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