October 2007 Archives

No, there's not something wrong with my blog - I really have turned the comments off. For now, anyway. I mean, words are great, but I don't want words. I want a cuddle. I want all the things we were going to have and do together before it all went wrong.

Late at night is probably always going to be the hardest for me, as it's the only time I'm left on my own with my thoughts. Oh, and first thing in the morning, when I open my eyes and see an empty space next to me. And everytime I hear The Killers' album. You were always on my list. And everytime I see his cat (who still lives here). And everytime I see the cuffs and stuff in the bedroom - stuff he bought when our relationship was better than it had ever been. And every time Top Gear's on the tele... oh, and everytime I see a blue Mondeo.

And probably about six million other things as well.

I don't know why we've said the things we have to each other. Anger maybe, confusion possibly, heartache definitely - for me at least. Or is that fear? I don't know. The line between being broken-hearted and being fucking petrified of being more broken-hearted is a very fine one, and I can't see dick through these tears.

So do excuse me, I'm going to go drink myself into a stupor. Back soon.

I'm so tired, of playing
Playing with this bow and arrow
Gonna give my heart away
Leave it to the other girls to play
For I've been a temptress too long

Just. .

Give me a reason to love you
Give me a reason to be a woman
I just wanna be a woman

From this time, unchained
We're all looking at a different picture
Through this new frame of mind
A thousand flowers could bloom
Move over, and give us some room

Give me a reason to love you
Give me a reason to be a woman
I just wanna be a woman

So don't you stop, being a man
Just take a little look from our side when you can
Sow a little tenderness
No matter if you cry

For this is the beginning of forever and ever

Its time to move over

I've worked it out. Better than that, I've worked me out. After all these years. Fancy that.

For all my submissive tendencies, I am notoriously difficult to dominate. If you met me, the last thing you would say I am is "submissive". I am outgoing, outspoken, and quite often out of control. I have a rebellious streak running through me like letters in a stick of rock, and I aim to please.... myself. That's not to say other submissive types aren't loud or confident or selfish or wild - in fact the majority of us "hide" our submission very well. It's like a separate half of my identity, or something... something that's unfortunately not brought out in me very easily, or often.

But, thanks to some recent interrogation, I've come to a startlingly obvious conclusion: In order to even stand a chance of dominating me, you first have to get in my head, and make me squirm.

Quite a challenge, considering the open-minded self-confessed slut and exhibitionist that I am, but it is possible. And if you can make me feel uneasy, or self-conscious, or chest-pounding, stomach-churning shy you might be able to get me on my knees too.

Take this recent "interrogation", for example. Some questions, asking me about my little kinks - that's all it was really, as thick and as fast as those questions came, and as personal as they were. But not knowing the person in that way (yet) made me instantly feel at least as self-conscious (and ridiculously shy) as I sometimes do when writing this blog, especially when I end up admitting to things like my deep lust for depravity and humiliation.... a kink that many don't understand, and some even feel disgusted by (freaks).

I guess you could say it's humiliating for me to admit that being humiliated turns me on. Which I suppose, in theory, means I could be turned on right now...

So then, anyone here with an A level in psychology? ;)

The problem I have with being half queer is that women, as a rule, generally don't like me. And I, as a rule, generally don't like them much either, heh. Ok, maybe "don't like" is too strong - "don't understand" might be more fitting. Or "don''t have anything in common with". Because I really don't. I can count my female friends on one hand, and still have fingers spare. I am definitely not a woman's woman, no matter how many handbags and shoes I buy.

So, then. Imagine how excited I would be if I "met" a woman who is not only as filthy and perverted as I am (if not even more so), but could also possibly dominate me in the bedroom. A woman whose fantasies mirrored mine. A woman who though not my usual type (whatever that is, heh) could make me want to suck her "cock". A woman who could get in my head and pull my hair and call me a slut, and anythingelseshewantstodo. A woman who likes the Arctic Monkeys!

I would be extremely excited, because it's never ever happened to me.

I've fallen in virtual lust again. Can you tell? Boing.

It's ok - I haven't thrown another wobbler. I've just been thinking. About things. Too many things to mention right now, and all of them temporarily forgotten anyway since I woke up this morning, looked in the mirror and found that my hair and make up (including lipstick) is still intact. I've been wondering if that was possible ever since the days of Dallas, and thanks to Revlon and Clinique, I now find it is. Yay! Seriously, I look fucking gorgeous, and that is most unusual. Especially when I've drunk as much vodka as I did last night.

I miss Justin. Alot. But then again, I miss everyone. I sit here and wonder where everyone is, what they're doing, why they're not in my life anymore. It gets depressing, to be honest, particularly when the reasons they're not in my life anymore range from me having told them to fuck off, to them being a bit dead.
And when I say everyone, I mean friends and ex/lovers... and not just because of the sex (ok, sometimes because of the sex...). But maybe I'm just too sentimental.

There are only two people in this world that I truly hate. And they are my mother, and the psycho-maniac formerly known (briefly) as my husband. And the reason I hate them is because they (and no-one else) fucked me up beyond all repair. In some twisted way I'm pleased - I doubt I would be as kinky and deviant as I am had they not been in my life, and for that, I'm grateful. But that aside, venom runs through my veins for those two in ways I can't even begin to articulate. Unfortunately, I am one of those annoying people who doesn't forgive or forget physical and mental abuse.
But everyone else... be they real or virtual, from 1988 on, were in my life for a reason, and I wish they were still there, even if that reason is void now.

Can't we kiss and make up?

Wildly drunk on Saturday night. Had Justin Timberlake blasting out of the speakers, and I thought it would be a good idea to give the boyfriend a lap dance or two. Hard to believe, given my capacity to both dance and tease, that this was the first time I'd ever given him such a performance. It went down well, by all accounts. I wouldn't let him touch me, and I wiggled and shimmied, and teased him with my body. And the sucker for forbidden fruit that he is, sat there with his hands on his groin and, if you'll excuse the pun, lapped it up.

Dirty babe
You see these shackles, baby I'm your slave
I'll let you whip me if I misbehave
It's just that no-one makes me feel this way

It went down so well that he bought me a new pair of boots yesterday. Talk about incentive! I'll dance for him every night if I'm going to get presents like that. And these boots are fabulous. Well, I say boots, they're glorified wellies really, but they are the sexiest wellies I've ever seen. And they're mine! When I saw them I thought ooh, new festival footwear, but as they are boots, their uses will probably extend beyond muddy fields.

The boyfriend, like alot of men, has a thing about boots (actually, are there any men who don't have a thing about boots?). And because of his thing about boots, I've bought them, worn them, he's fucked me with them, several delicious fantasies have been weaved around them, and now I have a thing about boots too. Classy boots, slutty boots, sensible boots, shiny boots, high-heel boots, thigh-high boots, mid-calf boots, white boots, black boots, red boots... I don't seem to have a preference. Just put some boots on me, and I'm instantly horny. They have the same effect on me as the smell of leather, or the sight of white vans, or any of the other weird and wonderful things that my perverted mind has eroticised. I wouldn't say they're fetishes, but they are guaranteed to put me into slut mode.

And tonight, Matthew, I'm going to be a welly-wearing slut.

I love sex far more than I love love. I love sex with men, and women, and in as many different positions as possible. Variety is the spice of both life, and fucking. But one thing I always like when I'm having sex is full (and deep) penetration. So this post from the Lovehoney blog surprised me, somewhat.

News flash: not all women love to be fucked by a jackhammer penis, and men are slowly begining to learn that shallow thrusting is way sexier than the vaginal equivalent of deep throat...

The highest concentration of nerve endings in your vagina are actually near the opening, so it makes sense that the majority of your lover's efforts should be concentrated on this area.

With this in mind, shallow penetration is the way forward. By only slipping his penis in and out of the opening of your vagina (and not delving all the way in), your lover will stimulate a truck-load more nerve endings, making you a lot more tingly from tip to toe!

It's also good news for your bloke, since shallow thrusting means constant stimulation to the head of your man's penis and frenulum, both of which get squeezed by your vaginal muscles located near your vaginal opening.

Maybe some girls do like sex this way. I like it too... but only as a tease before the real fucking begins. If a guy only shagged me in a shallow way, I wouldn't contact him again for a re-run. I would (probably) think he was scared of vaginal walls, or something.
We have already covered my love of cock, but I also love the feel of it inside me. Banging against my cervix. Stretching me. Filling me up. The lovely ladies at Lovehoney may be right in saying that the highest concentration of nerve endings are near the opening (and when I'm playing with myself, using fingers only, I do spend some time on the "opening"), but the highest concentration of raging lust comes from being fucked. Hard, and deep. That's what vaginas are there for, for fucksake...!

I was feeling so creative yesterday. Had so many ideas for blog posts, that I was tapping away on this keyboard for bleeding ages. But my head was so bursting with ideas that I never managed to finish even one of the seven (yes, seven) posts that I started. Today, however, I'm not feeling so creative, so with any luck this post might actually make it to the end.

The boyfriend and I had a little bit of a talk last night. About What He Wants. And it would appear that one thing he would like to try is swinging with another couple that as yet does not exist. Bloody wife swapping! That's what he wants, even though he doesn't actually have a wife. A full swap too - none of this soft swing nonsense, and preferably in the same room. Hmm.
Have I mentioned that swinging with another couple has no appeal for me, at all? I've never had a fantasy that involved another couple, and no matter how hard I try I can't even think one up (feel free to help me out here...). I can see some advantages to it.... we both get to swing at the same time with different people. And, er... no, that's where the advantages end, I think.

"We can watch each other", he said. I laughed.

"Do you think I'm likely to be watching if I'm having great sex? Because I don't think so... I'll be in the zone, and you won't even exist." He laughed. I wasn't joking.

Nothing and nobody exists when I'm having great sex. And so, by deduction, if I was watching, then I would have to be having shit sex. That's not an advantage. I'd much rather have no sex than shit sex. I want to watch him with another woman - I already do in my head. But I don't want to be distracted by another man, and chances are that if there's another man in the room, I will be. Especially if he's got his cock out.

Ooh, hold on. An idea! I could be a voyeur, and watch this imaginary couple have a threesome with the boyfriend. He's good in threesomes - very creative. Is that a workable idea though? Probably bloody not. But I am trying here. I'm not going to be selfish - I've been selfish all summer. If he has this fantasy, then I'll go along with it, try and make it mine too.

Aren't I kind?

I'm trying to work out why the whole world isn't swinging. And other than the jealousy that has to be dealt with, and the (very small) risk of infection that is present in any relationship anyway, I can't work it out at all. I am completely mystified by "happily married" couples and their 4x4s, three-wheeled prams and annual holidays to wherever it is they go (having not had a holiday in 8 years, I'm not hot on holiday destinations). Their mortgages, joint accounts, plans for The Future. I just can't make the connection between all of this and "happy", no matter how hard I try.

I realise I'm sounding like a cynical old bitch at this point, but whatever! I am a cynical old bitch ;)

See, when I'm in a monogamous relationship, the first thing I do is feel trapped. I look into my future, and it looks grey, and lonely, and fucking miserable. In fact, it looks an awful lot like prison. I think of all the temptation that's out there, all the casual sex there is to be had, all the things I'm expected not to do, like flirting, and it makes me want to scream. I don't want to make those sacrifices in order to feel trapped. It just doesn't seem... right. Yes, I have a green grass complex. I think alot of people do. Hence all the sordid affairs and angry divorces. And swinging - as far as I can see - is a good way of dealing with this.

The grass rarely is greener. I know that. We all know that. It doesn't stop me though. But being able to check the grass out, and still have my own grass... nothing beats that. Really.

bisexuality.

It was just about the sex. It was. I wanted to fuck him because he was cute, naughty and he liked the arctic monkeys. He wanted to fuck me because... I don't know. Because I'm cute and naughty and like the arctic monkeys? Who knows, or cares. We just wanted to fuck each other. That was all. Strange, really. Don't know where it came from. Threesomes - that was why we were here. But with him, it was different. He was my discovery and I suppose I didn't want to share him. Or something. Who the fuck knows?
So we met. Just for a drink - there would be no fucking on the first date. We might hate each other when we're standing next to each other in a pub. Or, we might be holding hands within a few minutes like it was the most natural thing in the world, and sticking our tongues down each other's throat. I think it was a test. To see how far he could push me. How far I'd go. Stupid fucking idea, that. I go very far indeed. Had never gone quite as far as getting a face job in the street before, but fuckit. It was fun. Edgy. Wipe the spunk off my face and let's go and have a burger. Crazy night it was. Made me want to fuck him even more. There would be a second meet, and I felt like I'd passed the test, and woo. We would fuck.
And we did. Me standing up, bent forward - jeans round my knees. Him behind me, holding onto my hips and banging his cock into me. Bloody gorgeous, it was. Completely sordid, but all the better for it. I was out to be a slut, and I was doing a very good job of it, as far as I could see. And he was doing a very good job of it too. Making me be dirty. I love that. I mean, I can be absolutely filthy of my own free will, but when someone else makes me do it, it tips me right over the edge.
And he did. But post-fuck, things changed. Of course, I'd love to fuck him again, but now that I'd done it and had the itch scratched, I started to see him as a real person as opposed to a *ahem* toy, I guess. I looked in his eyes and saw a soul, for fucksake. I listened to his voice, how it changed when he was horny or pensive or just plain moody. Not really noticed that before. But there was alot of things I hadn't noticed before. His shoes. His hair. The way he looked so mean when he was about to come. I should've also noticed that I was going off the beaten track when I was supposed to be focussed. Sex. That's all. Not a person with feelings and expressions and a mind of his own.
Alas, it was too late. He was telling me what was on his mind. I, rather than running away, was soaking it up. Stupid, stupid woman. The six thousand texts a day, the instant messaging well into the night... I soaked it all up. Totally off track now. Now I just had to see him, and the fuck - if there was one - would be a bonus.
We had a threesome. It was weird. I don't think any of us came. I certainly didn't. I looked up and saw him kissing her and I thought oh please don't use me just for sex. I mean - WHAT THE FUCK WAS I ON?! He wasn't using me for sex, I knew that. He was just kissing this girl. But he should've been using me for sex. We should've been using each other.
Nobody would've got hurt, then.

If I could choose between love and sex, I would definitely choose sex. Sex is easy. I know the feelings that are coursing through my veins, through my hot, sweaty body and dark twisted mind are feelings of arousal. I know I want to be fucked, and I know that when I am, it feels damn good. There is no mistaking those tingly tingles, that rushing rush, that exploding bomb that is my orgasm. I don't wonder if it might be something else, because it isn't. Its sex. Nice and easy.

Love though - that's a whole different ballgame. Love changes. It grows, fades, crashes and burns. Sometimes it rips through your heart and makes you hurt, and sometimes it feels like nothing. And sometimes love is actually lust, or a misguided crush, or a fear of being alone, and not love at all. Love can be deep and real and meaningful, or it can be a big fat trick of the mind.

It's easy to show someone that they turn you on. A look, a touch, a few words. But how do you show love? A cuddle? But I've cuddled complete strangers. A bunch of flowers? But I have bought flowers for friends in hospital. A candlelit dinner? But love - as far as I can work out - is not a plate of food and a bit of wax, and no matter how deeply I reach into myself, I can't make the connection at all.

I've just thrown away a dozen dead red roses, bought for me sometime in the not too distant past by the boyfriend. We'd had a/nother row. I'd shouted at him "You should have turned up on my doorstep with a bunch of flowers, you bastard!". And so that's what the bastard went and did.
I rolled my eyes, laughed, said "thank you", and put them in a vase which was bought specifically with this kind of stupid behaviour in mind. And then they sat on the kitchen work-top, and were promptly forgotten about. They've probably been dead for days, and I've only just noticed.
I have no idea why I even suggested that's what he should've done for whatever reason it was, because flowers just don't do anything for me, at all. Yeh, they're quite pretty, I suppose, but they don't make me go "ooh", or "aww, he must love me", or anything cute like that. They are over-priced plants, that die. What's romantic about that? Not that I want romance, anyway... it just makes me feel uncomfortable, and
Is it me? Am i missing an essential romance gene, or something? Is there something maddeningly beautiful about receiving flowers that I am incapable of experiencing, or is it really a pile of old cack?
Now, many see this as the attitude of a cold-hearted bitch. It knows how to love (I think) - it just isn't so sure about Mills and Boon.

As many of you know, I've played with the idea of getting things pierced for a while now. In particular, I was interested in getting my clit-hood done... no surprises there, I suppose. It is, afterall, meant to make sex even better than it already is; how could I not be tempted? Plus, it looks pretty, and I'm all for pretty pussies.
I've read the forums, and asked the questions, and wondered if I have the nerve needed to get it pierced.
I was at one point perilously close to doing it, when the boyfriend said "Piercings don't really do anything for me". Hmmph!, I thought. Maybe some other time, then.

Well, I can tell you that I doubt there will be another time. Not now. Not now I've gone down on a girl with one such piercing. It might have enhanced her experience, but it didn't enhance mine, at all. I'd never thought about it before, it was only when I was in between her legs and found myself licking and sucking on bits of metal that I thought actually, this is a bit bloody annoying. And it was. I love going down on girls at least as much as I love going down on boys, but I just did not enjoy it with this piercing in the way, no matter how pretty the damn thing was. I'm presuming from the noise she was making that she was enjoying it, so that's good, but it just didn't feel right to me at all. Maybe it's something I would and could get used to, but first impressions tell me I'm not really sure I'd want to. Can't you just take it out, luv?

And being the selfish bitch that I am, I wouldn't want to do anything to my pussy that would put anyone off eating it for as long as they might do otherwise. Why else do you think I experimented with pineapple juice? Why do you think I keep it shaved smooth? Because if someone goes down on me, I want them to fucking stay there for quite a while at least, heh. I certainly don't want them having to tongue wrestle a metal bar in order to suck on my clit, no matter how intense it might make my orgasms. My orgasms are intense enough anyway - to want them any more intense is just plain greedy. So I keep telling myself, anyway.

I wonder if a cock with a piercing would be a disappointment too? That really would be a shame if it was, because I fucking adore the look of pierced cocks even more than I (still) adore the look of pierced pussies. I guess there's only one thing for it...