The penis: mightier than the sword

Bad Sex

I had a visit last night from my lover. We see each other when we can, but time and distance prevent us from spending a lot of time together. This visit was much needed, as we’ve both been going through a lot in the past couple of weeks.

So she arrived; we collapsed into a hug (and other things) that did the work of about a month of counselling; I cooked us a nice dinner; after eating, we headed up to bed. More sex, and hugs, and massaging her back, as we lay watching a show we both enjoy. Snuggles happened.

In the morning, she waited patiently for me to stop snoring and go make breakfast. We made love again briefly afterwards, then she left (later than planned) to go and finish her weekend of stuff before heading back to the office on Monday.

If I say so myself, the food was seriously good. The sex, as usual, was fine, with me managing to lead her to several orgasms before finishing myself. We played less than we normally do; circumstances dictated a gentler and simpler approach to everything, and frankly there wasn’t time to linger over her as much as I would have liked.

I have spent most of today with a nagging feeling of dissatisfaction; the lingering suspicion that things could have gone better, that this was a waste of a precious opportunity to be together. I ate. I thought. I napped. I thought. I wasted some time and missed some equally precious sunshine. And then, finally, I realised what I had been forgetting all day:

The very worst sex I have had with my lover STILL left me happier and more deeply satisfied than I have ever been in my other relationships. A scant 14 hours with her (mostly asleep) recharges me like nothing else. Cooking for her is a pleasure, not a chore, however much it cuts into our other activities, and cutting down on our explorations and games makes the sex merely very, very good indeed.

Even at a pretty low point for both of us, a night of hurried “bad sex” still ranks among the best either of us has ever had.

This time last year I had no idea just how wonderful sex with the right partner can be, and since then I have been utterly spoiled by her. Whenever we have had the chance our meetings have been literally epic – filled to the brim with physical and mental stimulation, hedonistic sensuality and sheer togetherness. Our relationship has raised my standards so high that something less than perfection took me by surprise and left me wanting more. It took me all day to realise what an idiot I was being, and how much luckier I am even than I suspected.

They say that sex is like pizza – even when it’s bad, it’s still pretty good.

I think it’s more like home cooking – done a certain way, with love, it never fails to satisfy. Even if you don’t always get time for dessert.

Carte Blanche – A Rant

I have started to get sick and tired of privilege.

Not the experience of it, naturally, because as many of you have inferred, I am indeed privileged as fuck.

I like not having to struggle against most kinds of prejudice every day, and I like the things about me that make that possible – as a male, white, hetero, cis, able, relatively financially secure, educated person I pretty much come at the top of the tree locally, as far as privilege is concerned. That’s not to say that for me life’s a walk in the park, but there are parks available for walking in, should I wish. I know, OK? I know that makes me exceedingly fortunate, and I also know that many people – most people – do not fit into one or more of those categories, and so come up against a society that is largely biased against them, one way or another. Or several. I understand that this is a real thing, and a real problem, and does affect people. Let’s just get that clear.

One of the most damaging things about privilege is that privileged people so often fail to notice how lucky they are; that they live in a world the less privileged cannot know and vice versa – what is considered normal by them is unimagined luxury to someone with a less privileged life; to have bias and prejudice vanish so thoroughly they’re not merely no longer daily problems, but are no longer real. The entire concept of prejudice becomes meaningless, if you live with the right kind of privilege: and if you’re privileged with regard to socially-biased systems where’s the incentive to change them? Everything’s working just fine, isn’t it?

But recently I have seen examples of (usually) feminists who throw the term around at the first sign of debate, using it to silence critics and to give them carte blanche to engage in precisely the type of behaviour they publicly object to in others. Throw that word around and suddenly anything is fair game – anyone who disagrees is branded an enemy, a privileged bigot.

So, I thought I’d dig around and see if I could clear up a few of the knee-jerk responses that I’ve had come my way.

First – Just because someone happens to exhibit signs of privilege does NOT mean they are oppressing you, actively or passively. They may or may not have personally benefited from that privilege; you can’t tell. They may or may not be working to change those systems; again, you can’t tell. So kindly keep assumptions like that for when you know the individual better. And not everything that looks like privilege actually is. Not all effects have the same cause.

Secondly – Stop with the stereotypes. Seriously. It pisses you off, surely, when people say “women do this” or “black people do that”, “gay guys are always so…” so can you cut out the privilege-bashing? Please? All white people are not the same. All hetero people are not the same. All men are not the same. No, not even if they share privilege. Why do you think any such statement is useful to anyone? If you’re using a “type” to stand for a particular set of behaviours, why not just say them? Because I guarantee you won’t make any friends among those people you unintentionally accuse of whatever -ism you’re targeting. You might even lose a few.

Thirdly – Privilege is contextual. Yep, it may come as a shock to all you absolutists, but since privilege is an interaction between a person’s self and the social environment, it depends entirely on that environment. Entirely. No skin colour, no gender, no sexuality is inherently more privileged than another; not until you place that person into a social context. (Which, when you think about it, is kind of awesome, and what the whole thing’s about…) Making assumptions about how a person’s perceived privilege might have affected their behaviour ignores their actual life experience. You don’t know them, so don’t assume and don’t generalize. All X people are not the same.

Fourthly – (and this is related) Privilege is not simply additive, but multiplex. Intersectional, if you will. Yes, if a person is truly privileged in a certain area then they may have the kind of narrow insensitivity you are concerned about in that field alone, but – I’ll repeat –  making assumptions about how a person’s perceived privilege might have affected their behaviour ignores any unseen examples of under-privileged aspects of their life. To say that a white man will always inherently be used to respect and deference, say, might not be accurate if he had experienced persecution due his sexuality, for example. [EDIT – I really want to stress that even those things that don’t normally get counted as privilege can have an undermining effect here.]

Fifthly – there is a worrying tendency when discussing privilege to cling onto “victim” status, seemingly so as not to lose the ability to attack others on grounds of the privilege you claim still not to possess. . . . which makes my brain hurt, but I have seen incredible contortions of logic designed specifically to de-value any progress made towards equality. This even extends to inventing examples of “oppression” that nobody else can see, just to prove how oppressed you are and how insensitive is the society you inhabit. Such victimhood is sickening to see, and leaves the observer with the impression that not only will nothing they do ever be enough to satisfy you, but that there is no point even trying to give you what you ask for but appear not to want.

Lastly, and most relevantly, comes education. Do you believe that by campaigning and writing, blogging, engaging with all kinds of people, you can make them more aware of their own privilege, and its effects, and ultimately less likely to take advantage of it at the expense of others?

It’s a serious question, so please think carefully – Can you educate privileged people or not?

I would imagine most of you hope and believe the answer to be yes. So, when you point out a person’s privilege, and go on to assume certain behaviours or attitudes on their part, you are also assuming they are both ignorant and uneducated with regard to their privilege. That is your assumption. Remember that they will never be able to change their experiential privilege (their formative experiences), and it is immensely difficult to change one’s circumstantial privilege (how their identity interacts with their current social environment) – those things are as fixed as skin colour or sexuality – so the only possibility left for them is education and awareness. Deny them that, and you are condemning them to a stereotype of privilege as surely as people condemn “niggers”, “fags”, “trannies”, and “bitches”, with no hope of redemption.

So, have I got this wrong? I’m sure I’ll get told, loudly, but so far the arguments against this problem have degenerated into hypocrisy, double standards and “justified” revenge for oppressive history; and I don’t think any of those is actually a good enough reason to perpetuate this kind of hatred here and now. To recap, I believe that –

  • Privilege is real
  • Privilege is individual
  • Privilege is dependent on current social context
  • Privilege is dependent on past experience
  • Privilege is multiplex, and varies in how it is expressed
  • Privilege is able to be acquired through changing social context
  • Privilege is able to be lost through changing social context
  • Privilege can be overcome

So there’s no excuse for using it as a weapon of silence or dismissal. It’s a point of education, a possible blind spot in someone’s world view, but not the bomb you can use to nuke any discussions not going your way.

Reply to Feminist Griote – A Rant

Original article at http://thefeministgriote.com/white-people-fatigue-syndrome/

I think this piece is a melodramatic overreaction to an innocuous incident, and works very hard to maintain you in the role of victim so as to elicit sympathy.

If you are constantly pointing out examples like this, it is no wonder your allies sometimes doubt whether racism impinges on your world at all. This is not racist. It is also no wonder that they do not see it as such, and I am not surprised that this makes them feel the need to constantly re-affirm their non-racist solidarity with you when you bring up subjects like this.

I have no idea what you mean by “having white women don coloured women costumes”, but the following quote is utterly disingenuous; to cite the lack of black models for decades as oppression, and then, when black models become more prevalent, to see their very presence as oppressive – this seems like a desperate attempt to cling on to victim status.

I do not believe that the photo shoot you show on the cover and talk about within the magazine is racist at all. It is an aesthetic and artistic choice designed to produce a particular effect. If the photographer had wanted to photograph a black model, or a white, or a blonde-haired, or a ginger-haired model, I am sure he would have done so. He chose those particular models, and dressed and painted BOTH their bodies to present a particular monochromatic effect. That you choose only to see the alteration to the darker figure speaks only about your preconceptions, not about the photographer’s intent.

Again, if none of your colleagues read the picture in this way, why would they jump to affirm your reading of it?

You complain that black women are seen as being always ready to curse somebody out. Perhaps this is just observation at work. You are doing a fine job of berating all of them, all of the attendees at this industry luncheon, and the entire editorial staff of a magazine here.

Rather than draw your conclusion about the reason none of your companions objected to that cover shot, I’d rather extend your own line of reasoning – if it had been homophobic, anti-immigrant, misogynistic, they would have stood up for the people representing those groups at the table. So IF it had been racist, perhaps they would have stood up for you, too. Doesn’t that make more sense? Isn’t that a little less paranoid?

Angry Women – A Rant

Yet again, as I seem to do so often, I bumped heads with someone online. This time, more than usual, they came across as irrational, judgemental, condescending, smug, dictatorial and generally unpleasant. Despite their profile stating their love of logic and reason, the actual dialogue we had descended pretty quickly into them telling me what I thought, accusing me of having a hidden agenda, mocking and refusing to engage with anything resembling a factual argument, and outright stating that facts and logic ought to defer to “common sense” arguments that pass without examination.

What is perhaps surprising is that this person was a woman – and one supposedly advocating women’s rights, which is a cause I feel very strongly about – however because I dared to question her interpretation of some issues she went on the attack, and branded me a faker, a saboteur and an embarrassment to myself and the women in my life.

So, yeah, obvious troll was obvious, move on, it’s the internet. Except that this person seemed to be involved with the @EverydaySexism project, and I am deeply concerned with the sheer hatred that she vented on their behalf. Apparently after having similar discussions online a handful of times, she has seen it all before, and is qualified to judge my motives, intentions and how I treat the people closest to me, and people in general, from a few messages under 140 characters. Wow. Superpowers, seriously. Should put those to better use.

From the moment I dared to disagree with her, my argument was invalid. Criticize her interpretations? Hater. Support her? Hater in disguise. Present her with facts? Dismiss them. Appeal for rationality? Laugh in my face. Everything she claimed to stand for evaporated with her glee at having found a suitable-looking target for her venom.

I tried, in the face of increasing frustration, to present the point I was trying to make, but she refused to read the detailed explanations she had insisted were the only way to properly debate this. She said she’d wait around to read them, then logged off. Claimed never to have seen them despite my reposting to her account.

So this is what feminism is reduced to? Childish gloating and playground tactics of who can shout loudest? I had been broadly supportive of @EverydaySexism, knowing that there are many chronic examples of sexist behaviour that pervade the social climate we live with, even though I had misgivings about some of the examples they chose to label as sexist. After this frankly infuriating and disgraceful exchange, I no longer associate with them, and would urge any serious feminists to do the same.

There are better ways to fight inequality than this insane hate-mongering, and I am choosing something more productive.


Things had changed, for certain. He had changed. He wished he could decide whether the change was for better, or worse. Sitting with his wife and child at the big kitchen table – breakfast bowls half-full and steaming sweetly – things looked perfect, domestic, the same as always. Same as … before. As if it had never happened.

He sometimes wished it hadn’t. Sometimes.

It had all been his fault. Hers, too, of course; she was hardly blameless – but if only he had thought to check the locks! Then that little vandal, that little slut, would never have broken in to their lives.

His wife murmurs, from across the room, “Are you all right, Dear?”

But of course she can never know the truth. Already the little suggestions and assumptions are piling up, hiding the awful, raw reality of what her husband has seen.

Assumptions of youth – the stranger, though young, had surely been a full-grown woman. Assumptions of innocence – this girl had been far from innocent. His wife will never need to face those truths, with any luck.

He lifts his head in response and focuses his gaze, a polite grimace the best he can do for a smile. Then his eyes look through her once more.

He sees the stranger in front of him, although she has long since fled. He sees her flesh again, and feels the hunger. Pale, so creamy, tender and soft. Smooth and curvaceous, full of thigh and hip and rump. Her head thrown back in ecstasy, throat exposed, breasts offered up. Her hand is working swiftly, smoothly; her fingers draw and coax those delicate folds of flesh and honey. She gasps, soft little insistent sounds, as if urging herself on to new feats of dexterity, new heights, new depths.

His wife speaks again, breaking the reverie. “You mustn’t dwell on it, Darling.” She moves closer. “It was a horrible, shocking experience for us all, but it’s just something we must accept, and learn to live with.”

“I know,” he says at last, “and I … try not to think about it.” His voice is now deep and soft, filled with awkward emotion. “I find it so hard,” he whispers.

Vandal, tearaway, mischief-maker and liberty-taker. On the rampage, she happens upon their house, their cosy little world. Seeking only pleasure, she enters. Insinuates her lithe figure into their solid, sensible lives and flexes her thighs, wriggles her hips, pushes and pushes to see what will snap. She must have been hungry, he thinks, or she wouldn’t have taken all but the dregs of their breakfast from the table. She was angry enough to ransack the place before they got back; angry or spiteful, he can’t decide. Cold, too, maybe, if she was prepared to break in, but had she really been looking for a place to stay? Would she have stayed?

“Is it too hot, dear?” asks his wife, gently. He notices his spoon, lifted halfway to his mouth. How long has he held it there?

“No, no. No, it’s fine,” he says, and places it reverentially between his lips. He closes his eyes and takes a long, deep breath.

The harlot upstairs writhes in the sheets. Flowing blonde curls caress her breasts; nipples harden as to a lover’s touch. Her neck spasms, whipping that lustrous fall of silk up and around, slapping it across her naked back. She ducks her head again, her tresses flogging her own taut stomach and trembling breasts. As her hands play up and around her thighs she nods and ducks again, in a slow, steady rhythm that underscores the frantic movements of her fingertips. Between those thighs, at the crux of her body, the hair grows fine and fair and bushy. From beside her she takes the tempting handle; the thick, gnarled, carven wood gleaming dully from years of loving use. She slides the spoon handle deep inside her, making it quiver with every twitch of her muscles and drip with her juices.

“Shall I wash that up for you?”

“No, don’t bother yourself. I’ll do it, love.” He takes the empty bowl to the sink, fills it with water, and slowly, lovingly, washes the spoon. His wife doesn’t notice that he is careful to keep the handle perfectly dry.

As he stands there, slack-jawed, mesmerised by the wanton, decadent creature in his bed, he knows that his life is changed forever. You go up first, his wife had said, and he went – the big, grizzly male doing his duty, to face whatever danger lay waiting. He never could have imagined this danger. The danger of lust. Of sudden dissatisfaction. He watches her now, slender limbs working to bring herself back and back to the edge of release, and knows how it would feel to take her. Knows how salty-sweet she would taste, how lightly musky and fresh she would smell, how exquisitely she would struggle – half in jest – pinned by his powerful frame. Knows how hot and ready she would be, how slickly he could enter her, slowly working every last inch of himself into her tight, eager body. In that instant, he knows how it would be to … yes … to fuck her! Again and again, each day, each night, and have her like this; always willing, always ready, insatiable. And as he thinks this, something inside him, some little ignored part of him, turns over, like a key inside a lock. The fit is tight, precise; as perfect as she is. He feels suddenly secure, safe, and yet he recognises that he now does not have the key to his own release. He has changed, for certain; locked these thoughts inside him, for good.

His wife sits beside him, leans on his broad shoulder. “You know we won’t be seeing her again, don’t you?” she says. “I don’t understand why it bothers you so. It’s safe, now. We make sure we put the locks on. You said she was only a little girl, for goodness’ sake! She can’t get back in to torment us again.”

But he knows the locks are on, and she is already inside.

She comes, then, at last; nearly silently, the breath whimpering out of her. He sighs softly, in sympathy and regret. She breathes, fast and deep; then, slowly at first, opens her eyes. Turns those eyes to him, the huge stranger whose home she has invaded on a whim, whose bed she has abused, whose sheets she has soiled with sweat and come and lust. Her eyes open slightly wider. Blue eyes, he thinks, like the summer sky. Her lips twitch, and she carefully slips out the very tip of her glistening pink tongue to moisten and lick those suddenly dry lips. He watches; the girl starts to smile, and closes one eye in a shameless, bawdy wink. Unbidden, his feet begin to move, and he takes one great, lumbering step towards the bed, his bed. The moment cannot last. His wife calls from downstairs; has he found the intruder? Is it safe? The girl, startled, scrambles from the bed, her gorgeous hair falling demurely to cover her luscious breasts and the still-hard puckerings of her nipples. She grabs her clothes, pulling on the simple dress in one smooth movement, and scampers from the room. He doesn’t turn to see her go, doesn’t move to catch her. He is left, staring in wonder at the detritus of her personal orgy, trying to explain to himself how this happened. Trying to understand what she had wanted, what she had needed. If things had been different – if he had been different – would she have stayed?

He huffs and growls in resentful frustration, shrugs his shoulders and paws awkwardly at the newspaper. He buries his nose in stories of other people, of things that happened far, far away. His wife rises and, with a backward glance, continues to potter around the kitchen, washing up the three bowls and the dirty porridge pan. He looks up for a comforting glimpse of her soft brown coat, but all he really sees is that young, supple body, and those gorgeous golden locks.

A Promise

I’m writing this because I made a promise. But we’ll get to that in a minute.

We’ve been going through a patch. I’d say a rough patch, but I’m not exactly sure it’s been that rough. Awkward, maybe.

A patch, anyway.

We haven’t been getting as much as we’d like, and every time we gets a chance it feels like we’re having to perform for the sake of it, not ‘cos we enjoy it.

We do, though: course we do, it’s always very enjoyable. It’s just that sometimes – most times – we go through the motions, doing just what we always do, because that’s what we’ve always done. A routine, you might say.

So, anyway, the other night we’re in bed, and I roll over and get ready to get her going, like I always have to do, when she (my wife, this is) reaches down and starts sort of stroking her fingertips up and down my cock.

Most unexpected! A welcome change of pace, in fact. Showing a bit of enthusiasm (which if you ask me had previously been sadly lacking, but that’s another story!)

So there I am, somewhat distracted, caught with my hand hanging half-way between the obligatory tit squeeze and the customary are-you-wet-yet check, and about to get down to some serious bean-flicking, and all the while she’s touching and teasing, making me thrash and gasp like a fucking carp out of water. Dragging her nails up and around my shaft, rubbing circles on the bell-end. And every time I remember what I’m sposed to be doing, and go to touch her again, she pushes my hand away! Can you believe it? She actually pushes me away and says, “You know you’re rubbish at multi-tasking. Just lie back and enjoy it.” The bitch.

Well, after a couple of half-hearted attempts to show willing, I get the message that she’s actually serious for a change, so natrally I lays meself back and starts paying attention.

Now, normally, when she gives me a hand job it’s pretty good; soft and what you might call rhythmic and, well, you know. It’s a hand job, innit? Just like you’d do yourself if there was no better offer; only not quite as good ‘cos you’ve had years of practice and she’s only done it, like, a couple of dozen times, tops. But still, it’s pretty good, and you appreciate the effort, don’t you? Since you know she’d rather be asleep already, or reading; anything to avoid The Routine.

But now she’s getting into it, like I’ve never felt before; really giving it some effort and gripping her fist round me like she’s scared it’ll run away or something. Just pumping away, slow and steady and strong. You know that rhythm you get into, right in the middle of an epic all-night fuck? When you’ve found the perfect position inside her – not too exciting, but enough of a tickle to keep your interest from flagging, if you know what I mean – and it’s just your two bodies twisting and heaving together, totally in tune, just grinding away and miles from the finish, enjoying just being in her and in the moment?

That rhythm? That’s what she found, all on her own. Her and her hand, totally in tune. I was just along for the ride.

Then, right, she starts playing around my balls with the other hand. No lie, I nearly hit the roof! Holding them right in her hand, squeezing them so they pops out between her fingers, then tugging and twisting like a cat with a ball of wool.

Well, I must have said something stupid – can’t remember what – ‘cos she took offence. Only not seriously, you know, just playful, like. And then she slaps my balls.

Now, this is really unexpected. We both lays there a minute, me panting for breath and kinda groaning a bit, her really quiet and still. Sort of like she thinks she’s made a fucker of a mistake, even though she ought to know I like it a bit rough. So I just says to her, quiet like, I says, “Harder.” She starts fondling them again, gently, then pulls back her hand, and this time I know what to expect.

I kid you not, when she slaps them this time I see stars. Proper, fireworks-in-the-sky, end-of-the-world stuff, but it’s like I leave all that behind and my whole being, my whole essence gets wrapped up in those two little aching plums she’s cradling in her hand.

And as I come round I can still feel her tugging hard on my cock; faster now, each stroke pumping tiny drops of pre-cum out of it. I am so close to cumming for real now, I’d do anything for her to carry on; that’s when she slows it right down and starts bloody talking to me. Talking! Like I could string a sentence together anyway! She asks me if I want her to go on, to do it harder.

Well, of course I do. I even say please.

That’s not enough for her, though. I say pretty please with sugar on it, and tell her to hit my fucking balls.

She’s laughing now. She says she’ll do it if I do something for her. Well, we’re back where we started, aren’t we? Pussy rubbing here we come.

She says not that.

Well, at this point I don’t care what it is, and I says anything, anything she wants. It turns out what she wants is yet another un-fucking-expected turn of events for the night.

She wants me to come on here and tell you lot all the filthy details of what we got up to. That’s all. Just write about what a caring, loving, hand-job giving, ball-slapping kinky slut of a wife I’ve got. I guess it’s some kind of ego booster for her, isn’t it? Never thought she’d get off on that kind of thing, though. Dirty bitch.

Of course, when we’ve finally stopped playing twenty questions I says yes straight away, cross my heart, hope to expire, and then she starts off stroking again; hard this time, fast and determined, and even though the tingly floaties are a distant memory, the new feelings coming from my cock are really fucking intense – and I can’t even think straight let alone remember what I’ve just damn near pleaded with her to do to me – so it comes as one big fucking shock to the system when she pulls back her hand and belts me hard in the balls.

Pain like you would not believe.

That kinky oooh-hurts-so-nice feeling has long since scarpered; this is just dull, grinding, dizzy hurt. Like the pain was just the icing on the cake, but now there’s no cake and you’ve just stuffed your face with spoonfuls of icing and you want to throw up or spit it out, but you can’t, and every bit you swallow down makes you feel ill but you have to keep trying just so’s you can get space to breathe again.

When I comes round, holding my battered bollocks, she’s smiling a bit too sweetly and licking my cum off her fingers. “Don’t say I never do anything for you,” she whispers, like she’s done me some kind of favour, then turns over and settles down to sleep. Well, I guess I had been asking for it.

And a promise is a promise….

Spacey Thoughts From The Back Of The Room

The artists gathered – drank anonymous coffee; nibbled at familiar pastry.

They made the unusual small talk and waited to begin.

One took herself over to the room-behind-the-room, and peeked inside with her other pair of eyes: the nearest of the girls within stood a little straighter, and preened. Her companions took the given hint and struck their poses hard.

(Meanwhile, muttering in quiet corners, the storytellers bend their listeners’ ears; the kind of aural sex that leaves marks. If it’s done right they’ll be read for days.)

Our dual artist, and her friend, admired the parade of naked flesh – “My other self would never do this!” – and keenly complimented girls on keeping natural beauty.

“Real cunts, my dear! Real tits – divine and rare!”

The pair moved on, with others following behind, appraising lustily the swell of cheek; the arch of spine; the musculature and mis-culture of bodies turned for pleasure. “This is profoundly me: that one is more your Alter’s thing, my dear!” 

The girls, at this point, perk up and play; begin to paradox. Ice softens, hardening the flesh beneath; the tightened ropes offer release; a lone pugilist fights gravity on pointed toes; the human host is offered up to a new congregation.

Thoughtfully the artists mingled, and discussed the finer points of finer-pointed bristles; and how to capture the subtle play of light on skin.

Later, on stage, the canvas was displayed. They took no notice.

A version of the piece I submitted for the Eroticon2012 anthology, Dirty Thoughts From The Back Of The Room.

Coming To Terms With It

I’m a writer.

I write.

It’s not something I ever thought I could do, or rather, it’s something I thought everyone could do until I tried and failed. Repeatedly.

But with encouragement and a little free time, I will be posting new material here occasionally; some true, most fiction. I have realised that I have a voice, and a point of view, and that they are worth something, to me if not to anyone else.

No apologies, no excuses, no explanations. I’m a writer. This is what I write.

Something Hot and Steamy

You talk about pastries, taking tiny nibbles of the pleasure that’s offered up on a plate. My pleasure is had in the making; stirring sloppy dough until it stiffens beneath my fingers, then leaning hard into the firm, resilient mass of it as my palms coax its springy body to life.

I coerce it, stroke by folding stroke, into obedience. I squeeze until it cannot resist, flattening it mercilessly, then turning and lifting it back into shape before crushing it again and again. With the pummelling comes strength, and form, and substance. The tender, wheaten form that emerges is a tribute to the hands that lovingly teased it into being; its glorious triumph lasting only as long as it bakes, when it becomes a glorious sacrifice.

Crisp, nutty crust and humid crumb part before the blade. Anointed with butter, it is devoured with a sigh; and so my soul is fed.

Submission for www.acuriousmuse.blogspot.co.uk Birthday Giveaway, with the theme “non-sexual erotica”.

An Accidental Blogger?

This is a test.

A test of nerve, perhaps, or resolve. Or perhaps of something deeper.

This is a test.

A test of skill, tech-savvy élan, self-publicizing ego and sheer thick-skinnèdness.

This is a test.

And I wonder if I even want to pass.