Wednesday, 6 September 2017

After the storm




This week's Wicked Wednesday has proven to be a challenge. I don't do eye-contact. With anyone other than my children, even eye to face contact is only the product of lots of thought and self conditioning. And only because neuro-typical people expect it. It probably doesn't occur to none autistics, that in some people's universes, you are the weird ones!

Several otherwise strong ideas came and bit the dust. My characters do make eye contact sometimes. Usually if they need something to cling to while being ravished! There was the temptation to go the Dirty Dancing route as eye contact in a dance is something I could lean on. 

This is the opposite. I'd started writing...just the first impressions of anger...at the weekend, because I'd thought to write through an anger attack,- a meltdown,- to see if it helped. To verbalise all of the fragmentary parts and physicality of it all, because when it is gone, it is gone and explaining it to someone else, whether counselor or loved one, is difficult. 

We stay strong and I don't know how we do it. I asked my husband who he would like to be in my writing,- he said Omega Delta- the difference in the end. And that is what he is. The difference between me being a refugee between war zones in my own head and a functioning parent in difficult circumstances. 

Never able to eye-fuck like Baby and Johnny, for me it is something I don't miss and I have to trust when he says it isn't important in our communication. So this story, born of a mix of real stress and fiction is probably quite personal because, in this case, I can't put myself in another person and imagine what the character is getting from the experience. 




I’m angry.

Violently, chemically, unsettled. Blood poisoned with epinephrine is overwhelming my reactions. Restless muscles. Aching joints.

And through this flood, my otherwise overwhelmed voice of quiet searches for clues and triggers, because nothing has happened. Nothing.

Nothing that would cause this much anger in a … in a …

I want to say “real person”. “Rational person.” Hateful phrases that feed the anger and completely negate everything I know about myself. Make me less.  

The quiet voice speaks. At least I’m not… I stop myself because for some people experiencing this without a trigger would be normal too. And is not their fault either.

There is so much going on. Grief. Trauma. Stress. Autism. I let the quiet voice pick it all apart and put the pieces back in their rightful places, but it doesn’t actually fix anything. Doesn’t reduce the physical reactions. Dim the swirling trip of off-kilter brightness that throws my balance and burns my throat with bile. Staunch the grey black wave of sadness that washes cold through the ashes of anger, tightening my skin into goose-flesh and shivering through tense muscles.

Everything about me is screaming to be left alone. If my voice had not deserted me I would be screaming in truth. Every sound is pain, the muted colours and light of my room still pursue me with violence. I cannot bear to see, let alone look for you. Too exhausted, I crawl to my bed.

Found, you do not come to me with a gentleness I can fight. Straddling my body, you lay as much of your weight as I can take down the length of me, legs trapping mine, chest cupped by the small of my back. Your head on my shoulders.

The exhaustion wars with anger and even in my wrung-out state, I want to fight more. Want to buck your weight clear, be alone in body as I am in mind, trapped in this battle state. Sensing this, through my tiny impatient twitches, you smother me more, arms moving to pin, more weight pushing me under.

The quiet voice has heard you, felt you, and is clinging to your breathing pattern, deliberately regular and seemingly relaxed. Guilt is the new tsunami, welling deep and soaking through me physically and pushing hot tears into the pillow. It rips you bare when I am like this. Helpless to stop it, we both have to take the beating, each from the other. Stoic in our love: rampaging in our weakness.

We lie, while lights dim to fragmented twilight and at some point, your protective stance becomes a spooned embrace. The wildness is subdued and humanity returns with uncertain footsteps as a refugee returns to a shattered landscape, searching for familiar landmarks through the carnage. The warmth of your skin. Breath against my nape. Heartbeats.

More in tune with me than I am with myself, you sense when I am ready. Hands that calmed become fingers that explore. Entrapped becomes possessed. Body soft and pliant and available.

With vampire-soft kisses you refuel from my body. Clothes pushed aside tangle around my docile limbs.

Our coupling is just that, quiet and passionless like pale watery skies after a storm. In that peace, we can find each other. Rebuild. An apology and a promise.

Darkness blesses us with sleep and space. We drift apart seek each other out like flotsam on the tide. Our bodies turn, clothes are shed and succor taken from night lit mating. I push you to take from me as selfishly as I took from you. Balance, not guilt, driving my needs. Our animal selves lick their wounds and retreat. 

Stirring with the first light, I capture fresh images of your face. The pale grey at your temples and in the scruff of your stubble. The lines creeping, even in sleep, at the corner of your eyes. The picture I hold of you in my heart is made of such fragments as these. Your weight. Your breath. The gold and hazel flecks in your eyes shimmering as they open and focus, the pupil’s wild expansion and contraction as you come into conscious thought. Folds in your eyelids and long soft strawberry blonde lashes.

I linger too long, and as your keen eyes open, my gaze strikes away, like a stone skimming a lake. Gathering me to the crook of your neck, we hold each other and you kiss my salt-glazed face.  We are ok.


We start another day. 

Sunday, 3 September 2017

Sinful Sunday: playing with company

Sinful Sunday



As the title of my blog suggests, writing is something I do when I'm on my own. 

Sinful Sunday might well turn out to be something I participate in to celebrate not being on my own. 



Wednesday, 30 August 2017

She wears no knickers

I love history, and where history and fashion meet to tell the story of women and religion and prudery I made a decision and gave up knickers. It was either that or trying to find something to stretch comfortably around nine months of pregnancy. 

I think, being honest it was the latter, but it is the former that has saved me from running back to Marks and Sparks and replacing my sensible cover-alls because they don't add anything to my life other than to the washing pile. They don't make me more modest. I haven't worn a knee length or shorter skirt in years. I don't climb out of cars with my knees akimbo. Like ladies from a bygone age I am perfectly "ladylike" without pants. 

But it is more than that. I feel in touch with myself (no puns intended even if it is KOTW). My body is sexual when I like. Functional when I like. I don't wear a sign on the outside in the form of lace and satin or granny pants to say what I am and when. I am not ashamed or overly proud, not focussed on sex or hiding myself away. 

Like everyone else I am naked beneath my clothes. 

And sometimes....sometimes it gives me a naughty little smile because I know I am maybe just that little more naked than the next girl. 





She wears no knickers beneath her wedding dress. I know it as surely as the groom and damn it if my brain had no idea what to do with that thought. Her colours are firmly pinned to his mast. Her cream on his dick. Good on him.

It doesn’t mean I can’t remember the feel of her unfettered arse through a summer dress. Coarse fabric dragging against peach-skin soft skin. The imagined heat and scent of her on the air, as though a tiny scrap of cotton and lace could have truly made a difference.

Women surround me in dresses designed to entice and she, shrouded in ivory from shoulder to floor is still the one who raises my pulse. I wonder if they would utter “she has no shame” if they knew. She has no shame and needs no shame. She is herself. Glorious. Unbound. Free.

Neatly shaved pussies hiding behind sexy lingerie in a peek-a-boo of show and tell above sharp heels and painted toes. Prizes, if I coax and beg. Part of a language, a bargain. Dressed to enhance their worth. But her generous cunt, given without conditions, naked and wanton made me feel like I was something to her. Alive and valued and vital.

I wonder if I told her that. Wonder if it will spill as we drunkenly circle the floor this evening in time honoured tradition before moshing our way through Bohemian Rhapsody. That she spoiled me and I’m sorry that I never told her.

His hand smooths over the silk draped curves as he greets her, and they share a smile laced with knowledge. Carnal. Intimate. A smile laced with promise.


She wears no knickers beneath her wedding dress and I let her go.

Tuesday, 29 August 2017

Fresh Ink

Celebrity. So many options. Open doors. 

And some firmly closed. It will take a brave man...perhaps I'll write his story one day.






The new tattoo looked good. The font impressive and still clear enough to read every syllable. He was so glad he’d kept his skin clear, waiting for this chance. This message.

The word he’d hated when being Beckham was all important. Couldn’t just be mid-field. Had to be good on the left, the right, in fucking defence. But then the word that had defined his career and now it would define him. He wasn’t a number. Wasn’t a position. Ask any fucking pundit. Ask his first crush. This was what he was in every sense of the word.

The crap he’d taken to get here. Ten years since he’d debuted for the first team. Eight since his first cap. Fifteen years of saying and doing nothing. Of planning. Of silence and loneliness in the middle of a crowd of seventy five thousand.

It wasn’t just the word. It could easily be interpreted as just that. A homage to a glorious career, now entering the closing chapters. Not quite at the Come Dancing stage, but definitely the quiet negotiations for a final three years at the top, then a quiet trip to LA or the JFL or wherever was paying the money by then. Or perhaps not.

It was the placement. Slung low across his stomach, just kissable above the flat elastic of his Versace skivvies. His stylist had loved it when he brought up the idea at the shoot last month. The script chosen to complement a brand he knew would stay with him.

The call had come through late last night. Probably seconds after a flustered HR girl had seen the proofs from the latest magazine shoot. A week to the pre-season camp. Transfer window still open.

No club manager got upset about new ink, which meant he knew what it meant.

No real person lost their job over a non-visible tattoo.

No footballer should be afraid of losing thousands of fans, or having shirts burnt or letter peeled. Of tweets or newspapers or chants from the terraces. And he wasn’t. Not afraid anymore.

He wouldn’t lose his job. Wouldn’t be forced into a transfer. The interviews were lined up. His team was fully onside with Attitude on speed dial.

Still alone though. He would still be alone bar a quick, quiet, well-paid fuck. But perhaps there would be a proper opportunity now. After all, he was not as alone now as when he first planned this.

Fifteen fucking years to get here. From the moment he first knew the word fit.

Waiting for Lions on his shirt. To roar and make men proud. To be someone people respected.

Now he was in a position to respect himself.


Versatile. 

Wednesday, 23 August 2017

Grounded

Flying. Oh Lord, I've wanted to this week but I am grounded in regrets and demands.

Stood on the cliff edge ready to soar like an eagle and instead I teeter and cling. Leapt from the plane to find the strings on the parachute cut.

Can't relax to be touched, though my heart needs picking up and dusting off.

So not the brief, but I was seeking comfort. Trying to comfort eat something healthier than chocolate. Trying to avoid drinking. Smoked salmon...and the blank page became this.



The strangest things remind me of you.

The sweet, firm flesh of smoked salmon and I am eating you out. My whole being is there, from the solid land under itchy blanket to the slightly acrid smell of your rollies clinging to your clothes.

Gin and Elderflower, bitter and savoury with the scent of grass, and the bad festival music plays brash and crass in my memories. My tongue sliding against smooth skin, lips kissing coarse hair, the overwhelming scent of hot flesh and want.

Knicker elastic biting into a softly padded crease where thigh meets arse. In picture. In person. Beneath my fingers. Damp sweat and beer, a living breathing presence where tentative licks and dabs are our first touch of home base.

Unskilled kisses, my hands fumbling under your sweater. Stiff, fabric and broderie anglais shaping you into pointed peaks. The frustration of thick fabric hiding your nipples and the clumsiness of my fingers.

Frustrated, I pushed you back and popped the stud on your jeans. Your laugh, still familiar, but never earthier, as you lifted your hips and dragged clinging jeans down your pale, downy thighs.

I miss you. Miss who we were.

Tuesday, 15 August 2017

Sticking to the Black and White

Ok.... trigger warning...which is why the Wicked Wednesday sign is here right at the top creating some space... Go away if a reference to sex abuse is a trigger for you. I'm sorry to include it here, but this is important to my backstory and will undoubtedly influence my writing from time to time.



In the recent past,  I was at the IPCC misconduct hearing of the police officer who made mistakes that allowed an identified sex offender to apply to work in my home, and ultimately commit further sexual assaults. 

Their barrister gave reasons in evidence as to why they had allowed mistakes to happen. They were all completely trivial. Mainly they were included because months before, when the mistakes had been uncovered, they had been full of bluster and self defense. 

The reasons they had tried to work on the case, where they were out of their depth, were more important. They wanted to learn about this line of work. Wanted to improve their own knowledge. Wanted to help other people in the future. 

They wanted to apologise and I was not ready to hear it until I had made my mind up on the evidence. I didn't want them to think words were enough to fix this. But then I heard about the steps they had taken to improve their practice, their time with offender units and social services looking at the damage missing an early chance to stop someone could do and I accepted their apology.

They were found guilty of multiple counts of misconduct. The chairperson of the enquiry then turned to the two parties of interest...myself and representatives of another caught up in the offending that followed. 

Did we want the officer dismissed?

Ask me when I found out about their mistakes. YES. Ask me if I'd read their first "defense" rather than explanation.YES. 

Ask me now? Ask the other representatives now?

We asked that they be allowed to keep their job, and the chair told us this was the defining and only reason they were not dismissed. 

Why am I saying this now? 

Partly because you don't know me. I am anonymous here. This reference to my "other"life allows me to let out the emotions without you knowing me. And you won't know the police officer from Eve either. 

And this is not a self-righteous thing either, but I have had to think a lot about what a gift forgiveness is. The morning after I had forgiven them I felt lightheaded. Literally reeling. It didn't feel good, but I knew in the longer term, their being an officer was probably going to be a positive thing. 

When making an apology I think about the old prayer from being a child at church. When we confessed in the Church of England we asked to be forgiven for 
"thoughtlessness, weakness and our own deliberate fault" against God and persons unknown. 

The first two I could see. Easily. The first two I could forgive. We really were persons unknown

Deliberate fault. From me much harder to forgive. Good job I'm not God. 

Twitter has been full of angst recently. Lots of forums I follow too. World politics. The whole world is angry. 

Things are black and white in their immediacy. 

Stepping back everything becomes greyer. 

I am not just sex positive, but life positive. We learn and move forward. We teach the ignorant. We put forward better, more persuasive points of view. We cannot make up for things that are wrong in the past, or beyond our own actions, but we can demonstrate the tools to improve things. 

So my story...


Sticking to the Black and White


The view from my window was apt. Enough storeys to quite literally look down on the world. I couldn’t look at him, so I watched tiny people doing things that from here looked quite meaningless.

He was kneeling still. Not a perfect position, but one that showed his genuine emotion taut in the stretched sinew at his ankle, the tight muscles of his shoulder line. He was sorry. But was it enough?

Fuck it all, I’m angry with him! Or, I was. Something that is mine and he shared it with his blog readers as though it was no more personal than a holiday snap. I’m just so tired and disappointed, irritated as though his transgression was an insect bite I cannot ignore. Perhaps the start of anaphylaxis. God knows, I think of what he’s done and I nearly can’t breathe.

But then I am to blame. I think. People don’t have the power to hurt us if we don’t give them that power.

Bullshit. I am not a cartoon. Individuals crawl under our skin without a second thought from our conscious brain, and they can colour our lives or let us down in the same vein.

I am to blame for embarrassing him. I could have handled my response differently, but it was just so immediate, so hot a flame that I called him out in public. His peers and mine. On fucking twitter.

So… I sit here, musing about forgiveness as though it was a one way street. The power in our sex lives rests with me. He looks to me to be strong in other areas too. His family. His friends. I encouraged him into this public dissection of our lives and wasn’t strong enough or involved enough to make sure he didn’t fuck up.

I thought he was able to negotiate this without… without this. This clusterfuck that I am unable to ignore or sweep away with another orgasm from his talented body.

He is a puppy. My pup…or I wouldn’t be so fucking… Shit. I just don’t know anymore.

And that is just it. I am with him because of those traits. He was my discovery. I loved to show off his creativity and revelled in his excitement until it became my own. I loved to show him new things, in bed and out and loved the uncensored joy and exuberance he brought to my black and white world.  

When he first posted an almost dick-pic I let it go. It wasn’t tasteful, but it was honest and raw and I respected that. I remembered him being that hard for me and glowed with pride, but hoped no-one could see it. That pride was private.

I did take him to task when a few months later, his cock bounced into life in a post again. But the meme he followed, the one where I introduced him to, had a theme of anticipation and again, I could see his train of thoughtlessness. He had forgotten that sight was now just mine. It was an old picture, from before our time and worse, taken by a previous lover. I raged, but rationalised that he would learn. I fucked him through my anger and into our mutual pleasure, because that was, in that second, more important than correction and practice and all the fucking basic ground work I should have done to make sure we didn’t end up here.

My thoughts are tortuous and while I think, he kneels in supplication, each second I deny him forgiveness mentally pulling him down.

I think I have to cut him loose. He shared his pleasure with his blog followers when it was meant to be all for me. His blog followers that include my friends. I am so fucking embarrassed. Some of them will know that is not what I expect. Some of them will know how rules work.

Like I said. Black and white.

I can’t be associated with him anymore. Can’t let …Who are these people I am so frightened of?

A few hundred people saw his post. Of whom I know a few tens.

Most of whom will have discounted his fuckwittery as just that and will assume I am beating some sense into him right now. Or at least would have done had I not exploded our entire relationship on fucking twitter. Now it is my followers. A good couple of thousand. And some I want to impress.

Why the fuck did I do that?

He could be kneeling now and I could be anticipating the correction. Not that it is fun, but the joy when he’s forgiven can have spectacular results.

Now he has to go.

My fault, or his?


Sunday, 6 August 2017

Incongruous

The nearly blank page was stained with the line "Experience is what you make of it and I am one who loves the clarity and rush of endorphins." I don't know if that is me, or the character for this piece. Certainly, it is not the easily accessible version of me. The clean and tidy public version. Perhaps I like to think it was left in the angst of teenage self harming? The search for something I couldn't ask anyone else to give me. 

I love writing the dark side of erotica. Like eating spicy chili. I could have felt the brush of her breast as she leant across me. Her breath on my cheek. Perhaps I did, subconsciously. But the prompt dropped me here without a second thought. 

Thank you Marie for your super prompts that drag me out of the daily grind. Last weeks glorious, soaring music, played through noise reducing headset whilst I met my new Doxy for the first time...in its beautiful and fictionalized version of course... didn't appear on paper in time for the deadline for Wicked Wednesday, but your ideas continue to be an inspiration. Perhaps it will appear here eventually. This week I have gone with the prompt. If you can't work out what it was...follow the link. Or enjoy the story without. 

The difference between me and the teenager with a knife, is that peace from letting go is available without the input of physical pain. 

But sometimes eating chili is exactly what you want. 






Experience is what you make of it and I am one who loves the clarity and rush of endorphins.

Reclined in the embrace of the leatherette chair, I center myself in the moment. Externally, I’m responding to questions and comments because this is definitely a situation where informed consent is important, but inside I am already anticipating the dull lance probing raw nerves.

Outwardly, it is about pride. The duel is between me and the pain. The promise not to flinch or pull away. This is the convention of our society. To be tough and defiant. We are so black and white, either brave or coward, proud or weak. There is something beyond this though, something to be found in embracing or letting go. The infra-red or ultra violet of humanity. A thing we choose to ignore, to not even develop language to discuss. That is what I am anticipating.

This woman leaning over me, is just the tool. I am sure she is competent, but to a point that makes her irrelevant.

I am surfing this wave for me. Climbing this mountain for me.

I have walked into this room free and whole knowing she is going to hurt me. This should worry me. Scare me. But I am floating at the thought. Free and ashamed in the same moment.

The first scratch of a needle. A sting with an icy tail.

I have time to think and send a silent apology for using her this way. Then I forget her, forget the chair and the intrusively bright lights and sink into each raw second.

Vibration. Each nerve is woken in turn and like frightened animals the messages race away. I should run with them, pull away from the strangeness. The battle is only with myself. I stand as a solider at post, accepting the intensity increase through slowly creeping minutes from something intense to something beyond. I want to say unbearable, but that isn’t true. The cliff edge of bearable recedes rather than racing closer. To fight is to lose. In letting go, I win.

With little effort, you have led me to a place where the scrape and probe of each of your tools is a bright spark of brilliance. Where the silent scream of a nerve is a lightning show, spreading in magnificence through the wide sky. Time slows. Each flickering fork tears me free with a unique beauty.

Something snaps, breaks free. Finally, swimming in the night black sea. Tumbling formless. Timeless. Until the destroyed becomes recreated.

Even returning is not mundane. Each shiny, shimmering jigsaw piece falls into position and becomes clear, but special in itself. Each takes its moment of focus before it is normal. The new normal. Sharpened senses burn with fragrance previously ignored. Metallic taste of blood and fear. Tension returning to muscles.

Energy. Exhilaration and exhaustion swirl and merge until there is no telling one from the other.
Stepping through the doors allows the final pieces to fall. I am returned. Aware of the residuals. The wobbly knees. The discomfort, suddenly a bad thing. The sweat trickling like cum down the inside of my thigh.

The waiting room has flowers and a fish tank. Children’s books and a few obtuse customers.


Incongruous, I make my way home.