Life takes it’s toll doesn’t it? I’ve been feeling depressed lately and have decided to get some short term chemical assistance from my GP. All I need is to feel normal enough over the next few months to deal with finishing 3 work projects, finding a solution to my financial situation (bankruptcy or certainly something like it), Christmas, having my gall bladder removed just before Christmas and then moving (again) in the new year. That’s to say nothing of dealing with the bereavement of my long term relationship (THE post that I haven’t written yet). But, it’s all good. I’m alive and I think I’d worry if I wasn’t feeling the way I am. Thank goodness for my girlfriend, friends and family. And reduced fat chocolate chip cookies.
Oh and plus, I’ve been told that something like Prozac could result in me losing a few pounds AND making orgasms either easier or harder!! That’s a winner right?! Like I’ve said before – bring it on!!
I knew I was in trouble on Wednesday night. I’d teased Vic to the extreme and knew I’d pay for it. We’d shared an evening meal out with a few friends, both of us knowing that there’d be no sex that night and that we’d have to wait until the weekend when our busy diaries would allow us 3 hot nights together.
I’d dressed for Vic that Wednesday night. I wore a low cut top that showed just enough cleavage, bra straps faintly visible, a knee length skirt and sheer stockings. I’d flirted outrageously with her, taking any and every opportunity to touch her, to give her that “fuck me” look. Outside the restaurant Vic grabbed my wrist, pulled me in to the alley and pushed me up against the wall.
Checking that we were out of sight, she lifted my skirt, roughly forced her hand between my thighs and because I wasn’t wearing any knickers, easily discovered that my cunt was dripping wet. Vic hesitated, it was palpable. But, she pulled her hand away, pushed hard up against me, and with hot breath stinging my neck, said “just you fucking wait until Friday.”
When she arrived at my flat on Friday night Vic was quite cool, she seemed pre-occupied. We kissed long and hard in the hall yes, but we didn’t fuck there, at first sight, as I hoped we would. After dinner she went purposefully upstairs and I heard her run the bath.
“Your bath’s ready” she shouted downstairs. I could hear her moving around in the bedroom and knew she was up to something.
I was enjoying my soak when Vic came in and knelt down beside the bath. She leant over, kissed me on the forehead, took the soap and working up a lather, said “this is my job”. She started with my arms, then neck and breasts, lingered a while on my hardening nipples, moved to my stomach, dwelt on my cunt & bottom, teasing me gently, and then finished by washing my legs and feet. She wrapped me in a towel, and told me to dry myself and go wait for her on the bed.
From the bedroom I could hear some movement in the lounge and then nothing at all, I knew she was making me wait. After an age, Vic came upstairs and laid down next to me. She pulled my dressing gown away, and stroking my shoulder said quietly “face down”. Flushed, I turned over to lie on my stomach. She reached under the bed and took out 4 lengths of black rope.
On her hands and knees over me, she tied my wrists to the headboard and then moved down to secure my ankles. I tested the rope, “these are too tight baby”, but she ignored me, I hadn’t used our safe word, she said “shut the fuck up”.
My cunt was wet as hell, I could feel the dampness on the sheet under me. I lifted my bottom expecting to be spanked but it didn’t happen. Kneeling over me, with her face next to mine, Vic said slowly, drawing out each word “Are you ready for me?” Her hot mouth remained pressed against my skin, as she moved from my neck, down my spine, smelling me, taking in long, hot breaths. “Are you ready for me?” she whispered against my bottom, “are you ready for me?” she moaned between my legs, so close to my aching cunt and yet not touching me, “are you ready for me?” over and over.
I wanted her to fuck me so badly. The ache that had started in my cunt had spread all over my body and I wanted her in my cunt, my arse, my mouth, everywhere.
Vic, breathing hard and stroking my bottom, again just glancing my cunt, said “I told you you’d fucking get it.” She got up, straightened her shirt and checked the ropes. Standing legs astride, hands on hips she said “right, here’s the deal, payback for your no knickers stunt, this weekend you’re going to get fucked. I’m going to fuck you when and where and how I please. Now, be quiet baby and wait for me.”
I was clicking around yesterday, as you do, when I came across this on Jen Lemen's blog. I also mentioned it to Honey. It's inspirational and moving and I've been thinking about it ever since I saw it. I hope you enjoy it. Please click and change your day. Thanks again to Jen.
Shortly after I put up yesterday’s post, I received an email from one of my favourite boutiques telling me all about their latest glittery, silky and shiny offerings for the ladeez. Don't they know I'm broke!
These boots are by Minna Parikka and a mere snip at £276.
I love them!
But to carry on from yesterday, as I was I just saying to my good friend femmeismygender, if that old cliché that “you can’t have everything” is true then I’ll have all of the many things that really make me happy and leave the boots alone!
A recent post by the gorgeous Essin Em and reading about many other bloggers struggling to pay their bills has prompted me to share something about my own financial situation. (Am I over-sharing lately?!)
I’ve worked all of my adult life and always paid my bills. I’m self employed, I rent my home and I’m in a LOT of debt.
My finances went in to a complete ditch nearly two years ago when I ended a long term relationship and struggled to work through the emotional trauma that ensued. For the last year, there’s been a down turn in my area of business, so the ditch has got deeper.
I’ve done everything I can to sort out my finances and left with no choice, I recently contacted all of my creditors to explain my situation and arrange repayment terms. I’m still waiting to see how this will pan out, I’ve already had to make a formal complaint to one credit card company whose response was….shit actually, but I won’t bore you with the details.
Until a few months ago I was depressed about my situation and obsessing about all of the bad things that might happen to me. I had tears, sleepless nights, the lot, it was making me quite ill. The depression left me when I got so down that the only way was up.
My position now is that as my creditors can’t send me to prison, inflict a terminal illness on me or anyone else, stop my girlfriend, friends & family from loving me etc etc, unless they’re going to be reasonable, they can fuck right off. They won’t get a penny.
See, this is a pride thing. I've always been proudly financially independent and my pride is kicking in again. I refuse to get dragged down by this, I will not become a quivering mess thereby hurting myself and my relationships.
I might sound angry but I’m not. I’m relieved and amused actually. What’s the worst that can happen? Bankruptcy? So, let me get this right…… if I become bankrupt I won’t be able to drive myself in to the ground trying to run my business, pay the tax man extortionate amounts of money, stay in the rat race? What on earth will I do?!..... Bring it on!
This post comes with a warning to all of the financial institutions I owe money to:
My father moved from Lahore, Pakistan to London in 1958. He was one of the hundreds of thousands of people invited to the UK to take up jobs that the British work force wouldn’t or couldn’t do. He came from a Muslim family, was an excited immigrant and wanted to be “the best westerner.”
My mother was born and raised in the East End of London, the daughter of white English working class parents. She was a smart, feisty and hard working woman.
They met on a production line in a factory. A few of the racist employees had rigged my father’s machine so that it wouldn’t work properly and my mother went to his rescue. That was in 1964 and, well, to cut a long story short, I was born the following year.
My parents had a hard time finding decent, affordable accommodation – many “To Let” signs included the adage “No Blacks, No Pakis, No Irish”. He was always in full time employment and she worked a series of part time jobs, some of them based at home (like gluing hand bags together).
During my childhood, my father began to drink and gamble heavily and many anxious Friday nights were spent waiting for him to come home. His religion would “flare up” frequently and turn our lives upside down. My parents separated quite a lot, sometimes for a few days or a week, sometimes for a month or a few months.
And then in 1975, my father’s “first” family arrived from Pakistan. “First” family (a complete surprise to everyone, especially my mother) being a wife and 4 teenage children (one of whom liked to throw bricks through our window).
Around this time my father’s religious bent grew exponentially. Suddenly, not being allowed wear dresses without a pair of trousers underneath or take part in sports lessons that included boys was the least of it – there was talk of being taken to Pakistan.
In 1977 my parents separated for good. My father was living his religion and for him this meant living in a mosque environment and teaching the Quran, he became a fundamentalist.
My teenage years were spent dreading his visits and living for them at the same time. Whenever I raged about him, my mother would shrink and admonish me and say “don’t talk about your father like that”.
My 20s and 30s were marked by his sudden appearances in my life, turning things upside down again and me falling under his spell every time.
I was always a daddy’s girl. He called me Number One Daughter and made no secret of the fact that I was his favourite. I was completely entranced by him. I loved him even when I hated him.
My earliest memory is of my father. I was around 3 years old and with both of my parents in RegentsPark. The image I have of him that day is in glorious technicolour, I can even see his socks. I don’t remember my mother being there at all but I know that she was. In fact, I’m ashamed to say, that I have no memories of my mother before I was about 12 years old.
I was with my mother when she died nearly 20 years ago. There’s no way to say this without sounding hackneyed, but she never stopped loving him. There was a kind of understanding between them that she never lost sight of but that he came to forget.
In 2005 I found out that my father had died earlier that year. I hadn’t seen him for some time and didn’t know that he was ill. His friend told me that he’d been talking about me just before he died. The friend remarked sadly, how difficult my father could be at times. Well, yes.
I’m not wondering what my parents would have made of me. I know that my mother’s love was unconditional and that my father’s love wasn’t. I need some closure though, and I’m planning to write him a letter and leave it in RegentsPark.
The experience of my father taught me some pretty negative stuff that has been very difficult to know and unlearn – an ongoing process. The experience framed, and sometimes despite my best efforts continues to frame, my interaction with the world.
How have your parents framed you? Any daddy’s girls out there?
This blog that is? Well, like it says in “about me” – self expression for one thing. So, perhaps the title of this post should read “Who is it for?”
I decided a while ago that I didn’t care about preserving my anonymity but recently I’ve been concerning myself with what people might like to read. And I’m going to stop doing that.
I’ve written something about my relationship with my father that I’ve been reluctant to post because of how it might be received. In fact, I’ve always been reluctant to say anything about him or my relationship with him for the same reason. Anyway, it’ll be up here shortly.
So, my small but perfectly formed readership, I hope you bear with me!
QRx
PS Don’t worry, it won’t all be heavy - there’s more Norty Stuff in the pipeline!
Hello! I’ve had the very great honour of being tagged by Leo! Here goes, 7 random / weird facts about myself:
I’m very particular about my tea. First put the (Typhoo) tea bag in the DESIGNATED tea cup. Pour on boiling water. Leave to brew for yay long. Give the tea bag a good squeeze before removing it. Add one teaspoon of unrefined cane sugar. Then add a small amount of skimmed milk. I’ll know if it’s made any other way and I won’t drink it!
I can sit on my (dread locked) hair.
Vices: I don’t drink but I smoke (like a trooper). Oh, and I’m a banana junkie – gimme a high five Leo!
My left thumb is double jointed.
In May this year I did the Playtex Moonwalk - a marathon distance (yep, 26.2 miles, that’s twenty six point two miles) around central London at night. The purpose of it was to raise awareness and money for breast cancer treatment & research. To this end it was very successful but I’ve got two moans about that night when around 15,000 people (mainly women) took to the streets: 1) It was apparently impossible to get a woman to send us off from the starting line. Instead the start of the walk was heralded by some sleazy DJ-type bloke who shared a couple of very inappropriate, not funny jokes (including one about what us “ladies” might get up to with the blokes leaving night clubs!!!) 2) There wasn’t a single cup of tea to be had the whole night! (I would have thought some tea company somewhere would have bitten their hand off for that kind of PR). The words “piss up” and “brewery” come to mind. Sorry, I’m in a bah-humbug mood (read periodic). Oh and, marathon runners – I salute you.
Favourite foods: green chilli, chick peas, mangos, Indian sweets, chocolate, marzipan & cherry liqueurs.
I always sleep on my left side (usually snuggled up to my girlfriend) with the cover over my right ear – when I was a kid I was afraid of the Bogey Man biting my ear off.
1. Link to your tagger and list these rules on your blog. 2. Share 7 facts about yourself on your blog - some random, some weird. 3. Tag 7 people at the end of your post by leaving their names as well as links to their blog. 4. Let them know they have been tagged by leaving a comment on their blog.
It’s 10pm on Saturday night and we’re curled up on my sofa watching something on telly. I’m lying in the crook of your arm, my head on your shoulder, like that’s where I’ve always been.
I’m anticipating the night ahead in bed with you and decide to have a long soak in the bath. This is about relaxing & treating myself, and most importantly, prolonging the moment before we are naked together.
The water is warm & soothing. The bubbles caress my skin. My cunt is already hot as fire. I play with the water, slowly washing it over my arms, breasts, thighs, stomach, cunt.
I’m thinking about how I will have you. My cheeks are flushed. I’m thinking about how I will lie on top of you and, holding one hand at the back of your neck, use the other to trace the treasure of your handsome face, I will kiss you slowly, with meaning & intention. And all the time I will be overwhelmingly aware of your body under mine, how your breasts feel against mine, how your cunt feels against my thigh, the beat of your heart and your hot breath.
Out of the bath, I dry myself slowly and then moisturise. Thoroughly. I want to be as smooth as smooth can be and I’m enjoying the feel of me. But all the while I’m thinking about how I will touch you. My mind starts to race at how I will kiss your neck, trace my fingers across your breasts and firmly take your nipples.
What shall I wear for you? Just knickers I think, and choose, carefully choose, a sheer & sparkly, navy blue pair. I look at myself in the full length mirror – I like how my bottom looks in these.
In bed, I can hear you switching off the lights and checking that the front door is locked. I’m thinking about my plans for you and I’m dripping wet.
You come upstairs, strip and get in to bed. Immediately, you are leaning over me, there’s a moments hesitation before you take my wrists and plant them firmly above my head. You kiss me tenderly but I know that you are holding back, controlling yourself. I try to free myself, to move on top of you, but you won’t allow it. I know that my plans for you will have to wait.
You’re lying on top of me, kissing me. You tell me that I’m beautiful, I feel your breath on my neck, hard and hot. You tell me to be quiet, that I must do exactly as I’m told, that you’re going to fuck me.
My breath quickens and I’m aching for you to feel how wet I am. I can almost hear you say “not yet.” Your thigh moves to part my thighs and you tell me to open my legs. I will not, I resist you.
With one hand still holding my wrists, and looking right in to my eyes you move down to kiss my breasts and wanting nipples.
With one sweep of your knee, you spread my legs just enough to get your rock hard thigh against my cunt, you move against me and I move with you.
Your hand glides firmly down, over my stomach to push at the inside of my thigh, opening me to you. At this moment we both feel the power that is between us and you tell me again, this time in a raised voice, “open your legs”. This I do at once. You pull my knickers down and off one leg. They are wet and hanging at my thigh.
My cunt rises up to meet your hand. You moan and slide your fingers in to me. You’re up on your knees, straddling my thigh. I know how wet you are and I move to feel you but you stop me. You say “don’t touch me”.
You fuck me in slow, easy motions, looking at me. In time, you take the vibe from under the pillow and place it expertly on my clit and tell me to be quiet, that you’re going to fuck me harder. And you fuck me harder. I ride you, draw you in to me. You tell me that I’m a whore and I know I’m a whore for you. You tell me that you’re deep inside me, that you can feel all of me, that you love my cunt, that you love fucking me and that I’m yours. And I say fuck me baby, I say you fuck me so good and all the while you are looking in to my eyes and I am transfixed by you, I reach for you and scream, and buck, and come.
Carefully, you leave my cunt, discard the vibe and lie almost on top of me, hold me and kiss me and tell me that I’m beautiful and that you love me.
All I am is the sum of my flesh and blood. Where are my bones? Physically, my presence in the world is notional. All I’m aware of, all I know, is your arms around me and how much I am loved.
Like any city, London can be hard work. I’ve lived here all my life, in fact, I’m an East End girl and proud of it. Sure, I enjoy the freedoms and choices, but sometimes, and increasingly so, I wish I lived in shack on the side of a hill with nothing to worry about except what to do with that last lot of goats milk. Oh heaven!
No rent, banks, credit cards, aggression, car, car tax, parking fines, signs telling you what you can do, signs telling you what you can’t do, dog shit, construction noise, neighbours, yobs, sleeping policemen, economic gloom, paper pushing, tube announcements, people who spit on the pavement, badly behaved children, parents shouting “fucking shut up” at their kids, crowds, bills, traffic, ugliness, Inland Revenue, restricted views and NO hetero-normal stuff! (Not an exhaustive list.)
But of course, I wouldn’t be without P, my friends & family (and their people too)…… oh, and my laptop, a pretty frock and some nice knickers. Just dreaming!
Last week I joined a lesbian erotic writing workshop. I think it’s going to be great fun and I’m looking forward to what it will bring.
Our homework, for presentation at the next workshop, is “a sexual encounter that went wrong”. The tutor had barely stopped talking. I immediately thought about Becky:
I knew Becky when I was 18/19 years old. She was an out lesbian, a few years older than me and a friend of a friend. Becky had her own flat and car and worked for a bank in the City (of London).
Women wearing trousers is frowned on by some City employers even now, but back then, it was generally not allowed, full stop. In the rule book.
So, Becky’s work wardrobe consisted of black, knee length skirts and white shirts.She made no secret of how much she hated these clothes, and was visibly uncomfortable wearing them.
Outside of work Becky didn’t wear “girls” clothes. She never wore make up and kept her hair short. She was solidly built, in to sports and driving her car like the proverbial boy-racer.
When she got home from work she’d immediately change in to something that involved trousers - jeans & a t-shirt maybe. Dressed in her “own” clothes, Becky seemed to magically grow a good few inches taller, and carry herself in a way that, the women around me then, didn’t.
Becky was funny & charming and I liked her a lot. I was (immediately, I think) attracted to her and was always keen to be included in any social activities that involved her.
Although at the time I was in what felt like, and turned out to be, a serious relationship with a man, I flirted with Becky. (That didn’t and doesn’t make me feel good.) And Becky flirted back.
One night, after hanging out with some friends, Becky suggested a 30 mile drive to the coast in her car. What just me & Becky I thought? This late? Yes, please! During the journey the flirting that had started earlier in the evening continued.
When Becky pulled over at our destination, a parking bay on the seafront, I was fraught, excited, nervous and turned on. I put my hand on her thigh.
I can only guess at what Becky was thinking. Probably something like: beware of straight girls messing with you, especially straight girls in a relationship, especially those straight girls in a relationship who are friends of friends.
Anyway, she looked at me, and pausing for a moment said “don’t do that unless you’re serious”.
Oh my god! Well yes, I was serious, but after what seemed like an eternity of mental strain (what if I kiss her / what about the boyfriend / what is happening etc etc) I took my hand away.
The drive back was a pretty quiet affair and I didn’t see Becky much after that.
So that’s my sexual encounter that went wrong! For dramatic effect I could go on to say……”Not just for that evening - for the next 20 odd years!!” But that wouldn’t be truthful because there were other “encounters” before and after the situation with Becky.
I think Becky came to mind immediately because she was butch and if you’ve read my previous posts you’ll know that’s kind of relevant.
I remember what happened with Becky with warmth and affection. I don’t have any regrets about what I should have, or could have done. Even though sometimes I can be quite critical of my choices, generally, I’m proud to own my life exactly as it is.
Well, I’ve entered blog world and it feels good. I did it with some trepidation, as I imagine some bloggers do. What was I worrying about?
Being found out! Someone stumbles across my doodlings and realises it’s me! Well, this stuff can get so personal can’t it? It’d be a bit like someone your diary. But, I DON’T CARE! So, if you’re reading this and think that you know me – hello!
Saying something stupid! But this is my brain on a plate and well, we all make mistakes. I look forward to reading back over my blog, I’m sure I’ll find some stuff that will make me cringe / laugh / blush.
Interestingly, the only worry I didn’t have (or not for long anyway!) was whether or not I’d have anything interesting to say – read in to that what you will!
So far I’ve “met” some great fellow bloggers and only one homophobic fruit. Not bad going in just over a week. Thanks to everyone who’s sent a hand shake across the ether. Think I’ll come here again.
The UKFC2008 was hosted and organised by my very good friend, femmeismygender, and what a blinding job she did too!
There was 100% turnout, great participation in all of the workshops, the venues (seafront and executive lounge) provided a perfect backdrop, the catering was superb and there was plenty of tea. The only hitch was with the sound recording, and as femmeismygender has already said, we won’t be hiring that technician again!
Some feedback from the conference:
The “Norty Stuff” workshop attracted some lively, and quite animated (!) debate. Suffice to say that all attendees were very, very happy with their norty goings on. I’d say more but don’t want to divulge the girls’ latest joys – they can do that for themselves! And generally, do (or are planning to!).
Tea.
Issues with language were discussed. For example, the word “submission” – does it adequately describe what’s happening in BDSM? For dykes? In the butch / femme dynamic? Open question really, and one that will get some further ponderification. Any thoughts?
Tea.
The “femme” and innate or not discussion was fascinating. Is all gender performed? That’s what current theory says. There was some discussion around this – is there more perceived validity in claiming butch rather than femme as innate? If there is, is it about a masculine experience being more identifiable or being seen as more valid? What do you guys think?
Tea.
It was lovely to see Holden, who popped in briefly. (By the way, earlier in the day I had been given – thoughtfully, for seafront sniffles - a top class, pressed, cotton (monogrammed “H”) handkerchief and I’m loath to return it!) I suspect that H’s appearance was brief out of respect for the femme posse & letting them have their space – or was it because there was some pressing post to write? H, you are SO norty!
It’s always lovely to spend time with femmismygender, she’s totally clever and warm and a real light in my life. Thanks for a fab conference femmeismygender, I can’t wait until the next one!!
