13th May

All good art is subversive either in form or content.

I have in mind, for example, Andres Serrano’s ‘Piss Christ’, a photograph of the crucifixion submerged in the artists urine which outraged critics back in the 1980s: it was (is) considered disrespectful to those of the Christian faith, a blasphemous work that led to debates about the issue of public funding of artistic projects. Twenty-four years after the work’s first showing, a print of the photograph on display in Avignon was destroyed by French catholic fundamentalists. No one understood that the photograph depicted the cheapening of Christ’s image; and the ongoing hypocrisy of those who misinterpret or twist the words of Christ for their own ends. The artist, Serrano, is a devout Christian.

And what about Tracy Emin’s Turner-nominated instillation ‘My Bed’? Sold recently for four million quid, complete with an ashtray full of fag ends, used condoms and the artist’s dirty knickers. Many, probably the vast majority of people, feel the work meaningless and the artist’s success illegitimate. Me? I think it’s worth the four million for Tracy’s knickers alone! Although in fairness, the bed is representative of a bad period in the artist’s life, depicting the four days she lay in bed contemplating suicide. It is a work about life and death; life in the balance; it is Hamlet’s famous soliloquy ‘To be, or not to be…’ It is a four day lay -in, a long sleep – sleep, death’s sweet counterpart.

Then we have Hans-Peter Feldmann’s The Hugo Boss Prize instillation: exhibited at the Guggenheim Museum in New York, he’d cashed in his $100,000 honorarium, pinning it to the walls of the gallery in rows of dollar bills, some crumpled, some folded, some not – much to the outrage of the many who viewed it. Oh, ‘money, money, money…’A fresh blasphemy, but this time against the ‘new’ God of plenty and his royal court of austerity, poverty, hunger and ignorance.

The Guitar Lesson by (Balthasar Klossowski de Rola) Balthus from 1934, created outrage and controversy when it first appeared and still has the power to shook today. This painting of a young girl pulled backwards by her hair across the lap of an older woman, both fascinates and disturbs: the girl has pulled free the breast of the woman who in turn plucks the girl’s naked, prepubescent genitals like the strings of a guitar.

Then we have something like the Mona Hatoum exhibition at the Scottish National Gallery of Modern Art. Sarah Kane tells us: ‘In a tiny cylindrical room I watched a projection of a surgical camera disappearing into every orifice of the artist. True, few people could stay in the room as long as me, but I found that the voyage up Mona Hatoum’s arse put me in powerful and direct contact with my feelings about my own mortality. I can’t ask for much more’ (from a work of art).
(Sarah Kane, Drama with Balls, 1995).

Again, take William Holman Hunt’s painting The Awakening Conscience (illustrated above). Controversial or not? In its day (1854) it caused consternation among critics and the viewing public alike. Here we see a young woman rising from the lap of a bewhiskered young man. Critics were uncertain as to the subject of the painting. The fact the artist had painted the carpet’s pattern with as much care as the young woman’s face, many felt the work to be simple ‘illusionistic imitation’.

But then John Ruskin in one of his letters to the Times newspaper explained that what we were viewing was a ‘kept’ woman and her lover:

‘there is not a single object in that room – common, modern, vulgar…but it becomes tragical, if rightly read…the torn and dying bird upon the floor; the gilded tapestry…the picture above the fireplace, with its single drooping figure – the woman taken in adultery; nay, the very hem of the poor girl’s dress…has story in it, if we think how soon its pure whiteness may be soiled with dust and rain, her outcast feet failing in the street…I surely need not go on?’

Outrage followed. ‘Not only had the artist famed for his religious conviction dared to portray a mistress rather than a prostitute – prostitutes were non-threatening to families, mistresses were terrifying – he did so with compassion.’

The face of the woman we see today is not the face these early Victorian viewers would have seen. The model, Annie Miller, Hunt’s fiancée, was prone to infidelity, and when Hunt found her out, he removed the expression of guilt-stricken horror for which the painting was most noticeable when first exhibited. The new expression on Annie’s face has far less impact ‘than the painting’s contemporary reviews show’.

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The weather has been pretty shit the past couple of days. Warm and wet. God bless rising levels of humidity, especially when accompanied by falling rain. Horrible. Hopefully, today will be drier?

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If your eyelids aren’t sticky after giving a woman oral sex, you didn’t do all you could to please her…

Gateways

May 7, 2017

7th May

Sandra, Sandy, blond and randy. If you recall while still attending school she became a ‘fashion model’: so tall and beautiful on the catwalk, she was. At the time it seemed the only qualification required in the modeling game (beside good looks) was the ability to upchuck everything she’d ever eaten in her life. All the other girls, too, were enthusiastic users of suppositories. They didn’t realise that with hardly any food inside them they wouldn’t poo anymore. Roughage was carbohydrate and to be avoided at all costs. Diverticulitis was a fact of life.

One evening with red headed Claire, I replaced the gentle action of her Dulcolax with slow thrusts of my cock. ‘OMG,’ she said. ‘It’s like pooping backwards…’

That may have been the case but it did relive her constipation, eventually, didn’t it? And yes, in that act, she lost her final and only remaining virginity. Although it might have felt as if she were using her butthole as an overstuffed handbag, it got the job done, which is all that matters at the end of the day, isn’t it?

But with Sandra, my Sandy, I loved the smell, taste, and texture of her excited vulva. I really did. I’d go downtown on her at every opportunity. Often I felt myself enclosed by white light emanating from her, from between spread legs; and this light, her light filling me with pure positive energy.

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On the moor near Minions are three interconnected bronze age stone circles. This site was obviously used for religious ritual and ceremony, details of which are now lost to us. The location is significant. These stone circles lay near two converging rivers, thus placing them where travelers and traders would meet. Such positioning is not uncommon for such circles. The surrounding moorland is dotted with ancient remains: cists, standing stones, barrows. Often, standing with my hands on one of these stones, I experience an emanation of pure white light much as I felt radiating from Sandy all those years ago. Eyes closed, I bask in this luminosity; feel myself overflowing with positive energy. It is the most wonderful feeling. To touch these stones is to step back in time. To become aware of the remarkably numinous quality of the location.

Personal Darkness

May 5, 2017

5th May

Imbibing alcohol can make fools of us all, but it can also make us more candid than we’d otherwise have been…

Dee, slightly intoxicated last night, explaining that as a young girl she offered a kiss to a boy, a neighbour, if he’d take down trousers and underwear then sit in a patch of nettles. Surprisingly, the boy complied. Dee told him he must ‘wriggle’ on the nettles. Again he complied. But shortly afterwards, he began to cry. She encouraged him to stand and kissed him several times on the mouth in an attempt to stop his tears. She was eight years old; the boy nine.

At home later that same day the boy’s mother created holly hell with Dee’s parents. His bottom and testicles were covered in little white blisters from the nettles; he could not sit still, and had been liberally bathed in calamine lotion. Dee’s mother, furious, sent Dee up to bed without supper. Both her mother and father said they were disgusted by her behaviour.

Dee remembers mainly the boy’s penis being very stiff when he sat in the nettles and when she kissed him.

In confessional mood, Gabriella told of her mother’s coldness towards her as a young child. Her mother had really wanted a boy, but ended up with a girl. There was no intimacy between the pair, no closeness and cuddles.

And when Gabby’s brother was born, he became the apple of mum’s eye: nothing was too much for him. Gabriella felt more isolated than ever. Hers was a childhood of loneliness and confusion. She needed love, but was haunted by a sense of inadequacy. Alone in the vast world of childhood, she made the place inhabitable by complete and total submission to the will of her mother, who she saw as the dominant force in her life. A force that must be appeased at any cost. Then, and only then, love would follow.

At age fourteen, one sunfilled summer afternoon, Gabriella and a school friend, a slightly older girl, played a game of ‘strip poker’ in Gabby’s bedroom. They were alone in the house: Gabby’s mother was at a carboot sale in a neighbouring town; her father was at work, and her brother at a friend’s house. Inevitably both girls became naked, but they continued to play – only for ‘dares’ now. There were intimate touches, caresses. An element of mutual masturbation. Finally Gabriella was ‘dared’ to go down on the other girl – and she did, without a moment’s hesitation…

It was at that moment her mother walked into the bedroom! She’d returned early with a splitting headache.

There followed a highly charged and emotional scene. Gabby’s mother called her ‘Ugly and unnatural’. She ordered the other girl to dress and get out of the house. Her final comment, ‘You’re both a pair of dirty lesbians…’ broke Gabriella’s heart.

Dee grew up with a conviction that in human relationships, there were only two possible positions: one of rapacious domination; the other of docile submission. Dee would never play the role of submissive. She could not, would not struggle against the duality in her nature. Gabriella on the other hand, always sought love, intimacy, acceptance: to obtain these, she submitted to others thoughtlessly, flitted from one sex to the other, always humble and eager to please, but sexually avid.

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It’s always best kissing the middle of a sentence, long languorous kisses to melt the words…

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Ghosts?

I once encountered a ghost. A terrible apparition, it was, too. The following morning I woke believing the encounter to have been a nightmare, a simple bad dream in which I stood powerless and screaming at the spectre of one recently dead.

It was some days later Ailsa told me she had hurried to me after hearing my cries in the night. That part at least had been no dream. She saw no ‘ghost’ but I was standing in the centre of a locked room in an almost hysterical state.

How had the room become unlocked?

Neither of us could say; it was a mystery.

So, was it dream, hallucination or horrifying reality? I’m still not certain.

Beats sticky toffee pudding with or without dates!

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Saturday Lunch…

June 4, 2016

fries - Sneyd

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I spent the first 25 years of my life as a lesbian, knowing I was always secretly bisexual, but knowing also that my conservative family could never understand the diversity of sexuality, of people, and of lovers. I was with a long-term girlfriend, then another long-term girlfriend, so the binary label seemed easier. Straight. Gay. Leave the “in between” part for when I’m alone wanking to porn. But then I tried the dick. With a lot of curiosity and experimentation, it seemed ok enough, and if I could help match fantasy to reality, it could possibly even be decent.

But with a lot of trial and too much error, I decided men had no idea how to go down on women. Let’s face it, I’ve worked with real experts. Women know women better. It’s a fact I always accepted. It’s like taking your vintage car to the dealership vs. the local mechanic. Sure, you’re going to get up-charged, but they know your brand the best.

When men would try to go down on me, I would stop them at the thought. “No, no…it’s ok… just stick it in,” I’d tell them, unwilling to waste my time faking another orgasm to prevent a fractured ego. Ok, I was a little more polite than that, with a baby thrown in for good measure. “But I love doing it,” a lover said once. I rolled my eyes, secretly wondering if I could get away with reading the news on my phone at the same time he was drowning in his own drool.

Giving the direction “fingers inside me with clitoral stimulation” seemed to cause as much confusion as telling him to look behind something to find the milk. I half expected him to stand at the foot of the bed like I was a refrigerator with the door open and gaze at me in endless confusion at this foreign concept. This was not “walk and chew gum”, this was a another thing far more complicated. I thought, I can speak “bro”. I was a lesbian, for Christ’s sake. “Have you ever driven a stick shift?”

So I made things simpler. Fuck me. Hard. Preferably from behind. Because once you get that angle, that oh-so perfect angle just right, that thrust will set me off like the Fourth of July just had an orgy with Cupid and Santa while the Easter Bunny jerked off in the corner and the world exploded with fireworks, flowers, presents, and chocolate cream eggs all at once, then twice, oh wait…one more time…there…I’m good…pardon while I tremble. Am I crying? It’s ok, it’s the good kind.

But then I met you. You were too tall, too tall. Your strength scared me. What if you hurt me? What if you yelled at me and I got scared? Given the stories I know and things I’ve seen, this wasn’t an impossible fear. But, no. My gentle giant’s hands are used only for snuggles, and squeezes, and slipping up my skirt or down my panties. For wiping stray eyelashes or insisting on another cookie while we play video games. For that one time I tried to hide my silent laughter behind the hair hanging in my face and you softly pushed it aside and caught me.

You have facial hair. That just won’t do. My father has facial hair, and we all know how I feel about him. But…..no…your furry chin doesn’t block your soft lips and perfect kisses. It cozies right up to my neck to tickle until I giggle with goosebumps and you pull me closer against you.

I humored you that first time. “Oh great… he wants to go down on me,” I thought. “Where’s that book I was reading?” But dear God and all other deities. You’re sucking my clit while you’re sticking your big long finger in me. Holy shit, is that two? Ohgod, ohgod, g-spot while you’re lapping at my clit? I was wrong to doubt you. How are your massive arms just the right length to reach to my breast to squeeze my nipple? Harder, please. Ahhh yes…just like that. Don’t you dare stop!

I couldn’t focus, I was overwhelmed. Overcome. That must be where that word comes from. I didn’t just come. I was overcome! You had to hold down my pelvis or my careless thrusts could’ve knocked a tooth out. My legs shook, my body tensed, and I squeezed your fingers hard. I was scared of how big the orgasm would be. Almost like it was going to be too much and I didn’t want to come because I wasn’t sure if I could handle it. A string of profanity followed, but you didn’t stop. You were taking me there. One more flick of your tongue across my clit and I covered your fingers buried inside me. But you were just getting warmed up. Three more like that followed and on the fourth I told you I didn’t think I could come again. I now understand how much you love a challenge, so of course, I came once more.

Nearly two years later, our sex has only gotten better. Sometimes passionate and loving where I won’t let your lips leave mine while you’re fingering me. Sometimes I’m on top of you laughing while my hips twerk to the music as I bounce on your cock. Sometimes I text you when you’re on your way over and tell you not to be gentle, and you spank me while you take me from behind.

And that one time you came over before going out of town. I was shaking with release and you were moving me to spoon before I stopped you. “No… I want another one…” And you seemed surprised before the lightbulb came on. “You’re gone for a few weeks, I just need-” and you shook your head. “I know what you’re doing. I got this,” you said with determination. I giggled at your “serious face” until you were inside me again.

You taught me I had it all wrong. You get me. You love me. You care for me. You protect me. And your balls always smell clean when I’m going down on you. You broke every rule, every assumption, I ever had about men and I will always love you for it.

Source:

How to make me come

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To begin: she ordered me naked before cuffing my wrists. She took great care in my positioning on the bed: face upwards, of course; ankles firmly secured to the end of the bed. Then she sat on my face and ordered me to lick her out until she came.

It was after her quivering body finally relaxed on my face, the real ordeal began. Pegs attached to nipples and balls. Cock standing respectfully to attention, leaking a little precum for which she slapped my balls…but really hard! And not just the once, either, but several times.

The pegs flew off, and I bucked with the sudden pain.

She put her face down beside my ear, spoke softly like a lover. ‘You little tart, I’ll show you what’s what…’

She started to handjob me, slowly, long teasing strokes which became more intense when she forced a small dildo into my backside. She teased and edged me for an eternity. I’ve never been so desperate to cum before…

‘You’re pathetic,’ she whispered. ‘Really pathetic…’

Rapidly, expertly her hand gripped my cock and tugged. She took me to the point of no return in seconds, literally…then released me. My cock bobbed and jerked involuntarily. Spunk dribbled down its stiff length.

My orgasm ruined, harshly, for her bloody amusement…

She laughed at me. Then grabbed my cock again, rubbing the swollen head with the fingers of her free hand. I bucked, called out. But she was merciless…

Calling me a “Wimp” and laughing, she rubbed her palm roughly, rapidly over my cock head. The intensity of this was beyond simple words. Pleasurable, yes, but heavily overlain with discomfort, bordering on intense pain. Writhing, I begged her – literally begged her – to stop.

Then, unexpectedly, my cock shot a thick load of spunk in the air, but she kept rubbing it…

What she was doing would normally be very pleasurable, but post orgasm with my glans made terribly sensitive, it was like a glimpse into hell.

She said, ‘You stay stiff, you wimp. I haven’t finished…’

Her hand was a blur on my supersensitive cock head. I felt more vulnerable, more helpless than ever before with her. The sadistic smirk fixed to her face was frightening…One hand gripping me tightly, the other rubbing like mad.

I endured sixty minutes of this non-stop stroking: a torturous overstimulation that forced me to cum for a third time, and then, semi-erect near ordeal’s end, a final, ugly spasm of raw pain and an accompanying, pathetic teaspoon of spunk splutter…

‘What a little tart you are,’ she said, wiping spunky hands over my face. ‘Next time we do it with Viagra…Keep you stiff all night long!’

More Saturday Silliness

December 19, 2015

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