female intimacy

October 13, 2019

More explicit depictions of sex between women appear in northern Europe, where the invention of the printing press profoundly altered the nature of homoerotic imagery by providing formats that were reproducible, comparatively inexpensive, and small enough to tuck out of sight. Printed images of female homoeroticism were common by the early sixteenth century, indicating widespread demand, and these scenes, too, reflect men’s attitudes toward female homoeroticism. But here the emphasis is often less on men’s pleasures than on their fears. Images of women touching one another in bathhouses blend with illustrations of witchcraft, a concept that returned to popular attention as a result of interest in classical, mainly Roman, texts. Sometimes satirical, but growing more earnest over the course of the sixteenth century, treatises on witchcraft emphasized its connection with female intimacy, citing as a common symptom women’s belief that they had traveled in the night among Diana’s groups or other all-female groups. The still common belief that witches fly on broomsticks may be traced to these texts, where descriptions of groups of women riding oiled sticks ‘to their pleasure’ allude to communal masturbation. Johann Weyer’s 1563 medical book is explicit in declaring that witches become ‘inflamed with love just as young men are for girls.”

Christopher Reed
Art and Homosexuality: A History of Ideas

all night long

September 6, 2019

Two very predatory lesbians put young Caitlin through her paces all night long. She would leave that hotel in the morning an exhausted and sore mess. Thanking the women nicely for her first girl-on-girl bondage experience, she asked could she see them again…and sometime soon, please?

The Lesbian Teacher

After she’s gone I cherish all of the signs she was here. I press my face to the pillow and inhale what’s left of her scent. I wear the necklace she gave me, I hold the pendant in my palm while I think of her. My pubic bone aches from grinding against her. I press my fingertips into the small purple bruises on my thighs, she leaves them with her teeth. I run my fingers through my long mess of hair searching for the section she cut, late at night while I sat at her feet and we planned an epic art piece using both of our hair. I love that there’s a short little patch in my mane now, hidden underneath, a sign she has been here with me. I collect these signs like seashells so I can press them to my ear and hear the ocean.




Diary 3rd May

And I will give to my dark mate
Cold kisses, frigid as the moon,
And I’ll caress you like a snake
That slides and writhes around a tomb.

Charles Baudelaire, excerpt from ‘The Ghost.’
In the collection ‘Les Fleurs du Mal’.

I’m here but my head’s filled with atrocities that play over like a continuous loop of film…E in that tight leather dress yesterday, the hem just below the swell of her plump bottom – and the soft curve of her inner thighs as she pressed my face to her crotch, smothering me with love…I drank her in, hating myself, hating and fearing, while the others watched in lewd silence my purple and blue agonies.

Consider time: my body’s become this gallery of scars, a canvass of experiences. All these leftover traces of past lovers, each fresh lover leaving their mark, and these woundings building over time to form the residue which is my identity. Ultimately you are what you’ve loved.

Complete immersion in self: think only of self; the texture of the world is self – painful, inadequate and changeless. Reality becomes an agony that threatens to split one apart. Reality is red-hot, and tastes of wet minge.

My body, my soul opening…

E’s legs begin quivering uncontrollably, and her hands become tight fists in my hair. Someone gives a little cheer of delight…

Oh, Christ..Christ…’ this hissed abruptly from between tightly clenched teeth: the faintest expiration of breath; a prayer of pain, pleasure or a supplication? I can’t be certain.

I need air and step out on the patio. Breathe. Breathe deeply. Naked and cold in the fine drizzle. Cock is this wounded, flaccid piece of uselessness against one thigh. Drink champagne like beer from the neck of a bottle, frothing it over my chin…R on the patio, too, in a cloud of acrid cigar smoke.

‘Tell me,’ he says. ‘Who is that tall blonde lady in a black dress. Very leggy.’

‘Oh, d’you mean M? That’s M in highheels and fishnets. She’s with HD.’

‘Is she now…’

Inside, music playing…Sarah Vaughan…Bluesy-sounding…‘The more I see you’. SE dancing on the farside of the lounge. Laughter and myriad conversations going on. Big Ron dancing, singing loudly, his voice booming:

‘I put my finger in a woodpecker’s hole,
And the woodpecker said, “God bless my soul,
Take it out. take it out, take it out,

To newcomers Ron can be quite intimidating. His size and raucousness, especial when, as now, he’s more than a little drunk. But in fact he’s a big puppy…

I see AC, half-undressed, dancing with T, his mistress; his wife, J, is reclining naked on cushions at the side of the room with a bloke considerably younger than herself. Some of the women wear lacy ethereal underthings; others are naked. Burnt sienna breasts. Soft thighs. The hard hairy bodies of men, some very erect as they dance. Overfed, oversexed hedonists, one and all, conspicuous by their clannishness; a glib, overdrinking lot…and on the fringes of this crowd, a few virile lesbians, hardfaced, dominating and protecting their newly found bicurious girlfriends.

The tense, temporary nature of their mating habits would cause an alleycat to blush in shame. But we have only the one life. It isn’t a feckin’ rehearsal. So live for the moment, would seem to be the philosphy…

Outside again, twilight. A heavy, liquescent sky. Clothed, now, and standing on the patio. Drunk as a skunk, of course. From the house, wild notes of hysteria, perversion and the shrill laughter of women with inflamed ovaries. Thank God we have no nearby neighbours to complain…


Morning. This place looks like a bomb hit it! Dr Terror’s house of horrors. Upstairs some lesbians remain, a last forlorn hope… Simone de Beauvoir announced lesbianism was an attitude: “you are, therefore, all lesbians”. Crophaired lesbians. Lesbians wearing ties or monocles. Everything, but lesbians pushing this bloody vacuum cleaner around…

In degenerate solitude
I rest

Missing bewilderment
And joy

And all that space we share
With a strange view

Now I must prepare a shoping list for the supermarket shop later this morning.

admiration of her own sex

January 10, 2016


Recently she had become intrigued by the admiring glances of other women. The admiration of her own sex existed on a higher and more intense plane than anything men could offer, like the romantic rivalries of sisters. Together, women formed a conspiracy of glances entirely exchanged behind the backs of their menfolk.

J.G. Ballard
The Kindness of Women


As far back as I can remember my interest was in girls not boys. I use to imagine kissing them, caressing them, that sort of thing. Even undressing another girl on occasion, you know? I must have been five or six when that first happened. My friend Christine and I’d play “doctors & nurses” in my bedroom. She had a little plastic doctor’s bag containing a stethoscope which we used to press against each other’s bits.

That continued to be one of my biggest fantasies, undressing other girls. At age eleven or twelve, it was undressing Liz Michelle, my bestest ever friend…But I never did do that, of course. Not in reality. Too frightened of consequences. You could do things at age six which were totally taboo come puberty.

I remember being in the back garden one afternoon with Linda, my friend from next-door-but-two. I don’t know how it came about but I kissed her on the mouth. A long sloppy kiss with my tongue darting. Then my Aunt came out and clapped her hands together. ‘Come on girls,’ she called. ‘That’s no way to behave.’

At school on Friday afternoon’s we had swimming out at Watford Swimming Baths. I used to love going – not because of the swimming, though. No, never that, it was because of the big communal changing room they had there; seeing the other girls, class mates and what have you, strip down to the buff.

God, that made me so swimmy-headed…Sometimes, I felt I’d faint away, swoon from the sight of all those bud-like breasts and the pubic hair on the fourth and fifth formers. Even now, thinking about it, I get breathless. Surrounded by twenty-or-so naked, nubile girls. What’s not to like?

Okay, at the time I felt like a pervert, but that didn’t stop me going swimming. Not ever.

One of the girl’s from the upper fifth, Caroline Rawson, I remember, had this strawberry birthmark on her left hip and I used to dream about stroking that patch of pinky-smooth skin. I used to lay in bed nights and think about touching her there, and on her breasts and between her legs. I used to touch myself while I fantasized about her. I used to image that what I was touching really belonged to Caroline. It was her sex not mine. That’s how I had my first orgasm.

My lack of connection to boys was called normal then. A phase I was going through. Bit of a tom girl, so what? On one occasion I tried talking about “girls liking girls” romantically to a friend, but she just went, ‘Yuk, that’s disgusting’. So I never mentioned my true feelings to anyone else after that. Not until I was eighteen.

I remember the odd few nights when Liz Michelle stayed round my home at the weekend. We’d share the same bed. She’d always lay behind me and would wrap her arm round my waist and hold me close. It was pure agony. I wanted to turn round and kiss her, feel her up. But I never did. Liz, unlike me, was definitely, heavily into boys. She would have been horrified by my desires.

I went to a friend’s birthday party. I let this boy dance with me and later feel me up in one of the bedrooms where the coats were stacked. Eventually, I touched his cock, my first, and got it out of his pants. He wanted to do more than that. I let him tug down my underwear and press his thing into me reclining across a heap of overcoats. He wasn’t very well-endowed and it was all over before I realised he’d begun. I was just turned sixteen.

We’d used no contraception and for a long time afterwards I was scared I’d fall pregnant. But I didn’t, luckily. I never went near the boy again. His name was Richard, I recall, and when Liz Michelle asked me about him, I told her his penise was only about four inches long once it was stiff. She thought that hilarious.

I was working at a printer’s in Uxbridge. It was a pretty shitty job to be honest, but the money was good for what I had to do. I was eighteen and going nowhere. There was another girl at the printer’s, Annabelle, she was slightly older, and we started hanging together, you know? Spending crazy amounts of time together, really. And yeah, I fancied her like mad, but as usually never let on. Then one evening, breakthrough. We’d spent maybe two hours in the Three Tuns pub after work. Belle suddenly turns to me and says, ‘Why don’t you stay over mine tonight?’

It was Friday night. We had no work in the morning. So I agreed and we went back to her flat with a bottle of white wine and some fish and chips.

‘We’ll have to share a bed,’ she said. ‘Unless you want the couch? I could make that up for you?’

‘Bed sounds fine to me,’ I said, thinking another night without sleep because I had this terrible itch I’d never have the courage to scratch.

Later, in the bedroom, she said, ‘I’ve a confession to make Tracy. I’m gay. I don’t know if you’ve ever tried it…?’

I said, ‘I’m gay too. But I’ve never tried it…’

Next thing I’m pinned against the wall and she’s kissing me, her tongue in my mouth. It was AWSOME. Honest to God, it was. Her hand went inside my knickers fingering me. Christ I was wet as hell, soaking. Finger fucking me that way I realised: This is who I am. This wild thing. This lover of women. Of pussy…Because on the bed I spread her wide and eat her pussy out like it was second nature to me!

We must have cum a dozen times that night. In the small hours of morning, near exhaustion, both a little sore between the legs, we held each other, whispered sweet, sweet nothings in each other’s ears. Promised undying love, as you do…

And since that night I’ve never looked back. I am who I am. And I’m fine with that. Often on rainy evenings I do think of my Annabelle, my liberator, see her tiny face above me again. Smell once more the musky perfume of our pussies in her bed. Clinging in those final moments of passion to the duvet – as if it were a life raft. Yes, we drew love maps across her crisp white sheets in salt, sweat and flowing honey.


Reading today…

October 3, 2015


From the back blurb:

“My name is Penny Stewart and I’m a lesbian.

“I didn’t know that’s what I was until I moved to Greenwich Village and encountered Marcella. She showed me, all right, and pretty soon we were living together.

“All things considered, life was pretty good – that is, until I met Bernice. Then I began to understand how Marcella felt about me, because that’s exactly how I felt about Bernice. I had to have her.

“Only one thing was different. Bernice wasn’t a lesbian. So I planned her seduction carefully. But I didn’t count on trouble from her fiancé, Mark Hughes. Nor did I count on Marcella’s jealousy and my own desire that soon grew into an obsession I couldn’t control and which threatened to destroy us all in its violence.”

Penny, a young lesbian living in Greenwich Village spends her time preying on straight girls, whom she proceeds to lure into the lesbian lifestyle and subsequently “dominates totally” before moving on to the next girl / victim…

Yet another Mind enriching post from:
Peedeel’s Blog
smut, literature,
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Saturday Games For All

Saturday Games For All