between your legs

September 15, 2019

Love making so rough, so aggressive you feel your pounding heartbeat between your legs.

merge into one

March 17, 2019

You look at me, from close up you look at me, closer and closer and then we play Cyclops, we look closer and closer at one another and our eyes get larger, they come closer, they merge into one and the two Cyclops’s look at each other, blending as they breathe, our mouths touch and struggle in gentle warmth, biting each other with their lips, barely holding their tongues on their teeth, playing in corners where a heavy air comes and goes with an old perfume and a silence. Then my hands go to sink into your hair, to cherish slowly the depth of your hair while we kiss as if our mouths were filled with flowers or with fish,  with lively movements and dark fragrance. And if we bite each other the pain is sweet, and if we smother each other in a brief and terrible sucking in together of our breaths, that momentary death is beautiful. And there is but one saliva and one flavour of ripe fruit, and I feel you tremble against me like a moon on the water.

Julio Cortázar

to kiss and stroke

January 31, 2019

Making love in the afternoon is completely different in summer and winter. To begin as the afternoon light is fading, to wake up, warm and heavy, when it is completely dark, to kiss and stroke the shared invisible body, to leave the person you love half asleep while
you go and open wine…

Jeanette Winterson
Why I Adore the Night

in the name of intimacy

September 4, 2017

I don’t mind getting naked or seeing you naked.
I don’t mind talking about sex or having sex
or never having sex. I don’t mind my body
or your body with mine. I don’t mind
your sweaty palms, your chapped lips,
your dirty tongue. I don’t mind
your noisy music, your crappy poetry,
your soiled shoes and ugly handwriting.
I don’t mind 2ams and late night
phone calls, stolen kisses and white lies.
I don’t mind your half-eaten donut,
frozen teabags and sticky hair.
I want your toothbrush’s head
leaning towards mine. I want
your 4am back massage.
Cup my breasts and don’t say
they’re small. I already know that.
Kiss me once and kiss me more.
Pretend what we’re doing is illegal.
It’s always good to be caught
with our mouths tied together
like handcuffs. Dry your cheeks
and make me bleed.
Crave me.
Crave me.
Crave me.

irish julienne,

Inside out

July 12, 2017

12th July

Striping off our underwear. Cock stiffening at sight of red pubes, at the lips of your other mouth. Go on kissing. Like a dream about eternity –

Have I had greater loves than this on my slow walk through existence?

Sweat slick bodies, unraveling flesh on flesh, and the scent of sex. A scent impregnating these sheets. Hands reaching out, fingertips reading bodies like Braille pages –

Wanting every part of each other. Fucking bone deep. Trembling and breathing out each other’s names in a moment of ecstasy –


Created a vegetable tagine last night, and this morning the kitchen and lounge are permeated by the gentle scent of exotic spices. Cumin, ginger, paprika, cinnamon and saffron. Like a return to Morocco. Exotic sights, sounds…a sensory overload! Loosing yourself in the maze that is the Fez medina –

Keeping yourself as well hydrated as a fully watered camel is all very well – but all that peeing!


On the moor, distant ages blur one into the other. Melancholy ruins here and there: roofs of long abandoned farm buildings sagging inwards, tall chimneys from the industrial past rear out of brambles and a Celtic cross stands roadside, memorial to a people long departed and yet still close at hand –


Ah, but when you kiss her through her panties –


Hospital last Monday…private hospital, again. Consultant appears obviously unhappy with his lot. ‘Please sit down,’ says he. ‘The news is not good – ’

And of course he was correct. The news is devastating. But there is a chance…always there is a chance.

Afterwards I cling to her while she cries and kiss her head repeatedly like a child begging forgiveness. I want to scream but I’m crushed by emotion and fear concerning her.

The space beyond truth

April 9, 2017

Diary 9th April

Me, age ten. My older cousin Debs, fair and freckled, hitched up her skirt in the bathroom to show me where a boy must put “his thing” to make a baby.

“Obviously,” she reassured me, “it’s got to be stiff when you do that…”

And funnily enough, looking at what she had down there, I was very stiff. But a baby…? How could a baby come from such a small opening?


My mother spoke frequently of my sister’s second husband’s sexual problems. These she attributed to an excess of wanking as a child. He had, she insisted, a terrible crush on another boy while in sixth form college. My sister, lacking a penis, was no doubt second best when it came to his choice of life-partner. Although how my mother acquired such intimate knowledge of him I haven’t the slightest idea.


The beautiful weather continues. I will spend the day in the garden, pottering about in the bright sunshine and drinking G&Ts from tall iced glasses. Probably, we’ll all be legless by teatime.


Aromatherapy has been practiced for many, many years. There is, of course, a spiritual side to this form of massage. There are Wiccans who in their practice of witchcraft can create potions and elixirs which by the ritual reciting of spells energise these herbs and ingredients to a whole new level of potency. They are able to produce aromatherapy oils that work on the brain, creating states of euphoria and bliss the like of which you will never have experienced before.


And, of course, we’re thinking about Beltane. Food, drink and love starting on the evening of 30th April and continuing throughout the 1st of May in celebration of the Gods and Goddess’ of fertility and love. It is a time of fire and raw sex. Bonfires and rituals. A time to practice “The Great Rite”, reenacting the creation of the universe through acts of ritual sex – celebrating our bodies and creating magical power while engaging in acts of love outdoors. Perfect.

Easter is on its way…

March 12, 2017

Let’s pretend we’re bunny rabbits,
Let’s do it all day long.
You’re the Easter Bunny
Bunny bunny boo,

Let me touch it, let me feel it,
Let me grab that rabbit tail…


Diary 29th November

A vague trembling of stars behind the eyes this morning. Indicative of a hangover, perhaps. Still dark outside. Winter morning, cold – very cold.


Melancholy may be found at the heart of most great art. Or so it seems to me.


And of the water witch? What of her? Smelling of salty deeps, wearing rags, burlap and pearls, and with those misty-grey eyes that see so very deeply inside of you. Soul deep, she can see. She has the ocean for her heart. Listen carefully for the rolling beat of her tides. She traps your tears and keeps them in little crystal bottles for her spells. Her head is full of the crashing of waves, and she overflows with such dark magic…


Do you hear them? The whispering voices, when you are alone? Hidden presences that have crossed the line between dark and dawn. Eerie and inexplicable, but terribly real for all that. You may not realise it, but you have called them over to be with you.


And in that climatic moment, she will do all in her power to steal the breath from your lungs. That is the simple truth of her wild nature…


I thought we might become lovers, or, at the very least, indulge in a variety of sexual acts together, even if only on an infrequent basis. But no. Une baise sauvage. That and nothing more was all she wanted.


Recently seen on the internet HERE:

Aleister “Crowley was adamantly opposed to such manipulative tactics and strongly against rape of any kind. He upheld the right of every woman to be the master of her own sexuality, in strong contrast to the prevailing mores…”

What total nonsense. As to Crowley’s “manipulative” nature one only has to see what the young William Gray had to say on the matter:

“…Seemingly Crowley could hypnotise Victor (Neuburg) with ridiculous ease and especially liked to do so before company in order to impress them with his evident ‘powers’. He would make Neuburg behave like a dog, barking and groveling at his masters feet. Then he would order poor Victor to empty his pockets of money and hand it over immediately. Since his father was usually generous there might be as much as five pounds on his person. Crowley would throw back about half-a-crown contemptuously saying: ‘Get yourself some fish and chips. We’re going to the Savoy with the rest.’ And forthwith do so. In those days it was perfectly possible, and there could be change left over. “

As to Crowley’s views on women, let the great man speak for himself:

The real inferiority of women to men is shown by their hate of pederasty, which they regard as unfair competition. Men on the other hand rather approve of Sapphism, as saving them trouble and expense.
Aleister Crowley
Diary Entry, March 9th 1929

Practically all women ought to be chloroformed at 35.
Aleister Crowley
Diary Entry, January 3rd 1931

In Berlin all the whores look like ‘respectable women’; in New York all the ‘respectable women’ look like whores. Reflection: they’re all whores, anyhow.
Aleister Crowley
Diary Entry, January 4th 1931

And so on and so forth. One could build a complete website containing Crowley’s outpourings on the subject of women. He really didn’t have a very high opinion of them despite what his advocates and revisionists may say to the contrary.

Inside my head

Diary 23rd June

My head is full of shadows and winding staircases. Endless passageways are lit by flickering candle flames. Interlinked they form a labyrinth of elaborate nightmares – nightmares that pursue the unwary intruder! Oh, and yes, there are skeletons in every cupboard here: the bodies of undesired strangers. And in each of the many rooms can be found a tormented, agonized victim of my sick psyche…


I constructed my first female companion from a Meccano set my father gave me for my eighth birthday. I fashioned her vagina by mixing part 131, the dredger bucket, with five of part 142a, the rubber tires. I started fucking her from that first night. She was most immodest in bed, so that I named her Insatiable Alice. And we remained lovers until I was sent away to boarding school two years later. I didn’t see my Alice again until I was sixteen years old, and she was partly dismantled and rusting at the back of the garden shed. I cried for her; real tears. I was truly heartbroken. But then I wondered what I could build with all those Lego pieces in that ancient cake tin?

Lego and latex together – and you have Insatiable Alice Mk II.

Oh, Lord, what a tease!

Believe me when I tell you I often had to beg her to let me cum! Spread like a pinned butterfly on my bed beneath her, her red-brick and latex mouth teasing me. My hands palm deep in her yellow-brick hair…

I used to love most the way her breathing changed when I caressed her thighs at night.


And so I’m going away, away, away – for one month. I need rest and sun and fresh air. I need to hear midnight conversations in Italiano, make love on moonlit beaches and eat great dishes of spaghetti and roasted vegetables.

Tomorrow I leave!

Scendo a prendere le valigie!


Conversation yesterday: Yes, yes there should be ‘licensed’ prostitutes who can satisfy the desire of certain people for flagellation. And while I may think the practice personally repellent, my own sado-masochistic requirements are easily satisfied by listening to Zerlina sing ‘Bati, batti’…

Indeed. Wolfgang Amadeus does it for me every time!


I agree with Maureen Duffy that our definition of a fairy cannot be restricted to saccharine and predominantly nineteenth century images of figures dressed in white tulle. No, they must be recognised as malignant and malevolent beings who’ve escaped from the human subconscious into the material world…


Isn’t it strange. Anglo Saxon attitudes dictate that lovemaking should be hidden away, carried out in darkness, a secret in part unpleasant and certainly not a fit subject for discussion in polite company. And yet we practice acts of violence in broad daylight, in sight of all! Some of these acts are government sponsored, others are replicated on our television and cinema screens and called ENTERTAINMENT!

Riane Eisler points out the average US child will watch over 20,000 screen murders and witness 200,000 acts of violence before they are eligible to vote!

Makes you think, doesn’t it?