There’s a strong urgency in masturbation.
The longing for there to be another human body
pressed up against your own, so much so you envision
it vividly in your mind, painting hundreds of
thousands of scenarios until you find one just right
for your hand,

for your body.

It’s not about pleasure, but about that momentary loss of place and time,
a further commitment to your imagination but
to your loneliness as well.

Tatiana Arredondo


October 14, 2017

There is an image
Working to free my mind
From violent dawns
It probes at the backs of my eyes
It tells me I am prostituting myself
Here in my bedroom
In incestuous union with myself
I hallucinate and fantasise about
Doctors sons, butchers boys
Teenage thieves, deserters
Drug pushers, scandalous rent boys
Vagrants, pimps, prostitutes
And silk lingerie and don’t care.
I sit destitute of thought
An insane dissonance of macabre music
Playing out melodies of an image in my mind

Edgar Whitman Wilde

preventative masturbation

August 5, 2017

“Along with heavy drinking, I do preventative masturbation four or five times a day so that I can go out in public.”

This all sounded oddly familiar. Then I reassured myself: I might have shared some of his symptoms, but that can be said for most psychiatric illnesses.

“Why do you think this has happened to you?” I asked. “Maybe you should see Oliver Sacks. It could be neurological. Like the man who thought his wife was a cocktail waitress.”

“I don’t get any sex. That’s my problem. I’m thirty-one; I haven’t had sex in nine years.”

What could I say to comfort him? Nine years was a terribly long time. One hardly goes nine years without doing most things, except maybe trips to the Far East…

Jonathan Ames
Wake Up Sir


July 23, 2017

23rd July

Living here with so many ghosts I feel like a caretaker of the restless dead – a protector of spirits who haunt my life – so that I’ve become my own haunted house, attempting communication with partially glimpsed movements at the edge of perception, or the sound of a creaking stair, or a noise in the attic which might only be the patter of falling rain…My ghosts can be cranky on occasion: they can whisper words, the meaning of which I’m unable to determine.

It’s been a long time since anyone treated them well –


So the Saturday evening play-party. With our friends from the local munch, people possessing the emotional bandwidth to comply with our safety standards, while sharing similar aesthetic tastes to ourselves.

Like a small film club, are we, eagerly awaiting the main attraction: crisps, freshly roasted nuts and popcorn are liberally distributed to ‘the audience’ in small china bowls. Missy A has been naughty and is to be disciplined while we watch. Furniture has been moved to accommodate this tableaux.

Seeing Missy A bent over a chair with her skirt hitched up is breathtaking. Hearing a hand slap against her buttocks, is so very arousing – how could it be otherwise? Savouring the slight trembling of flesh with each fresh impact. Her yelps of discomfort –

Then E rising to join T who is tiring. E has a riding crop. She takes T’s place. Her skin-head hair cut is intimidating. She uses the crop with consummate skill –

Yelps become cries. Missy’s poor glowing bum is criss-crossed with red stripes –

Missy’s now estranged husband used to take her to play-parties in the boot of their car. Almost nude, gagged and handcuffed, even in winter, she would endure this humiliation without complaint. His treatment of her became harsher and harsher, until she finally left him eighteen months ago.

It should serve as a lesson to us all, how quickly such consensual abuse can become pure abuse –

I’m reminded of Jean-Paul Sartre and his theory of emotions as ‘magic’. Because Missy has simply exchanged one sadist for another. The new man in her life allows his fantasies free rein. She is, it seems, one of life’s natural victims –

E’s skill with that crop is superlative. Her strokes are hard enough to mark Missy’s naked bum but not to break the skin. I can’t take my eyes from Missy, her tear-filled eyes, parted lips, writhing as if in the grip of some invisible power. Sex is inherently ritualistic, a symbolic act whose meanings extend beyond itself. And there can be no doubt that Missy’s submission is sexual, that she takes pleasure from E’s practiced flogging of her backside. And every face in ‘the audience’ is slightly flushed with sexual excitement as they look on. And my own arousal is equally obvious –

Finally, aftercare. Caresses, kisses, gentle stroking. A smile on Missy’s tear-stained face. She experienced some sort of climax near the end of her ‘punishment’, and all the tension is now drained from her.

I finish my popcorn (which incidentally is homemade) as E takes Missy upstairs to the bathroom to fix her make-up.

‘I hope they don’t wake the ghosts,’ I say to no one in particular.

And no one, as expected, bothers to reply.


Hamlet experienced an encounter with a ghost and it ended in massacre. Macbeth was confronted by Banquo’s ghost during a great banquet, and lost his peace of mind forever. It’s more than likely that Shakespeare’s ghosts are simply psychological manifestations of guilt – imagined apparitions, in other words.

But what of my ghosts?

Trish, for example?

She used to love me reading out loud to her. At bedtime I always had to read to her or she couldn’t sleep. On occasion she would perform an act of fellation upon me as I read –

She once described herself to me as ‘Terribly thin’. And her body, I must admit, was like a sabre slash in silk. As flat chested as a boy, was she. ‘You’re fine,’ I’d tell her. ‘I love you as you are.’ And then laid her back and performed cunnilingus on her for almost an hour –

I read her ‘The Story of O’ and we both got turned on by it. It was Christmas Eve I remember, and Trish guided me between her buttocks. I gently sodomized her for the first time while she masturbated herself.

We talked a lot about art, writing, music and cinema. One time I told her about André Gide, his enormous influence on the young, which sprang from his teaching that one’s only duty is to oneself, that one should never be ‘encumbered’, either by material possessions, memories or other people –

‘Often the best in us springs from the worst in us.’

And so I read ‘Isabelle’ to Trish, and we both visited le chateau de la Quartfourche with Gerard Lacase, and accompanied him on his quest for Isabelle in the grip of ‘amorous curiosity’.

Books, reading, more reading and fucking. ‘Why don’t you read me something you’ve written?’ she asked. It was a bridge too far for me. ‘No,’ I said. ‘Never that. It’s all too awful.’ But she insisted, so finally I recited some of the poems in ‘Summer Births’ from memory. And while the words spilled gently from my mouth like little lost souls, Trish fondled me erect and masturbated me –

Trish had always had a thing about India. For her it seemed a magical, mysterious, exotic place. One day she announced she was finally going to go there. She’d saved the money. She was going for six months – longer if she could!

And so she drifted from my life almost as casually as she’d drifted into it. And now she keeps company with the crowd of ghosts occupying this place; a spectre who loves to hear me read out loud late at night –

i lie in my bed sometimes with ear buds in listening to porn without watching the screen on my phone. i pretend it’s you and some whore fucking in front of me to shame me … it makes me so wet i have to touch and finger my cunt then when i cum i rub all my pussy juice over my face and body….usually i cum again then.


While hubby sleeps

June 11, 2017

I like to read lesbian sex stories online at night when my husband is sleeping on the bed. I’ll lay out my floor mattress and read away. I’ll rub my titties and pretend I’m being seduced by a very sexy woman. When I can’t take the throbbing of my pussy anymore, I’ll pull my pussy lips up and apart and push my clit into the mattress until my pussy lips are being held apart by the mattress. I move my hands and pretend we’re grinding clits and hump it till my pussy creams all over. I’m getting horny just thinking about it.

Sometimes I’ll let out a little moan and my husband will move around and sometimes wake up and wonder why I’m breathing so heavy. If he only knew my pussy was still throbbing from just cumming all over myself a few seconds before. It makes me so wet and horny I want to cum over and over until my clit is numb.


I’m female, and masturbate every single night. Even when i’m on my period. My fantasies are always of me, being a male, and being pegged by another guy. I get off on the idea of anal so much.

I tried masturbating anally with the end of my hairbrush, and i orgasmed within a minute…i’m ashamed of my fantasies. But one day i’ll ask my boyfriend to do me the way I’ve imagined, for the better part of 2 years ongoing.

I think this desire to be fucked in the ass derives from me admiring gay couples. Normally its so pure and beautiful. The fact that someone can abandon their gender and love the same sex melts my heart. I love seeing men kiss and touch each other.

I should have been born a man to experience my fantasies correctly. But since i’m not, i guess this fantasy will never 100% come true. Sad to be honest.

Source here

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.


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



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.