28th May

Sunday: a day for contemplation; for gentle caresses and kisses. A day for love. Today we may defy the abyss together –

Your tongue plays in my mouth. Then the mad trembling of copulation and our shared frenzy – all before breakfast.

Genital pleasure, you know, is a form of ardent religiosity! So very apt for a Sunday, don’t you think?

Then after lunch, carnival masks and carnality. MH sacrifices his wife to us in order to caress your naked breasts. She is pale and plump and wears an ample pair of French knickers, purple in colour. While MH pumps between your spread legs on the sofa, we use his poor wife on the floor. She cums with a series of gasps and a tiny shudder. Her perfume is strong, cloying, not pleasant at all. I can still smell it now…that and the odour of her sex on my fingers –

#

Sex is imprisoned in a gothic fortress of taboos – and these we must continuously transgress to overcome the terrible isolation that faces each and every one of us in life.

#

Drinks follow the crescendo of our clinically engineered sexual encounter. Then food: quesadillas filled with four cheeses, these followed by homemade vanilla and cinnamon ice cream which I serve with toasted nuts and chocolate sauce.

All slightly surreal, I agree.

We sit eating, the five of us, like characters from an Iris Murdoch novel. Gabriella drinks white wine, a rather good Riesling. I drink brandy. MH sips a cold beer, while Mrs MH swills gin & tonic with intrepid enthusiasm – as if to forget her recent distracted quiescence, and her desultory orgasm on the carpet. Or perhaps it’s the sight of her hubby’s pimpled backside between Dee’s spread thighs she wishes to expunge from memory?

We play dress up. Bundles of fancy dress items carried down from the boxroom. Much laughter. Mrs MH’s swaying tits as she tries on a ball gown. MH wants to fuck Gabriella, but she isn’t interested. Instead she offers to pleasure plump Mrs MH with a strapon, while he watches their labouring bodies. Dee in red silk panties will act as his fricatrice. I will fetch the box of tissues and the KY.

The MHs finally leave us about nine-thirty. We go up to shower and change, and after that I fix fresh drinks. We are all a little drunk. And we end this damp, eager Sunday by eating fresh jam doughnuts.

20th May

In the garden, her wrist on show, the pale white scar bearing witness to a past indiscretion: a failure this, to accompany so many others. The rose blooms bled behind us in soft red bursts. A reflection of another time and her own undoing, perhaps. It’s summer and all the pretty girls wear dresses that show off their freckled shoulders. They come and go beside the living wound of the roses. And in her eyes a reflection of gentle dark night. Later she spreads herself out like a pale landscape across my bed, and my fingers trace her smooth contours with pleasure. But now I am become shadow. A footstep or two, half-heard. I am not here. And none of it really matters. Not anymore…

#

Drunk on wine and poetry and the taste of your skin – especially the ripe folds of skin between those softly curving thighs. Ah, to drink you down in one long draught. To be drunk. To be drunk by sipping without stopping, like some blasé god, Bacchus perhaps? To be drunk on wine and on you. To drink down the fine frothy waves of you. To drift on your tides like a water-logged piece of flotsam. To be drunk forever…

A fate devoutly to be desired.

#

And to the cinema to see Alien Covenant, a film that has filled me with hope for the future of mankind. The day wet. The sky low enough to swallow the earth in big misty mouthfuls. A and L told me the film was “slow”, “not much happening”. Comments that puzzle me in hindsight? I didn’t think it that bad for a film of its ‘type’: “Look, there’s an alien; kill the alien; the alien’s dead…perhaps?”

Afterwards had a reassuringly third-rate meal at R Fast Food, followed by the most tasteless coffee I’ve ever encountered anywhere in the world. Had a brandy with it, which was okay. God bless Courvoisier! It saves even a wilted salad!

#

Thursday given over to Crowley’s ritual technique of eroto-comatose lucidity: repeated sexual stimulation to the point of orgasm – until the body drifts, leaf-like between sleep and wakefulness…in a state of near exhaustion, because of this continuous excitation; erotic massage, fingering, physical stimulation of genitals and erogenous areas – continuing for a period of five hours or longer on this occasion.

Both heaven and hell…

Trance-like state achieved. Saw this wild, grey sea unlike any other sea I’d ever encountered. Heavy drops of rain falling in torrents out of a vermillion sky, and mask-like faces in the air around. Foaming waves…

Vision disrupted finally by ejaculation…but magic made, anyway. All desire centered on one good outcome. Hopefully successfully.

#

Dreams from Thursday night: vivid, confused and disturbing. A beautiful woman, tall, wearing a flounced bell-shaped skirt and no upper garment. Full breasted; heavily rouged nipples. At her waist a belt of jeweled snakes. Around her other women, Neolithic women in tatter skins. All glimpsed by the dancing light of candles set in crystal.

And they dance, these women. A dance of leeches. Spinning in sinister ballerina poses. The dance becoming more frenetic, frenzied and furious. Their bodies come together like a wreckages of flesh…

Wind dancers, these, I realise. Animal shapes crossing the ridges of their backbones. Before they dissolve in to so many particles, shifting in the wind, to reassemble as the sea folds around their bare feet and ankles.

And this wind creeps in through the cracks in the world…

#

Friday off to close friends for long boozy lunch (Peedeel drank only water!), Chinese food in multiple courses, and good conversation. Plenty of laughter. I felt strangely dissociated, though. There, yet elsewhere. The after effects of such an intense ECL session yesterday, perhaps? Certainly, very sore downtown.

Sunday sex confession

May 14, 2017

I sit in the bath every night using the shower head to masturbate, after I’m done, I use a vibrator on my clit until I orgasm, and my legs are shaking.

Source here

Gender fluid

April 22, 2017

‘Eres hombre o mujer…’

Ah, Barcelona and that sixty-four million dollar question. Man or woman. Which was I?

Peedeel had become Navina that evening – for the sake of the party, you understand? Attendance was by invitation only. And our invitation was dependant on Peedeel arriving as beautiful Navina. He, or rather she, accompanied by Dee and Gabriella, attracted the attention of two young men. Darkly handsome young men.

‘Eres hombre o mujer…?’ They asked; their smiles could melt ice, I thought.

Well, if you haven’t spent your life living under a rock, you’ll know there are obvious ways to tell. And these boys guided me to a room where they could investigate further.

I will resist the urge to recount the sordid details of our ultimate coupling. But I do recall thirty seconds before I climaxed with them, it felt as if someone had sucked all the air out of the room; every nerve ending in my body tingled, I couldn’t move, time stopped. Then the involuntary spasm, the explosion. I recall especially feeling the sensation inside my bones, my jawbone in particular, vibrating through every nerve in waves; muscles clenching on their own, rhythmically, tension releasing spasmodically in those sharp, familiar little jerks of my cock.

Man or woman?

Why, chameleon, of course.

Soy un camaleón.

Without stick or sword

January 15, 2017

rose-freymuth-frazier-hounded

Diary 15th January

Returned yesterday from a small soirée at Goodrington Sands. It is a dog owners paradise, and most of the population seemed to be engaged in walking their dogs along the beach or promenade.

We arrived there Friday lunchtime and had a boozy lunch followed by a long walk along the beach. The wind was bitterly cold.

S, almost in tears, fears her cat may die soon; it has been very ill, and she has spent a small fortune on vets bills – but, despite every test known to man, the vets are unable to determine exactly what is wrong with the animal. They are perplexed.

S is also concerned her father will not see out this year. Hopefully she is wrong on both counts!

More booze follows.

Twilight then night, with its brood of phantoms that walk the world as sentient things. Muttered “Hullo’s”. Glimpses of the strange, profound and baffling. Circling faces and disembodied voices.

A woman, mid-fifties(?), fleshy and flashy, tells me she has a complete school uniform at home: gym-slip, white socks and big sensible navy-blue knickers. ‘You should come see me in it,’ she says. ‘A weekday’s best for me. I even have a satchel containing crayons and drawing pad.’ She passes me a slip of paper on which is written a phone number and address. ‘I play an adorable little virgin, so innocent – you can corrupt and debauch me in whatever way you desire!’

Time passing. Grotesqueries of light and shadow. The people here are all affluent, bored, over-sexed – almost parodies of themselves. Women with strange secrets in their drowsy eyes. Men, faces flushed with lust, join in the never ending dance.

A woman’s face above me: shadowy eyes, a bright red mouth, and nostrils like dark wells. There are wrinkles at the edges of her mouth and her tongue seems huge inside my mouth. Her cheeks flush scarlet and her eyes glow like little lanterns when her climax engulfs her.

A man’s whispering, Mephistophelian voice at my ear. He offers his wife, a plump forty-something, who spreads her legs to my passionless gaze. He tells me in explicit, vivid detail what he would like to see me do to her.

I comply with each of his shocking instructions.

When she cums it is like a cataclysm.

And then, in another room, another much younger woman. Incredibly vivid. Incredibly flexible. Intense and demanding in each of her movements. The surging of blood to her face, lost in pure physical sensation, and the tingling of nerve endings. The quickening of her breath and spastic motion of hip and thigh…

Finally to bed like an impotent old giant.

Unfortunately, I sleep badly. Doze and wake disoriented in my strange surroundings. Dee snoring gently beside me.

As if to reinforce the surreal experiences of the preceding evening, I watch the breakfast news on BBC. A doctor in an A&E department explains to the camera that he has no beds available. No trolleys left, either. Ambulances are backed up on the A&E ramp outside. The patients cannot be removed from the ambulances, there is nowhere to put them. Consequently, the ambulances are unable to respond to any further calls for assistance.

It’s a mess!

A crises!

Then, amazingly, the Queen of Brobdingnag, Terresa Maybe appears on screen in a different report. The problems, she explains, the NHS is currently experiencing is due in part to GPs not working evenings or weekends!

Luggnagg meets Brobdingnag.

I think I shall relocate to the land of the Houyhnhnms. It’s feckin’ safer.

After breakfast we say our goodbyes to S and her man. Drive then into Brixham. Dee wants to see the place again, a nostalgia trip. She’d last visited in her teens with AN, a girls only camping holiday…very Sapphic, I’m sure (only kidding girls).

Dee tells of the transvestite artist they met there beside the harbour. An older guy. Diabetic, with an ulcerated leg. He invited them both back to his ‘artist’s garret’ to show them his collection of clothes. He asked the girls to try them on, which they did. He sketched away like mad as they shamelessly stripped and dressed in his offered finery. An intimate, almost immemorially pagan scene.

Then he asked AN if he could try on the top she’d been wearing. She agreed, but the top was far too small and his attempts ended in seem-stretching failure.

He explained his leg was ‘killing’ him and had to sit down. AN, very kindly, changed the dressing on his leg for him…

Dee and I sat outside a café in bright sunshine. The weather was totally different from yesterday’s. We’d left Cornwall in snow flurries. And now, sitting looking out across the harbour, I could feel the sun burning my face!

Incredible!

Dee said, ‘What a glorious sunshiny day! We’ve been so lucky.’

Finally, we drove home. I felt very second-hand to be honest. Slightly hungover and jaded. Cooking a meal last night for Dee and L, I was really running on empty. I managed a glass of wine, for myself, followed by a large brandy, but no food. I went to bed at eight-thirty and fell immediately fast asleep.

Uneasy dreams followed. They always do. Gigantic shadows of men and women entwining. Faces glowing scarlet-red with excitement. Ephemeral rooms, scattered with cushions. Laughter, gently mocking. Becoming harsher –

Then waking, thankfully, to this sombre dawn.

A new day begins –

sucking

Celestine has seized on my prick; she cannot get it into her cunt, so, determined not to lose it altogether, she takes it in her mouth, she sucks its glowing heap, she rolls her tongue over the top of it. I am mad-delirious. No longer to be restrained I throw fiery rod into her furnace, which consumes it. A few maddening thrusts, drove home with such force that I touch her to the very quick – a cry of thrilling pleasure escapes us at the same time, and all is over.

But so intense were our passions that we hardly perceived it till I felt her again moving up to me. How delicious! What voluptuous warmth pervaded her whole body. How exquisitely did the springing cheeks of her backside respond to all my motions. The little devil Celestine is playing with two large balls that keep knocking against the buttocks of my antagonist.

It is too much; I drive it home, and lie gasping and quivering on Caroline’s breast, who cries out, “Oh heavens! further in! I come – I spend! Oh – oh, God, I die! Oh, dear, what plea-pleas-pleas-ure!”

She had fainted. The delicious wrigglings of her backside, the contraction of her cunt, sucked the last drop from me.

Anon
La Rose D’Amour
The Pearl, Volume eleven

Mrs. Daldry’s first orgasms

September 25, 2016

In The Next Room (or the vibrator play)

DR. GIVINGS:
Now then, Mrs. Daldry, I would ask you to remove your clothing but you may keep your underthings on. Please remove your corset, if you would. Annie will place a sheet over your lower regions. We will respect your modesty in every particular.

Mrs. Daldry nods.

DR. GIVINGS:
I shall give you privacy.

He turns his back on them, a gentleman, as Mrs. Daldry undresses with Annie’s help.
Mrs. Givings has re-entered the living room without the baby.
She sees Mr. Daldry.

MRS. GIVINGS:
Hello again.

MR. DALDRY:
Hello. They are trying to get rid of me. I am supposed to walk about the grounds.

MRS. GIVINGS:
But is it not raining, Mr—?

MR. DALDRY:
Daldry.
I don’t know.

MRS. GIVINGS:
Your name?

MR. DALDRY:
No. If it is raining.

MRS. GIVINGS:
Then you will have to gamble on whether or not to take an umbrella.

MR. DALDRY:
Indeed.

Meanwhile, in the operating theatre, Mrs. Daldry disrobes with Annie’s help.
It takes a while to disrobe as she wears a variety of layers.

In the living room, with Mr. Daldry and Mrs. Givings:

MRS. GIVINGS:
There are three kinds of people. Those who use umbrellas when it is not raining; those who do not use umbrellas even when it is raining; and those who use umbrellas only and precisely while it rains. Which kind are you, Mr. Daldry?

MR. DALDRY:
I use an umbrella while it is raining.

MRS. GIVINGS:
That’s too bad. I find people who do not use umbrellas while it is raining horribly romantic. Strolling, no striding, through the rain, with wet hair, looking at a drop of water on a branch.

MR. DALDRY:
My wife is one of those.

MRS. GIVINGS:
Oh yes! I could see that.

MR. DALDRY:
It’s damned annoying. I always worry she’ll catch cold.

MRS. GIVINGS:
But horribly romantic. My husband opens his umbrella at the merest hint of rain. And even if it does not rain, he will leave it open, stubborn as an ox, and keep walking. My husband is a scientist.

MR. DALDRY:
And what sort of person are you, Mrs. Givings?

MRS. GIVINGS:
Why, I don’t know. My husband has always held the umbrella. Isn’t that funny. I don’t know at all what kind of person I am.

In the other room, Mrs. Daldry’s clothes are now off to her under-clothes.
Annie drapes a sheet over her.

MRS. GIVINGS:
I‘ll show you the grounds and we can use this very large umbrella and perhaps I will hold it and we shall see what kind of person I am. I only hope you do not get wet.

MR. DALDRY:
It sounds like a madcap adventure.

Mrs. Givings and Mr. Daldry exit.
In the operating theatre:

DR. GIVINGS:
Are you ready for me?

ANNIE:
Yes, Dr. Givings.

DR. GIVINGS:
Are you warm enough? (Mrs. Daldry nods.)
Mrs. Daldry, we are going to produce in you what is called a paroxysm. The congestion in your womb is causing your hysterical symptoms and if we can release some of that congestion and invite the juices downward your health will be restored. hanks to the dawn of electricity—yes, thank you Mr. Edison, I always tip my hat to Mr. Edison—a great American—I have a new instrument which I will use. It used to be that it would take me or it would take Annie—oh—hours—to produce a paroxysm in our patients and it demanded quite a lot of skill and patience. It was much like a child’s game—trying to pat the head and rub the stomach at the same time—but thanks to this new electrical instrument we shall be done in a matter of minutes.

MRS. DALDRY:
I—I’m afraid I don’t—

DR. GIVINGS:
Three minutes, sometimes five at the outer limits. Are you ready Mrs. Daldry?

She nods.
He takes out a huge vibrator.
He plugs it in.
He turns it on.

MRS. DALDRY:
I am frightened.

DR. GIVINGS:
Don’t be frightened.

MRS. DALDRY:
There is no danger of being electrocuted?

DR. GIVINGS:
None at all.

He puts his arm under the sheets and
holds the vibrator to her private parts.

DR. GIVINGS:
I will tell you an amusing story. Dr. Benjamin Franklin once decided to electrocute a bird for his turkey dinner on Christmas eve. But, by mistake, he held onto the chain, completing the circuit, and couldn’t let go. He described violently convulsing until he was able by sheer force of will to let go of the chain. He was perfectly fine! Do you feel calmer?

MRS. DALDRY:
A little.

DR. GIVINGS:
This will just take a matter of minutes.

Mrs. Daldry moans quietly.

DR. GIVINGS:
It’s all right, Mrs. Daldry. That’s just fine.

Mrs. Daldry moans quietly.

DR. GIVINGS:
Annie will hold your hand.

Annie holds her hand.

MRS. DALDRY:
Oh, God in His heaven!

She has a quiet paroxysm.
Now remember that these are the days
before digital pornography.
There is no cliché of how women are supposed to orgasm,
no idea in their heads of how they are supposed to sound when they climax.
Mrs. Daldry’s first orgasms could be very quiet,
organic, awkward, primal. Or very clinical. Or embarrassingly natural.
But whatever it is, it should not be a cliché, a camp version
of how we expect all women sound when they orgasm.
It is simply clear that she has had some kind of release.

Sarah Ruhl
In the Next Room, or the vibrator play

from behind

First time I tried, the guy like just put a finger up and the shock made me cry it huuuurt. Then with lots of lube there was some success in getting in, but yeah it hurt so so so much.

Eventually I was seeing this guy for a bit and I dunno we sexually just clicked and he was kinda fiddling around there and I just got the urge, he understood and no pain, not even lube, and it was amazing. Like I dunno I guess I was relaxed but it felt good in a whole other way. Like maybe the taboo was what made it sexy and dirty….But ahhh I have always loved doggy.

Its not meant to be enjoyable for chicks coz we don’t have a prostate but fuck that shit try everything once hey.

I’ve never had an orgasm (by myself or with anyone) so this wasn’t an exception. Can girls come from anal alone? It seems unlikely…

Anon
Cindy Grey’s Book of True Sex Confessions

thegirls2

The first time I had sex with a girl, we did it in a closet. (No, seriously). She had a huge walk-in closet with a bed in it, and she would sit on that bed, light candles, and draw and write on the walls. It was like being inside her soul. She painted and drew and the things she put on those walls were beautiful and honest and every reason I loved her.

I was “straight,” by the way. The alternative wasn’t feasible. I was just a young, wild girl, fooling around, and it wasn’t serious. But it was. Because I loved her. And I knew I loved her, and at 6 a.m. after I had the most sexually-induced emotionally enlightening experience of my life I fell asleep next to her panic-stricken, and doing that exact thing has not ceased, even to this day.

So that night, under the guise that we were just friends from school, we went up to her room and shut and locked the door. She lit candles and she had this playlist on, some songs of which I still don’t know if I either want to touch myself to or cry to or never listen to again. But I digress. We sat next to each other, and giggled. “Are we really going to do this?” I laughed. She laughed. I told her I had never done this before. Half of me was calmed by the fact that I had some inkling of how to touch her, because it was how I’d want to be touched. But it was more foreign to me than a man’s body. More foreign to me even though I’d had that physiology all my life. Because none of that matters when you want to love someone for more than just their body.

So we listed how we were going to do this. We would kiss first, and then we outlined the next steps and how we would do them one at a time and then we would stop and talk about it and make sure we still wanted to do it or go to the next step and if at any point one of us wanted to stop, that was it, we would stop. We didn’t stop.

I’d had “boyfriends” before – pubescent men I could seduce into loving me with my femme looks and overtly sexual nature. That was easy. Girls weren’t. Girls were what I really wanted. And when something ever matters to me, I am usually perplexed and terrified and cowardly and confused. These boys never made me orgasm, I made myself orgasm, they just happened to be there while it happened. They never made me cry for any other reason than that I felt unwanted. They touched me to warm me up to touch them, not because they wanted me to be that completely vulnerable and literally and metaphorically naked. Please note: this is not to say that all men are like this, of course, that was just my experience at the time.

So roughly four hours into the first night of the long awaited physical enactment of our already raging love affair, she was between me and I didn’t have any clothes on and I knew what was about to happen because we had talked about this and I can’t even phrase into words how badly I wanted it but I’ll tell you that it was just about as much as I wanted to run away screaming because I was not gay.

She could sense that. She asked me what was wrong. I told her the truth. She smiled. I don’t remember what she told me, but it was something along the lines of the fact that I didn’t have to be worried, and that we could go slowly and that I just had to lay back and close my eyes and not think about anything but how good it felt.

The most poignant memory I have from that night was looking down at her, and feeling like I wasn’t worthy of such a perfect person loving me like this, and even though I kept on with my nonsensical thoughts she made me come in that back-arching, oh-my-god-please-don’t-stop, repeated exhales and sighs, waves of that familiar high that keep crashing through your body and afterwards you don’t think, that was great, you think, I love her kind of way. That kind of orgasm. And I thought that was as good as it got, until I made her do the same thing, and that was even better.

We laid next to each other for a while after that, limbs intertwined, the playlist still on repeat, the candles burning out. The sun was rising. My real life was dawning again. She was falling asleep, but my eyes were peeled open and staring at the ceiling.

I haven’t grown out of that yet. But I’m not entirely unhappy that it happens. It tells me it means something. It shows me what matters. It scares the mother fucking shit out of me but it’s never there while I’m staring in some woman’s eyes like she’s the most beautiful thing I’ve ever seen. And so I know it’s not what I’m doing that’s wrong, it’s what the world would say about it that is. I’m never afraid of it until I realize it’s another notch in the “reasons the world will exile me” belt. And so I think to myself, it will be okay because eventually there will be a woman that I wake up next to who doesn’t make me feel that way because I know she’ll be there after breakfast, and that even if everybody else looks with disdain, she won’t. She’ll be there if other people walk out.

Kate Bailey
Thought Catalogue