What happens to sex bloggers or bloggers who sometimes write about sex when they hit a sex drought?  Do they stop writing?  Have they lost their raison d’etre? Or do they keep going, move onto writing erotica, dredge their imagination for filthy memories and create hot new imaginings from that filth laden bed?

I am asking because I am in that situation.  There have been no pulse raising meet ups not explicit heart rushing sexting for a while.  Probably not that long if I look at it with a clear eye but that is not how it feels.  It feels like a drought, it feels like I am drying up into an old maid before my time, it feels deadening and I don’t know what to do about it.

Real life intrudes constantly  The constraints on my time and those who I love to wrap my legs around seem to make it impossible for them to travel to me to meet.  The constraints on my purse make it impossible for me to travel to them and this last month has also seen me have to pack away and unpack a home after finding a new one so there has been even less time than normal.

I am so fed up of real life though, of the ordinary and mundane having centre place in my life.  I want some mind shattering orgasms, some leg trembling fingering, some application of pressure and pain and their gasping, heaving release.

I want some sex!

A swinger friend of mine has told me ‘eye you are dong it wrong, we women can always get cock.’  I think she is right, but whilst I don’t need to feel involved in a romantic relationship with someone to sleep with them I do need to know that they are not a dick, aren’t deceiving someone else to be with me and have respect for my slutty nature.  I have had enough nastiness, blame and shame to last me a lifetime and I will not go there again.  I also want some companionship.  To have chance to dress up and go out to dinner, I would love to go to the opera, I adore art galleries, theatre, coffee, good cake and hugs.  I like sex too.  Did I say that?

What prompted this post was the desire to be nominated for the sex bloggers awards being sponsored by Kinkcraft.  It feels awkward and needy to be that upfront about wanting the validation but I do.  I am under no illusions that I would be anywhere near a chance of winning and I realised I wasn’t talking about sex or writing about sex because of the current drought condition in my life.  I suppose this is another place where I feel on the sidelines unable to join in.  VL is no different from RL in this respect, we bring ourselves to our experience here and myself at this moment is feeling disconnected and dried out but write about that I must since that is what I do.

I promised myself this time last year after such a shockingly awful time that I would prioritise my writing, myself and my choices. Old habits die hard though and in-spite of my earnest desire to kill the fuckers they still hang on and trip me up at times. One of these is to believe that other things, prioritised by others and not me are more important because they have been prioritised by someone other than me. I am killing that one again right now.  Surrounded by boxes, with no tea cooking I am writing using the internet connection of the old people’s home next door – dear God I am such a rebel – and fighting my way back to me. To a land of plenty where there is no drought, only a choice to be made of which particular drink to savour this evening.

Cocktails anyone?

Here’s the link to nominate sex blogs for 2016 – it’s easy to do so, just scroll the bottom of the comments and add the link.  Cheers đź’‹





#SinfulSunday – snakeskin, stockings and silk

I thought I would attempt a vintage feel for this week’s #SinfulSunday, thankful that I didn’t have to go the whole hog with makeup and hair but still inspired by the apparently easy elegance achieved by the likes of Betty Page et al.

I enjoyed dressing up in my snakeskin heels, holdup stockings and silk kimono for you.  I hope you enjoy the results đź’‹

Click on the links below to see who else is being Sinful this Sunday

Sinful Sunday


Whilst ironing I am suddenly assailed by a memory that causes me to gasp and then to grin with pleasure and delight at its interjection into my mundane life. The images and feelings triggered by the fresh smell of the cotton shirt I am ironing.

Our first overnight together was a long time in the planning and so looked forward to.  We arranged to meet at the hotel, and you arrived tired and slightly frazzled after a working day and a long drive.  I was relaxed, early for once, and calmly waiting for you, or so I thought but your entry into the room still made me catch my breath and my hand shook a little on the mouse that I was browsing the internet with. You went over to the chair in the corner after taking off your jacket and tie. I sat opposite on the edge of the bed made with 1000 thread Egyptian cotton linen, legs crossed, grinning at you, at our being there together, at us.

You rubbed your hand across your forehead, the  stressed executive personified and for a moment I felt a doubt about this event, the shift about to take place in the framework of the dynamic.  Unwanted thoughts intrude into my mind – what happens if we don’t find our place here, what happens if we don’the connect, what happens if we become that which we feel the need to escape from?

Then I see your eyes take on a familiar look. It’s signalled by a keenness in your eyes, a sudden flash of  fire and focus. The set of your mouth changes, and I swear your cheekbones sharpen but that can’t be true can it?  The next move is a new one.  It has never happened before and I am still surprised by my response eighteen months later.

With a sudden movement you click your fingers and point to the floor beside you. My legs move before I even think, closing the gap between us with a speed and alacrity that I didn’t know I was capable of and I kneel beside you.

I kneel beside you.

Just think about that for a moment.  It still amazes me. You click your fingers and I move, like a dog, like an obedient well trained pet, all my focus is on you and what you want and as my knees hit the floor I see the pleasure light up your eyes and I love it. I love it even when, my brain fires into action and exclaims ‘what am I doing?’ The answer comes swiftly, as swiftly as my earlier movement.

‘I am kneeling beside my Master’.

Hawk and Hen

I asked a question on twitter the other day

The answers were interesting (and thank you by the way if you commented on that thread), ranging from following your heart, to considering the ripples of its effect on other people to attempting to live with no regrets (in both a positive and a negative sense) and finally landing in a place where most could agree, that of listening to your gut and keying into your instinctive first decision.

All this makes perfect sense when read through: listen to yourself, consider pros and cons and effects on those you love and then check against the list of objectives and goals you have set for your own life and a decision pops out of it like the time to have a gin on one of those flow charts.  And that is where it falls down for me.

Until just a few short years ago my yardsticks for a life well lived were so very different.  Foreshortened by an upbringing that considered nothing more important than a job and partner for life and a pension to ease your later years.  This, when anchored in  pre and post war Britain made perfect sense to my parents.  They considered that they did nothing wrong in clipping my wings, and urging me to seek security not risk, urging me to know where I would roost each night like a barn hen because who knew when the fox would come calling again?

Except I am not a hen.  I never was.  I am a hawk sitting uncomfortably amid the hens, conscious of their blood and pulsing life which is calling to me to take them by the throat and bite hard. Constantly longing for the treetops and the long view.  Tired of the scratch and  petty peck of the everyday grubbing in the ground.

The desire to fly was so strong in me it wound me tight as I paced the hallways and garden of my house, fettered by responsibility to those I had created, brought into the world and loved beyond words.  But my hooked nose always gave me away, my broody hen disguise would occasionally slip causing those who saw to gasp and move away instinctively.  My hawk, suppressed for so long, teased by the trees that surrounded her, and longing for the freedom to soar would break free and cause panic and alarm in the hen house.  She could never get far though, fettered by wings that could not push down and hard enough to elevate much beyond the first low branches and there, watching the devastation and upset wrought by her sudden eruption she would return cowed, ashamed, beaten and blamed.

Eventually  I learned to live as a hen for those I loved, but I so wanted them to love me for the hawk I was.

This hen/hawk split is a comical image I know but it engages with something important to me now. Namely with which part do I make the decisions that currently assail me in the early hours of the morning with their insistent requirement that I choose, decide, act and live with the consequences?  I admire those that feel they can say, I have put others first all my life now is my time for myself like my twitter and blog friend lapsedcatholic , the clarity of that appeals to me but I cannot say I have devoted my life and therefore can choose to put myself first now  In some ways I feel I have slept through those years. No, not slept, but not quite been there, since such a vital part of me had to be hidden.  This leaves me confused, my disguise became me, I became that hen who needed external safety to be safe. Who could not risk a trip to the fresh grass beyond the coop fence.  Who did not ever lift my head to see the trees above that would offer the long view and in that respect I feel I have also shortchanged my children as I see hawks in at least two of them.

Things changed when someone came into my life who saw the hawk in me, called to her and helped me to grow her wings again. Who called me to sit on His arm, to return there to roost each evening and not to a hen coop, who invites me to fly, to explore, to sit on a tall branch and return to Him with tales of what I have seen.

Who assures me that my hen heart – because that is now part of me now too – is not the part to have in the driver’s seat of my life – for that job you need someone who can see many more options than a well-pecked yard.

You need a hawk.





#SinfulSunday – reprise 

Here’s my reprise of a famous image of Ursula Andress as Honey Ryder. 

Achieved with a phone camera, a free photo editing app and a borrowed knife and napkin from the hotel. 

It won’t stay up long ‘cos it has my face in the picture but we had a lot of fun doing this and I couldn’t resist it. I hope you enjoy looking đź’‹

Click on the lips below to see other #Sinfulsunday posts 

Sinful Sunday

#SinfulSunday – celebrate

This week’s image doesn’t seem very sinful at first sight.  However there is something that still feels transgressive about showing my stomach even after all the work I have done in the gym and on loving my body as it is.

I used to feel I should cover it up, that it was a part of me that was long past its ‘good to look at phase’ due to lumps and bumps and stretch marks.

These days I am positively exhibitionist in comparison. I strip off willy-nilly in changing rooms.  I no longer undress under my clothes. Sometimes I even admire myself in the mirrors at the gym and take the occasional photograph.

So this Sunday  join me in celebrating a body that is loved and taken care of, that has given pleasure and life to me and others, and that I intend to inhabit to the full, to the end, whether that’s considered virtuous or sinful đź’‹

Click on the lips below to see the others taking part this week.

Sinful Sunday

Ķ#SinfulSunday – darkness

Imagine a clear bright evening. The sun has set.  The night is closing in.

I am seized by a desire to take my clothes off so that I can experience the silkiness of the darkness on my skin.

It dances over me as I raise my arms to let it caress me. It’s at times like this I love my home and its solitude. I even love it when it rains.

Click on the lips below to see who else is being sinful this week đź’‹

Sinful Sunday

#Sinful Sunday – bath


A night away gives the opportunity for a decadent  pleasure – a bath filled with bubbles.

A glorious snapshot of a divine time spent living, laughing and loving 💋❤💋
Click on the lips below to see who else is being sinful this week.

Sinful Sunday

#SinfulSunday – bound


The prompt this week is B and I have chosen another of the pictures from my weekend of rope in August.  Due to my no face picture policy you can’t see the expression that the intensity of holding this position had on my face but believe me it was intense.

The rope bisecting my body was attached to my hair. I was on tiptoes, my arms aching as I breathed heavily to process the sensations and maintain the pose.

Bound and held đź’‹

Pic by Cruisier

Rope by Nathan Zuberi

Click on the lips below for more Sunday Sinfulness

Sinful Sunday