Kink lite, Kink life.

My recent weekend at Eroticon brought up many new ideas and made more neural connections in my mind than I can process quickly.  One of those thought-threads was about Identity since that is the title of the anthology generated by those at the event – buy it here  and from that grew this blog post about the impact of  discovering and then owning being kinky.  I still have an issue with some of the ideas around this particular identity but Eroticon helps me to realise that we are all just people and that it is OK to think about  smut a lot of the time!!

#x#x#x#x#x#x#x#x#x#x#x#x#x#x#x#x#x#x#x#x#x#x#x#x#x#x#x#x#x#x#x#x#x#x

What does it mean to identify as kinky? Even writing those words are difficult for me. From childhood one of the worse things someone could call you was a pervert – a dirty old man or far more horrible, a dirty old woman.

If you have a moment of honesty though I think most of us could admit to finding something arousing or erotic that others find simply odd or even distasteful. At that point, and in that moment we are on the kinky side of the slash and they are on the ‘normal’ or vanilla side. For many of us this is problematic,  I know it was for me, so problematic infact that rather than openly admit to desires or fantasies I buried them first for years and retreated from the idea of myself as a sexual creature. Society also encourages this retreat as we age and move through life events such as family-making,  with its discomfort around women’s sexuality, the Madonna/Whore split, and a general ickiness with regard to the idea of older people, possibly our parents, being sexually active and lustful. It seems right to do this and yet we live with the loss of connection to this important life-giving part of ourselves. Life loses its sparkle and we wonder ‘Is this it?’

Coming out as kinky implies a certain sense of acceptance of our whole selves and of others that we may struggle to match emotionally at times. As we enter this world and discover that there is so much more present here than we ever thought and more shockingly, that in some people’s minds what we find erotic is as shocking to them as we find someone calling a sexual partner Daddy or wanting to be beaten with a cane until the welts has risen red and raw on their backside. It is disorientating and we can struggle to recognise ourselves here.

I remember going on Fetlife for the first time and finding the language, the images, the desires expressed and even celebrated, so shocking. The pictures leapt off the screen, women and men in chains, hobbled, shackled, beaten, hooded, red bottomed and, most strangely, grinning with enjoyment. The comments under the images congratulatory and admiring about bruising and marks, remarking on endurance and creativity and no shame anywhere to be seen or felt as far as I could see. The personal autonomy and sense of ownership of sexuality was a revelation to me. The idea that women might masturbate for their own enjoyment possibly even whilst lying next to their partner with NO REQUIREMENT that they reserve this act for them or for when with them literally ate away at my concept of how relationships should be. The idea that in order to submit you had to have ownership of yourself in the first place rocked my world.

My understanding of people broadened as I embraced the concept of *YKINMKBYKIOK – *your kink is not my kink but your kink is OK. My whole approach to life was transformed by this when conjoined to the concept of Consent- ie the freedom to do what you want with whomever you want as long as permission is sought and given. It was heady stuff and still is. My conventional self will still not feel comfortable in the kink uniform of black and red with tattoos and piercings. It simply is not my style. But I will stand alongside my people and fight the new purity culture that seems to be headed our way because of a moral panic about what adults might do if they could and I guess that is fundamentally what has changed for me. I know which side of that particular argument I am on and why I consider it to be important. It is about liberty, autonomy and the right to be ourselves.

#SinfulSunday – sloth

New sheets of Egyptian cotton have made me fall in love with being in my bed again.  

It’s a place of retreat and the simple pleasure of being awake without having an agenda.  When it’s a shared place there is generally a shared agenda of pleasure and comfort. I can be pretty slothful though, and I dream of a weekend where I only leave it to fetch food and drink. How Sinful is that? 💋
Click on the lips below to see who else is being sinful today 

#SinfulSunday – pensive

#SinfulSunday is all about the image – and I love the opportunity to tease and play with you all. Sometimes though tea in bed with my sinful thoughts is as far as I can get. I would love to hear if you see a sin written on my face though 💋

Click on the lips below to see who is being sinful today

Sinful Sunday

Eroticon 2017 Virtual Meet and Greet

I am just a little bit excited about this year’s Eroticon.  It promises to be a wonderfully valuable experience and a lot of fun!

NAME (and Twitter if you have one)

My twitter is @_Masterseye, you can call me eye, He does.

What are you hoping to get out of Eroticon 2017?

This is my third Eroticon.  At the first one I decided to set my blog up, at the second one I decided to really get on board with writing and posting regularly, at this one I hope to develop the skills to move to self hosting and to have a real vision for what this blog could become.  I also am really looking forward to meeting those I have met on twitter this year and also the lovely people I met properly last year for the first time.

This years schedule at Eroticon is pretty full on but which 4 sessions do you already have marked down as ones you want to attend?

 I will definitely be at the rope session as I am @DJFet74’s rope bunny again – I adore that woman almost as much as I adore rope – which is a lot!!

@Domsigns tech workshop is a must for me as I really want to get to grips with WordPress and self hosting this year without compromising on my privacy.

Meg-John Barker’s session on autothenography will be fascinating and one that I want to participate for input to my MA in Creative Writing as well as this blog

@MalinJames’s writing session is also set in stone on my agenda and I know that I will crawl gratefully to @Kinkcraft’s making session for a mind calming session in their lovely company.

There are tons of others too, I know there won’t be a bad session amongst then so it is all good!

Tell us one thing about yourself that not many people know?

I was in a semi-pro 12 piece soul band in the 80s that supported Doctor Feelgood.

And I can’t add up for toffee, hence five sessions above and two facts here

If you made the papers, what would the headline be?

eye does it again!

If you could have one skill for free (I.e. without practice/time/effort) what would it be?

Deep throating without gagging.  My gag reflex is shocking and I once threw up over His lap – TMI?

Complete the sentence: I love it when…

I am in my flow, regardless of which aspect of my life I am in at the time.

Meet other Eroticon attendees here!

Eroticon 2017

Mum

I am losing her, even though I never had her really.  I always felt older than her, somehow more mature and capable, even as a young child.  I know she felt judged by me and it wasn’t helped by my close connection to my great aunt whose house we lived in for my first seven years, she was, I guess, my child mum, always girlish, and more so these days, light as the summer wind, you noticed when she wasn’t there.

A good looking girl too – the couple of photos I have seen from those days show a serious face, in fact now I think of it she is rarely photographed smiling or laughing from those times and now I know there were so many reasons for that.  Her dementia means the filters are slipping and her fears, her anxieties and ancient losses are what she gives tongue to now, she can’t swallow it anymore.

We had cousins and aunts and uncles to spare but rarely saw them.  Both of my parents came from fractured families.  My dad’s by the early death of his mother from TB which was followed by that of his sister.  His baby sister was placed with his maternal grandparents and the custody battle then ensued over her meant he didn’t see them or the place he had been brought up in again without the censure of his father.  He married again and I was brought up understanding at such a subliminal level that we were not the right grandchildren for the woman we called ‘Nan’.  We were inconvenient reminders of the fact that she was an older bride and mother who had married a widower after the war. There too soon and greedy for her son’s, our step-uncle’s sweets, reading his comics and drinking his Tizer.  My mum’s family were even more distant.  We were told that they weren’t very nice but to be honest thought that this was just our mum being fey again.  Until my uncle’s second marriage where my mum was surrounded by her oldest sister and niece and given a black eye in front of everyone for “Lookng at them.”.  The story that comes out now is heartbreaking .  My mum was sexually abused by my uncle and a friend. It went to court and she refused to speak and so the case was thrown out.  She was 9.

Now when she cries down the phone to me, saying “I can’t do it, I can’t do it.” I know I am hearing not the echoes of that time but the actual sound of her inability to process this level of abuse.  She was physically, emotionally and sexually abused.  Thrown out of her home on the death of her only protector, her father, aged 14. She was not mothered, she was not loved or cared for until she met my dad.

So now, my mum, when faced with not recognising my dad any longer is determined to leave home and find him.  She begs me to call him to ask him to have her back.  She is convinced that every social worker, nurse or doctor that comes to the house is there to ask her about her infidelity. She tells me that she wasn’t a very good mother and I lie and say ‘Yes, you were mum’ because I know what she means.  She knows that she didn’t know what to do.  She knows that she fell short of the unrealistic expectations we have of mothers.  She knows she didn’t teach me to read, or write, or ride a bike. She didn’t take me to museums or art galleries, or church or to the countryside.  She didn’t make me do my homework, or call the school to argue that I should be allowed to take German or even make sure I stayed on to 6th Form, or buy me a driving lessons, or teach me to cook and clean. But that’s because she wasn’t taught any of those things either.

What she did teach me was how to survive against the odds, how to absorb the blows and keep going, how to retreat from the pain of living and switch off your mind via TV.  How to work hard, expect little and receive even less.  And how to get to the end of a life determined to walk home to dad no matter how far.

 

I picture us in Paris

Apparently it’s good to picture things vividly that you would like to come to pass and so I picture us in Paris.  

We eat breakfast outside a cafe in Montmartre – the Spring sun cutting through clouds and shining on wet streets and into our sheltered corner.  Coffee, dark and sweet, and lovely crusty croissants with apricot jam, or blackcurrant, I don’t care, but His grin as He leans back on His chair and surveys me and the scene, Gaulouises in hand, is the thing I focus on.  We are at home, both happy, we’re doing our thing.
There will be a home for me.  Comfortable and sorted.  Wooden and tiled floors and rugs with a well supplied kitchen with a range. Two dogs and a cat to snooze in front of it and for the evenings when I curl up with my head in His lap and He strokes my hair, an open fire or wood burner.  There is no damp to Mar the beauty and it smells beautiful, of wood, and orange and lavender.  Painted furniture and soft leather sofas with feather cushions fill the rooms with art on the walls.  Beds have a head and footboard just right for tying and 100 thread Eqyptian white cotton bedlinen soothsayer us to sleep.   There is a sense of the past brought to the present and enjoyed.

We travel to snow painted fur trees with bright blue lakes beneath ice clad mountains. Brought by boatplane and clothed in goretex and fur.  Leatherclad feet warmed by woolen socks and a place to stop and just drink up and in.  A place to watch whilst one paints and another reads and writes.

We visit warm seas whose blue is indistinguishable from the bluest of skies, with white sands and heat that warms us through to our bones as we snooze beside a glorious view before a walk under starlit skies, following the moonpath on the sea to dinner of mussels and Chablis because it’s the law that if they are on the menu we have to order them.

A car, BMW, competent and appropriate and so reliable.  Starts everytime, no question, serviced in a garage on time, everytime.

Our evenings will be spent with music and fires.  There will be visits from family, at ease and happy.  We will provide good food, a comfortable atmosphere, laughter and fun.

There will be hand holding and no knickers. More grinning and hugging.  We will be us, free, just dicking about and being us.

I picture us this way.  I picture us in Paris. 

On truth

I like the me that writes.  She has a clear eye, she can see through the crowded landscape of feelings and thoughts and hurts to the heart of the matter. Through to what matters. The journey there is easy for her.  She doesn’t get caught up in what others  think or feel and knows in a place other than her mind what the truth is.  And even if that truth is not the consensus of opinions, she has enough about her not to be concerned about this. She knows and that is enough for her.

My other part is more conventional.  She can get hung up on what he, she and they said or did.  What was meant on the outside and how it contrasted with the inside and she will search out the gap between them so she can insert a mind like an oyster knife and shuck the white flesh out into the open to squirm and gasp in the light of day, whilst she interrogates it to find out what ACTUALLY happened.

The strange thing about this process is that it is ultimately unsatisfactory.  The truth does not possess the capacity to set us free, because beneath this exposed layer lies another and another and each reveal presents us with less to know and more to ask.  It is not the knowing that has the answer, it is asking the question itself.  Within that question is the seed of true knowledge, that of knowing what is important to us.  And more important still, what is not.

Recently my sons asked me about the extent of my infidelity regarding their father, prompted, I feel, by inappropriate sharing from him, but I would wouldn’t I? I knew that they did not want to know these facts no matter that it seemed so important at the time.  What they wanted to know was, was I still their mother.  Could I have done these things and still be their mother?  I could and was, of course but the fact that their father would have encouraged them to do this in the name of truth remains one of the most difficult aspects of an unpleasant separation for me to come to terms with.  Just who was served by this  ripping away of decency from the position of the moral high-ground?  And what was gained by whom, at what cost?

The desire to know the truth is not one that can be allayed by words no matter how revealing they are.  Truth lies within us, to be found and held close.  Truth is, I don’t care about what someone I love has done in the past, no matter how close.  What I care about is if I can I look in their eyes and see connection.  Can I feel them close when we are separated by miles?  Do my dreams and hopes have them in them?  Do they make my spirit soar and set my mind free?

This is the knowledge I need.

 

 

A tale of two courgettes

You asked for  a story didn’t you, and I wondered which one to tell you.  I should warn you this isn’t always a pretty tale. Don’t read this if you are in a long term relationship where you have a tacit agreement not to talk about what you really desire or if you instinctively know that opening that particular Pandora’s Box is not something you will do in this lifetime.  The view from this side of that activity can be a hair-raising read for some, and for others it is merely a record of someone experiencing the consequences of their behaviour. Do read this if your curiosity is awakened however. It’s a tale about curiousity, courage and exploration in an ordinary life.  Enough of these meanderings, pull up a seat, shall we begin?

I was at work, a perfectly ordinary day was happening around me, and yet I had a sense of something bigger than me happening at the same time.  Has that ever happened to you?  You know, simultaneously present in the moment yet at the same time being pulled out and into an expanding place. Somewhere you can feel yourself being pushed against the edges of normality where the status quo, all those unwritten laws about life you perhaps fought against when you were a teenager but accepted as part of the rite of passage into adulthood, is being stretched and pulled around. The close-woven fabric having to pull and expand, and the threads straining and gaping as it does so. A new space appears.  A liminal space.  A gap.

My phone and my attention to my phone was where that gap was happening.  I had begun an online conversation with someone about D/s, and over the weeks as we chatted, he was asking me questions, and paying attention to the answers and in this space, this nowhere space that didn’t exist, because online relationships and interactions are not real relationships and interactions are they? I found I could explore what I actually thought and felt.  Not what I felt was acceptable for me to feel as a wife and mother or even as a woman, but what as I felt as a person, a human being who had found herself in a female body and was sometimes perplexed by what that meant.  I had been married 22 years to a man I thought I adored and who I had met in a flurry of sexual excitement and need – in those heady days we did things that I hadn’t ever considered possible before.  We clicked speedily, completely, inexorably it felt. There was something so familiar and yet exciting about him.  A world of possibilities seemed to be in front of us and  yet over time I had struggled to continue to engage sexually.  I felt … used somehow … I noticed that I couldn’t speak up, that his ideas, wants and needs seemed so much more present and pressing than mine which went deep underground and I realised with a growing sense of emptiness that I was not equipped to mine that treasure.

This happens, I know it does, because what I am writing about here is a literary trope, a recognised relationship cycle; one that the magazines and books created to tell us how to have better and more loving and long-lasting relationships speak about endlessly and the answer to this difficulty is always talk about it.  But what if you can’t? What if at the centre of that relationship that all of your edifice stands upon is a tacit agreement not to speak of the places where you do not fit so easily? What if what you agreed to do when you said “I do” is to cover over and make do and to put up and shut up with it?  What happens when you realise you don’t want to do that anymore?  How does that even happen?

In my case the gap opened up in front of me like a moon path across the sea as I received a text telling me to go to my local supermarket and to buy courgettes and I walked onto it.  A simple enough task,  and relatively easy to complete. Except that it meant I had to have my own agenda for that hour.  Not to be at the service of others but to take that time for me and do with it what I wanted which was, ironically enough, to place it in someone else’s hands.  Some one who hadn’t been vetted and approved of by my husband.  Someone he didn’t know, someone who I was giving direct access to me, someone who I thought of far more than I should be, someone who I bizarrely had to come to trust.

The time I was taking wasn’t for virtuous activities like buying food for me to cook for dinner that evening.  It was selfish time, time for me, not so much forbidden as just plain unexpected. It was excruciatingly disruptive and so desirable.

I loved that gap, that guilty, illegal, stolen, seductive gap. and as it widened between my husband and me, between my persona as a good wife and mother, into it stepped someone I hadn’t seen for a very long time.  Me. Cleareyedgirl as I thought of her, eye as He called her, stepped out with a shocking assurance.  She looked around her with a slightly amused gaze.  She saw the man she was married to with a clarity that astonished me. She recognised his bullying, sulky neediness and called me on what I considered to be love.

I remember driving to Sainsburys with a strange sense of elevation.  Everything seemed brighter, more sharply contrasted.  I noticed cats on walls, people out walking dogs, postmen on rounds,ordinary circumstances given an edge, a shine that the world did not have earlier that morning but in which I was bathing now.  I wondered what would they make of my mission.  Was this something other people did or was it as special as I felt in this moment?

The message asked me to park as far away from the store in the car park as possible and I found a space at the top that had no cars around it.  As I strode into the store I barely noticed the people I passed and yet from this distance in time I have a sense of a man smoking as he leaned against a wall outside the doors that opened automatically to welcome me in.  I had been asked to buy two courgettes and then to take them to the toilets and place one in my pants before I returned to the car.  It seemed a strange thing to do, but as I paid for them I smiled a certain smile, something that has become to me now a kind of tell of  being in a state of submission.  It makes me smile.

The courgette felt strange as I touched it and even more so as I inserted it into my black pants. Shiny, smooth and cool to touch it gave a luxurious layer to my underwear and protuded cheekily behind me pushing out my trousers. I became so aware of my cunt, warm, wet and gliding around the slightly ridged intruder and my gait became extended to accommodate its bulk riding beneath me as I returned to my car.  The next message came as a shock and I gasped out loud as I read it.  “Lie your chair back and close your eyes and masturbate until you cum for me.” it read.  Time stood still as my brain sought to catch up with the implications of this request.  What if I was caught? What if someone saw me and reported me? What had I become? Into the flurry of mental activity stepped eye with her quicksilver responses and sure sense of priority – you want to do this, why not do it – she asked and so I obeyed, I submitted, I wound back the chair pushed my hands into my trousers and began to enjoy the sensations from my already primed clit.

The tap on the window startled me more than I can say. It abruptly called me back to the present and I turned to see a man I didn’t know, wearing a suit and smiling at me.  I immediately locked the doors fearing that I had alerted the local pervert and reached for the car keys. His grin widened, I noticed his eyes seemed to hold a sense of recognition and assurance in them.  He did not look like someone chancing his arm.  He looked very sure of himself and completely delighted. This look intensified as he pulled out from behind his back an A4 brown envelope with eye written upon it. I gasped again and instinctively opened the window as He gestured to me to do so. “Open the door then.” He said, and I did, so disorientated, that as I exited the car I banged my head on the opening . He reached forward and pulled me towards Him, His hand on the back of my neck in way that spoke of ownership and felt remembered rather than new  “Hello.” He said, and kissed me.  I melted into this kiss until the moment I remembered that I was married. Really, I forgot everything for the longest time and then pulled back in horror at the ease with which I had committed this infidelity.  Shocked at its sense of rightness and its inevitability.  I was left dazed as He spun on his heel calling “Bye” as he did, and I watched Him bounce down the hill grinning like a fox.

Its hard now to convey the importance of this moment for me. I sit here nearly 4 years on from it and wonder if I hadn’t gone what would my life be like now?  I learned later that He had made a 4 hour detour to execute this plan.  That His determination to have me made Him plan such an audacious moment, His grinning was confirmation of His instinct that I would be His.

His message as He left the car park read – “Never pull away from a kiss from me again eye please.”

And I never have. 💋❤💋

 

 

 

The Bolters Daughter

 

“When she pronounced my name however, one of them said,

“Not by any chance the Bolter’s daughter?”  Nancy Mitford – Love in a Cold Climate

I am a Bolter’s daughter – not in the same way as Nancy meant  – my mother has been married to the same man for 60 years this year, however the onset of her Dementia has brought this part of her self to the fore as her impulse control and social filters fade and her true feelings rise to the surface .  She likes to take off, walking quickly and determinedly to somewhere that it seems not even she knows for certain.  Usually though it’s through the tree-lined streets of the estate that they have lived in  since I was seven and out to the main roads, those arteries carrying people purposefully around the city, where she strides along hands in pockets and arm holding the bag slung over her shoulder tight into her side, with whatever treasures she has decided cannot be left for the people in the house who steal them this time.  Sometimes a slipper, the other one hidden carefully behind the sofa, at other times the flowered dressing gown she is so protective of but never wears. Rarely keys or purse or any other form of identification, she does not intend to come back I think.  She makes her getaway when the door is left unlocked, often just as the sun is going down.  The walking calms her she says.

These days she cannot hold in her response to difficult emotions, like a distraught child she repeats “no, no, no, no, no.” when faced with something that seems impossible to accept, like the idea that she might be ill, like the idea that she is home when the house no longer feels safe and secure, like the idea that my dad, is her husband, her real husband.

She is waiting for a version of my dad who is twenty years younger.  Her life was built around his timetable, she waited for him to come home after long days at a physical job with a hot meal and shopping done for his sandwiches the next day.  His agenda was hers, his life surrounded her, she waited, he rewarded the waiting, buying her whatever he wanted, whenever he wanted, offering agency, offering autonomy  whenever he felt like it. And she waited for those moments, seized her chances and bolted running free for precious moments until called back to the kitchen, the house, the garden or offered the opportunity to watch the soaps play out in a vacuous play of drama and excitement that never existed for her.

Why is it now that she can say “My life is just work, cooking and cleaning and gardening and I am fed up with it.”

Why only now can she say “I am fed up with men telling me what to do.”

The bolting reminds me of dimly remembered upset and her disappearance, and her being brought back like an escaping pony to a barn.  Sheepish and upset and mutinous.  We children would hide and try to forget it.  Successfully in the main until now.

I have bolted too. Unable to face my emotions, unable to stand up for myself.  The seeds of my relationship with my husband sown in those early years.  I look at my waiting, my building a life around his needs and wants, and him handing moments of autonomy to me like feeding an animal in a cage and I see that there was no changing that. No changing that at all.

I am a Bolters daughter.  My daughters are Bolters too.  Sometime in my family there will be a girl that will not get in that cage regardless of the treasure offered.  She will scream and kick the door down first.  She will not come when the bucket is rattled and no one will rattle a bucket for her.  She will belong to herself first.