Saturday, 16 April 2016

Where the fuck have you been?

It's a good question, one that remains both unasked and unanswered.

I found myself back in here by chance. A random comment on Facebook led to a dormant synapse suddenly jolting back into life and firing off a brief, brilliant memory of The Improbable Adventures of Hermione Saucebucket. Suitably inspired, I logged into the blog to revisit what I wrote back in 2008. Was it as much fun as I remembered?  The answer, of course, is yes. My take on a bodice-rippingly good romp is still better than 97% of other erotic fiction online and the humour is intentional. And spelled correctly. 

In short, I am now in the fervent grip of passion, a desire to write more improbable adventures. When we last encountered Hermione Saucebucket she was taking the bull by the horns in a field, with her picnic -  and pants -  in disarray. I really should write her into a few more historical escapades. (They have to be historical as the bloomer element is very important to me.) 

Audience* participation bit: Where should her next adventure take place? Vote now!

  1. In the library
  2. On a train
  3. Norwich
  4. At the circus
  5. Behind the sofa
*Yeah, yeah, I know everyone's fucked off but it doesn't matter as I'd have rigged the vote anyway.

Monday, 10 November 2014


As any woman with an online presence will know, there are times when you receive messages from men who have clearly handed over editorial control to their gonads.

Such communications vary in quality, from the obvious, but forthright "I really want to fuck you" to the more eloquent, poetical efforts of the horny intellectual, but the sentiment remains the same.

Which is all well and good. Much as I do in the rest of life I ignore the stuff that bores me and engage with the bits that pique my interest. So that's how I found myself bursting the erotic bubble of someone I have known for a very long time last night, as they allowed their gonads to urge them to speculate upon my ladyparts.

As seduction scenarios go it was off to a poor start. They began by telling me about their afternoon spent with their spouse, shaving each other's pubic areas. The both like to be smooth, apparently. This was information that didn't interest me so I failed to respond.

Undeterred, my correspondent's gonads spurred him on to try to elicit a response by asking me if I would like to rub moisturiser into his newly shaven bits.

Normally I would give an honest response like "about as much as I want to massage lard into a freshly plucked chicken" but I couldn't be arsed to type it all out.

Remarkably this lack of enthusiasm on my part still didn't douse the flames of passion.  My continued silence was, presumably, only because he hadn't asked the right question yet.

"What do you do to keep smooth?" he typed.

How presumptuous. Fair play though, he had finally engaged me in the conversation.

"I don't. Shaving sucks."

This was not the sexy comeback he had hoped for, involving being waxed by nymphs and oiled by acolytes.

"But I thought you kept yourself smooth!" he bleated (if one can be said to bleat in text and I think this qualifies).

I was obscurely offended by this.  I have never felt it necessary to display a label stating "contents may differ from your imagination" as it seems somewhat obvious. And what on earth does he mean by "smooth"? I disliked the implication that I was lacking in the tactile department. There is a very good reason why people like to pet warm, furry things. It feels nice.

I may not be bald as a Barbie beneath my gusset but I'm not rough as a badger's arse either.  You can happily brush against my groin without snagging your clothing, laddering your tights or drawing blood. It is a soft, velvety haven a thousand times more pleasing to the senses than the bumpy, stubbly awfulness that ensues if I am foolish enough to shave. Besides, I am a very busy woman. Who has time to faff about maintaining a "smooth" surface on their pudenda? Surely it's only an option if you have a lot of time on your hands and the kind of peachy, downy blonde fuzz that doesn't grow back as the kind of coarse, scratchy, dark stubble that brunettes like me can use to scour roasting tins? How is the latter a sexier option than a glossy, luxuriant, gorgeous-smelling ladygarden that you can picnic in?

I explained all of this, in quite a lot of detail. I believe you should never waste an opportunity to educate and inform.

"Have you tried waxing?"

It is not possible to kick someone in their freshly shaved bollocks over the internet and this is a technological breakthrough I await with some eagerness. It is, however, possible to just switch off someone's access to you in chat and take the piss out of them on your blog so all is not lost.

Tell me, I am curious, what is the pubic fashion these days? I am very much hoping that it is  following the hipster trend for massive beards and women everywhere can enjoy the same benefits of a razor-free existence.

Saturday, 3 May 2014

Gothic Tendencies

I have them.

I can't always indulge them, of course. I am a mature woman with a responsible job and I need to project a professional image. At work I may wear a skull print scarf or some subtle spider earrings to satisfy my inner Morticia but am otherwise unremarkably clad.

Social events can often be unsuitable for fishnet bodystockings or jaunty top hats. It is easy to feel a little out of place if you're just doing lunch with the girls or going for a curry and a pint, so it tends to be a rare occasion when I can delve into the dressing up box and pretend I'm in a Tim Burton film.

It's a shame really, as the dishevelled hair and smudged lipstick look, so beloved of my long-time hero, Fat Bob, is just perfect for those mornings-after-the-night-before and effortless to achieve.*

*Just add Pinot Grigio.

Saturday, 5 April 2014


When I was a starry-eyed teenager, wrestling daily with the emotional demands of unstable hormones, mysterious passions and unrequited love, I longed for the day when everything would settle down, the storm would pass and I would be sailing serenely on the calm waters of adulthood.

I felt sure I would grow into a wise woman, and that by 40, unthinkable as it seemed then, I would be far beyond the cruel torments of insatiable desires.

Oh, 15 year old Luka, you know nothing.* In 30 years time you will be exactly the same idiotic dreamer, just less spotty and somewhat heavier.

Then again, while I still often wish I could be more sensible, I am unconvinced I'd be any happier if I were. The downs make the highs so much higher and at least I get to travel.

*If you read this is in a "You know nothing, Jon Snow" style voice, Game of Thrones stylie you win a bonus point and a chocolate button.

Sunday, 2 March 2014

Who to follow

Twitter likes to make suggestions as to who I might like to follow, given my eclectic mix of oddballs I choose to socialise with online.

I look at their proffered list and am grateful they are not a dating site trying to find me potential suitors,  for they are consistently off the mark.

Granted I am very picky and only want to follow people who are genuinely interesting, and preferably able to make me laugh, which is a hard quality to detect from just a small picture and a user name. Yet surely I don't follow enough submissive females to warrant the deluge of suggested subs to follow in my Twitter feed? It's like Fetlife exploded in my sidebar. A cropped close up of a ballgag here, some spiked heels there, cleavage, bum cheeks, handcuffs and lipgloss everywhere. It's all aimed at a specific target audience and I am so not it. I am not wearing a suit in my profile pic for a start.  I am not aroused by their photos of glamour models culled from someone else's Tumblr or intellectually challenged by motivational sayings in pretty colours about what a real dom/sub should be .Nor do I give one shiny shit whether they are "naughty" and if I were to slap them it wouldn't be in a sexy way. In short, it is not a good match.

The problem is that I follow people who do follow these kinds of Tweeters, presumably because they have got a suit and hope to one day find out if the arse in the profile pic is actually attached to the person doing the typing. It is quite apparent to me that I need to follow a lot more grumpy old ratbags who like wine, swearing and general silliness to generate the kind of suggestions I might be inclined to follow.

Wednesday, 19 February 2014


Dear Luka

I am in turmoil
I am lost and I'm confused and need your help

Oh Luka

It makes my blood boil
It makes me whinge and whine and positively yelp

Dear Luka

I'm on the rebound
And I thought that you might help me to forget

Hey Luka

Look at what I found
In my trousers, can you see what it is yet?

Dear Luka

I need your advice
I'm a tortured soul who no one understands

Hi Luka

I never think twice
Before leaving this in your capable hands

Dear Luka

It's not that I mind
The thought that you might have some difficulties too

But Luka

I think that you'll find
That if you're not there for me someone else will do

Monday, 10 February 2014

The Body Confidence Crisis

I may have to stop using Twitter. Or at least stop following accounts that tweet and retweet endless pictures of the same woman. And never look at Tumblrs, is my advice.

She's not literally the same woman, that would be bizarre, even by internet standards. But the same archetype, the flat-bellied, shaven-havened 20-something.

I have always been a grumpy old ratbag about this sort of thing but recently I seem to have reached new levels of dislike for "perfect" bodies cluttering up my monitor. It is no coincidence, of course, that I feel particularly strongly about diversity in erotic imagery given that I currently feel about as far from the industry standard as I can be without actually growing a beard.

Let's see, when compared with generic "sexy" pics:
  • I have a belly. We've been through a lot together, my belly and I. It has faint silver lines upon it from when it had to accommodate my growing baby all those years ago. When I lie down you cannot see my pelvic bones jutting out but you can see a 3D version of the Malvern Hills, in flesh.
  • I have hair. The odd one or two have turned silver. I used to try to conform and shave off my pubic hair but, to be honest, I could never get that smooth effect seen so commonly in  erotica. I diligently read all the top tips on avoiding razor rash and ingrown hairs and my mons still looked like an ineptly plucked chicken. Then I thought, why am I wasting so much time and energy on this, the endless maintenance, putting my back out in a contorted effort to shave my own arsehole? Surely there is more to life than this? So I put down the razor and the hand mirror and decided that if any love interest of mine can't negotiate a bit of hair he's not the man for the job in the first place.
  • Which leads on to labia. I look at most of these photos and wonder where they are. It's like an endless array of fleshlight close-ups. Theirs all look like perfect pecan nuts and mine's like a badly packed kebab.
  • I have thighs, big ones.
  • Ditto bingo wings.
  • I am not dainty, I tower over most men and easily outweigh them.
  • I won't kneel.
Usually such differences don't bother me, I know that the reality for most of us is far removed from the carefully staged imagery we're presented with for entertainment purposes. Maybe I am at a sensitive age, maybe it's because I had my uterus removed last year and it left me wondering how my sexuality would be affected, if at all, maybe it's because I am looking at the wrong stuff in the wrong places, but I just seem to be particularly vulnerable to self doubt at the moment.

I am open to suggestions as to how to overcome this. In the meantime I'm off to try to find my own methods of feeling better about it all.