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.

Thursday, 6 February 2014


I'm not one for labels.

There are some who place value on a designer brand whereas I will happily slouch my way around Matalan or Primark placing value on the fact I can get two tops for a fiver.

Similarly, there are those who place value on a personal brand, a categorisation of the self, an all encompassing heading for their lifestyle choice. It could be political, familial, or professional but as this is the Boudoir I shall dwell on the sexual.

Maybe it's a sign of the times, perhaps it is good that we are all so much more enlightened these days, but the proliferation of sexual labels sometimes has me bewildered. I have to go and look things up. I read a post and think "I don't want to offend you but I don't even know what that is." When I was growing up you were either straight, queer or pervy. That was it. I liked the Rocky Horror Picture Show so I knew which camp I fell into and all was well.

Of course we have all moved on since the 1970s and now when I peruse the internet, reading bios, checking out blogs, I find that there are multitudes of sexual labels, covering everything from polyamorous transgendered  feminist spoon lickers to omnisexual fur positive cream cheese activists. (To further complicate matters some labelists prefer their own pronouns and get really upset if you drop a "he" or "she"bomb into the conversation. This is a tough as I am only labelled "human" and tend to make gender assumptions based on someone having either tits or a beard. Having both makes things terribly confusing but does provide ample opportunity for outraged tweeting, so at least somebody is having fun.)

Admittedly these subdivisions are less common than the all-pervasive Sub and Dom labels which have sprouted up online like dandelions on a lawn. I can see that a label is a convenient shorthand for selecting like minded companions but at the same time it's very restrictive. It's self limiting and, for me at any rate, dull. How uninspired to only like one variety of interaction from the vast selection available. Rejecting "vanilla" and forgetting that spicy is indeed a wonderful thing but works best in contrast. Vindaloo every day is hot stuff but you'll soon crave a sorbet, possibly around your ringpiece.

To return to an earlier blog theme, I blame 50 Shades of Shite and easily accessed generic "kink" on the internet. It replaces imagination in the unimaginative. Look at the Twitter Dom avatar uniform, for example. (Suits and ties are not the only fruit.) And don't get me started on all the boring submissive pics. (Shaven minges and visible ribs are not the only body type.) It can all feel so joyless at times which is a shame as the reality where I'm concerned has much more laughter and silliness in it.

As for me, I shall continue to resist being labelled. Other than as a grumpy old rat bag and cynic, of course.

Monday, 3 February 2014


I'm disillusioned with it all
I can't find what I'm looking for
My progress has slowed to a crawl
I'm wedged in life's revolving door

I'm searching for a missing link
I'm hunting for a vital clue
So small I'll miss it if I blink
A sign, a signal, what to do?

Can tweets and texts and Facebook friends
Help me vent my pent up tensions
Or will I find when blogging ends
I need fun in three dimensions?

Monday, 27 January 2014

The Experiment Continues

I am enjoying my anti anti ageing experiment. My newly cropped silver-streaked locks have brought me nothing but compliments and a more efficient use of shampoo. I am free from the tyranny of hair dye and now skip merrily past the boxes of permanent colour in the supermarket, saving precious time and money for spending on essentials like wine.

Flushed with success (and possibly wine) I decided to take my all natural hair out to a party over the weekend.

As I stood in my bedroom in my robe, pondering what to wear, I realised that I now faced a new dilemma. If I was a young 20something my pants would be sexy, alluring and small. Not huge, industrial and the same surface area as a bed sheet (king size).

Of course I am not a young 20something, I am a 40something woman and proud of it. I have silver bits in my hair. I boast about my anti anti ageing experiment. But if I go to a party in enormous pants and get lucky will my intended paramour be deterred? Or would they relish the challenge?

A wisp of lace looks ever so pretty but it does leave your belly and butt to fend for themselves. That's fine when they are non existent but when they have a sizeable presence, perhaps even their own postcode and gravitational pull, you need something more substantial. Otherwise you could end up way beyond muffin top territory and find yourself in cottage loaf land.

In the end I went with the mega huge control pants of doom, that squidge everything in, swaddle the wobble, and come up to my armpits. I didn't feel particularly sexy but I did feel like I'd just donned a wetsuit and was therefore confident I would be all right on the flooded roads into town.

The party went well, the control pants protected my borders and I did not get lucky at all. Was it the pants, the way I felt about my pants, or the fact I stayed sober? I shall have to experiment further.