Friday, 29 August 2008


I am in danger of succumbing to the blues.

All work and no play has made Luka as grumpy as fuck. The crotchety old ratbag.

I have some time off coming up in a couple of weeks. I really, really need some fun, some rest, some relaxation, some joy.

If you had fuck all spare cash but time aplenty, what would you do with yourself?

Best suggestions will be blogged for your entertainment.

Thursday, 28 August 2008

Luka Smells

I have a sensitive nose. My other senses may not be perfect but my ability to detect and identify the most subtle of scents is impressive.

Like many others I find scent to be the most vivid way to recall a place, a time, a person. A certain smell will immerse me in the past with an immediacy that words, images or sounds just cannot match.

I wear different fragrances for different moods. Light and refreshing when I need to be energised, sultry, headier mixes for when I want candlelight, wine and passion.

I wonder if someone, somewhere, has walked down the street, caaught a hint of a familiar perfume and was transported, instantly, back to my Boudoir, to me?

I do hope so.

Monday, 25 August 2008


There's a lot of it about at the moment.

Blogs on hiatus, the pause button pressed, while bloggers go on holiday, move home, deal with traumas, issues and angst, build a shed, put up some shelves, bath the cat or whatever it is they have to do that means they won't be able to post for a while.

So, it is with great regret at my lack of an offline life, that I now inform you that I am not going anywhere.

I am here for the forseeable and will continue to bring you high quality swearing and judgementalism for the months ahead.

Please leave your "oh my god, I am so not going to miss you at all!" comments below.

Saturday, 23 August 2008

Acid Drops

It is very important to stay grounded when you are a popular and successful blogger such as myself.

It would be so easy to let the glitzy lifestyle and glittering comments go to my head.

So I periodically remind myself that not everyone thinks I'm great. Some people think I am a colossal twat and are not afraid to say so.

Here are some of my favourite arsey comments from the archives:

  • Don't you just love the way that a post - nay, a blog - that targets blog cliquiness has managed to build its own clique of resolutely non-cliquey folk, busily deriding every perceived clique, other than, er, that is, their own. Ironic.
  • Defensive responses merely seek to confirm your role as someone who may indeed have A Levels in insensitivity, Thatcharism and general all-around nastiness.
  • You're a terrible writer.
  • Have you ever considered writing out your blogreading requirements and issuing them to bloggers in advance? Surely this would help with the clearly onerous and unrewarding task of having to force your way through disappointing writing.

    I'm sure if people knew what your requirements were, they would strive to meet them, because after all, the petulant reader should never be neglected.

    Alternatively, you could try getting out more.
  • wank me off
  • If you really want to do this sort of thing properly, why not try the pub car park at closing time? It would be more dignified ...
  • Yawn. Another insecure twatess smugly showing her ego to the world.
  • That's the risk one takes when associates with ungracious brats.

  • Ad Hominem? Oh, I'm sorry, I've obviously misunderstood. I've seen so many personal attacks on here over the months I thought it was the done thing. Clearly, the rules are not what they would appear. Not for me, in any case.

How about you, though? Do you have a comments box overflowing with soft centres of sugary goodness, or do you find the occasional acid drop lurking in the layers?

Wednesday, 20 August 2008

What Do You Want, A Fucking Medal?

Well, there you go.


In a Speedo swimsuit.

That is the best I could come up with for the HNT Olympics theme. It has been a very busy week and I am not what you might term "sporty".

I did consider bending over and claiming to be Mount Olympus, but even that felt like too much of a workout. Mind you, wriggling into the swimming costume in the first place worked up a bit of a sweat.

I am off to recline on a lilo, with a long, cool drink in hand. Now if that qualified as an Olympic sport I could really go for gold.

Tuesday, 19 August 2008

The Thrill of Discovery

I'm not perfect, I've never denied it
Name a sin and I've probably tried it
If I choose to decline
To post details online
It does not mean I'm trying to hide it.

I work on the assumption that somebody who knows me in my Real Life (tm) will at some stage read this blog.

It is partly, but not solely, why I try to be respectful of my loved ones at all times. I allude to my failings, my indiscretions and vices, but I don't go into details that may hurt another should they chance upon this information unexpectedly, online. I will discuss such things in email or chat, but not for public entertainment.

I am often surprised at how much people reveal about themselves on ordinary, safe for work blogs, but the things that are put into the public domain on sex blogs go beyond surprise and venture into astonishment territory. It is not simply the ill advisedness of some of the material, but the unthinking callousness of it. The lack of empathy for those who might read by chance one day and be cut to the quick by the facts of their private life laid bare for others to dissect. The casual cruelty of elevating a lover to a higher status, the paeans of praise, the weekends away while the other half was at home minding the kids, the money spent on hotel rooms and sex toys while they were at the supermarket dithering over which economy brand washing powder to buy. The posts on the tightness and novelty of a cunt which is deemed superior to that which only squeezed out their children. The posts on the longing for their lover and the distress and disappointment of waking next to their husband. These posts are written while in the post-coital glow and without a thought for how their real life partners will feel - and given the statistics it is more likely to be a "when" than an "if" - upon reading them.

There have been so many sex blogs which have been through just that and had to shut down, fast. Often they reappear, with a new name, but the same material, and the cycle repeats. Is it stupidity or the thrill of discovery that motivates these people?

Sadly it is an example very few seem to learn from. No matter how often a blog vanishes, after its tawdry tales of illicit sex are read by a disgruntled spouse or partner, new ones spring up every day with their self justifications of unfulfillment at home, lurid descriptions of infidelity glorified and pictures to illustrate. The photos are what perplex me most. Just in case a passing spouse wasn't entirely sure their other half was shagging their way through most of blogland, a photo of their genitals, a familiar hand with identifying wristwatch, a distinctive mole, an unmistakeable location - all these visual clues will quickly help to confirm the shakiest of suspicions. Why post them at all? Seriously, does anyone know? Is it to prove that their lover is not a mutant, and has got all the rude bits you would expect plus the requisite number of limbs? Is it a form of trophy? "Look, I have done it! I have been in the vicinity of this arse and here is the proof! Am I not a sexual deity? Other people let me near their arse!"

Answers to the usual address in the comments below, please.

Sunday, 17 August 2008

Giving to Receive

I have known him for over half of my lifetime. We see each other every day.

Yet, at the prospect of some rare time alone together, I was still as excited as I would be at the thought of seeing a long distance lover.

My preparation began in the morning, in the shower. My anticipation continued through my working day. Once he was on en route to me I raced upstairs to change into something wildly impractical and uncomfortable and waited for him, alluringly, among the playthings I had so carefully selected and arranged in advance.

It was worth the time and effort. What transpired upon his arrival in the Boudoir would be worthy of a Fleshbot, Sugasm listing and some sort of award from the Sauce Board for the kind of mind-blowing kinky sex that can be heard from space, if I were the sort to pen such intimate details.

Luckily for you I shall draw a discreet veil over the sticky bits and move straight on to the cosy cuddling up afterwards with a good curry and a DVD.

That's what I call a good night in with the other half.

Do I sound smug? I suppose I might do. There are a lot of sex blogs that wax lyrical about the pleasures of a lover. Tales of hotel room encounters and stolen moments. There is much crowing about capabilities, much strutting and posturing over sexual prowess. There are blogs which feature a different partner in every titillating post. In the Boudoir I like to redress the balance and remind everyone that excitement, passion, creativity and great big duvet dousing orgasms are not the sole domain of the illicit lover.

It takes more effort, of course. You can't just opt out of your responsibilities and bugger off for a bit, while claiming to be at a conference, for example. You have to take care of the mundanities of everyday life in order to clear a space for hedonism and that is sometimes hard work. Of course, that is why it is so much easier not to bother sometimes, lament that something is missing and go looking for an instant fix.

The problem with that, though, is that you still have to return to your real life at some point. A temporary time out doesn't mend whatever is broken at home.

Now, I know kinky sex and curry isn't the answer to all marital difficulties, but I do feel that any sort of effort has got to be beneficial. Some bloggers invest so much in a lover, not just having their affairs, but paying for hotel rooms, gifts, meals and so on, and then writing them up in lurid detail afterwards that I wonder how much equivalent time, money and attention they have left to give at home. But that is the drawback of judging people from what you read on blogs, as what you see is completely one-sided.

I can only try to learn from my own mistakes and be grateful that I am fortunate enough to have a husband who wants to make the effort too.

Update: Since publishing this post I have had an online chat with Mystery Blogger Q who says that I come over as sanctimonious. I would just like to re-iterate that I hold these opinions because of the choices I have made myself, sometimes ill-advised ones. I am not, in this post, "berating" people for having affairs, for that would be hypocritical of me. I am, rather, saying that giving an equal level of care and attention to one's spouse as one would to a lover is a mutually beneficial act that reaps dividends. I've gone on about this before, I know, here and here.

Friday, 15 August 2008

Instant Happy

This time last week I was feeling down. I even wrote a poem about it in a moment of goth-like angst.

This week I am feeling the giddy rush of new love.

I have the most fabulous new shoes! They are red. And summery. And they make me really, really tall, so that I have to duck to enter doorways.

I feel magnificent when I wear them. An Amazon. "Talk to the bosoms," I boom from above, "cos the face is busy."

It may be shallow and somewhat girly of me to have my mood lifted by footwear but it's cheaper than drugs, easier on my liver than alcohol and certainly better for my figure than ice cream. I am not going to give you fifty reasons why shoes are better than men because that sort of thing has been done to death already and also because I would have to qualify it with the fact that there are, in fact, some men who look just as good at my feet.

Thursday, 14 August 2008


That's what it said on the packaging. "Nude".

The actual shade is akin to all those other variants on the flesh colour theme - tan, bare, natural - in that it is nothing like any human skin tone in existence. It is the kind of colour that an alien might think humans are if they had never actually met one and their only source of reference was a broken television with the colour saturation permanently set to extreme orange. It is much like "flesh" coloured Elastoplasts or hideous surgical appliances that have been rendered a kind of dirty salmon hue in the misguided belief that this makes them less obvious on the body than something in a nice shade of blue or something.

Actually, in these photographs the stockings don't look too bad. They are not the same tone as my lily-white thighs, or more tanned hands, of course, but then again my natural skin doesn't have flowery patterns or a slight gloss sheen either, so maybe I am being too picky.

Bruise Update:
As you can see my bruise has now entirely faded. I never did know for certain what caused it but I enjoyed Angela-la-la's suggestion a great deal. It involved all my favourite elements - an abused cucumber, alcohol and lard. She therefore wins my special prize of a virtual tiara, bunch of flowers and a bottle of Taboo.

If you've been affected by any of the issues in this blog post you can call Luka's Bruise Hotline or contact my Flesh Tone Support Group. Calls cost 50p a minute and may be monitored for training purposes, or just for a bit of a laugh.

Tuesday, 12 August 2008

Condensed Blog #3

The third in an occasional series aimed at the busy reader who simply hasn't the time to plough through lengthy posts on other blogs. No time to catch up with the latest in personal abuse, blog drama and blatant mischief-making? Well worry not, I am here to encapsulate the experience for you in one easy-to-swallow tablet.

Polymorphously Adverse

You're a Very Naughty Blogger and I, Personally, Don't Like You

I personally find this kind of pseudo schoolgirl smut utterly abhorrent. There I was expecting some full on tits and arse with this week's Shitasm list (fuck knows I don't read that dross, but I do like to look at the pictures to help crack one off) and instead I see that Naughty Blogger has changed the anticipated image to one that she prefers. She is worse than Hitler.

Now, I personally don't like Naughty Blogger. The reasons why are none of your business and not important, but what is your business and very important is that you know I don't like her, personally. I don't mind grown women getting their tits out but to encourage models to pander to these kind of deviant tastes is just revolting. These models are not only trying their best to look underage but they are also obviously men. Not a genuine knocker to be seen, and you know how much I crave tits. Never mind barely legal, these are barely convincing. This is a violation of the worst kind. And exploitative too. Probably. Personally, I have gone right off Naughty Blogger. You might like her, but, personally, I don't and I hope you all know it.

Posted by Randy O. Gitt at past afternoon nap time

Labels: You're either a slut with fantastic knockers who is prepared to get them out, or you're against me. Which is it?

Condensed comments:

"Underage porn bad!"

"All porn bad!"

"But those models are not underage and porn is not inherently bad. Telling the world you don't like another blogger, personally, muddies the waters unnecessarily."

"It's great that we have the freedom of speech to discuss this issue! Randy will be thrilled to see all the traffic debate he has generated when he gets back from his nap! Rock on!"

"I didn't like the picture because I am a parent."

"What the fuck are you banging on about?"

"It's the school uniforms, they make me uncomfortable. Won't somebody please think of the children?"

"You're a nutter. Anyway, the picture itself shouldn't be an issue. The fact is the models are legal, the picture is legal, it appeals to some, no harm done. I happen to think all porno pics on blogs are lame and wanky but I don't go around slagging off every dullard who thinks they need to illustrate their post with a pair of tits or we'll forget what they look like. OMG, maybe that's why Randy does it, in case he really does forget what they look like... "

"Leave Britney alone! Leave Britney ALONE!"

"Normally I'd tear strips off someone for this kind of publically posted, thinly-veiled personal attack and not permit myself or any of my friends to sully themselves by associating with such a shallow, offensive individual. But then you call me a slut and I wriggle in pleasure and forgive you anything. Smoochies."

"But surely the issue is still that we are free to post whatever imagery we like as long as no harm is being done and that making it a personal attack upon someone is a bit wanky?"


"Wow. It is so cool that we are free to have this kind of debate. Randy's just being helped out of his bath so will be here soon to join in the discourse! Rock on readers!"

"I think Randy's a tosser."

"So do I!"

"It's great that blogging gives us the freedom to air our opinions so freely! Freedom of speech is so cool. In that free spirit the comments are now closed, before anyone freely says something Randy might regret. Rock on!"


(Picture credit: Mandy T*Girl - a fine looking schoolgirl, in my opinion)

Monday, 11 August 2008

Ribbons of Cream

I stood in the toiletries aisle of the supermarket and blinked at the product on the shelf before me.

It says much for my current state of mind that I immediately interpreted "cream ribbons" as something depraved and filthy.

If you read "body wash plus cream ribbons" and do not visualise milky strands spurting over wet skin then you are probably better adjusted than I.

What pornographic products have you spotted at the shops lately?

Thursday, 7 August 2008


Yes, it's Mystery Bruise Competition Time!

I was fondling my thighs the other evening (it is hard not to when they are exposed in a short nightgown, they being so soft and squidgy, like a couple of giant marshmallows - they are a great comfort) when I discovered a tender spot.

I leaned forward and peered at the bruise blooming on my thigh with interest.

I never have the slightest idea how I obtain the numerous and varied bumps and scrapes I seem to accumulate on my limbs. I am obviously a clumsy drunk blessed with sensitive flesh that bruises easily. Perhaps a butterfly landed heavily or something.

So, send in your best guesses as to what caused this particular bruise and the one that seems the most Luka-like will win a special prize!*

* Definitions of "special" may vary.

Tuesday, 5 August 2008

Shove It

I pushed her and then she fell in
And I know I've committed a sin
I wasn't sure that I'd dare
But I saw her stood there
So I pushed her and then she fell in.

I pushed her and then she fell in
And I know that's a bad way to win
But she said she didn't care
Stuck her nose in the air
So I pushed her and then she fell in.

I pushed her and then she fell in
And I know that it's not right to grin
But she asked for it, I swear
She drove me to despair
So I pushed her and then she fell in.

Sunday, 3 August 2008

Tell Me Why

I have been watching with interest the way in which the sex blogging feudal system community has reacted to my assertion that I could never be a sex blogger.

In my preceding post I set out why I, Luka, grumpy old ratbag and unsharing, uncaring harpie, am not about to pimp my passion for hits.

I did not write a post entitled "Why You, Personally, Shouldn't Be a Sex Blogger" yet from some reactions thus far you would think that is exactly what I did. The compulsion to justify, testify, tell me why, has now even spawned a meme.

There will now be a rash of not particularly illuminating "I am a sex blogger because I love writing about sex, me" type posts and it is all my fault.

That said, I am possibly being unfair and maybe I will learn something new.

I have my own theories, of course, on why some sex bloggers post things that I feel would be better kept between lovers, or possibly medical professionals, and I will be watching closely to see if anyone will be brave enough to 'fess up fully.

Friday, 1 August 2008

I Will Never Be a Sex Blogger Because.... #1

I won't tell you how it was, what we did, why it happened.

There will be no descriptions of erotic entanglement. I am not going to wax lyrical about my cunt, his cock, her nipples or the force and frequency of my orgasms.

The intimate moments I have experienced are not for mass distribution. I have no need of a panel of judges holding up score cards on my performance. I don't need someone to tell me it was hot, arousing or beautiful to know that it was these things.

I take out my memories and hold them up to the light, now and then, and they sparkle and shine just for me. I treat them with care, tend them well. I keep the pages of my history crisp and clean, not dog-eared and grimy after being riffled through by numerous unwashed hands.

I have no desire to show people I have never met what my genitals look like. Or what my sexual partner's genitals look like. Or what I stuck up their arse.

Some things are just for me. Just as some things should be kept just for you. Sharing is not always good.