Monday, 10 November 2014

Smooth

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

Crushed

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

Agony

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

Labels

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

Disillusioned

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.


Sunday, 19 January 2014

Bad Fiction

I have not read it myself, only extracts or various spoofs, but there is no denying the influence 50 Shades of Grey has had in certain quarters. While on the one hand I'm pleased that this popularity and acceptance of erotica has helped other, better authors to reach new audiences, on the other I am dismayed by the number of women I'd hitherto thought of as relatively intelligent suddenly declaring their quest for a real life Mr Whippy, or whatever the fuck he was called.

I just don't know how to react to these statements. Why go searching for real life equivalents of poorly written fictitious characters when real life is full of poorly realised actual people?  My understanding is that 50 Shades of Grey first came into being as Twilight fanfic and that was bad enough. Anyone who can get off on the concept of vampires who spend their time either sparkling or sulking needs a slap. Which of course they would like, as long as it is from a twinkly twat or millionaire misogynist. Bafflingly, hordes of middle aged women seem to be Twilight/Shades of Grey fans and suddenly the internet is full of wannabe subs looking for a dom with a helicopter. I fear disappointment ahead for all concerned. I enjoy fantasy as much as anyone but if I were to go looking for a unicorn I'd be hard pressed to find anything closer in real life than a horse with an icecream cone on its head. Entertaining but not the same thing as I'd imagined.

If you are one of the many looking for your real life dominant hero then consider this. There are plenty of men out there who will happily smack you on the arse with a hairbrush and ask you to call him "Sir", but how many are also devilishly handsome, charismatic, fabulously wealthy and own a helicopter? The reality is you may find someone who is awesomely skilled with a roll of bondage tape and a spatula but they may also be balding, overweight, short, skinny, unemployed or a member of parliament. Will they still hold the same appeal for the Twilight/Shades of Shite enthusiasts once things move past the online stage?

No, leave Mr Grey on the page where he belongs. Better still, in the bin. On fire. There is no real life equivalent and for that I am grateful.

Saturday, 11 January 2014

Attention!

In my childhood I, like many others of my generation, had penpals. There was a great sense of anticipation when waiting for the postman to deliver another batch of colourful letters, large curlicue script laboriously handwritten onto brightly coloured paper. It was a time when you could buy stationery sets with co-ordinated writing paper and envelopes and someone like me would be happy to receive such a gift.

Times have moved on and there is no place now for the handwritten letter. Penpals have been replaced with Facebook friends or Twitter followers. A three page missive complete with doodles and inkblots has now been supplanted with six word tweets, a click on a "like" button or a text.

These all have their place and I do like the instant gratification that comes with social media but I really miss the luxury of literacy. When letters became passé I took comfort in the lengthy email exchanges I used to enjoy but now even these have dwindled as more and more people forsake the effort of composing anything longer than a paragraph in favour of electronic grunts.

According to the media we all have reduced attention spans these days. They blame the MTV generation for the current state of play and point to the ever decreasing amount of time people are prepared to dwell on any one aspect of online interaction. There has been a weird devolution down from emails, forums and blogging down to Facebook updates, to Tweets and on to Tumblr and Pinterest pages where people don't post words at all a lot of the time. Even a two minute video on Youtube can be a bit much for some and the six second Vine is an improvement. All in the name of keeping things fresh, fast moving and therefore entertaining.

I'm not sure whether it is because I am a contrary old bat or if I am just a superior sort of being but I find that with my long attention span I am not entertained so much by snippets, grunts and pointing at things. I prefer my entertainment to be a more in depth process where I can immerse myself into what pleasure there is to be had. It's why I read novels rather than magazines, why I prefer an hour long walk to ten minutes on a treadmill. It is definitely a standard by which I would choose a lover. My favourites and most skilled have always been those who can write and win me over with words. Cunning linguists will always find favour in the Boudoir.


quill-pen-diary-writing-ink-well-womans-hand

Sunday, 5 January 2014

The Experiment Begins

It's week one of my voyage to the Grey Havens, or going cold turkey on the hair dye if you prefer.

I have announced my rejection of the tyranny of L'Oreal, Nice 'n' Easy and their ilk online and shown everyone and anyone who can't get out of the way fast enough my newly emerging badger streak in my hairline.


With my hair as you see it above, along with a distinct lack of make up, I ventured as far as the local Co-Op to forage for essential supplies.

I stood with my trolley, blocking an aisle, as I gazed speculatively at a display of reduced price Christmas biscuits. "Oh, sorry," I said to the chap coming the other way with his trolley, whose way I had entirely got in. "No problem," he smiled, and we went on our different ways.

As I stood in front of the display of 3 for a tenner bottled beer, deliberating over which to choose, the same chap hove into a view again. He came straight over to me and made some jokey remark about choosing any of them, they're all beer, they all do the job. I laughed politely and went back to my perusal.

Undeterred my new friend then, somewhat clumsily, tried to ascertain whether I was single or not. "I bet you've got a toy boy or someone to help you drink those."

I made a non-committal answer about how choosing the beer was a big responsibility so I had to give it my full concentration. That should have closed things down, but no, he was persistent. He struck up conversation with a nearby shelf stacker about my choosing beer. I got referred to as "this young lady here." I ignored it all.  In a final attempt to assess my availability he asked me which beer my husband liked. "Abbott," I replied, "but I already have that." I gave him a big smile and that was that.

Fair play though, meeting new people is hard and the supermarket is as good a place to give it a go as any.

I told my husband all about it when I got home. I explained my experiment, the lack of cosmetics involved in that shopping trip, and how I hadn't expected any attempted shenanigans in the biscuit aisle. He has learned well over the years and dutifully answered that of course I always look lovely and besides "that top does make your tits look enormous".

Hah! and Ahah!

"But I had a bloody great coat on," I said. "I wasn't sashaying about in just my top, it's freezing out there."

The results of this week's experiment are therefore that:
  • No one has noticed I am deliberately allowing the seven stages of ageing* to wreak havoc upon my person
  • Local men in the Co-Op are attracted to women who are purchasing beer, which seems a sensible evolutionary process to me
* What are the seven stages of ageing you may ask? I am not sure. I heard the phrase in an advert for some skincare product once upon a time  - " only Oil of Uglay combats the seven stages of ageing" -  and have never forgotten it. I think the stages break down as follows:
  1. Grey hairs
  2. Wrinkles
  3. Elasticated waistbands
  4. Comfortable Shoes
  5. Coke bottle glasses
  6. Cobwebs
  7. Going on fire
If you know better please do fill me in.

Friday, 3 January 2014

The Anti Anti-Ageing Experiment

I am at a difficult age. As I hurtle through my forties I find myself under constant pressure to combat the signs of ageing. Every time I log into Facebook, open my emails, peruse a magazine or endure a commercial break on TV I an swamped with suggestions as to how I can lose my belly fat, colour my grey hairs, banish wrinkles and look 10 years younger.

Ignoring these obvious ploys to part me from my cash is easy enough but then I still have to contend with the more subtle attempts to steer me down the path of age denial by well-meaning friends and colleagues. Often they don't even know they're doing it, so insidious is the anti-ageing mindset of our society. The amount of praise lavished on someone who has lost weight or had their hair coloured is in direct contrast to the silence and confusion which ensues if someone should announce their intention to look their age.

That someone, if you hadn't already guessed, was me. Having recently experienced a life changing event I spent a good few months laying about, thinking a lot about bodies, mine in particular, and how I, and others, view it. One morning I looked in the bathroom mirror and noticed my hair had grown a good inch since I'd last coloured it and my natural hair colour was showing through. It glittered under the light, a fascinating mix of bitter dark chocolate interspersed with silver strands. Metallic. I decided there and then to let it grow a bit more and then chop off all the dyed bits and start again, to see what I actually look like. When I told my best friend her "really?!" was an eloquent expression of incomprehension. Surely this will make me look old?

Well, yes, it might. But I really, truly can't be arsed to spend any more money or time on the messy inconvenience of dying my hair. For the best part of 20 years once a month I have religiously retired to the bathroom, draped my towel around my shoulders and proceeded to apply a concoction of chemicals that smell like cat wee and stain everything they touch the colour of dried blood to my head. The amount of towels, shower curtains and clothes I have ruined are many.

And for what? For the sake of camouflaging the fact that I am not immune to the same biological processes as everyone else on the planet?  Even with my hair uniformly coloured an unlikely shade of mahogany I still won't magically look like I'm 26. I will look like I am 46 and dye my hair. Unfortunately that's exactly what we ladies of a certain age are expected to do. We should be eradicating grey hairs, botoxing our faces and starving ourselves back into the same jean size we wore as teenagers. If you fail to make the effort you are letting yourself go and run the risk of finding yourself being forcibly made over by a bespectacled wanker for some TV programme or magazine article.

My argument is that good health and mental wellbeing are the important things to maintain as you age rather than focussing on the cosmetic. It's a great argument and so right it makes my toes curl, but I also know that the world we live in makes it very difficult for women to age naturally. You only have to observe the way male newsreaders/presenters/actors are allowed to become grizzled and grey while their female counterparts must remain frozen in time or find themselves replaced by a newer model to see how the scales are weighted. Seeing as though I have long been a contrary old bat I am nevertheless prepared to forge ahead with my anti anti-ageing experiment. Which is a very grandiose way of saying I'm not going to dye my hair any more*, but I am genuinely curious as to whether my perceived attractiveness will alter significantly. I will keep you updated as I'm sure you are all agog and on the edge of your seats as to how my hair affects my pulling power.

In the meantime I'd love to hear how any of you are ageing. Gracefully, disgracefully? Are you a silver fox or a dye in a box type?

*I'm also not going to have any plastic surgery or cosmetic procedures but since I couldn't afford them anyway it seems a bit passive to be part of the experiment action.