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?