the sea, and leaving it

I can tell when things are getting bad, I start to dream about the sea again.

I have a friend, she’s some sort of mermaid, who will swim out beyond the break, out to the boat moorings and back. She could swim before she could walk. I admire that, her salt-rimed hair and skin, teeth white and sharp against the sun and sand and sea.

But when I look at the ocean all I feel is the featureless expanse of death. I lost two of my kin to the deep, as one does in families like mine, but even before then it was something where the fear made more sense than respect. The holding pattern we would be in, waiting to see when the storm ended. I can remember the days being sunny and warm and still but there was a storm out there, out above the waves far from home, so we were waiting by the radio anyway. The sea is danger, and waiting, and holding my breath against the possibilities. It’s the weight of history and my childhood, a past that makes me everything I am and that I can never leave, no matter how far I swim. The saltwater matches the memory of blood in my mouth, but without the iron warmth.

So, you understand what I mean when I say that I can tell when things get bad because the sea creeps into my consciousness, water swelling around my ankles, seeping into my speech, despair rolling over me like a wave. Then it comes into my dreams and I imagine this is what dying feels like, the oblivion of going home.

A few days ago I dreamed of a friend, sitting on the shoreline atop a rock like some siren, as the waves broke over him. He stayed silent, still and smiling, as the waves took more and more of him. I was trying desperately to reach him but all I could do was focus on his face, smiling, as the waves washed the essence right out of him. Until he was transparent, then a Cheshire smile and dark eyes against the grey-green roll of the break, then nothing. Just the ocean and the waves and the memory of where he used to be.

I didn’t wake crying, just…broken open, gasping for breath against the pull of the water. Like the silence when you go under, the pressure and the darkness behind your eyelids.

I’ll surface again, I always have, but for now I’m holding my breath against the temptation to let go and follow a song into the deep.

out of practice

I’ve been out of the loop for a little while. I described it to one of my editors as ‘life hit, hard’. Between one thing and another I haven’t had the time, or the energy, to do much more than the work that puts a roof over my head (as opposed to the work that puts a damp patch between my thighs).

One of the things that turned up just before I went radio silent was this, from Oleander Plume. It was sort of serendipitous, in that one of my reasons for going dark was a reoccurence of my own PTSD symptoms, but also because I’d been explaining to my therapist about being an erotica author who was sobbing on the couch because sometimes unexpected sexual innuendo is triggering.

It seems to be something that other erotica authors get, but not all that many others.

I write porn, I write the things I write, because of the demons of my memory. Because the more I write, the less those memories can do to ambush me. What I write is the safest space of all, just me and my page, and nothing happens there without my consent. Sure, I have a great partner but he is not a mind-reader, he can sometimes, still, more than a decade in, stumble and then I’m shivering in fear on the edge of our bed wondering how I got there. I have gret friends but sometimes there’s a combination of words that makes the bile rise in my throat and my vision narrow to a point. The page though? With my hands on the keyboard?

That’s the safest space there is.

I’m resurfacing, slowly, trying to mend all the damage I did when I went under, but the blank page doesn’t even need that. I can just start up again without a problem.

bad oral advice

I was unfortunately on a call with some buddies when I read this article. The noise I made was evocative enough that when I said “god, I just read a thing in an advice article that made me shudder” they needed no more explanation. Much like the Vice article on the same topic, my body fucking recoils with the amount of no. So let’s break it down for the two articles shall we. From the ‘offending’ paragraph of the first:

Part her pussy lips and lick all around her clitoris; don’t start sucking on it just yet, as that can be too intense for some women before they are actually ready for it.

Yes on the no sucking yet, no on the licking of my fucking labia jesus christ. That just doesn’t fucking work for me and no, it’s not ‘ramping up’ to anything. There’s a world of sensation between nothing and sucking. A goddamn world so explore that for crying out loud, rather than licking another thing entirely.

Can you imagine if blow job advice was like this? “some men find straight out hoovering too intense before they’re ready, so just lick their groin”. This isn’t even equivalent to ball-licking, which I understand to be quite pleasureable. Going down and licking my labia is just…weird and offputting.

Stiffen your fingers and slide 2 into her while still tonguing around her clit.

Sucking is too much but slip some fingers in, that’s fine…

Experiment with different pressures and strokes. For example, use the tip of your tongue in a gentle flickering motion, (think of a snake’s tongue,)

No, no fucking NO. I swear I will find the fucking arsehole responsible for this flicking goddamn nonsense and flick them with a rubber band until they cry. Don’t, ever, flick sensitive parts of my anatomy with anything unless we’ve specifically arranged this scene and have safe words. Even if it’s painless, it’s awkward and unpleasant and boring.

and then flatten it to give broader strokes.

Why end with the gentlest sensation? Seriously, why end with the most soft and sensible tongue movement. Why flick first? Who the fuck wrote this?

Blow gently on her clit and see her reaction; note: never blow into the vagina itself as this can be dangerous.

A: always watch her reaction

B: you’ve deadened sensation with the flicking, abandon all hope mate, blowing air ain’t gonna do shit.

Now, Vice, you pack of bastards, I still remember reading this piece of shit and outright fucking flinching.

When you’re just about ready to do the deed, start practicing on that weird crevice next to the lips. Don’t spend too long there or she might start to think that you think that’s the actual cunt.

No. Just…no. See above about why it’s weird but if you’re going down on a woman for the first time why do something that might make her think you’re useless? Even if she knows you’re good at it, why pretend?

By now she should be dying for you to make your move. If you’re doing it right, she’ll be moaning and trying to force your head between her legs.

Because you’re not performing cunnilingus yet you tool.

Extra trick: Hover over the bush for about five seconds before the first lick. If you wait longer than that, she might think you’re having second thoughts because it smells bad. Of course, we all know that motherfucker smells sweeter than a bowl of steamin’ crawdaddies.

Please don’t do anything in this paragraph, including comparing my cunt to crawdaddies.

Important: Never bite the cunt in any way whatsoever. If this needs more explaining you should probably just stick to jerking off.

You’re not the boss of me, fucking useless tool who hasn’t gotten to cunt eating yet.

Parting the Red Seas

Oh so we’re period playing now, or are you eating out a redhead, or…no, just more shitty shitty writing Vice ‘style’.

Isolate your playing field. Pubic hairs are to eating pussy what the Cavity Creeps are to dental hygiene. You’re never going to be able to identify all the parts if she looks like that PiL album That What Is Not. One hot trick is to get her to spread her lips apart so her pussy is all set up for you like a great big buffet.

Okay, I get the pubes thing, but again can we not slag off women’s bodies in their natural state? While ostensibly being all ‘woo yeah cunt eating’? And no, don’t get me to spread my lips you lazy shit you’ve fucking done nothing but nuzzle my thigh ditch and stare at my cunt.

Do your first lick super slow. It’s good to groan and moan too. It shows you’re digging it while sending microscopic audiophonic vibrations right up her snapper. Start just above the anus and take it all the way to the fur. Do about a dozen of these “St. Bernard licks” before moving on (take it really slow, like four seconds per lick). This is a good time to figure out what kind of clit she has. If it’s real sensitive, she’ll probably convulse as you pass over it and that means you’re in for an easy ride. If there’s no reaction when you graze over her clit, she probably has one of those nerveless little pea clits and you’re in for a thirty-minute session of tongue tendinitis.

Okay, this starts out alright…snapper…if a little unimaginative. Then we hit nerveless little pea clits and I want to break shit.

6) Rock the Boat
Eating pussy is so gentle it can make you feel like a bit of a fag. If you’re getting tired of being ballerina boy, take it out on the clit. Figure out how much abuse it can take without making her uncomfortable and show the little bastard who’s boss.

Get fucked, not by me, you pathetic little shit.

After all, Mr. Elusive is precisely what makes muff diving so difficult. He’s surrounded by labia and, even after you find him, all the pressure can pop him over to the side. All of a sudden you’re giving the pee hole the seeing-to of its life. Think of the clit as a tumor in a pile of earlobes. When you push down on the area he’s the only one that can’t be squished. Once one of your tongue troopers finds him, call for reinforcements. Use your lips to get hers out of the way and focus all your attention into getting him alone. Once you find him, give him a bit of a hard time for trying to hide from you. Frisk him and give him a couple of whacks across the head. More on this punk and his bad attitude later.
Extra important tip: The best way to stimulate the clit is to run your entire tongue over it after you isolate it from the lips. The man in the boat should feel the texture of the entire tongue pushing down on his body and his boat.

Apparently my clit is a dude? Who knew, that’s brilliant. *drowns herself in a kiddie pool of gin*

And this is why most men are shit at cunnilingus, FYI. Don’t get me wrong I fucking love me some powergames in bed but jesus christ you arsewipe, don’t ‘whack’ my clit on his (!!!) head. Goddamnit. This isn’t fucking rocket magic. Again, imagine the blow job version: “his cock will try and demand entrance to your throat, gently redirect by pulling his pubic hair away from his body to reinforce this is undesireable behaviour”.

(The last tip is the only decent bit of advice so far and we’re still referring to my clitoris as a dude)

7) Identifying the Clit Type
After the slow licks it’s time to get this party started. There are essentially two types of clitori: ones that enjoy a serious going-over and ones that don’t. The latter suck about as much as a one-inch penis and you should dump her right away.
Extra tip: Clits come in all shapes, sizes, and sensitivities, but that doesn’t really tell you much. All of them want to be treated slow and soft at the beginning, but the only way to tell if you can go fast at the end is by reading her reactions. This is impossible to teach, but just do the best you can. All we can tell you is convulsing means take it ease and “Oh my God” means bring it on.

Thanks bro, for slagging on small cocks and sensitive clits, particularly since you referred to unsensitive ones giving you tongue ‘tendinitis’. Good work. Solid writing, excellent advice.

*reads further*

Oh wait, clits that don’t like serious ‘going overs’ are unsensitive ones? What? I dont?

*crawls back into the kiddie pool*

I can’t do this anymore, this is terrible. For something more positive, even though it’s still Vice style, at least this sounds like it’s closer to working on cunts. So go read that. Or just, you know, listen to your partner.

Wednesday Work In Progress: dirty words

We both moved, and met. Her mouth was soft and full and her teeth were sharp. I kept my hands on her and moved us so I could sit her on the bench and kiss her without having to bend or pick her up. So I could have both hands free to grasp the fleshy parts of her hips and squeeze and bring her closer to me and I could finally press my aching cock against her. When I did, her hips thrust up against me and she moaned into my mouth.
“Fucking hell.” We both said it but it was her hands yanking at the fabric between us. I didn’t have a chance to be self-conscious, to think about how looked, because she wriggled off the bench to drop to her knees and press her face into the curve beneath my belly and bite on the soft flesh there, mouthing at me as her hands worked. I revelled in it but when she finally got my jeans undone I pulled her back to stand.

 

Inspired by this, and it starts in a library but I just couldn’t finish it there. Damnit. But it does feature condomless sex so that’s one goal done and dusted.

don’t you just love good feedback?

It’s a little bit praise kink, a little bit affirmation, a lot bit validation.

There’s nothing like someone saying ‘god, that was hot’ about your work*. And nothing better than them getting it. Seeing those bits of romance, or rawness, or connection, that you peppered through your work.

I need to review more, if only to give out some of the love I’ve been getting.

*even more when it’s got the coda that they’re thinking about that kink differently, or about that kind of scene in a different light. That you’ve opened their eyes.

Review: Best Women’s Erotica 2015

This was great, so great. But it was Tryst of Fate by Lydia Hill really got me. Really, painfully, instantly grabbed me. Surprising given my aversion to condomless sex, but Jesus it worked so well. I’ve already expounded on how amazing Alison Tyler’s story was (in fact, I thought that Hill’s story was another of Tyler’s when I first read it and had to go back and check). Click-Click-Click by Annabeth Leong was great as well, just so much positive energy. I rather liked Postcards from Paris by Giselle Renard (I have such a weakness for body hair) and The Seven Ravens by Ariel Graham – odd and mythic and thoroughly enjoyable. Roxanne by Tasmin Flower was a really lovely story too, hot and sweet and really, really, good.

My entry in the illustrious series was Accidental Transmission, excerpt below.

All in all, go buy it! Read it! Enjoy.

Continue reading

Wednesday Work in Progress: wet season

I breathed deeply, and slowly, as the images came thick and fast. I knew I was staring at her throat but couldn’t stop, not until I heard another laugh, smothered into a cough. San was sitting next to me and had obviously seen my distraction.

“You look like you want to eat her alive.”

He didn’t bother sugarcoating it, just went straight for the kill. I tilted my head and considered him. He met my gaze and we held eye contact for just a little bit too long.

“That would be one of the things I want to do.” My own voice was husky, telegraphing my desire. He leaned over to murmur close to my ear.

“I am no longer allowed to participate, but I am allowed to watch…”

(this one has stalled out too but I’ll get there, in the end, I’ll work out why it’s being difficult)