I'm tuning up my acoustic guitar and practising my drippy voice for a few days under canvas.
Camping, apparently, is 'sexy' these days - let's see how erotically charged it can be to wear twenty pairs of socks to bed, shall we?
Though Morrissey did write the lines: 'Were you and he lovers/ And if you were, then say that you were/ On a groundsheet under canvas/ With your tent flap open wide' - which is at least making an effort. Tent flaps at the ready!
While I'm away, don't forget that the Misbehaviour anthology, featuring my story Office Sex, releases in the UK on September 3rd. I'll be back with more on that, plus a teaser, at the weekend.
Taboo was a really popular drink in the 80s but you never see it around now, do you? Orangey-red, in a frosted bottle, tasted of alco-Tizer. I think it had a 'sister' beverage as well, but I forget the name - Mirage, maybe?
Anyway, that's not really what I want to post about today.
When I was in Paris, I went to the Musee d'Orsay (how do I get an acute accent on this thing?) and I saw this:
L'Origine du Monde by Gustave Courbet, hanging in a public gallery for anyone and everyone to see, just as long as they've paid their Euros to get into the museum. I think there may have been a little notice with a warning on at the entrance to the side room, or I might be getting it mixed up with the Pompidou Centre.
So, if you want to go and look at it, you can. If you don't like graphic depictions of genitalia, you can pass it by. Presumably you, as an adult, are capable of making this decision for yourself.
Unless...the genitalia are male. And you are a lady. Then, of course, you no longer have that facility. You need your little eyes covered.
So it would seem, at least, given the palaver there has been over Filament Magazine's attempt to find a printer who will deal with them. Are they publishing inflammatory material of a nature likely to incite hatred or fear? No. It's just a cock.
It's like one of those obscure medieval laws you sometimes read about that are technically still in force - having the right to paint your cow yellow on the sixth Sunday after Septuagesima or whatnot. It's hard to believe that it's still taboo, and even harder to work out why.
But Filament, thanks to some good old fashioned nu-media campaigning by the ever-vigilant Erotica Cover Watch, has sold enough copies of its excellent opening issue to hire a less tentative press. There will be tumescence!
I am fascinated to see what happens about distribution now, and I wish them the very best of luck.
Halfway through August already and no man of the month?! I must have been distracted.
This one is more an archetype than a man, but my recent viewing of Desperate Romantics has renewed a dormant enthusiasm for the Victorian cad, or rake, or generally sketchy geezer. I have loved these demons in brocade weskits from childhood - given the choice between Adonis-like hero and melodrama baronet, I would always root for the latter.
Now I am longing to write a novel featuring such a man. A Rawdon Crawley, a Francis Levison, a Sir Despard Murgatroyd. Ooh, that would be so exciting.
And me! My story is called The Number and in it I shoehorn about half a dozen of my favourite fantasy scenarios into one 6K piece of fiction. I hope some of them might be your favourite fantasy scenarios too. The outgoing editor at Black Lace liked it so much he thought I could use it as the springboard for a novel. Alas, it seems that that will now never be.
But here is an excerpt for you:
‘Nothing will happen that you don’t want,’ confirmed Master in her other ear.‘We are taking you on a journey into your own needs and desires.’
‘We are going to pleasure you.’
‘And punish you.’
‘Punish you with pleasure.’
‘Pleasure you with punishment.’
‘Because that is what you want.’
‘Because that is what you need.’
The words were sufficient to quieten the nagging doubts that had prevented Charlotte’s full immersion into the experience.A weight lifted; she rolled her head back on the seat and breathed a heavy sigh.
The hands were moving inexorably higher, underneath her skirt.Another hand cupped her right breast while mouths pressed against her neck on the other side.Fingers arrived at her outer lips, prising them apart then dipping into the waters with a luscious slicking sound.
‘Well, well, something tells us our Charlotte is enjoying herself.’Sir’s voice, just above her shoulder.
‘Did you ever doubt it?’
Two sets of fingers delved the velvet depths of Charlotte’s most intimate places, while mouths breathed warm air across her swollen nipples, then flicked the tips with their tongues.
‘When we get to the hotel, Charlotte, we are going to make you come, over and over and over again,’ Master informed her, half-eating her ear as he poured his voice down it.
‘Until you can’t walk.’
‘Or talk.’
‘Or think.’
‘Or move.’
One finger, two fingers, three fingers, more, scissoring inside her, scattered across her clit, pushing, poking, pressing, arousing every one of her nerve endings all at once.Her thighs spread wider and wider, until they were hooked over forearms, the skirt having now ridden irrevocably around her waist, no further thought given to the cabdriver.Every part of her body under sensual attack, defences stripped down, surrender ignored by the marauding hands and mouths and tongues and teeth.Charlotte felt herself to be no more than one gigantic pulsing organism; every pore in her body shot sparks down to her clitoris, which seemed enormous now, and rapacious in its need.
Twenty fingers worked at her core while two sets of lips caressed her breasts; she was pushed back in the seat with her legs forming a wide V in the air above her; one calf held firm while the triumphant digits invaded further and further across her borders, pillaging her most intimate parts.
When she came, writhing on fingers that thrust down and down while others circled her swollen clitoris, she kicked so hard that a shoe fell off and clattered to the floor of the cab.
One tongue then two plunged into her mouth before it had finished its broken keen of defeat.They drew back, the fingers leaving with them to remove her blindfold with a flourish, so that Charlotte lay, legs limp and loosely spread, skirt around waist, shirt wide open and bra cups down to reveal sorely reddened nipples, hair wild and eyes glazed, in a post-orgasmic slump.
‘I think you needed that,’ proclaimed Master.‘Don’t you think she needed that?’
