Wednesday, August 30, 2006

postcard


I drunken slept for like three hours and then awoke. Something then hit he in the face - it was an arm. It felt dead. A second later I discovered it was my own, and it was completely devoid of feeling after lying on it. But I had a nice evening talking shit and acting noisy with sweet Scandi girls of the radiant cool eyes, and me mates innit.
Carelessly wasted a few dew kissed days, looking neither forward nor back, choosing instead to lovingly know each day platonically and lay down with every dusk and know it carnally. S'what it's all about.
Now I am back home from holidaying, staring at the sunlight reflecting off the tower blocks and wishing I could sleep forever *sigh*

Why are you up so early, silly? Be like me - the enemy of effort.

Tuesday, August 22, 2006

Sundae


I had rowed this bloody great rowing boat across a breezy lake to a nice, quiet island. No expert at this sort of thing, I had struggled to get the mouldy old stick of wood that was our vessel to go in anything like a straight line. I zigged when I wanted to zag and I don’t know what. Still, soon enough I stuffed the pointy end into a convenient, narrow shore and leapt out onto dry land.

I gave Lady a hand in disembarking and, cooing, she skipped away into the flora nice as you like, leaving me to haul her picnic basket from the belly of the beast.
Shielded by the lake breezes by a nest of trees, a sunlit glade was ours. Lady found a place in the long grass to unfurl a blanket and settle down. The sweat from my exertions was making my collar itch against my neck, so as soon I had dragged the dead weight of Lady’s basket - which I was now convinced was filled with cannon balls and lead - I divested my self of my shirt. Of course Lady’s eyes widened in mock-surprise. ‘What, you don’t think we came here for a picnic, did you?’ I said. She smiled saucily, but still made a show of being shocked and la-la’d when I began undressing her as well. I told her we needed to cool down by going for a dip in the lake.

Naked to the world she crept through the trees and peered out, scanning the distant mainland shoreline for prying eyes. To hell with her modesty, I thought, and gave her arse a good slap which sent her on her way.
The water was bracingly cold and slick with some weed or other. We didn’t loiter, staying just enough for the waters to refresh us before padding out onto the flat, thick sand. Both nude, dripping wet and barefoot, we gingerly made our way back through the trees like Adam and Eve. Did Adam get the same charge watching the graceful roll of Eve’s glorious round arse as she walked before him, I wondered? I put my hand to feel Lady’s peaches-and-cream cheeks. Playfully she brushed my hand aside and danced out of reach. That did it, I lunged for her again, and again she darted away like a fish out of a closing hand. She giggled like a child as I gave chase, and though the ground underneath the trees was mostly just dust, the soft soles of her feet didn’t like the twigs, so her escape plan failed and I was soon upon her.
I pinned her against one of the trees, and still she writhed in my embrace, still giggling, still refusing to let my mouth on hers. Time to put a stop to her game, I thought. A fallen tree made a good enough place for me to sit and I threw Lady across my knee. She shrieked and struggled, of course, but I held firm. I paused to drink in the sight of her bottom raised, wide and wriggling in the air. Dappled sunlight playing across her smooth pale skin... It quite gives a chap a caution, I tell you!
I quickly regained my composure and, before she knew it, my hand came down with a satisfying slap onto her arse. I gave her a damn good spanking before I was done, and she didn’t quarrel no more.
To soothe her blushing cheeks I did let my fingers glide circles across them ever-so lightly. Then I scooped her up and carried her back to our blanket in the sun.

Basket unpacked and we nibbled at this and that for a while, but our blood was up and our carnal hunger was what was in need of feeding. I told her I hadn’t yet finished giving her pretty behind my attention, and she dutifully - if not eagerly! - rolled over onto her knees and presented me her soft cheeks. Phew!
Being a resourceful sort of fellow, I took the pot of clotted cream and scooped out the contents before applying it to Lady’s button. It made her gasp a little, but she knew it would help matters along. So. In the hum of that summer field, carefully, but vigorously, I took her up the bottom.
She may have occasionally grunted like some low animal, but I knew this was her favourite. And, to tidy the deal, I slipped a hand between her legs and squirreled about there to her contentment.

After I had finished myself inside her, and we had cleaned up all the cream and muck, she lay back languorously as I got out a punnet of strawberries from the picnic basket.
It was then I realised, damn, I had used up the cream! What a dreadful oversight, I said, I can’t have my strawbs without the cream. Then I caught a glinting from behind the chestnut curls between Lady’s lags, and I had an idea.
Five nice size strawberries fitted neatly inside her, I found. I bowed my head between Lady’s wide open legs and snuffled about her private quarters. It was an interesting combination of tastes and textures as I probed about with my tongue, trying to scoop out each fruit, some getting a bit squashed along the way, their sweet juices mingling with Lady’s own brand, as it were. I scoffed down the first four, which were retrieved relatively easily, but the final one proved more elusive, resisting all attempts of my tongue trying to snare it, rolling away each time and me having to dig ever deeper into the wet little hole with my tongue. Needless to say this was all driving Lady quite potty. “I can’t stand it!” she whimpered, and now writhing her pelvis around, which wasn’t exactly helping me with my task.
Eventually though I managed to fish out the blighter - it was a little worse for wear, but then, by this point, so was Lady. But at least I managed to have my strawberries and cream.

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This has been hanging around my hard drive for months, but it was only now that I’ve been desperate enough to publish it. I’ll be going away tomorrow, for a short break, and so this will have to tide the blog over ‘till I return. Back in a week.
D.

Sunday, August 06, 2006

Reader Meet Author

I read the news today… oh boy!
A few weeks ago The S^nd@y T1m3s Style section published an extract from “Summer’s sauciest memoir”, Girl With a One-Track Mind by Abby Lee. Today, with a tabloid callousness, they stuck the knife in.

You, gentle reader, should already be familiar with the blog on which the big-seller (No.7 on Amazon) is based. GWa1TM - shall we call it - was the first sexblog I regularly started reading, back in 2004. I had already come across - shall we not say - the Belle de Jour blog, but, for whatever reason, it didn’t get me hooked. TheGirl - as the writer of GWa1TM blog calls herself - did. Her writing was immediate, humorous, human and insightful. Publishers Ebury Press clearly thought so too, and decided to turn her cyber words into olde-worlde books - remember books?? Me neither. But anyway…

I mean, well, to have secured a book deal must give fellow sexbloggers food for thought (though not me. There’s more chance of me travelling to the moons of Jupiter in a clapped-out Vauxhall Viva on half a tank of petrol, with the re-animated corpse of Vladimir Lenin as navigator, then there is of this being turned into print form) (that’s not to say it won’t ever happen - the moons of Jupiter thing, that is, not the book). And also, perhaps naturally, has drawn the attention of envious eyes.

Revealed: identity of erotic diarist behind summer’s hottest book”, thunders the headline. “The anonymous author… has been unmasked”, crows Ann@ M1khailova - the person behind this sorry piece of shit - on page three of the broadsheet. “The author says she is “paranoid” that her identity will be exposed, possibly by an embittered former lover” well, she can put those fears to bed now, can’t she? Seeing as “the woman behind it was revealed as [X]” .

“Was revealed”, as if they had nothing to do with it! Other than revealing Abby Lee’s real name, the piece doesn’t have much else to say; it attempts to stir something up by crowbar-ing in a reference to Female Chauvinist Pigs, Ariel Levy’s book about the kind of women who get drunk and perform impromptu pole/lap dances to strange men in bars and the like, which has little to no relevance to the content of Abby Lee’s diary about her love life. Otherwise, M1khailova just treats the whole thing like something she’s holding at arm’s length in a pair of tongs, “with such a shameless interest in sex it is no surprise X has gone to great lengths to conceal her identity”. Yes, I know dear, disgraceful isn’t it?

The journalist delightedly reports on how they doorstepped Abby, and even had a photographer, hiding in some bushes, to get a shot of her signing for some flowers that the newspaper sent, saying they were from her publishers.

Quite what is gained from all this isn’t clear. It can’t be much news for the majority of the readership to find out that someone they’ve never heard of is, in fact, someone else they’ve never heard of. Even to a reader of her blog, like me, it tells me her real name, which has no more relevance to me then her pseudonym. I mean, what if my name wasn’t really Dielo? Talk about thinking the unthinkable, but what if it was Fred Smith, what would that change? If you don’t know me anyway, nothing. If you did know me, however, it might make things a little awkward for me.

Aye, there’s the rub. This silly little page-filler - which is what it amounts to - only succeeds in humiliating Abby, forcing her to “come out” to her friends and family, most of whom would, I’m sure, rather not know about her innermost sexual musings, and desires. On top of that, she has to face her work colleagues and everything. And all this for what? It’s so fucking small

What is a renowned newspaper - a journal of record - doing splashing about in these gutter press shallows? Silly season, is it? Nothing going on anywhere in the world, is there, middle east, anywhere… no, nothing? Oh well, tum-te-tum.

Christ, what an embarrassing fucking wank of an article.

"There is little doubt that by this summer Abigail...will be a media obsession " says The Observer on the book’s blurb.
Hmm, quite. It’s all bound to boost the sales of Abby’s book as well though, so hey…

Tuesday, August 01, 2006

A Short Post About Fucking

Last night my mouth was on her breast. I lay cradled between her open legs, guided, driven by shadows, the deep red darkness in me. Taking as much of her breast into my mouth as I could. Sucking and fucking. A clawing, hissing, grappling hot, wet skin fucking.
My mouth leaves her pink breast as demons chase me towards the final stretch, the final fucking furlong, the last gasp. Hands slide behind her head to grab fistfuls of hair, gripped, have to get this. I can feel the inside of her, myself inside her. Reaching the core… nearly there… journey to the centre of a girl…Gliding, grinding out a sweet, steady, heady rhythm. A velvet jackhammer, building to a blinding tumult, a brutality so fragile it hurts.
We were fucking, me and this girl. No candlelight, no soft music, and no rug in front of a crackling open fire. We weren’t bathed in no shimmering moonlight as we completed out beautiful union neither. Wouldn’t have noticed if we were. Wrapped in our twin epicurean desire to consume, to taste, to gorge ourselves on hedonism’s bounty. To swallow and be swallowed whole. All peripheral vision blurred, focus simply beaded dead onto the purity and eternal goodness of filthy (but very mutual) fucking.
Can’t let myself come before her, can’t let her win, or me lose. Hurtling towards that giddy cliff… a desperate scramble to the crashing, swirling, startling blue-white brief oblivion.
La petite mort, the French call it. The little death. Show’s what they know. Death wouldn’t dare interrupt us now. N’est-ce pas?. Our bodies clatter, shaken by forces.
A screaming end. The climax. Soaring into the impossible blue.
Fin.


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