Was it really May last year...
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Posted:Mar 16, 2015 6:27 pm
Last Updated:Jan 25, 2017 1:06 pm
5298 Views
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when I was last here? Apparently so. In which case, how tf did it get to be March this year already?
I'm not even going to write some crap here about work-life balance. It's clear I am lying to myself on this. But I *am* going to make a commitment - to myself- that I intend to lead a sexier life. Actually, even that's not true - things are OK-ish on that score (perhaps that's why I've been away so long: the traditional hunting grounds of my kind - airports, hotel bars, my classroom *ahem* - have been more fertile than the magic internet?): I am going to lead a more Senior Sizzle life? That might just work...
If, on the other hand, my nest post is next New Year - that was clearly a lie too!
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My father once told me...
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Posted:May 16, 2014 1:48 pm
Last Updated:Mar 16, 2015 6:22 pm
8638 Views
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that the years go by faster as you get older, and at the time, I thought he was a daft old sod: turns out he was right. How can it be four months since I was last here? What have I even been doing? Very little worth while, and really nothing exciting - and somehow, we're in the middle of May already.
I've written here before about trying to get a grip on the work/life balance, and trying to live a sexier life: as a dear friend of mine would say - HA. I don't think I've even bought stockings more than once or twice this year. How on earth did this happen? And what's even worse is that I'm 40 in less than a month.
To arms, brothers, to arms! Don't let me go silently into that good night - help me rage, rage against the dying of the light...
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Frustration...
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Posted:Dec 30, 2013 12:30 pm
Last Updated:Jan 25, 2017 3:30 pm
9980 Views
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no, not that kind (well, OK, that kind as well...)! I had to come back north earlier than anticipated after Christmas, as work was calling in a rather plaintive manner - it's fascinating how everything kicks off a) whilst I'm in transit somewhere or b) trying to take a few days leave.
That would be fine - after all, I am married to my work, and it's a lot easier to love one's family from a distance, though I didn't get to spend a lot of time with one of my brothers, who has just come back from Foreign. Though the amount of time I spent outside the Jaeger changing rooms in order to advise on suit trouser lengths on Friday almost made up for that - think the kind of Englishman who is actually straight, but is so alarmingly camp that people assume he's gay (odd, really, because the other one looks like an Abercrombie & Fitch/Jack Wills model, and is lethal to anything in a skirt as well as being a total clothes ). And I could cope with the six hour journey - after all, if you're stupid enough to travel on public transport in between Christmas and New Year, you've only got yourself to blame for trying to be environmentally friendly. But I am grumpy and cranky because the corsets I ordered a fortnight ago have finally arrived and I was eagerly looking forward to a trying on session as soon as I'd written a few reports, made a few calls and generally single-handedly brought peace to the world. I went a bit mad just before Christmas, in the online sales (and the temptation that is PayPal pay after delivery): and I love corsets - not just for the bedroom either.
So I finally finished everything I can do at this stage, eagerly opened the parcel and was greeted with a myriad of tight lacing gorgeousness. I wasn't really planning on keeping them all (well, OK, I might have been: they were *seriously* reduced) - but I can't even keep one. Why? Because for the first time in human history, they were all too bloody big! I know my corsets - I know to knock at least 4 inches off (depending on the type of corset) in order to find the size, I even measured my waist to avoid the temptation to fantasise that I actually needed a 20" corset (for the record, I haven't had a 24 inch waist since about the same time I had a 24 inch bust - so well before puberty!). I opened the first bag, and slid out a lovely reversible waist training corset (6-7 inch reduction, with 24 wonderful steel bones) that I had planned to use for daily wear. It looked big - but then my clothes often do, because I am big. I unlaced the back, zipped the industrial strength zip up - and pulled a tiny bit: result - corset back entirely closed, and corset barely staying up alone (bless that 52" chest for its help in keeping me decent). No good, alas.
I try the next one - a cute longline corset with a fun polka dot design. Same problem. And the next - a long green brocade. In frustration, I hopped upstairs, to get some purchases from last Christmas, which had been a little too small - plus a new longline green overbust I bought a few weeks ago. Every one of the bastard things was too bloody big. Yes, I am now officially frustrated. How can I be the slinkiest minx at the party I am planning on gate-crashing tomorrow if all my bloody corsets have room for me and a small delegation from the council inside? So now, having checked online and seen that I can't even exchange them for smaller sizes, as the next two sizes down are sold out, I am sitting on the sofa in my bra and jeans, sulking dramatically.
Part of the reason it's hard to find something to fit is that I seem to have an abnormally long body (actually, I know this to be true - I have to have the "special" speculum when I go for smear tests. Do not ask. It's ugly.)so the standard 15" lengths just aren't long enough. (Though, mind you, I also struggle with jeans, as women's jeans usually come in a 29, and I'm a 33 - yet I'm not very tall: 175, which is about 5'8/9 ish in old money, I think...) So actually, it's not just corset makers, but also ladies' trouser manufacturers and speculum designers who are out to thwart me. And I am feeling thwarted as I sit here. Because I wasn't expecting to be up here for New Year, so I wasn't counting on being at this party. No - but I was looking forward to a New Year in new corsets: for the most tragic of reasons. I suffer agonies with my back. No doubt, I should take classes in the Alexander Technique, and spend less time with a rucksack over my shoulder or hunched over a computer. But what really, really eases things (in the absence of a talented gentleman friend with skilled thumbs) is a tight corset - absolute whimpering bliss! Clearly, this is just another sign that I am getting past it: instead of seeing corsets as kinky bedroom attire, they have now become pain-relieving prostheses...
So not only do my bloody corsets not fit, I am also well over the hill. No wonder I'm frustrated!
(Edit: OK, the reason that they're too big is because I've lost ten lbs. But oh, no, I'm not going to be happy about that - because a) it's not because my thyroid tablets have miraculously decided to work, but rather because I've been living on 400 calories a day since September - and it all seems to have shifted at once and b)I'm still fat as fuck so even *I* didn't notice... I clearly need something to take my mind off these deeply first world problems: perhaps I won't go out tomorrow with four gay couples, but will instead prowl about on here looking for a gentleman to bang my brains out so hard tomorrow that I won't even be able to remember my name, let alone that I can't find a corset that fits properly...)
(Edit 2: they say whatever you are doing at midnight on New Year will set the tone for the rest of the year - so you shouldn't cry, for example, otherwise you'll be crying all year. After a bad experience in 2006 - I was getting fucked in the arse at midnight, which was great: until I spent the rest of the year having the same thing done to me, by people who weren't polite enough to ask first, and certainly didn't use lube... Perhaps getting laid tomorrow would lead to getting screwed all year!)
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Frustration...
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Posted:Dec 30, 2013 12:03 pm
Last Updated:May 16, 2014 1:48 pm
9694 Views
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no, not that kind (well, OK, that kind as well...)! I had to come back north earlier than anticipated after Christmas, as work was calling in a rather plaintive manner - it's fascinating how everything kicks off a) whilst I'm in transit somewhere or b) trying to take a few days leave.
That would be fine - after all, I am married to my work, and it's a lot easier to love one's family from a distance, though I didn't get to spend a lot of time with one of my brothers, who has just come back from Foreign. Though the amount of time I spent outside the Jaeger changing rooms in order to advise on suit trouser lengths on Friday almost made up for that - think the kind of Englishman who is actually straight, but is so alarmingly camp that people assume he's gay (odd, really, because the other one looks like an Abercrombie & Fitch/Jack Wills model, and is lethal to anything in a skirt as well as being a total clothes ). And I could cope with the six hour journey - after all, if you're stupid enough to travel on public transport in between Christmas and New Year, you've only got yourself to blame for trying to be environmentally friendly. But I am grumpy and cranky because the corsets I ordered a fortnight ago have finally arrived and I was eagerly looking forward to a trying on session as soon as I'd written a few reports, made a few calls and generally single-handedly brought peace to the world. I went a bit mad just before Christmas, in the online sales (and the temptation that is PayPal pay after delivery): and I love corsets - not just for the bedroom either.
So I finally finished everything I can do at this stage, eagerly opened the parcel and was greeted with a myriad of tight lacing gorgeousness. I wasn't really planning on keeping them all (well, OK, I might have been: they were *seriously* reduced) - but I can't even keep one. Why? Because for the first time in human history, they were all too bloody big! I know my corsets - I know to knock at least 4 inches off (depending on the type of corset) in order to find the size, I even measured my waist to avoid the temptation to fantasise that I actually needed a 20" corset (for the record, I haven't had a 24 inch waist since about the same time I had a 24 inch bust - so well before puberty!). I opened the first bag, and slid out a lovely reversible waist training corset (6-7 inch reduction, with 24 wonderful steel bones) that I had planned to use for daily wear. It looked big - but then my clothes often do, because I am big. I unlaced the back, zipped the industrial strength zip up - and pulled a tiny bit: result - corset back entirely closed, and corset barely staying up alone (bless that 52" chest for its help in keeping me decent). No good, alas.
I try the next one - a cute longline corset with a fun polka dot design. Same problem. And the next - a long green brocade. In frustration, I hopped upstairs, to get some purchases from last Christmas, which had been a little too small - plus a new longline green overbust I bought a few weeks ago. Every one of the bastard things was too bloody big. Yes, I am now officially frustrated. How can I be the slinkiest minx at the party I am planning on gate-crashing tomorrow if all my bloody corsets have room for me and a small delegation from the council inside? So now, having checked online and seen that I can't even exchange them for smaller sizes, as the next two sizes down are sold out, I am sitting on the sofa in my bra and jeans, sulking dramatically.
Part of the reason it's hard to find something to fit is that I seem to have an abnormally long body (actually, I know this to be true - I have to have the "special" speculum when I go for smear tests. Do not ask. It's ugly.)so the standard 15" lengths just aren't long enough. (Though, mind you, I also struggle with jeans, as women's jeans usually come in a 29, and I'm a 33 - yet I'm not very tall: 175, which is about 5'8/9 ish in old money, I think...) So actually, it's not just corset makers, but also ladies' trouser manufacturers and speculum designers who are out to thwart me. And I am feeling thwarted as I sit here. Because I wasn't expecting to be up here for New Year, so I wasn't counting on being at this party. No - but I was looking forward to a New Year in new corsets: for the most tragic of reasons. I suffer agonies with my back. No doubt, I should take classes in the Alexander Technique, and spend less time with a rucksack over my shoulder or hunched over a computer. But what really, really eases things (in the absence of a talented gentleman friend with skilled thumbs) is a tight corset - absolute whimpering bliss! Clearly, this is just another sign that I am getting past it: instead of seeing corsets as kinky bedroom attire, they have now become pain-relieving prostheses...
So not only do my bloody corsets not fit, I am also well over the hill. No wonder I'm frustrated!
(Edit: OK, the reason that they're too big is because I've lost ten lbs. But oh, no, I'm not going to be happy about that - because a) it's not because my thyroid tablets have miraculously decided to work, but rather because I've been living on 400 calories a day since September - and it all seems to have shifted at once and b)I'm still fat as fuck so even *I* didn't notice... I clearly need something to take my mind off these deeply first world problems: perhaps I won't go out tomorrow with four gay couples, but will instead prowl about on here looking for a gentleman to bang my brains out so hard tomorrow that I won't even be able to remember my name, let alone that I can't find a corset that fits properly...)
(Edit 2: they say whatever you are doing at midnight on New Year will set the tone for the rest of the year - so you shouldn't cry, for example, otherwise you'll be crying all year. After a bad experience in 2006 - I was getting fucked in the arse at midnight, which was great: until I spent the rest of the year having the same thing done to me, by people who weren't polite enough to ask first, and certainly didn't use lube... Perhaps getting laid tomorrow would lead to getting screwed all year!)
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Merry Christmas!
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Posted:Dec 24, 2013 3:22 am
Last Updated:Dec 30, 2013 12:03 pm
10125 Views
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I'm not afraid to greet people in a traditional manner - so wherever you are, and whatever you're doing, have a happy, peaceful and holy (!) Christmas. If you're with loved ones, be patient, kind and tolerant. If you're alone, enjoy your company and be kind to yourself.
XXX
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How Many Strikes And You're Out?
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Posted:Dec 23, 2013 4:14 pm
Last Updated:Jan 28, 2015 4:51 am
9744 Views
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I met a great guy last year, and we spent an intense and satisfying afternoon together. We’d made plans to develop this into a regular thing, but what with pressures of work and so on, it was hard to set up a meeting in the New Year. A couple of times he emailed or texted me, to ask whether I could meet on such and such an evening instead. I always got back to let him know – sometimes I could, sometimes not. But I swiftly realised that if I said I could, he would then disappear on me for a few weeks.
Now it’s not like we’d made plans – it was more of an “I’m free” (insert your own John Inman impersonation here) than anything: but after a while, it started to get a little off-putting that there would never be any other communication except for the sound of him vanishing in a puff of smoke. So in the end, I stopped responding. I was super-busy over the summer, and at one stage, hadn’t checked my personal emails for over 5 months. I also managed to pack my mobile in our office move – which didn’t matter too much, as it had been off for three months as from somewhere, I’d acquired a stalker – but I was fairly unreachable all in all.
Just after I’d sorted out the inbox of doom, and acquired a new mobile number, I signed back up on here again, and pretty quickly thereafter, I had a message from him. This time, we made a definite plan – but then, mid-afternoon the day before, he cancelled on me. Now I appreciate that he let me know – it meant I could cancel the hotel, for one thing – but the reason, whilst OK, was not one that really he shouldn’t have known about until that stage (though evidently, he didn't). Now he *was* apologetic, but I am left wondering what next, because I kind of have rules about these things. There are only so many times you can mess me about before there are consequences. And I admit, I am ridiculously patient – ask the .
But in my head, this was kind of the last chance for him. I get that it’s not his fault, and it was better than just being left, waiting, with no contact (which some men do find acceptable to do). So do I just accept that sometimes, these things happen, and reschedule for the New Year? Or if I do that, am I being an ever bigger mug than I've been already? Answers on a postcard, please!
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Very Vanilla - but so is he...
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Posted:Dec 23, 2013 2:23 pm
Last Updated:Dec 26, 2013 5:52 am
10046 Views
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We’re walking back from High Table when you ask if it’s OK if we stop off in the office for a few minutes. You’ve been trying to unravel a mess caused by a colleague elsewhere, and would like to see if things have been sorted out whilst we’ve been dining. I agree: I like your office, so different to mine – spacious, chaotic and with a view over the street.
The building is dark. None of your colleagues are working late – and why would they? A Friday night, after the end of term. Not for the first time, I’m struck by our widely differing realities. We trot up the stairs, laughing about dinner. You were impressed I behaved myself - not always guaranteed!- and touched that I took such pains to engage the College bore. I flop down on the floor, and you toss me a book to read. Your computer is powering up as I lie back on the floor, and I am soon immersed in the tale.
As I shift position some time later, I see you still staring at the screen, resting your jaw on your hands. I sit up, and watch you as you puzzle out a tactful way to express the idiocy of that London fool. You are intent on your thoughts, and it’s only as I approach your desk you look up and notice me. I put my hand on your shoulder, and lean down to kiss you. I tilt your chin back, and start to kiss you deeper and more insistently. Your hand snakes around my waist and you pull me close. I break off our kiss, and look into your eyes. I sweep your hair back off your brow, and kiss you lightly on your mouth. I look back into your eyes, and hold your gaze as I drop to my knees in front of you. I trail my hand down your shirt front, and slide two fingers between your buttons, running my nails lightly over your chest. You lean forward to kiss me again, and I slide your tie down as you do so, and start to unbutton your shirt. I kiss along your jaw, and then down your throat. I run my mouth down your chest, and look up to see you watching me. I look into your beautiful face as I push your gown back and unbutton your flies, and gently stroke you through your shorts. You lean down to kiss my mouth again, and I slide my fingers under your waistband, and feel you beginning to harden. Your hands slip under my gown, one dropping to my waist and the other starting to stroke my breasts through my dress. I’m teasing your head with the ball of my thumb, and teasing your teeth with my tongue, and I feel your thumb circling my nipple. You slide your hand under the neck of my dress, and stroke the curve of my breast above my bra with your thumb. I shiver slightly, and kiss you more deeply. I wrap my hand around you, and start to rub your cock more insistently.
You feel wonderfully solid in my grasp, and I bend my head so that I can twirl the tip of my tongue over your head. Holding your shaft, I lick up and over again and again, as though I am catching the drips on my ice cream, and when you lean forward again, I push you back into your chair. I slide my whole mouth over you, and as I swallow you whole, I look up at you from under my lashes. You gasp slightly as I take you down into my throat, and within a moment, my head is bobbing up and down in your lap. The ridge at the back of my throat rubs against you as I take you in and out, and you hold my hair back so you can see my face as I work my tongue back and forth on you frantically. As I lift my head so I can breathe again, I twirl my tongue frantically around your shaft, and my hand joins my mouth, forming a tight seal as I suck and tease you. I lean back for a moment, my hand rubbing up and down furiously, and see that you are also leaning back and breathing heavily. Ordinarily, I’d hold back, and tease you for an hour or more, but the floor is hard and I have other plans for an hour’s time anyway, so I begin to flick your head with my tongue. You are growing more solid in my hand, and I know from experience that you are close to exploding. I replace my fingers with my tongue, and work your shaft frantically. I look up at you, and see you are watching me. I smile as I continue to suck you hard, and then swallow you down my throat again. My tongue is flicking gently at your balls and working your shaft, and you can feel the delicious sensations of passing back and forth over the back of my throat on your head as I work your cock in and out of my throat. You are so close now, and I know that the way to tip you over is to wrap my hand tightly around you and jerk you hard and fast, so I ease back up your shaft. I twist my hand around you as I suck you frantically, with my tongue twirling up and down your shaft. I let out a low moan myself: sucking you always makes me crazy, and I am close to coming myself. The feeling of my moan against your cock makes you even more rigid, and I sense you are just seconds away. I redouble my efforts, holding your head tightly against the roof of my mouth with my tongue, as I tease your shaft with the tip. Almost immediately, I feel you start to spurt into my mouth, tasting the sharpness of you, and I release my hand so I can swallow your whole length. You come hard, and my mouth is filled. I ease up the length of your cock very gently, knowing how sensitive you are after you’ve come, and lean back so you can see me swallow your load. I stand up, and clasp your head against my stomach, whilst you recover from your orgasm.
We stay like that for a few minutes, and I listen to your breathing return to normal. As you start to shift in the chair, I step back and smile down at you. You stand up, and wrap your arms around me, holding me close, my head pressed into your chest. I tilt my face up for a kiss, and slowly, you kiss me. Your tongue becomes more insistent, and I run my hands across your chest again as I step back towards the desk. I hitch myself up on to it, and pull you close to me, leaning back a little so I can wrap my legs around your waist. I am kissing you hard now, and your hands find my breasts again. You slide your hand under the neck of my dress, and bring one enormous globe up. In an instant, your hand is under the cup of my bra, setting my breast free, and your mouth is on my nipple. You know exactly what I like, and I am soon moaning softly as your mouth encloses me and your tongue circles my hardening nipple. Your other hand is pushing my gown to one side, so you can slide my dress up. I arch my back and press in to you, my thighs tightening around your waist. As I pull you in even closer, you remove your mouth from my breast, so you can concentrate on untangling me from the confines of my dress and my gown, and I see you smile as you realise I am wearing stockings. I lean back a little further, so you can enjoy the view as my dress slips up to the top of my thighs.
The feeling of your hands stroking under the straps of my suspenders is blissful, and I love the way you are looking so intently at my legs. I lean back further, and unwrap my legs from your waist, so I can hook the heels of my shoes over the edge of your desk. You stroke further up my thighs, and I hear a sharp intake of breath when you realise I didn’t bother putting any knickers on before going to High Table. You raise my dress to my waist, and look down at me, spread before you on the desk. You lean between my thighs, and drop your mouth to my breast again, working with your hands to free the other one. Once it’s exposed, you shift your attentions to that nipple, working the other breast with one hand and beginning to stroke my slit with your other hand. Your thumb finds my clit immediately, and you draw some of my wetness up over it, circling on it as your tongue circles on my nipple. In an instant, I come, arching up from the desk.
You haven’t finished with me, though. I am still shuddering as you release my breast and spread my legs wider. Your mouth drops immediately to my clit, and your tongue begins to circle as insistently as your finger was doing only moments ago. I am moaning now, and you start to trace a line between my lips with your tongue, parting me expertly and slipping your tongue up inside me. My hands are in your hair, and I am bucking beneath you. Grinding against your face, I come again in seconds.
Leaving my heels hooked over the edge of the desk, I sit back up and draw you to me. Your face is glistening with my juices, and I taste myself as I kiss you, I drop my hands to your cock, and find that you are hard again, so as I kiss you deeply, I free you from the confines of your shorts and start to rub you again. I pull you closer, and start to slide you into me. You feel fantastic inside me, but I want you deeper, so I wrap my legs again round your waist. It feels good, holding you close and having you deep, but I am still aching to be fucked, so I lean back again across the desk. Your thumb finds my clit again, and you look down into my face as you bring me off. You feel my cunt clench tightly around your cock as I come hard, and you move your hands to my waist so you can slide me back and forth on to you as you thrust into me. My breasts are juddering as you pound away at me, and you can hardly keep your eyes off them as we fuck. I feel you getting harder, and I realise you are close to coming – but you pull back, and stop moving for an instant. I take this opportunity to lift my leg to your neck, and you spread my other knee out wide, pushing my leg up so I am tight beneath you. You look down at my cunt, wrapped so snuggly around you, and then watch yourself sliding in and out of me as you start to fuck me again. In seconds, I am coming again, and the feeling of me contracting round you brings you back to the edge.
This time, as you pull back, I swing my leg right over you, so I am lying on my side, my arm under my knees so my legs are pulled in to my chest. You put a hand on my arse, and hold me open so you can slip back into me. As your cock slams home, you catch my breast in one hand and use the other to hold me down on to you, your hand underneath my suspender strap. You are fucking me really hard now, and I can barely move because of how I am lying. I feel tight around you in this position, and you feel so deep in me that I can almost taste you. I twist my head round so I can look into your eyes as I come again.
I know you’re really close now, so I shift again. I start by bending over your desk, my legs spread wide, looking back over my shoulder at you. You feel good as you start to thrust into me again, with your hands on my hips, but I realise that even in my heels, I am too short for you to fuck standing up. I move forward, and kneel up onto your desk. You slide your cock back in to me, and then, as you thrust, spread my legs out wider. I feel tighter around you, and I lower my arms and head to the desk as I writhe beneath you. With every stroke, you are catching my G spot, and I am moaning softly. I try to stretch one hand back, so I can circle the base of your cock as you fuck me, but the effort is too great. Your hands are on my waist, moving me back and forth onto you, and you are moving faster and faster, and fucking me harder and harder. I’m starting to come again, and one hand works its way on to my clit. As your thumb brushes over it, I explode, and this tightness round your cock brings you right to the edge. With one hard, deep, final thrust, you pull back out of me, and I feel you explode across my back. Ever the gentleman, you grab a tissue and clean me up, and as I lay there on your desk, you rest your head in the small of my back and wrap your arms around my waist.
As we adjust our clothes, you shut down the computer. You have no patience tonight for idiots in Town, or the messes they have made. We trip lightly down the stairs, and out into the Oxford night. I take your arm, and we make our way the short distance home. As we wait for the traffic lights to change, you look down at me and shake your head. "I always thought you were crazy!" I look at you and smile.
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Supreme lack of tact...
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Posted:Dec 10, 2013 2:29 pm
Last Updated:Dec 22, 2013 11:44 am
10634 Views
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even by my (low) standards. I meet up with my new friend again nearly a fortnight ago - we hooked up for the first time back in September (don't ask - a total car crash of a night...) and we'd managed, in the interim, to construct an excuse for him to come up on a visit to my city on this last trip to the UK. It was a little awkward welcoming him to the office, but things got better, and we went for drinks with people, then dinner together, then more drinks - but he probably could have lived without my shocked (extremely loud) commentary when we got back to his hotel room: "My G-d, I thought your cock was tiny!"
I won't lie. I can't remember very much about our first night together. But the take-away message was definitely that, despite his height, and his enormous intellect, he was about as endowed as a runt in an earwig litter. Turns out, I was wrong. I guess I'm lucky he forgave me. Though in my defence, it would have been a lot worse if I'd yelled the reverse.
Cock size is one of those ongoing issues for men, it seems, just like we women obsess over the size of our bums or whatever. But - like the big arse - there's ways of dealing with what nature's given you. Of course I like a well-hung man - I would: I've got an unusually long body, and - without getting technical - this means my insides are similarly spacious. Feeling filled is delightful - and when that's coupled with being stretched, that's even better. But, like fat chicks, smaller men try harder, and often have advanced technical skills that makes things all the more satisfying: there's nothing worse than a man with an enormous cock behaving like a heat seeking missile. And - a tip from a girl to you guys - the only person I want to hear say, "I can feel your cervix" is my gynae...
Mind you, that said, there have also been some very under-whelming under-endowed gentlemen in my life. You can still be a selfish f*** even if your penis is slightly smaller and thinner than my little finger. There's one memorable one from the start of the year - he'd been a little untruthful about his physical appearance, but that's OK, and also his endowment (chaps - just so we're straight on this, a penis shorter than an inch is not "average": amend your profiles now!): and when we got to the state of the nitty gritty, he turned out to be very skilled with his hands, which was great. He liked to receive a lot of oral, which is fine - I like to give. But when we moved on to the final act - one, two, oops, sorry: except there was no sorry - "I didn't see any point holding back because you had an orgasm earlier...".
Even now I could have forgiven him - he was right, I had had an orgasm several hours earlier (as I had followed his directions and taken him to the edge a number of times and then held back, as he wanted a "long experience"). But - he knew I'd not been to bed for two nights, and was exhausted: so what really did for me was his half hour shower, the demand I sponged his trousers down and then the way he threw himself down on the bed (at 5am- no sleep now for three nights...) and demanded feedback. And "it was great" wasn't enough (and I had been doing plenty of the "wow, just there, that feels amazing" etc throughout) - oh no, he wanted detailed praise on every aspect of his fingering that had happened about eight hours before. I lost patience after half an hour, and summarily kicked him out (I hasten to add, he had been invited to stay over: I do have manners) - and then I lost his number. So you see, his crapness had nothing to do with penis size, and was all about his desire for excessive amounts of praise at an inopportune time.
And before I get berated for my own bad manners, for not being prepared to share the glory of whatever - *all* my partners are left in no doubt that I appreciate their attentions, I find little things to compliment constantly, and am genuine in my praise. After all, there's always something positive you can say and you can always boost someone's confidence and self-esteem with genuine praise, even if it is quite faint by necessity. So he had had *lots* of affirmation. But when you've refused to stay over, when you've spent over an hour preparing yourself to be ready to leave (I didn't mention the hairdryer), when you are aware that a)I'm short on sleep and b) have a meeting in under 2 hours it is *never* going to be appropriate to push for a blow-by-blow account of the excellence of your performance - particularly when said performance was eight hours earlier! Gar.
Your take away message from all this rambling (in my defence: I have fever today. That's partly why I am whining. Only partly, though - I also just like to whine  )? Big, small or somewhere in between: they've all got something to recommend them, something to be enjoyed and all are appreciated. What are not appreciated are arrogance and bad manners. Thank you and goodnight!
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Returning, like a to its own vomit...
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Posted:Dec 9, 2013 7:35 am
Last Updated:Dec 10, 2013 1:49 pm
10141 Views
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This site and I go in phases - tentative approaches, torrid affair, disillusionment and ultimately, departure. Until the next time. I've been on a break. For just over nine months. Long enough to have had a baby - except that's not what I've been doing, I hasten to add!
It's been the usual year: too much to do, not enough time to smell the roses, too many frustrations and aggravations. But some things have changed: a lover I've had for the last seven years has called time on our arrangement, a lover I've had on and off for the last twenty years took his own life, a lover I've only met in recent months has been the kindest man ever to cross my horizon. So it's been a time for reflection, a time of loss and a time of pain: but also a time for new beginnings. I'm growing into my new job that's not so new any more, I'm growing more accepting of the way I am, and I'm definitely growing older. Older - but not, alas, wiser: still making mistakes, still screwing up - and still having a cracking time too!
So - I'm back. How long for this time, who knows? But it's time for the old girl to get back into the Senior Sizzle saddle, ride a few winners and get old in style
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Things that make me go “Euuuw”
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Posted:Feb 10, 2013 9:54 am
Last Updated:Dec 10, 2013 1:49 pm
12024 Views
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I had a South African room-mate many years ago, and she referred to “the sickness”: something about a guy that just makes you shudder and leaves you cold. Not general arse behaviour – not, for example, sending your picture to a guy who’s been pestering you for it, only to have him immediately cut off contact; or the guy who’s always pestering you to get together then fails to respond to your suggestions, disappears for a fortnight and then reappears only to send you a third-rate pornographic message, pestering you to set up a date to meet (repeat X as long as the woman will respond). No, I’m not bitter, just astonished at my hit-rate for ill-mannered idiots! The sickness isn’t about bad manners per se – more about that one little fly in the ointment that makes you go “yuk”. I set her up with a good friend of mine, but it wasn’t long before she was confiding that his Raybans gave her the sickness. They had a long and happy relationship: but his sunglasses always made her cringe.
There’s a number of things in male “fashion” that give me the sickness: pointy-toed shoes, shiny suits, those not-shorts-not-trousers middle-aged men wear to show they are still cool, but just make it look like their hems have had a row with their ankles – we all have our little dislikes. But this post is about more than the sickness – it’s the fundamental things about a guy that just make you go euuuw, and can ultimately end up being deal-breakers. So in no particular order – some of the things that make me go euuuw:
Sex in socks. Does it for me every time – I just find this unspeakably grim. What sort of man (or woman) takes all his clothes off except for his socks? Getting all your kit off except for your stockings? OK, *that’s* sexy. Shirts left on? Can be sexy. But socks just don’t work in the same way. OK, everyone gets cold feet (literally) but repeat after me: socks are not sexy. Ever. Euuuw.
Poor personal hygiene. A guy once came to see me, and mentioned he had camped the night before. I offered him a shower, as I know they can be a bit basic on UK campsites, but he declined. It was only after we had spent the day in bed that he revealed not only had he not showered that morning, he had also been for a ten mile run before coming on to see me. The funky smell, that I had been trying to put down to his own peculiar brand of aftershave, suddenly had an explanation. I found it hard to continue to overlook the belly button fluff too. And as for the guy who is still known to my former house-mates as “Cheesy Knob” – well, let’s just say I suggest you use your imagination as to what his personal foreskin cleanliness was like. Euuuw. (Sometimes, of course, you’re in a situation when you can’t be as fresh as you’d like, because you’ve just been out to dinner together, or come straight from work, and of course, that’s fine. But there are limits.)
And as a corollary to pph, there’s also:
Left-over loo roll. OK, it happens to everyone from time to time. But when you know you are hooking up with someone, for goodness’ sake, please make sure you’ve at least had a good wash, even if you’re coming straight from the office. We’re much less likely to enjoy eating your arse when it has plenty of paper stuck to it. Euuuw.
To balance the physical, though, we also have the metaphysical:
Guilt. You relationship is your business, not mine. If you’ve made the choice to come and spend time with me, please understand that it is seriously uncool to then start banging on about how guilty you feel the second you’ve got your rocks off. The same applies to your relationship with your god. This is doubly the case if you’ve come and I haven’t, as I might start thinking that your professed guilt has more to do with selfishness than devotion to divine teachings. Just sayin’. Not necessarily a deal-breaker: but though you might get a second chance, you will definitely NOT get a third. Always euuuw though.
Rudeness to Ancillary Staff. A man who will be rude to a waiter, a barman or a chambermaid will be rude to you in the end. But apart from that, it’s not acceptable, ever, for anyone to be rude to someone who is just doing their job and, as such, not in a position to be able to answer back. Some things are so ghastly they can’t be over-looked: complete, utter and total deal-breaker. Always. And clearly, always euuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuw. (Yes, I really can’t tolerate this one!)
Ramming my head down on to your cock. OK, I’ll admit, with the right person some rougher stuff can be a lot of fun. But when it’s the first time we’ve met, give it a rest, eh? I’m going to suck you anyway, I’m going to do the best job I can – and you shoving my head down and holding it in an uncomfortable position from the off means you’re going to miss out on a great bj: and that I’m going to be far less inclined to do it again. Mind you, I doubt I’ll ever forget the guy who pinned me to the bed with his cock – mainly because he blocked off my airway for so long, I passed out. .. P
erhaps this could come under a broader category of poor blow job etiquette, actually: because I’m not that enthusiastic about the guys who kiss you for about a minute, then slip their skivvies off, grab the back of your head and start showing you down whilst hissing, “Suck it!” Or those who have never learned that it’s more blessed to give than receive: I’ve lost count of the number of men who have expected – and accepted – lengthy oral sessions, and never once reciprocated. (And it’s always those guys too who want your tongue up their arse...) Now that’s actually OK with me - I have to be really into someone to let them go down on me: but not one of those men I am thinking about has known that. And then there’s the men who forget that you need to breathe whilst deep-throating. I think there’s a separate blog post in this one, actually: there’s a lot of bad bj ettitquette out there – and it’s always euuuw!
Don’t call me “baby girl”. Just don’t. It give me the creeps, especially if you are exhorting me to “come for [you]” at the time. There’s some endearments I can take, just: but this one always makes me throw up a little in my mouth. Euuuw.
I think I’ll stop this post now, in case you’re starting to get the wrong idea and think I have unnecessarily high standards or am really picky. But think about it just a moment – I bet you’ll find it’s hard to stop once you’ve started listing the things that make you go “euuuw”!
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Still grumpy...
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Posted:Feb 4, 2013 12:54 pm
Last Updated:Feb 10, 2013 9:55 am
11632 Views
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In the words of the immortal Kevin Bloody Wilson, "it's been an absolute c*** of a day" - you know things are bad when you have that on full volume and it's not even five o'clock...
I tried to mitigate the general cruddiness of Monday by shopping in the Stockings HQ sale. I am not entirely sure that I needed to spend fifty quid on new lingerie, but it helped until the next pointless email came in at least. I hear there is a market on eBay for pre-loved ladies' underwear. I fear many more emails from the congenitally stupid and I may need to resort to this: eeuw, complete strangers wanking over your dirty undies... Though I suppose if it can keep me in Gerbers and Falkes, I can live with it. And I need to do something to stop me throwing my monitor through the wall. Roll on Tuesday - it will only be worse, but I'll be one day closer to getting my new silk stockings
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Moan, groan, grumble and whine (cheese optional)
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Posted:Feb 3, 2013 10:25 am
Last Updated:Dec 10, 2013 1:49 pm
11897 Views
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I'm a bit grumpy today. I'm having one of those years where everything seems to be going wrong, where all that happens in crossed wires, misunderstandings and screw ups, and which generally leaves you feeling like kicking a small, furry animal (aka "") purely from the desire to spread the love.
I was away for work last week, and the first bits of the trip were excellent. Once Sunday rolled round, though, everything disintegrated rapidly, and the last three days were mainly consumed by too much to do, too little time and too much waiting around for people who had either flaked or got crossed wires. Generally frustrating when you have a huge amount to do and nowhere near enough time, but I started to compensate by Sunday evening making sure I always had a plan B. I survived - but sometimes, even Plan B can't save you.
I had to go away suddenly, overnight, on Thursday, which was rather less than convenient. Only a short hop in the plane, but for a pointless meeting that wasn't enhanced by my presence. My aggravation was intensified when I was met at the airport by a colleague with my spare bag, and the news that I was going off elsewhere - so instead of the nice evening I had planned with friends, I was prowling the corridors of one of my most hated airports, with a don't-mess-with-me expression and the prospect of a long and complicated journey ahead of me. Of course they messed with me. I am famous for not doing . Sitting next to two of the little dears did not make me smile. Why do people bring their small on planes and make no provision for entertaining them? Tantrums don't bother me: sometimes misbehave. But how can a have the inner resources to keep themselves entertained on a four hour flight? I'm used to hopeless parents these days, so I did have a plan - but really, it's not my job to keep your entertained on flights, people...
The next leg also had smalls involved: this time not next to me, but running up and down the aisle whilst their parents either ignored them or sighed with martyrdom when the stewardesses insisted they restrain their so that those didn't get burned by hot coffees. After the first three hours, I lassoed these rugrats and attempted to divert them through the means of Plan B, by permanent travelling companion and some wild imagination. We were just getting very into the Adventures of Red when an irate daddy appeared, hoicked his away from me and berated me for interfering in their free expression (which was interfering in the other passengers' free sleep). Now I wouldn't usually grab hold of other people's - but I was left in no doubt that this gentleman thought I was a kiddie fiddler and clearly would not have been surprised if I was a signatory to the sex offenders' register. The little darlings spent the final eight hours running up and down and generally raising ire amongst the rest of the passengers - but at least they were expressing themselves freely, so we should all have been happy to sacrifice sleep for that.
On arrival in Foreign, I had a few issues with immigration. I don't like paying bribes in general, they quite like it, we had a difference of opinion etc etc But I eventually made it through, found my lift and - after a bumpy, hot and inspired by prayer (turns out the driver was a religious maniac with hysterical tendencies)drive - arrived at the office where my presence was required. Now, I have to admit that I was looking forward to a cold shower and bed, but I think I did a champion job of feigning passion for paperwork and coherency in the face of adversity. We were just starting to get things sorted out, and it was looking as though I might see my hotel before morning - when there was a knock at the door. I'm an expert in knocks at doors - I've been thrown out of hotels for having noisy sex, had my door kicked in be Special Branch (wrong number) and went to boarding school: this was not a knock that sounded good.
And indeed, it wasn't. I should have paid the $500. I'd have at least had a night in bed. Immigration had decided I was in the country illegally, having previously been banned (OK, that bit was technically true, I admit) and must be instantly deported. I felt the two trucks of soldiers armed to the teeth was over-doing it somewhat, though - I mean, I appreciate I am big, and strong, and have been taught how to kill a man with my bare hands (though I've never actually done it and I am sure it's a lot harder than it looks) but really, one reasonably sized chap with a clipboard is all it takes to get me toeing the line. I am ludicrously subservient to authority (that's probably boarding school again): I wouldn't dream of going to see a consultant or a solicitor in anything other than formal attire, I call police officers "sir" (even when they are women...) and stand up when my elders or betters enter the room (or leave the room, or stand up, or... or... or...). In short, whilst I might say, "Gosh, this doesn't seem terribly orthodox. Perhaps we could talk about it?" the chances of me suddenly turning into Lara Croft on steroids has always been remote. It's even more remote when I haven't been to bed for two days and am hot, sweaty and covered in paperwork.
I left, having lodged a stiff protest. ("I wish to protest most strongly about your behaviour, and I shall be raising it with the Foreign Secretary" - you have to pick your battles, at the end of the day...) Well, I say, "left" - more of "was dragged off in handcuffs" really. But the best bit of it all was that I got to fly back to Europe first class, possibly so that I didn't contaminate the rest of the plane: so at least I got to sleep. Not that I wanted to, mind you, as this will likely be the first and only time I will fly in first, unless I take up international fraud as a new career. Perhaps this is why I am so cranky today. Or perhaps it's because everything seems to be going wrong at the moment. Or maybe it's because I'll have to go into the office tomorrow instead of being away until Thursday. But it might just be because I have realised how old, and tired, and fundamentally dissatisfied with life I am. That makes me sad. Though not as sad as logging in here to discover that the gentleman who emailed me offering me money for sex, and was politely told that this is a hobby rather than a profession, has revised his original offer - downward. Now that *is* a reason for crankiness!
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Too Many BBCs...
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Posted:Jan 23, 2013 12:38 pm
Last Updated:Dec 9, 2013 7:03 am
11972 Views
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Periodically, I get parachuted into parts of the world that most sane individuals avoid for their annual holidays. Part of the reason for this is because I’m cheap (why else am I on this site after all  ?): I make my income elsewhere, and I do little enough for the rest of mankind that I’ll undertake this sort of venture for expenses. The other part is that I am what my former boss described as “disgustingly efficient” – I can be relied on to get the job done, not whinge and produce the necessary paperwork when required. You wouldn’t think any of these things are rare, but apparently, they can be like hens’ teeth: so I get a lot of interesting – and sometimes, short-notice – opportunities.
I’ve been on one of those for the past few days. A part of the world that some of us have been chuntering on about for ages has suddenly hit the news: you’d think it was totally unexpected from the way the politicians are going on, but all that shows is that they never read the paperwork we send them. And actually, it’s been bloody marvellous – I’ve been wanting to go to this part of Foreign for years, but as no-one wanted to send me, and I am perpetually stuck in the time vs money trap (I have one or the other; never both at the same time) I had never actually had the chance. Some of the people I was working with are people I know from other assignments we’ve shared, and some were new to me – so it’s been great catching up with the gang and making new friends. These deployments follow something of a pattern: I am often the only woman, and somehow that translates to being the one who gets to do the cooking (we’re an unreconstructed lot), give the relationship advice (having been engaged four times, I am widely believed to have magical powers in bullet-dodging) and do the expenses for everyone (because, whilst these are a wonderful group of people, with many talents, doing their exes as they go along continues to elude them: and there’s nothing I love more than reconciling four different currencies and having carrier bags full of random receipts to play with. Ahem.). In return, I refuse to touch the generator, the vehicle’s insides or anyone else’s dirty underwear. It works quite well.
This time I had a treat. I absolutely love these adventures, but tend to be gruelling, both physically and mentally, and there’s no doubt that a drink at the end of the day helps take the edge off. We had managed to co-ordinate our booze supplies in advance this, which is very rare – so we had a fantastic array of duty-free. I have a travelling cocktail shaker, and thus it seemed logical to have impromptu cocktail parties after work. Being travelling queen (and also because I was invariably chained to the stove – and not in a good way) I didn’t have any part in the mixing: to be honest, I am a fan of Between the Sheets, and I never turn down a Pink Lady, but in general, I avoid more imaginative cocktails because of the inherent possibility I will get myself into trouble. And that’s something I really don’t need any help with. However, it was a lot of fun trying the various creations that made their way into the kitchen, though not all of them went well with groundnut stew. As time progressed, I started feeling ropier, but I was convinced that was more to do with very long days, too many cocktails and nowhere near enough sleep, in a challenging environment that was about 45 degrees hotter than home.
We decided the last night to push the boat out. Somebody found a chicken (it really is best not to ask) so I spent my last afternoon sitting on a barrel amidst a duvet-full of feathers, preparing it for the pot, whilst the amateur mixologists prepared various concoctions for my delight and delectation. This was where my love for BBC developed. I had no idea what was in it, but it was smooth, sophisticated and definitely not too sweet. I paced myself carefully, primarily to make sure that no-one got food-poisoning, but also because a small plane flown by a homicidal alcoholic Russian who thinks he’s still in the Afghan War is not a recipe for a happy ending if you have anything approaching a hangover.
It was as we were downing our latest BBCs and preparing to get dinner out, I felt the first stirrings of nausea. The unmistakeable rising of the gorge. Luckily, I made it out of the kitchen in time. We sat down to eat, and there was plenty of good-natured ribbing. I had some supper, to try to settle my stomach, and, having made a dash for the bushes again, was persuaded into another BBC to follow up the good work. After all, as someone helpfully pointed out, brandy is practically medicinal... It was only later in the evening, after several more bouts of prodigious oral expulsion, that I thought to enquire was else was in them. Turns out the C stands for “cream” – not the best thing for someone who’s lactose intolerant to be sucking down... There was much chortling at this, of course, and as I didn’t feel particularly under the weather except for the moment I needed to throw up, we continued to frolic.
Years of experience means I always travel with a camping bucket, so I managed to get through the night OK: wake up, throw up, pass out. But the following morning, I was still feeling under the weather. Our medic, almost sober by now, decided that he would make me go to the clinic before my flight, just in case – it was an awfully long time to be throwing up just from a few glasses of milk, in his expert opinion. It’s kind of a rule of thumb in those parts of the world that when you wake up with a hangover, but haven’t been drinking, it’s time to go for tests. I felt my 4 BBCs constituted drinking, but I was over-ruled, and we stopped off at the clinic on the way to the airfield. The doctor was from Uganda, and young, harried and not overjoyed to see me.
“What’s the problem?”
“Well, I think it’s just that I’ve had too many BBCs”
The doctor nearly fell off his chair: “WHAT?”
“Well, I had four last night, and I’m lactose intolerant, and I think that’s what’s making me throw up.”
The doctor said he couldn’t really see what lactose intolerance had to do with it, but that it was too early to run an HIV test. I was a bit surprised – I know that HIV/AIDS is prevalent in that part of the world, but this didn’t seem a logical test to be talking about – so I asked if he could give me something at least to stop the vomiting. He looked hard at me, and asked if I thought it could be psychosomatic, as a result of shame or guilt. This sort of stuff isn’t totally unusual in small clinics, which tend to be funded by churches or staffed by religious maniacs (because who else would work in these sort of places, after all?!) but seemed rather an over-reaction. I figured he must be a Baptist.
“No, I don’t feel bad about it. Four isn’t that many – and if I hadn’t started throwing up, I would have definitely been able to manage a few more: they’re not that strong.”
By this stage, the doctor’s eyebrows had disappeared into his hairline. “I just hope you used condoms,” he hissed at me. It was at about this point, I realised we were talking at cross purposes. I reeled things back in, and explained that, whilst of course alcohol should indeed be enjoyed responsibly, I though wearing a condom to do so was rather an over-reaction. The doctor realised he should ask me to clarify what I was talking about.
“Brandy, Benedictine and Cream – what are you talking about?”
Turns out that BBC means something totally different – and not British Broadcasting Corporation. I always learn something when I am abroad...
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