The recovery of tenderness

I believe that people come into your life to teach you different things - maybe lovers even more so than friends. Or maybe "teach" isn't the right word - it's not as though it isn't all there already in you. Maybe "bring out in you" or "remind you" would be the better terminology. 

Yesterday, I was helped to retrieve my own tenderness - some deeply intimate, sensual, delicate, delightful, exploratory quality that's so very much part of me, but that doesn't see the light of day in my sexuality as often as it should. It made me pause for a fraction of a second and think "Oh!". "Oh, THAT is there too. What ever happened to THAT? How could I have forgotten?" But I didn't pause for long. Instead my teeth resumed their cheeky little pull on my lover's ear, before my lips wandered down to journey up the most beautifully swung collarbone in the world. How could I have forgotten?

But then I know, I really know. Lovers of late have not brought this out in me and slut-girl, well - slut-girl has just been wild and dirty and messy and rough so much of the time, never quite sure where and when moments of tenderness were actually allowed. Warmth and comfort with my husband yes, but spine-tingling, slow-burning sensuality all for it's own sake? I'm not sure I have ever actually experienced that quite like this. So today I am touched, I'm enriched, I'm a better lover and this good-slut-one-girl-being is just a little more whole than yesterday. Danke Dir!

BJ-gate - one controversial slut

I might be a dirty slut these days, but if there's one thing I rarely do, then it's to stick my neck out. I'm still far too keen to please people most of the time. On this occasion I decided to do otherwise and managed to stumble into much more controversy than I was expecting. Actually it all started with one of the simplest things in the world - a cock!

My friends (those of Fetish night defloration infamy) had invited me to go to a local fetish night with them. I had been horny as hell for days and the chance to play dirty and not have to travel to the capital for it sounded fantastic. However, I was aware that the venue was basically a pub and that charging people for events where they will then have sex, may legally constitute running a brothel. But apparently my friends had checked with the organiser and had, somewhat to my surprise, been told that sex was ok. We were all pretty excited to get there, especially my friend, one evil white winged angel with a whip in one arm and a vampy black-clad sub girl in the other. The venue was pretty small - one big St.Andrew's cross in the extended bar area and some spanking benches behind some curtains. The crowd was predominantly over 50, clad variously in rubber, PVC or leather, but with a good few people simply in black jeans or combats. If I'm completely honest - if you'd ignored the PVC and the 6 foot crouching rubber-clad dog man, you'd have thought you were sitting down with a regular older pub crowd. An erotic frisson there certainly wasn't. I didn't think this boded well and confirmed my expectations of a non-swinging local fetish night, but we settled down for a drink anyway, hoping for some action to happen before long.

I don't know if you've got the flavour of my friend by now, but you should know that he is always one of the first to play. He seems always horny and always up for it - literally. Perhaps it didn't help that he'd eventually read "Fetish night defloration" a couple of days previous and that my description of his "belly-wrenching monster" made him feel a little full of himself. He was sitting behind us with his big hard cock trying to escape from the superman pants. It was doing its work on my filthy mind too - it's such a beautiful cock to be fucked with and my friend's enthusiasm is totally infectious. Ah, and you know just how much I love to be led astray, especially if it's into breaking some unspoken rule. I tried to be firm and say that I certainly wasn't going to play until somebody else was at least doing some BDSM play, but he had no patience at all and under his hands in my dress my resistance was softening too. I wasn't even drinking, but my "ah, fuck it!" attitude became pretty pervasive. Before long, my breasts were out of the dress, the tight PVC dress pushed up my hips and he was kneeling in front of me, delightfully licking my pussy. People with their pints sneaked some subtle glances over their shoulders, chuckled and carried on drinking. It was pretty apparent to me that this didn't EVER normally happen, no matter what we'd been told. But seriously - you think by the time someone is licking my cunt so beautifully, I still really care that much? There was also the little devil in my mind that wanted to introduce a bit of energy into the room, hoping it would get people a bit stirred up. That's certainly what would have happened where we normally go. After a little while we switched over and I took his hard cock into my mouth, He grabbed my hair and pushed deep. I worked him for a while, my eyes watering with the effort. It was fun, but actually, it also felt weird - so after a few minutes we left it and got straightened up. He really, really did want to fuck me - and hell, so did I, but this just felt badly wrong, like putting on a sex show in your neighbourhood pub. We sat back down, still hoping for something to happen. Other than somebody coming around with free chips and one older woman being gently and silently flogged, nothing did happen. I found this so unerotic and frustrating, some little part of me did want my friend to fuck my arse hard and fast, so I could scream the place down. With what happened subsequently though, I'm glad I didn't. Eventually we gave up and left by around midnight.

Normally, I would have just put it down to experience and not gone back. But I thought given that I was new enough to fetlife, one of the kinky social networking sites, I'd actually leave some feedback. I essentially said that despite the organiser's claims I found there too little play to be going on and I'd never felt like such a pervert for giving someone a simple blow-job. Oh dear! The organiser did the right thing and opened up a discussion about whether or not people did or did not want to see sex at that particular event. In fairness, most people (except a few people who obviously found public sex acts offensive) had some pretty good reasons why it wasn't a good idea in that venue, but it certainly confirmed my impression that this just doesn't normally happen. It just goes to show that the kind of acts you eventually consider to be harmless or normal in non-vanilla company, aren't necessarily perceived as such. Each community comes with its own set of rules and conventions and perhaps pure Dionysian frenzy where anything goes isn't actually wanted or desired. And yes, before you may snap at me, I heard all that was said about legality, closing down venues for overstepping the mark, people wandering in, the space being to small for people to have a choice about whether to get involved in a scene or not etc, etc. All true, all valid. I also concede that I really don't actually understand non-sexual BDSM. However, it's been my experience time and time again, even in swinger's clubs, that so many people dissociate from the sex act in some way. They don't want to get swept up by the eroticism or their basic animal passion and be seen to do so. It's not safe, it's not nice. I'm sure many people don't even manage it in private. Myself, arrogant, show-off slut that I am - I aim for nothing less - ever. I don't always get there, but I sure as hell will try.

A perfect moment

We took the glass lift back down into the hotel lobby. It was now 3.30 in the morning. Somehow the glorious threesome that I had had in mind had gone badly awry. I still fail to see how one hunky guy and two beautiful naked women in a penthouse suite overlooking St.Paul's cathedral did not translate into mind-blowing sex, but leaving had been the best thing Banshee and I could do under the circumstances. I was just tired now and confused and faintly embarrassed.

We were halfway across the lobby, when she stopped me.
"Hang on a moment!"
I must have looked vaguely uncomfortable, but she held on to my arm which was hooked under hers. She turned me, lifted her face up to mine and fastened her fierce lips on my mouth. My lips opened under hers and her teeth nipped at my bottom lip, as she held me for what felt like an age.
When she let go of me, she looked into my eyes, still holding my hand. I made a move to go, but she still held me on the spot.
"Just take it in for a second," she said."You belong here. I know you don't believe it, but you do belong here. Just take a look around and take it in."
I lifted my head and looked around: behind me the night porter was busying himself behind the reception, in front of me the last few revellers were enjoying their drinks in the overpriced hotel bar. The big glass front of the hotel reflected a multitude of sparkling lights and the illuminated outline of St. Paul's was clearly visible outside. It was a beautiful sight, a beautiful sight in a very surreal moment. Finally, I paused in myself and took it in. She kissed me again then, long and hard. I was aware of the people around us, but I kissed her back proudly. We both smiled, wrapped our arms around each other and left.

A slut's kit bag

Mmmm, so what would be the essential ingredients in a slut's kit bag for a Saturday night out???

Tying up equipment:

• Leather collar & handcuffs for sheer erotic appeal
• Bondage tape for practicality
• Open mouth gag, because I'm feeling daring and have not been a disgusting saliva covered mess for far too long

Pleasure equipment:

• Favourite glass dildo - beautiful, always good to have and can torture my banshee friend with it on Sunday afternoon; at least one other dildo or butt plug for DP insertion option
• Evil anal beads, guaranteed to make me go through the roof. They also feel good to neighbouring cocks or so I'm told.
• Silver bullet for cheeky stimulation
• Brand new shocking Magic Wand Massager??? Downside - very, very loud, huge, heavy. Upside - unbearable vibration, near forced orgasms, the expression on banshee's face. The last point I think settles it.
• Lots of lube, lots of condoms

Pain equipment:

• I don't own any! I don't provide my own whips or paddles ;-)

Lingerie (not in the kit bag but on my body):

• Dark red silk moulin rouge style bra and matching G-string
• Consider matching suspenders and stockings, outfit-dependent (you've got to give a girl some time to dither over that)
• Alternative to change into: black leather bare-arsed spank skirt and black gauze breast revealing shoulder wrap, corset on request

Must get a bigger bag!!!!

Submissive opportunities

Since my regular dom disappeared from my life with a bang back in February I haven’t really felt like playing one-on-one with anyone. Casual club play or group constellations were fine, but not becoming one man’s slut. There were just too many painful associations – and always that ounce of fear that nothing would ever be as good ever again. But ever so slowly I’ve been getting there and now I’m ready – more than ready actually. Maybe “hungry” is the best word - hungry for new experiences, for excitement and for creeping up on some boundaries! I don’t know if you believe in this stuff, but it seems to me that once you’re open to something, opportunities will arise. Well, this week I’ve been swamped by opportunities. Intriguing dominant males have been coming out of the woodwork all over the place.

My naughty friend is extraordinarily keen to have sex in public – preferably in my favourite local sex shop, which would get us both barred!!! Beautiful banshee has offered to share her current dom who’s more than keen on having two sluts at his disposal. There’s been an enquiry on Fetlife and a VERY intriguing enquiry on Swinging Heaven. The latter was simply entitled “read me” and invited me to a hotel room one evening next week. I was to wear nothing but lingerie under my coat. I would be tied, made to taste the mystery enquirer and then my slutty tastes would be met. I picked up the message just before going to bed and I’ve not had this much trouble going to sleep in a long time. Mmmm, so bad! And so unsafe! So regrettably I had to ask some more questions first.

But the one that’s really got my juices going is one that’s been developing over the past few days. Here’s somebody who clearly understands the importance of pre-session build-up and someone who’s picking up very fast on how I tick. So I’m excited! I’ve not been this excited for some time. I’ve not met him and only exchanged photos and a couple of messages, when I picked up an email from him with the following instructions yesterday:

“What I want you to do for me, is to go into the bathroom at your work. Take a photo of your face, your breast and your pussy on your phone and send it now… I will give you some more orders in the coming days…”

Did I do it? What do you think? Of course I did!!! It took me ages, half drained my phone battery, used up an inordinate amount of work time, but did it ever make me happy! All these lovely guys do of course have one thing in common, the one thing that’s going to press my buttons in just the right way – they are making me do “bad things”! And I’m loving it!!! Böses, böses Mädchen!

My first PVC dress

Other than frilly burlesque, Fetishwear has never really appealed to me that much. Plus the thought of getting sweaty under rubber or PVC just didn't seem that sexy to me. But you know, when in Rome... But ultimately, I think it was whipping Banshee's sweet pale arse encased in shiny black PVC last Sunday that swayed me in the end. Whatever it was, come Monday morning, I'd been shopping. I received the first half of the delivery - a pair of bare-arsed leather chaps and a posing pouch for my man - yesterday morning. He was liking them so much that he wouldn't take them off. Which would have been fine, except that apparently he's now Banshee's "bitch" (her words not mine) and I'm not allowed to spank him. Cruel! This morning, part 2 of the delivery arrived: my kinky "lockable PVC Vampire style dress". And actually - I'm loving it! Apparently I now look like a mistress rather than a sub. With my stern German features it doesn't really take much to make me look a little scary. In this instance we'll work under the assumption that scary is good! 

Real life adventures: Dirty talk (epilogue)

Back in the car I settled into the passenger seat. It was 3 in the morning and it had been a pretty successful night. Sure, I hadn't been tied to a post and been pleasured and hurt by half a dozen people, but it would be more than a little greedy to expect that every time. Just one thing was still niggling me - the lack of an orgasm. Whilst I can cum pretty easily by myself or with a dedicated, familiar lover, in more complex or novel scenarios there is usually too much going on for me to even try. Add even a pinch of performance anxiety and you may as well forget about my orgasm. So I don't stress about it, but at the end of a big turn on night, I appreciate some kind of conclusion. So I did what I frequently do on the drive home from a club: I placed my feet on the dash board, grabbed my trusty bottle of lube and started stroking my clit. I let my mind drift off to words, sounds and images of the night. Still, I was struggling a little - caught somewhere between tiredness and the urge to cum. So I decided to talk to my husband.

"Was I bad tonight?"

Real life adventures: Dirty talk

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Poetry: Meaning?

What do you mean when you say love?

What do you mean when you say passion?

Is it what I mean, is it something different?

How do those words shape themselves in you?

How do they fill your being?

That tug of the loins, do you feel that too?

That which brings you instant hardness and me instant wetness, is it the same?

That explosion of the heart that I have learnt to call love, does it have the same meaning to you?

Perhaps it does, perhaps it doesn't.

We are both human after all.

Can I ever really know, not having lived in your skin?

We use these words thinking we know what they mean,

yet what are they but scanty symbols of the things that make us human.

What do I mean when I say love?

What do I mean when I say passion?

I can tell you, but you may not understand.

But I can be here with you,

Feeling love, feeling passion,

And through some miracle we'll both know.

A Bohemian Rhapsody

Ah, Banshee girl, you are a complicated creature. Spending the evening with you had been strange - never sure whether to be in awe of you or wanting to mother you. After a random and somewhat odd club night, all three of us landed in your bed - to sleep, I stress, merely to sleep. Not that I did much of that, your alarm waking me up every hour on the hour, somehow refusing to be silenced by my tired fingers. In those weary moments, my fatigued mind would not have been able to imagine the strange and beautiful day that was to follow.

It's precious to me that day, so precious that I do not even want to make it into a story. Precious in a way that only allows me to reflect glimpses of it to the world. Not even glimpses that are all about sex. You know? That kind of precious. People that are precious to me - I can see their flaws, their failings, but I never want to speak them. I want to hold them in my outstretched hands, in the width of my heart and carry them there, in their entirety. I don't want to pick them apart into good and bad, light and dark. I want to keep them whole.

So I'm holding all of our wholeness that day, you in the middle, soft between us, his holding us both ever so tenderly. You in nothing but his shirt, sitting by the window, smoking, talking about the philosophy of consciousness of all things. How beautiful you looked as you ventured out, your fitted coat over his shirt. How beautiful you looked as I thrust into you from above with a fierceness you were not expecting. How beautiful you must have looked as you thrust into me from behind with a fierceness that I was expecting. How beautiful.

I still smile as I remember how we tied him - still shy about his own submission, but braver that day than he would have been with me alone. We were kind on him I think, but he deserved that. His favourite moments of these years of adventure, lying in bed with two beautiful women in his arms. No need to possess, just to hold and treasure - pure sensuality. I think he will remember that moment on the day he dies and regard it as a memory of a life lived well. We were lying like lovers that day, not like swingers, it's quite different, adorably different. What precious moments, always over too soon...

Literotica story contest - votes needed

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Vanilla holidays ahead - but the devil girl's coming right along

I'm about to head off on holiday, so there won't be any posts to speak off for a couple of weeks. You might think that we ought to be going on some crazy swinging cruise (great idea!), but actually it's all a little more vanilla than that. The greatest amount of nakedness we'll see will be in a Swedish sauna on our ski touring trail through the wilderness. That's also a great experience and not one I'd ever devalue even compared to some glorious fucks.

But before that I'm going to go even more vanilla. I'm going on a week long painting course and to top it all off, I'm going take my mother and big sister along! This is a little tricky, because everybody on the course who knows us already expects the perfect family bliss. Unfortunately I however, am a cesspit of rebellious feelings at the moment and suffocating nicey-niceyness just makes me want to vomit.

Real life adventures: Black Man's Fan Club

There are swinging nights and then there's this: nights where we abandon any pretence of harmonious 2 couple soft swapping, full swapping and whatever else there is. There are nights when it's just about getting yourself fucked. Doesn't sound pretty? Believe me it isn't, but it's also amazing, outrageous, physically intense and exceedingly greedy.

Now, before I say any more, I should really say upfront that in many ways I'm not that comfortable venturing out with my husband on a night that's all about my pleasure and mine alone. But he will insist, and I believe him, that whilst this isn't his main kick, he gets much pleasure out of watching me have a wild time. So I won't argue and instead humbly accept his generosity (and his graciousness in passing me condom after condom after condom that night).

But I digress. Black Man's Fan Club is exactly what it says on the tin.

Good girl, slut - there's only ever been the one girl

My most significant learning from the events of the past few weeks has perhaps been this: the girl who loves, the girl who cares about others, who thinks hard and feels deeply,  and the girl who likes to get herself fucked, who pursues her pleasure, who likes to get her arse spanked - they are one and the same. There's only just the one girl. At least three different people have now told me that they are often not sure what they want to do to me: slap me or cuddle me. Both, I answer, always both. They sit just side by side in me, in that strange one girl it's taking me a lifetime to understand.

On bruises II - S&M vs submission

As I started meddling with the darker side of sex, I didn’t define these experiences particularly as BDSM. I didn’t want to categorise myself or become part of the scene, I just wanted to experience. In fact, I didn’t even know that, there was just something about those experiences that thrilled me beyond belief and made me want more.

I’ve been lucky. I’ve had enough therapy over the years for me not to fall prey to the “Am I sick? What’s wrong with me?” gremlin. With a little bit of effort I could accept that this was what I enjoyed and that, in a consensual setting, there was little harm in that. Still, I wouldn’t have ever told you I was into BDSM. The term just comes with too many presumptions, too many dodgy mental images. BDSM, that was for those more extreme people, not for me! I did odd bits of reading, but didn’t really want to know about the seemingly minute differences between Bondage/Discipline (B/D), Dominance/Submission (D/S) and Sadism/Masochism (S/M). Nothing for me to worry about – or so I thought.

Real life adventures: Fetish night defloration (part 2)

I returned to the dungeon area armed with a glass of wine, ready to do some watching. I'd not really ever seen a live BDSM scene and I was hoping for some visual titillation.

A beautiful blonde girl had just been tied up to a bondage chair. She was slender, delicate, with the most perfect breasts, differentiated sharply from her defined ribcage. The chair spread her legs wide apart, her body covered only with delicate pale pink panties and some narrow wrist and ankle restraints. Exquisite. Her dom was equally appealing. He was perhaps in his late twenties, dark haired, just the right kind of toned, and wearing what can best be described as some kind of black leather breeches that left his crotch and buttocks fully exposed. His cock was already erect as he approached his girl with the kind of magic wand vibrator I'd only ever seen in S&M porn.

Real life adventures: Fetish night defloration (part 1)

I had had a bad week, in fact the most appalling week – top 3 on my list of worst weeks of my life. Going out to my first ever Fetish night with my beautiful banshee friend was supposed to help get me “back on the horse” as my darling husband put it.

I wasn’t all that sure. My body was so chronically high on adrenaline on that Saturday morning that I could barely cope with daytime London crowds and the fearful nausea just didn’t seem to want to shift. At that point even meeting my wild friend seemed like more than I could handle. So when she didn’t make it, I had the perfect excuse. At least 50% of me just wanted to go back home and hide, the other 50%... well, the other 50% is easily lured by temptation and too stubborn to be beaten. It’s also the second 50% that got egged on by my husband to go and do it anyway. He didn’t seem to care that I was anxious about being left in London by myself or that I’d never been to a club on my own. He did know that once I was there, I’d be in good hands though. I was meeting a great couple we’d swung with before. Lovely, warm, safe and fun people – just what I needed. I also knew that he would give me the most beautiful athletic fucking and that she was keen to spank my arse in the process. So in the end I’d texted them to say that I was by myself, but still wanted to come out if they could give me a lift home afterwards. The text that came back said “No worries, just pleasure.” How can a girl resist that kind of invitation?

On bruises - the good and the bad ones

Today I’m carrying my first ever bruised arse into work. And you know what? It brings a smile to my face. I can still feel the warmth, the slight tenderness against my office chair and it just reminds me of the most epic night out of all time. It’s a good feeling and one with a good story to match (watch this space).

It’s also a timely bruised arse, one that sits in an odd juxtaposition to the bruise on my face. That one is not so much one of pride, it comes with a much more mixed bag of feelings. While I’m doing my best at disguising it from the world (which would no doubt suspect my sweet caring husband), I can’t really disguise that from myself. It is a potent reminder of what I’m starting to understand as the difference between playing rough and playing with S&M for pleasure. No doubt there is more to be said about that. For now however, while I’m hoping for many more tender-arsed Monday mornings, I will try and avoid much more of the other kind of bruising.

Why people swing - or is sex EVER just sex?

Yes I know, guys, it's time for less thinking and more adventuring, but there is simply too much going on in my life for the erotic muse to kiss me. So please indulge my thoughts at least for one more post!

When I chatted to my vanilla friend about swinging the other day, she remarked how brilliant she thought it was that I could get all my sexual needs met this way. Whilst this is of course true, I can produce any number of orgasms by myself with the help of a friendly dildo, a bit of porn and my middle finger. Sexual needs taken care of! Oh, no, there is SO much more to it than that and I'd like to put forward the radical idea that it is never, ever, ever "just about the sex". In the same way that things are rarely just about "love" or "money" - these things always stand for something more.

Reclaiming my space

As the attentive reader will notice, I’ve recently removed a few of my posts. I’m not happy about it – this is my space and my creative voice. But it’s something I felt was the right thing to do in the cause of damage limitation. And I know there’ll be more life, more creativity, more to report – so perhaps there’s little lost. However, what I won’t do is to lose my freedom of speech, to watch my every word, to sanitise every one of my fictional characters from here on in. No, really, that can’t be done.

Allow me to go all psychological on you for a moment. When drama hits our lives, we readily snap into something aptly called “the Drama Triangle”.

How to deal with slutty fuck-ups

There are times when I ask myself, why I didn't just stay a good girl. Life would be so much simpler. Less challenge, no boundary pushing hangovers, less pain. But I can handle those things, I can handle feeling hurt and losing people - what I can't handle is hurting others. Especially when it's in the pursuit of my own pleasure! That just confronts me with everything I was told is wrong about going with your needs and feelings. All those messages: it hurts others, it's selfish, it lacks responsibility, it's living a fantasy and makes me just about the worst kind of woman in the world (by my family's definition). Yet even when I manage to push aside my conditioning and rely on my own ethics, I'm unimpressed with myself today.

So I did what most of us would do when we've mucked up: I panicked, phoned a friend, took shelter with my sweet and reliable husband, hoping one of them would ease the bad feelings that were making me feel so nauseous. It didn't work. I briefly considered pretending to myself that there were things I hadn't known about the situation, so that perhaps I could try to wriggle my way out of it that way. I threw that one out as soon as it crossed my mind: I'm not that naive - I really did know better. The obvious solutions - trying to fix it somehow, apologising - all didn't quite cut it. So ultimately, I think my husband has it right. When you've fucked up, you have to take responsibility and take whatever you get on the chin. That, too, comes with being a slut.

Cunt redeemed - an ode to a beautiful banshee

I felt compelled to write a brief post to confess that I was wrong and to say thank you! Thank you, banshee girl, for restoring my faith in my love of women. You are fiercer than any man I have ever met and I'm not sure whether I desire or fear you more. Never before have I come home with battle wounds quite like this: tits scratched, arse bruised and bitten, nipples sore. Never before have I been kissed quite so wildly, with such ferocious teeth. As your slight frame held me down I knew I couldn't have shaken you off even if I'd wanted to. You worked me with a relentlessness that may be a promise of things to come. Never before has sex been so beautifully interspersed by talking, connecting, meeting. To lie naked with a friend, sip wine, talk sex, life, love and philosophy, a casual hand on each other's soft skin - perfection. To future meetings, future talks, to fucking each other senseless! Thank you!

One notch too far: my boundary pushing hangover

Today I’m nursing a hangover. No, it’s not alcohol-induced, but it feels the same in many ways. I’m tired, I’m getting ill, I’m trying to remember where exactly I picked up each scratch and bruise, and the elation from my exploits is also mingled with feelings that are lower. I’m a little shaky, feeling I’ve pushed it one notch too far. So if it’s titillation you’re after, skip this post and wait for the next one. If you’re interested in my soul business, then read on.

Swinging up, swinging down: The matter of emotional attachment

If you ask somebody about the grand rules of swinging there is probably one rule that every swinger would quote: “Do NOT become emotionally attached”. I myself, as you may have gathered, have a little bit of a problem with rules. What is more, I also think this is a rather naïve rule. Once in a while somebody comes along with whom the physical and emotional chemistry is just right, somebody who helps you discover sides of you that were long buried, somebody who actually changes your life. So what ARE you supposed to do, when that happens? Instantly cease all contact? Consider it something dangerous, something bad, something that wasn’t supposed to happen?

People are strange. Whilst by definition swingers freely support the non-exclusivity of physical love, most cannot actually imagine non-exclusivity of emotional love. Many would rather throw away the gift of love and passion than face the inevitable risks associated with emotional attachment. I don’t blame them really. It isn’t easy, I didn’t say it was. Being promiscuous lovers, we take physical risks too of course, but on the whole condoms and regular testing are going to do their bit to keep us fairly safe. We know how to do safe sex, but we don’t know how to do safe love. That’s because love is never safe, love is always risky. It also happens to be the most beautiful experience in our existence.

Of cocks and cunts - or what you enjoy isn't always what you expect

One of the greatest surprises in my sexual explorations has been to discover what it is that I actually enjoy! Don't get me wrong, I obviously had SOME idea. After all, I had a misspent youth reading erotica and still enjoy it now. So, hey, I knew what turned me on, but some things just feel different in the flesh. If your brain works like mine, you'll begin to see the glorious life lesson in that - the pursuit of what actually brings you joy and not the things that are "supposed to".

Let's start of with some basics - do I like cocks or do I like cunts?

What is a slut anyway?

According to the online etymological dictionary, the first record of the word "slut" appears around 1400 AD, where it is thought to refer to a "dirty, slovenly, untidy woman". Over time the word came to mean a woman of "loose morals", i.e. a promiscuous woman. Like all good guttural four letter words its origin is likely Germanic. If you want to to use words of sweet romance, go with the Romance languages, if you're talking about joyful, gutsy physicality and a bit of dirt, it's the Germans you want.  So why is it, that some of us are choosing to reclaim this old derogatory word?  As modern informed women we are all supposed to be caring, as well as assertive, successful in our careers as well as doting mothers, always self-reflective, excelling in our communication, we are supposed to "make love" rather than fuck... The slut however - essentially a free agent, at home in her body, accepting of her needs and as messy as life itself. You just have to love her!