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?