Footsore and bleary: can’t write, couldn’t dom

The birth of Venus. Fresco at Pompeii.

In the last few days I’ve clambered and walked all round Pompeii and Herculaneum, and climbed from the road on Vesuvius to look down into the crater, a distance of, I’d say, about one and a half kilometres. 

All the time limping like a three-legged dog. That’s because I climbed my way into the grounds of the Villa Diodati, Byron’s old palace in Geneva.

It’s in private hands now, and closed to the public, which is a disgrace. There’s a sign nearby about how “Frankenstein” happened there. The Shelley’s house, where Bysshe and Mary were living, and actually wrote the novel, has been demolished.

By the way, the novel was conceived and mostly written by May Shelley. Percy Bysshe wrote about 7,000 words of it and had a couple of the less important plot ideas, which gets him to the status of minor collaborator. He never claimed any share of the credit.

Anyway, my leg had largely recovered, but before I went into Vesuvius’s terrain (terrain of terror, I guess I shouldn’t say) I undid all the repair work while walking through the Carraculla baths in Rome. A road made of cobble Has the power to make me hobble. It seems. 

After the ruined cities, plus the volcano that did the ruining, my feet weren’t just sore; they’d swollen up until they looked to me like someone else’s. And that someone else was possibly an elephant.

Since then I’ve kept my feet elevated, and me relaxed, as much as possible, and as a result they’re nearly back to normal size. Phew!

Anyway, I’ve been having a wonderful time, but I’m physically exhausted. That, it seems to mean, prevents me from writing. Writing takes energy, and the body has to supply it. It hasn’t been. What energy I have, I’ve devoted to making myself walk, and go and look round different places. 

I have a terrific episode of Maddie’s story (the Wicked Wednesday saga) formed in my head, but it’ll have to wait till next week, when I’ll be resting on the beach in Phuket.

It’s interesting that domming and writing both require unusual amounts of mental energy. You need desire, focus, attention to detail while shaping the direction you want to go. 

Right now, if some girl were to drape herself over my knee (or chair), I honestly don’t know if I’d be able to oblige her. Similarly, I have the plot of next week’s Maddie saga worked out, but I couldn’t write it right now to save my life. (That, I guess, is not actually true. At gunpoint, I’d write it.)

Anyway, I’ll be able to write more next week, by bribing some kid to watch my laptop when I go for swims. My journey ends on 16 May. 

Vanilla and spice: Is bdsm a smaller box?

Nothing wrong with vanilla

I’ve never liked the term “vanilla”, used by some people in bdsm to refer to sex that doesn’t have bdsm in it, or the people who practice it. It seems a bit disparaging, and self-promoting in a way I find unattractive when other people do that to me.

For example, there was a thing in the Sydney gay community a few years back where heterosexuals were referred to as “breeders”. Sometimes it was a joke, and a good-natured one, but I’ve also heard and read it being used in terms of extreme dismissiveness and contempt. 

I thought it was a shame when gays and lesbians were doing that, even if the het world has come up with its share of disparaging words for gays and lesbians, Hets have no moral high ground whatsoever. 

I think it’s a shame when we refer to the majority of the human race as having “vanilla” sex, with its sub-text that they’re having boring sex, poor people, while we fetishists, ministers, bdsm guys and girls are exploring all the flavours and having psychedelically mind-blowing sex, compared to those poor, restricted vanillas. 

But the term’s here now, and no one’s come up with a better one-word way of saying, “non-bdsm sex and the people who have it”.

When I’m talking about bdsm to people who aren’t into bdsm, I’ll explain that there’s this word, and I use it for its convenience. I don’t mean it pejoratively. 

Still, I’d rather there was a better term. 

I don’t know why but when I think, “sort of attractive but utterly not sexy”, this is the sort of image that comes to mind

I also wonder about my own sexual repertoire. Since I’ve embraced bdsm so strongly and so passionately, I’ve had occasional sexual encounters with women who aren’t into bdsm and don’t want to try 

I’ve found that there’s enough lust to carry me through vanilla sex (erection, ejaculation and so on).

But there’s no question that I’m not as turned on, as excited, as I am when I’m subduing and taking some sweetly or fierily consenting submissive girl. 

Have I become a sexual specialist, only really capable of enjoying bdsm-related sex? I think the answer is: not completely, but to a significant extent. I’ve fitted myself into a smaller box. That worries me a bit. 

I sometimes feel a little awkward because I’m monosexual.

That’s a word that some bisexuals use to describe people who aren’t bisexual. Obviously, you can be homosexual and monosexual, and you can be heterosexual and monosexual, which last is the Venn circle that I’m in.

He’s the sort of go-to image for “hot man”, just at this moment. But I don’t fancy Chris Hemsworth, nice guy though he seems to be, or anyone of his gender

Bisexual seems like the cool category to be in, embracing everyone, but I’m stuck with not fancying men whatsoever, and being amazed that so many women do, thank fuck. 

Anyway, I’m heterosexual, and so I’ve excluded half the human race from potential lust, and I can see that that’s a loss, of a kind. Similarly, I’d much rather be able to have vanilla sexual relationships, because otherwise I’d be excluding about 95% of humanity from potential lust.

But I have a feeling I’m drifting away from non-bdsm sex.

I don’t think I’ve had an erotic dream, certainly not a waking sexual fantasy, which isn’t bdsm-based, in years. Still,I guess that we all just have to be, and accept, whatever it happens that we are. 

Lest we forget the dead donkey

My great-grandfather was at Gallipoli. Gallipoli was an attempt to get a land pathway into Europe which British troops could follow, and attack the Germans closer to Germany than the stagnant lands created by trench warfare.

The road through Turkey would be opened by non-British troops, mainly New Zealanders and Australians, whose deaths in a futile and poorly planned operation wouldn’t be making headlines in England. There was a beach selected for this task, and naturally the British navy sailed straight past it and dumped the “colonial” troops into a beach where conditions would be intolerable if you lived, and where the Turks could sit up in the hills safely pouring lead onto the poor bastards on the beachhead. 

Anyway, my great-grandfather was stuck on the killing beach. He did what you do under the circumstances. You try to go forward, you try to kill people wearing the other clothing style, you try to keep your head down and stay alive, and sometimes you do crazy brave things because the men you’re with are doing them too. 

He came back from the meat-grinder alive but fucked. He couldn’t re-settle, he couldn’t be with his family, and he spent the rest of his life, except his last two years, trying to drink himself to death. Unluckily for him, the Mortimers have weird genes, and though he spent nearly eighty years consuming pretty much nothing but gin when he could afford it and sherry when times were worse, smoking when he could and sleeping rough, he lived until his late nineties. 

In the last eighteen month of his life, when he was ninety-six, he became the live-in handyman at a block of apartments in Nelson, chopping wood (I told you we’re genetically weird), fixing fuses and hinges and water piping for the young couples living around him. He was proud of himself for the first time since 1915.

He died in the 1990s. Someone managed to locate his family and contacted my father, who wasn’t actually a relation except by marriage, and he went down and cleared up . 

Anyway, my great-grandfather wouldn’t talk about Gallipoli, or Chunuk Bair. There wasn’t much to say. Except one thing. He said he was on the slopes with a donkey carrying water. The donkey got hit smack in the stomach by a cannon shell. It whipped its head around in time to see the middle of its body gone and its hind legs falling. Then the front of the donkey fell too, head facing my great-grandfather.

My great-grandfather used to say that the expression on the donkey’s face, when it realised it was fucked (grotesquely destroyed, if you prefer), was something he’d never forget as long as he lived. 

I never met my great-grandfather. The only time I ever saw him was when I was nine. I was at a family wedding that he, pointedly, hadn’t been invited to. He turned up drunk, with a drunk friend, and got turned away. I missed that, but saw him later at a kid’s play area with a helter skelter. He and his friend decided to walk up the spiral of the slide, and come down the ladder.

It took them a long time but they made it, with assorted family members standing a distance away making disgusted comments. I knew nothing, understood nothing, but I did feel a kind of sympathy with him. Not “that poor man”. More like, “that’s odd but kind of cool”. 

It was my mother who told me the only thing he’d ever said about his experience at Gallipoli. So I don’t know how he told that story: was it a parable about the way the New Zealand and Australian men were treated when the British decided to throw their lives onto a choppingboard? I don’t know: but my guess is that, yeah, it was that, but above all, he thought it was funny.

The people in my country have the blackest sense of humour I’ve encountered anywhere in the world. Throw in having lived through Gallipoli, and I’d say my great-grandfather would have had get a sense of humour so dark it had infinite gravity.

Anyway, I’ve never given a fuck about ANZAC Day. Nor, I understand, did he.

When I see it being used by politicians to defend more stupid military deployments, for the sake of someone else’s empire, I get really, deeply disgusted and angry. And it’s nearly impossible to make me angry.  

So, I think the poor sods in the army, navy or air force who get sent where their country tells them to go deserve sympathy, and most importantly they deserve real help while they’re alive.

But fuck ANZAC Day. It was bullshit in the first place, and it’s now been securely seized by right-wing, race-baiting arseholes. Fuck them, fuck the politicians, fuck the snivelling scumlicking bullies in the Murdoch press, fuck all that bullshit. Fuck, as I said, ANZAC Day. 

I remember the mess it made of my great-grandfather, sometimes, in bugle-free private, and I remember that poor bloody donkey. 

Message of hope for baby-doms

The most miserable experience of my life was because of bdsm. I was twenty-two, and I was very deeply in love with a woman I admired, respected, who was beautiful, who shared my political passions, whose virginity I’d taken. She’d been eighteen, and she hadn’t told me. I’d been nineteen, and I didn’t know enough to realise. 

Later, when she told me, I was flattered that I’d been her choice, and sorry I hadn’t made more fuss. She should have had more cunnilingus, and afterwards a cake with a candle. Anyway, it was done.

I don’t really have any photos that illustrate this post. But here’s a pic I took yesterday, of a Prague manhole cover, depicting some sort of strife.

But there was a problem. My deepest and most satisfying sexual thoughts, and all of my fantasies, involved bdsm, and me being a dom. I don’t think the word existed at the time.

But in my sexual dreams I commanded, fastened, spanked and flogged. I guided, I rewarded and punished, and I took.

That was what I wanted, from a willing partner having fun.

It always had been what I wanted. I’d known it since I was four, long before I was sexually focussed, let alone sexually active.

But she thought that that sort of sex wasn’t just not for her; it was evil.

She’d read Andrea Dworkin and Robin Morgan on bdsm, and so she “knew” that. There could be no such thing as ethical, or even consensual, bdsm.

I’d mentioned it once, and on seeing her reaction, I gave up. I thought it was a pity. I loved her so much I wanted to be with her forever. and that meant I’d have to bury my bdsm. Lose it. Forget about it. Cut it off me.

Of course, sexual desires and needs don’t go away. Sometimes it’d be too much, and when she was absent I’d have my fantasies and masturbate. The miserable thing happened because we were staying with her parents, and moments alone just didn’t happen.

Eventually, the desires got too much, and I took a book I liked (“The Coming of Age of Françoise Cocteau”, which I’d expected to be more stylish, though the flagellation scenes were hot) to a local park, overlooking the sea.

It was twilight cold, and no one seemed to be there, and no one was likely to come to the park at that hour. I found a place among the trees, partly sheltered by a rock, and masturbated. But I felt desolate. I was in love with a girl who loved me, and I was still utterly isolated. Part of me was disgusting to her. All of me, just then, would be disgusting to anyone who saw me.  

So I was in tears, streaming down my face, before I came, and after. Body fluids everywhere.

That’s it. That’s the experience. I cleaned myself up, binned the tissues, waited a while for the onshore breeze to remove the smell from my body, and trudged home. Despising myself.

 But here’s the thing. She left me the next year, because in the feminist circles she was moving in it was wrong to have a boyfriend at all: sleeping with the enemy, and withholding wimminlovingenergy from other women, that’s what loving me was. Eventually it got too much and she moved in with women from the sisterhood. I was collateral damage. 

It was not the happiest time of my life.

Sitting at a cafe in Prague today, keeping an eye on the square. Because life is ok.

But humans, thank fuck, are fickle, and after a mourning period I noticed that a man who’d been with one woman for four years, despite a roving eye, was a subject of sexual interest from other women. I had opportunities, and I started taking them. The second significant girlfriend I had wanted me to spank her. We explored further, and I found that I loved spanking her, and I loved what happened when we went further, too.

I moved to another city when I finished my degree, and found that my very next girlfriend wanted to be spanked and commanded too. So I’d met and bedded two women in a row who were submissive, when I hadn’t even included that in my selection criteria. I realised that my life wasn’t going to be as miserable as I’d expected. Instead life set about being fun and bringing me joy. I learned that a male dom is not short of women who want male doms, so long as those doms behave themselves like gentle men.

Because life is random, and for other reasons too obvious to explain, here’s a picture of a dog-washing shop, two days ago,  in Geneva.

Anyway, that’s my message to baby-doms. The term “baby-doms” isn’t meant to be dismissive. It’s derived from “baby-dykes”, who are among the most charming people on the planet, even if they don’t want to have sex with me.

Babyhood is a time of infinite potential. Baby-doms are people whose experience of bdsm is in its infancy, who are just starting out, and who have, perhaps, only recently become aware of their desires. Don’t despair. Life can go hard on “perverts”, and so can your own mind.

Keep your code of ethics, try to do the right thing, and persevere.

There’s nothing wrong with being a dom, so long as you obey the same rules about consent and avoiding force or manipulation that people expect in other kinds of sex. A lot of people are submissive, and they are looking for you, or someone like you.

Life gave me some miserable times because I’m a dom, but it also gave me the most wonderful experiences and times I’ve ever had. Those outweigh the bad times by a factor of, I’m not sure, but at least a hundred to one. I’d never give up being a dom, now, even if the thing were possible.     

So, be hopeful and of good cheer. Life offers paths to doms, to fit their sexual “kink” into a good, ethical life, with lots and lots of incredibly hot sex and love. 

I begin my new novel (again)

I’ve relaxed, in the middle of Ireland. 

I’m in a town called Roscrea. I chose it because it’s as close as I could find any accommodation to tiny Dunkerrin, where my ancestors, Jeremiah and Mary Mortimer, died and are buried.

I know: Jeremiah Mortimer sounds like an old codger in The Simpsons. I can’t help that.

His son, who came to the South Pacific and sired a hell of a lot of people, was called Darby. By the way, the name “Darby” is a fairly common Irish first name. Sean Connery plays a Darby in his first film, Darby and the Little People. You should see it because there’s a bit where Connery has to sing: comedy gold! Anyway, the name Darby is a sort of slang version of Jeremiah, like Jack is a slang version of John.

House of Mortimer (somewhere here, about six feet under this ground)

Anyway, Jeremiah and Mary couldn’t have afforded a headstone, so they’d have had a wooden cross at best. That’s long gone. I’d hoped to buy a mess of poitin, and pour some on the grave, one way or the other. But that was not to be. 

But here’s a picture of the last resting place of the Mortimers who didn’t go to the South Pacific and become my ancestors. 

There’s not much in Dunkerrin, though the churchyard is pretty. But I’ve been looking about the town of Roscrea, which unexpectedly turns out to have structures that were built in the tenth century, to keep Vikings away, and in the twelfth century when the Normans, having conquered England, decided to invade and occupy Ireland too. So: history! It’s all over the place here. 

For example, this is literally the view from the window of my hotel room. It’s a Norman castle, twelfth century, That house in the middle, clashing with everything around it, was built in the eighteenth century by a family who got rich occupying Ireland when Oliver Cromwell went over and did his bit.

Cromwell’s bit for Ireland consisted of burning, murdering, raping, smashing and looting. Ah well, it’s a lovely house, truth to tell, but on style grounds, if nothing else, it really, really doesn’t belong in the middle of the ruins of a Norman castle. 

Anyway, I’ve got peace of mind at the moment, and there’s a historical novel I finished a few years ago. Then I realised it has too many characters, and its climactic scene is in the middle, and it should be at the end. It needs serious repair. But I got taken up by other, more immediate, projects, including two other novels and a non-fiction book, and I shelved the flawed historical novel. Now I’m taking it off the shelf, with a fresh mind. 

It’ll be about 350 pages, and it doesn’t contain a single spanking or other bdsm scene whatsoever. I think there’ll only be two significant sex scenes of any kind, so I’m afraid my readers will have to settle for a good story, some historical scandal (accidentally discovered by me, when researching something completely different!) that will still create some uproar, some scenes of horror of the human, not supernatural, kind, and some laughs. 

So if anyone needs me, I’ll be tapping my keyboard in the bar of The White House, Roscrea. I’ll be drinkin’ Guinness, and if you pop by I’ll be buyin’.

Travelling Riverside Blues

I’m still travelling. I just had breakfast in the halls of one of the colleges of Oxford. The river I’m beside at the moment is the Thames, which is a rather gentler river while it’s up in Oxford.

I’d like to take a girl punting on the river, but she’s not having any of that. It could be the way I emphasise the word and waggle my eyebrows when I say, “I want to punt you.” 

That’s probably it. 

Here’s a pic, by the way, of the lane in Oxford that was in Medieval Times called “Gropecunt Lane”. Sadly it’s been renamed into the more decorous “Magpie Lane.” 

I had a half-arsed theory that maybe “magpie” was a Medieval way of referring to sex workers, so that the new name isn’t quite as decorous as people think. My reasoning, such as it is, was that the “mag” in magpie was a reference to the character Magdalene, also known as “the other Mary”, in the New Testament.

I was right about that, but my theory went on to speculate that since in Medieval times Mary or Magdalene was thought to be a prostitute, then maybe the word “magpie” was slang for a sex worker. So that the name “Magpie Lane” is still, in a sense about groping cunts. 

However, there doesn’t seem to be any example of “magpies” ever having been a slang term for sex workers, so my brilliant theory seems to be utter crap. Oh well. 

Anyway, I want to apologise for the relative lack of posts on this blog lately. I seem to be producing only one or two posts a week, and I’d hoped to keep up my usual rate of four a week while I was travelling. But I’m in England, at the moment, which isn’t my usual home, and I’ve got a girl with me who, even if she doesn’t want to be punted on a cold river with plenty of passers-by, does require a fair bit of maintenance and general looking after. And that’s fun to provide, so I’m busy at the moment. 

I’ll be alone again, on Monday evening, and I’ll be on a night bus or train to Liverpool. I might write something then. Then I’ll be in Ireland for a few days, chasing up some ancestors, but I may even get back to my usual schedule while I’m there.

I’ll be in France after that, then Switzerland, Germany and Italy. Then, in the middle of May, I’ll be back at home in my mountains. I’ll keep you posted!

Eroticon UK: The Jaime papers!

In a week, I’ll be at Eroticon UK! 

On Friday, I’ll be there for drinks. I herewith present my papers!

Name (and Twitter handle if you have one)

My name is Jerusalem Mortimer. But people generally call me Jaime.

It’s like James, but with no “s” on the end. One syllable. It’s not Jamie. 

For social purposes and dauphins, my name is Jaime.

But I’m not thingy about it. Fact is, smile at me and I’ll answer to any bloody thing.  

The pic is me on Day 10 after having my face ripped about by weasels! I can almost recognise myself. I’m having the stitches taken out this afternoon. 

My Twitter handle is @JaimeMortimer.

What are you most looking forward to about Eroticon 2018?

Meeting up with the lovely Zoe, from @sexismynewhobby! That’s the big headline for me.

Beyond that, I’m looking forward to meeting lots of lovely people, who are so damn sharp, cool and nice (and generally lovely) that they astound me to admiration. I will buy many drinks! 

Also, I really liked Camden when I was there last year, and I’m looking forward to getting to know the place a little better this time around. 

We are creating a play list of songs for the Friday Night Meet and Greet. Nominate one song that you would like us to add to the play list and tell us why you picked that song.

Jerusalem (“And did those feet, in ancient time…”).

The Emerson, Lake and Palmer version.

Because Blake is about elemental force, and freedom, and breaking “the mind-forg’d manacles”. Also, the ELP version is an awesome reinvention of a brilliant song.  

Weirdest place you’ve ever gotten up to mischief (define ‘mischief’ however you like…)

The Tutaekuri River, in New Zealand. The name, by the way, means “dogshit” in Maori. I suspect that some nineteenth century surveyor asked a local Maori what that river was called. The Maori guy came up with that, keeping a straight face, so it got into the mapbooks. It’s quite a pretty river, really.

Anyway, I was having sex with my girlfriend in a deep pool on one side of the Tutaekuri River, sitting on some underwater rocks.

The watery fucking got to an urgent point, but then a raft floated by, packed with boy scouts and a pink scoutmaster.

He kept trying to draw the boys’ attention to some sight on the opposite side of the river from us. He didn’t have much luck.

We stopped and didn’t start again till they’d they’d drifted on downriver and out of sight. Then, a minute later, there was another boyscout raft, this one with a red scoutmaster. We tried to lean back and look respectable, and not look too obviously joined, underwater. They passed, and the fucking resumed. 

And then… there was a third raft, with a crimson scoutmaster.

We waited for a bit, but that was it. When the girlfriend came, it was the first time I’d ever heard a woman make orgasm noises and hysterical giggles simultaneously. Best sound ever, I thought. 

Anyway, so we’ve done our bit for sex education.  

Tell us two truths and a lie about yourself

  1. I am indomitable, probably to a fault.
  2. I secretly fear that my powers are not up to my ambitions, as a writer. 
  3. When I was 11, I wrote a novel in which Percy Bysshe Shelley was rescued from drowning by a man in a time machine, who sent him to America to save the place from right-wing crazies on religion.

Complete the sentence: I want..

… to find a publisher for three books. Two novels, one funny and one crime-and racism focussed, also a non-fiction book about bdsm. Put me in paper!  

Masturbation Monday: an apology for a post, and more on the Library of Depravity

I made the Library of Depravity in what had been a bare concrete space.

The concept for it is late nineteenth century, based around the idea of some colonial administrator who’s served in Africa, Indochine (as it was then), the South Pacific, India, the Caribbean, and also around the Arctic Circle.

So he has all these artefacts from the places he’s been, which happen by an odd coincidence to be places I’ve been, and he comes down to the library to read poetry, politics, philosophy and porn, to punish and reward bad girls, and I think to smoke opium.

The only thing that isn’t 19th Century or earlier in technology is the record player, and at least that’s old and analogue. Because it relies on valves rather than transistors, it should have a chance of surviving as a sound system even if EMPs and other things that would fuck up digital technology are ever deployed. The only keyboard in that library is connected to a portable typewriter.

I’m not going all crazy-survivalist on you. I don’t have guns, or stockpiles of canned soup. I just think the internet is more vulnerable to destruction by government or non-state actors, or to coming under government or corporate control, than people remember to take into account. My books will still be here when my Kindle is fried, or the subversive and sexual texts start to disappear out of it.

As for poweringr that fine and ancient sound system, I was thinking of pretty submissives riding bicycles hooked up to power generators, and whips. And plenty of coffee.

It’s the genuinely environmentally friendly way of providing the needed energy. Fun and future-proofing!

 

Sorry damn note

I haven’t got the mental focus to write the next episode of my Masturbation Monday story, which involves swings and things and buttons and bows.

I could only manage to write this piece about the Library of Depravity. A few people asked me to. So it was a request and it was easy. 

I wrote about why I’m a bit lacking in energy and focus, here

I took this pic of myself five minutes ago. This is me on Day 7 after surgery. If you compare it with the Day 4 photo, you can see that the hard work of healing is coming along, slow but sure. 

State of the author: stuff I don’t usually talk about

 

People seeing this photo, which I took about five minutes ago, will think I look terrible. They’re right, I do.

But I think, “This is me just four days after scalpel surgery and then laser surgery on my face, and I’m recovering very fast.”

I think that because I’ve spared people the photos of me on days 1, 2, and 3, when my face looked like I’d been beaten up by the secret police, then pushed out of a car at high speed, then dragged by another car, and then rolling into the gutter, where people kept kicking my face for what must have seemed to them to be good reasons of their own. 

The mutant’s progress

Day 1: I looked reptilian, because the flow of lymph fluid puffed up my face, and blew up the pouches round my eyes so I could barely see out of them. Mostly couldn’t see out of my right eye. 

Day 2: The eye stuff had drained a little into the rest of my face. The rest of my face now looked like it had been inflated with a bicycle pump. I looked pig-like, though I was happy with that because at least I’d re-joined the mammalian order. 

Day 3: I looked dead. You know the annoying guy who’s the first to meet the aliens when they land on earth, and they kill him and use his animated corpse to pass on threatening messages and generally do their work? I looked like him, the deranged evangelist whose rotting face makes dogs howl and children scream and run.

My nose was black, and swollen in an odd way that made it look like it’d fallen off and been hurriedly stuck back on with glue. Still, at least now I was back to looking human

Day 4: Here I am. It looks nasty, but believe me, I’ve been looking at worse, lately. I feel about half-way back to being myself. The face colorisation is still weird, but most of the swelling’s gone, and the discolorisation is starting to fade, a little.

My face is shiny because I’ve rubbed a lot of haemorrhoid gel into it. The gel contains steroids to help repair, and has a mild anaesthetic effect. So you don’t have to stick haemorrhoid cream or gel up your ass; it has other uses.

Cancer scar

For the cancer op scarring under my lip, I’m using a light silicon gel as a wound dressing, as it’s supposed to reduce scarring. 

Yesterday, the surgeon called me and said they got it all. I’m at the lowest possible risk of having to have more taken out later. So that’s good.

Top tip!

I recommend haemorrhoid cream or gel, by the way, for people who’ve been severely caned, strapped or whipped, and have to have their bottom back in socially acceptable condition within a few days. It’s an effective way of reducing bruising. See? Everything links back to bdsm, really. 

 

Healing is hard work

Healing is hard work. I’ve just slept most of the way round the clock. I have so much to do, and no energy at all. 

How do I feel?

I’m not in pain, or not much pain. I feel better than I look.

I’m taking steroids, on medical advice, to speed the healing. I’m finding that they fuck with my sleep, which is probably one of the reasons I’m so tired now. I was also prescribed codeine, and I think from now on I’ll use paracetamol during the day, and the codeine at night to help me shut down. 

I’m relieved the cancer thing is over. Though I mostly just shelved thinking about it, and never worried all that much. So life rewards irresponsible insouciance, sometimes. 

I’m grateful to the people who care about me and even manage to love me, and to science and the medical profession. I’m kind of amazed that I’m not more unhappy about all this, but the thing is, I can see an upwards path and I feel pretty positive.

And if you’re going to Eroticon, I’m looking forward to seeing you in about a fortnight. By then I’ll have a new face, or rather my usual one back. 

The State of your Author

I wrote a novel about Frank Harris, Oscar Wilde, Lewis Carroll and the young Aleister Crowley about four years ago. It had too many characters and the plot was far too complicated. Also the strongest sequence came in the middle. It should either be the beginning or the end.

It’s called Harris’s Adventures Underground, after the original title of Alice in Wonderland. Anyway, there were major structural issues, and there was a problem with Frank Harris’s voice, as the narrator.

Frank Harris is, in  sense, the opposite of Harry Flashman, George MacDonald Frazer’s anti-hero. Flashman was a coward, and various other sorts of bad man, but he was utterly honest and reliable in his “Flashman” memoirs.

Harris was a brave man, and mostly decent, but he could never resist improving any story he was involved in. As a result, you can never quite believe that what he writes is what really happened. 

Harris wrote a lot, though few people have read anything more than his autobiography, My Life and Loves. But his style is very unfashionable now, and it was hard to write in his voice while still being readable and immediate. 

I put it aside to work on other things. Now I’ve finished those other things, and I’m back to it. 

It needs a lot of editing, and some new scenes. And I think I have a solution to the “voice” problem, though I’ll find out as I write it. But I think there’s something very strong there. So that’s my new project.

A side-effect is that until it’s done, my blog and my writing will have no cross-over. I think I’ll find that strange. What, no bdsm? What, writing in someone else’s voice? 

But I’ll keep writing this blog at the same rate as now. I may do more shorter stories, since I’ve nearly got enough for a volume of bdsm-related, but also person-related, short stories. With interlocking characters. Maybe it’s the bdsm equivalent of “Slaves of New York”. Or some such.

And some things, like the Maddie saga, will go on forever, probably, unless I think of an ending.

(“Well,” gasped Maddie on her deathbed, “getting run over was unexpected, but it’s all been tremendous fun.”) 

For now, I have three books to sell. Two novels and a non-fiction book on bdsm.

I’ve recently finished proof-reading them, and I found that it’s nice when you read something you wrote, and it’s well polished, and it feels real. The people act and speak credibly, each according to their own motivations , and they’re neither better nor worse than real people. Also, all three books are often sexy, sometimes sad and often funny. I feel good about them: they are good enough to be proud of.

On the other hand, I know that I’m shit at selling myself, commercially speaking, and… Well, frankly, the marketing issue scares the hell out of me. 

I’m coming to Eroticon in London in March of this year, and I’m looking forward to meeting a lot of lovely people.  I also hope I can get published and make a non-insulting amount of money out of that visit and those meetings that may arise from it. 

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