Eroticon is (almost!) here! And I’m in London at last

Sorry to regular readers. I’ve been on the road going up through northern Italy, then Paris, and I’ve just arrived in London. I’ll probably write something about that later, but it’s hard to write much while you’re in transit. 

And though I have a lovely and loved travelling companion who speaks French and Italian, also Railway, immensely better than I do, it’s still hard work.  

I’ll do what I can in the next few days. In the meantime I’m tossing up between having a beer and going to sleep.

In the meantime, here’s “Roman Decadence” by Thomas Couture, in the Musée d’Orsay. I’m going to Eroticon’s meet and greet evening tomorrow, and I’m hoping it’s something like this.

In full flight

I’m cooling my heels in an airport transit lounge, on my way to the castle. I’ll be in my castle in 20 hours. 

Then my girl arrives in Rome the next day, so I’ll be with her (some might dispute that preposition) in about 40-odd hours. 

Wifi here is dodgy, so I’m not even going to try to post a pic, though I’m having a hilariously bad hair day.

 

Jerusalem Mortimer soon to be on sale!

Er, not actually a real book. But it you want it, I’ll write it. For food.

I used to place stories in magazines and anthologies. I had one in Playboy, once. I’ve never actually seen it because they forgot to send me a copy. (Also, they chopped out 1,000-odd words, and I sulked.) But the money was real, generous and much appreciated.  

Then I got involved in political activism, and it became a bad idea to keep publishing. I don’t care much about political parties. I put my energy into campaigns for political and legal changes about unemployment, homelessness and domestic violence, for example. It’s what government does that matters.

But it wasn’t a good idea to have a guy who worked with the male children of women victims of family violence write stuff about tying up and spanking girls who enjoyed being “bad” and its consequences. There’s a huge difference between a pink bottom acquired willingly and joyously, and a black eye acquired in out-of-control terror.

But anyone working for Rupert Murdoch (spit) and his media empire, for example, would pretend to be confused by that difference and use it to discredit any cause I was associated with. And when I wasn’t writing about sex I was writing about a world in which everybody broke the law – especially but not only about drugs – routinely, and the cops were experienced as violent, corrupt thugs.

So I worked on what I thought was important and I shut up. I’ve achieved some social reforms, one major one and a few minor ones, and people are better off because I did that.  But I’ve served my time now. I’m back to writing and, more importantly, publishing, for money. 

This, on the other hand, is absolutely real

My big and serious book, Between the Lines: A biography of BDSM has to come out in paper form, from a mainstream publisher. That’s important, for it to get to the audience it needs to reach.

But I have other work that can emerge in e-form. So I’ve registered on Smashword. There’ll be a story available for sale in a couple of days. Look in if you feel like it. Even buy it! 

Yeah, I know. As a salesman I absolutely suck.

My Smashwords page, for what it’s worth, is here.

 

Good to be home

I’m back from the funeral and wake. I’d like to thank everybody who sent supportive and really nice messages. I’m touched. There really is a community out there, and it’s extraordinary that an anti-social bastard like me has been welcomed in and become part of it.

I’ve been neglecting a few things while I’ve been away. This blog, for one thing.

And there are so many physical projects I’m behind with, like chainsawing down a row of trees. They provide a good visual block between the neighbours and me, on that side. But now they’re grown so high they’re occluding the solar panels. 

It’s a horrible job, because you have to stand on the stop step of a step-ladder, on very steeply sloping ground.

Has anyone seen my damn lawnmower? Turned my back for an instant, can’t find it again.

I came down a while ago, when the stepladder spilled over, releasing me and my chainsaw to fall about three metres to the ground.

Fortunately, the chainsaw cut off the instant I took my hand off the charmingly-named dead man’s switch.

I left skin on the branches as I crashed through them, but I landed on my arse, still with the chainsaw in my hand. So I said some words, and then made bigger chocks for the ladder. 

And then there’s the lawn. It turned into jungle while I was away. 

Anyway, I’m back to this blog. Things will be happening, from tomorrow. Tune in!

Wicked Wednesday: Death is not life

I’ve spoken my eulogy. My father has been cremated. His descendants and their lovers had the wake. A very Irish wake. I’ve recovered from emotion, also alcohol poisoning. And now I’m home, and dead tired. 

I drank most of a bottle of Cointreau with a brother I used to be close to. He was twelve years older than me, and when I was a boy he was easy with people, and especially with women, in ways that I’ve never quite managed. I hero-worshipped him.

I borrowed from him and got better at talking with women. That was at least partly because of sex, though sex with women wasn’t the only reason I’ve always preferred women to men. What they say just tends to be more interesting, at least to me. 

They seem more likely to talk about what’s really going on. And to be less hidden, and less competitive. Though I suppose women compete with each other and not so much with me. 

That thing about competitive speech may be the reason I know a fair number of women who prefer the company of men to that of women. Even some lesbians. 

I still haven’t got all that good at talking to most men, partly because a hell of a lot of men talk about sports, real estate and other stuff that bores the shit out of me. No doubt it’s also partly because I don’t fancy men, so I have less incentive to be close to many of them.

Anyway, my brother and I managed to get our closeness back. That was good.

I never understood why he stopped communicating with me. It wasn’t a quarrel, and nothing dramatic happened. He just withdrew, and when I tried to reach out he’d let it fall flat.

I mostly blame myself when things get weird inter-personally, but it must have been something going on with him. He withdrew from a lot of people outside of his own family at that time. 

But we’re men. We enjoyed talking again. But we never talked about that. Anyway it’s good that’s over and we’ve started again. 

I’ve spent a while with death.

I feel a great need to follow my heart and be involved in sex. My girl is still a long way away. But the time when we will close in on each other – in an Italian castle! – is getting closer.

I want to be naked and in her arms and in her. I want to feel her arms and her cunt around me. As well as other parts of her body. I want us to melt and dissolve and merge. While still pumping and pulling and wresting for each other.

The life force may not be exactly the same thing as sex, but sex is its avatar. It’s how it shows itself to the world. 

 

Wicked Wednesday: The pale court of kingly death

To that high Capital, where kingly Death 
       Keeps his pale court in beauty and decay, 
       He came; and bought, with price of purest breath, 
       A grave among the eternal.—Come away! 
       Haste, while the vault of Waitemata’s day 
       Is yet his fitting charnel-roof! while still 
       He lies, as if in dewy sleep he lay; 
       Awake him not! surely he takes his fill
Of deep and liquid rest, forgetful of all ill.
.
My father lies in a coffin in his homeland. I leave tomorrow to be with my brothers and sisters, and his body, at his funeral. It’s only for a few people: his children and their partners, and a few grand-children. My mother’s funeral was a bigger affair, but that was because he was alive, and he needed it. Now he needs nothing. 
.

Totora live for 1,000 years. This is the oldest known totara tree. Its name is Pouakani. It has a temper, and its best not to sleep under it.

On Saturday we’ll drink the horrible sherry he drank, in his honour, and tell stories about him. And he will be cremated. In a year’s time, his children, my brothers and sisters and I, will come together again to mingle his ashes with those of the love of his life, our mother. We’ll dig a hole in the earth among the roots of a young totara tree, which will be fed by both of them and of which both of them will become a part. 

No one in my family believes in life after death, including my father. He knew he’s not going to join my mother for sherry on the balcony in heaven. But he found the symbolism of that reunion in a living, growing thing was right and comforting. 
 .
I’ve written about my father before. My father was a man of power, both the possessor of institutional power by holding various offices, and of personal power. He was, I’m pretty sure, not into bdsm himself, but the way in which he exercised power has been the model for a lot of what I do as a dom. 
 .
That is, he exercised power in a way that was kindly, mostly selfless, and that didn’t take himself, or power, entirely seriously. At the same time he could be terrifying. He used that power to keep some sort of peace in a school playing-ground, and, later, working for the UN, trying to keep the factions working together in places like Afghanistan.
 .
I use that skill more trivially, for the pleasure and amusement of submissive women. So long as they know it’s not real, so that it only feels as real as they want it to. Because I know some things that my father didn’t know, I’m suspicious of power, except where it is received voluntarily, and it’s at the service of sexual and other pleasure. 
 .
Still, he used his power as benignly as he could manage, and since he was intelligent and strong, he could manage a lot.
 .
With his passing I become a kaumatua. Of no hapu, but still, there it is. I’m next in line.
Note:
Because of the death in the family, this isn’t the planned Wicked Wednesday story. But Jennifer and her headmaster will be back next week. 

Looking back on this blog in 2016

2016 ends in a few hours, at least for me.

This is the 1,072th post on this blog. Here’s what I know about you, my readers.

Growth in readership

The stats show that the blog has been growing at a great rate. In my first year, 2012, I doubt if I had any readers at all. Well, I got comments, but my guess is that I only got a couple of 100 views.

I didn’t get a Statistics app until 2014, when I got about 10,000 views. In 2015 I got 32,000, and in 2016 I’ve had about 59,000.

I hope that trend continues: thank you to all readers!

Oh, and if you want to say hello, I’m always pleased, and always reply. Click on Contact us (“us”? It’s just me) and have your say, ask any question, or whatever you feel like!

Who reads this blog?

All I know about my readers is that most of you are in the US, followed by the UK, then Canada, then Australia. That’s not surprising, as it’s an English-language blog. But I also get a lot of hits from Germany and France, followed by the Netherlands.

I’d had readers from almost every country in the world, except for some of the small states in the middle of Africa, who may be short on internet connections and time to worry about middle-class first world people pursuing their pleasures.

And then there’s Greenland. This blog has never once had a single view from Greenland. I vow that in 2017 I will shamelessly pander to Greenland perverts! Siissisoq! Simon Lynge! Handball!

What do my readers like to read?

No matter how she tried, she couldn’t shake that damn stuff off.

The most popular post I’ve ever put up was about toothpasting a girl’s clitoris and waiting to see if she can stand still. (She can’t, and it’s only right that unfair penalties should apply when she moves.)

There were two follow up posts, also popular, here and here.

That was posted way back in 2013, and it’s still going strong. I hope one day to get a cheque from toothpaste companies, for encouraging extra sales.

The most popular post I put up in 2016 is this one, about sexual tension in Raylene’s bedroom.

The next most popular post put up in 2016 is this thought piece about the emotional connections between dom and submissive.

What that tells me is that how-to information is popular, and so is sexual material about different situations I’ve been in, over the years.

The school skirt she bought mail order. But finding a desk that looked school-y, at about the right height: that took serious shopping

The other thing I know is that schoolgirl spanking stories are very popular. I’ve done two series, both times because it was suggested or requested by a woman I was with at the time. The comments make me think that the schoolgirl fantasy is more popular with women readers than with male readers.

Though that’s just a feeling, without enough evidence to make a reliable conclusion.

Men and women readers

I also suspect, without knowing it, that a higher proportion of this blog’s readers are women than men. It’s a truism that women like wordy erotica with a lot of focus on the character’s feelings, while men go for the pictorial. So this blog’s sheer wordiness, and focus on feelings, skews its audience female.

A girl who knows better than that. (Possibly my favourite image, of all I’ve posted.)

I run pictures that mostly seem to me to be hot, but they’re not usually the point of the post. They illustrate the words rather than replacing them. So maybe sex bloggers get more female readers, while sex tumblrs attract more male eyes.

Anyway, I’m grateful to everybody of whatever gender and orientation who has ever dropped by to read me.

I hope your 2017 is far, far better than your 2016!

Join the war on Christmas! (but have a wonderful, loving time)

This picture illustrates some of the unease I’m feeling about Christmas. 

The people are having a good time, or they would be if the picture wasn’t so obviously posed. The woman has a luscious body, and a pretty, rather sweet, face. 

But it is posed, and the fact is, no picture with a guy dressed as Santa Claus in it can possibly be sexy. Not even if he’s wearing shades. (Though if I were wearing a Santa Claus outfit I wouldn’t want anyone to recognise me either.)

So it’s meant to be cheerful and sexy, and really, it’s just tacky.

I had to go shopping yesterday, and “tacky” is definitely the word for the village during the run-up to Christmas. The trees looked better without baubles in them, and I’m confident the shop assistants would look better if they didn’t have to wear foam rubber reindeer antlers.

I part reindeer, 1 part tycoon: mix well, then throw away

And, speaking of tack, there’s Christmas music. I was in a bookshop when they put a jazz version of “God rest you, merry gentlemen” on their PA, and words can’t describe what a skin-clenchingly vile experience that was. It was a pity, because I was looking for a book. But once that music started happening I had to get the fuck out of there, toot sweet.

Any version of “The Little Drummer Boy” has the same effect. As for Rudolph the Red-Nosed Reindeer, I wish him the same blood-gurgling fate that I wish on Rupert Murdoch, and it ain’t pretty.

And behind all that, there’s the deeper meaning of Christmas: monotheism, patriarchy, the often murderous alliance between the big churches and authoritarian governments, hatred of people who believe differently, hatred of sex and the body, and of gays, lesbians and, also and to a lesser extent, of perverts like me. I like all of the Jews, Christians and Muslims I know personally, but if belief in Judaism, Christianity and Islam could just go away, immediately, that wouldn’t be a moment too soon.  

At the same time, last night there was duck with cherry sauce, and wine, fruit and ice-cream, and a pretty girl showing me the ladders in her pantyhose. Friends announced that they’re going to make a baby in 2017. I volunteered for baby-sitting duty. Everything flowed, beautifully.

First thing tomorrow morning (it’s Christmas eve here) I’ll call my dad and tell him I love him. (He’s deaf, and he doesn’t live in the world any more. So even if he hears and understands me over the phone, he’ll have forgotten five minutes later. But that doesn’t matter at all.) And I’ll call the rest of my family.

Then I’ll talk with my girl, who has the audacity to be spending the day in a different country. Once we’re in the same room, I’ll be severely reprimanding her for that. And maybe that’s when my Christmas will come, and her, and me.  

Personally, I had a good 2016, with love and writing and other good things, but I appreciate that for most people 2016 has been a shit-rain of monumental proportions. So that colours my perception about the year’s end as well.

But there’s still life and love, and friends, and excellent things including duck and pinot noir, and thighs bursting out of the rips in their pantyhose (and/or whatever turns you, reader, on). 

I wish you all a wonderful few days, with people you love. 

I’m a Top 100 Sex Blogger, 2016!

Jerusalem endures? He practically abides.

Jerusalem endures? He practically abides.

So you’re reading one of the Top 100 Sex Blogs for 2016!

Good for you, and please keep on doing it! I’ll keep writing … stuff, mainly about bdsm, sex generally, and occasional bursts of politics. Or silliness.

This is me having just received the news and celebrating. It’s taken outside the local art gallery, where they’re doing an exhibition of nudes from the Tate. 

A heartfelt thank you to the sponsors, KinkKraft, and to Molly and the team, who went through more blogs than I want to think about, in order to rate and rank them.

They gave this an enormous amount of dedication and hard work. I’m grateful to them.

Inevitably there’s an element of arbitrariness in any human judgment.  Do I think this blog is necessarily better than one that missed the final cut? No, not really. But there were criteria, and applying them to so many blogs must have been one hell of a task. 

And I’m ridiculously pleased by the recognition. I’ve always been one of life’s over-dressers. The fact is, I do like a ribbon to stick on my coat. 

Click on this to find the complete list of the Top 100 Sex Bloggers!

Click on this to find the complete list of the Top 100 Sex Bloggers!

 

A library of filthy books 2: The bdsm case

top-shelves

These are the top two shelves of the (mostly) bdsm bookcase. It starts with Taschen reprints of Eric Stanton femdom fantasies. And a shiny gold book of historical erotic photos, most of which don’t have any bdsm relevance, but it’s there to be with the rest of the Taschen books. There’s safety in numbers. As the mathematicians say.

Then Sade, Sacher-Masoch, “Walter” and his secret life (I’ve read it all, so you don’t have to: god, that man was a terrible writer), then various books of Victorian porn, and a few samples from pre-Victorian times. 

middle-shelves

The next two shelves are mostly 20th century bdsm erotica, plus two of the 50 Shades books, which I picked up off the free book exchange table at the local rail station. Plus a few non-fiction books. The wiry brass couple fucking on the upper shelf are from Mali. And the stocky fellow with a thick (but short) erection on the lower shelf is a piece of Saami art, from Lappland.

bottom-shelvesThese are the two bottom shelves. On the left of the upper of these two shelves, there’s one of the very few actually valuable books or series I own. Those three volumes are the bibliographies of Henry Ashbee, possibly better known as Pisanis Fraxi. The Index Liber Prohibitorium, or Index of Forbidden Books, and its two successors. First editions, from Victorian times.

The very bottom shelf has various books of erotic art, including bdsm art, like the works of Guido Crepax and Milo Manara.

The thing with a Playboy Bunny Symbol is the complete set of Playboy from the 1950s, on CD-ROM. I’d get the collection for the 1960s as well, but I’ve never seen it in this format. I wouldn’t bother with the 1970s, though Robert Anton Wilson was still editing and writing there at the time. But it was an important and stylish literary mag, for a while. 

The duck? He’s a reed duck decoy, First Nation art from the Canadian prairies. He’s got no business being there amongst the sex books in particular. But the duck, he just wanted to be there.  Maybe he’s a mallard: they – unlike most other birds – actually have a penis.

And you need a duck, don’t you, if you want to write a rhyming poem about sex.

I was walkin’ down the road an I met a little duck.

He said, “How are ya, human, you look down on your luck?”

I said,”I saw that sexy Sally, tried to slip my nip inside her tuck;

She told me nobody loves me an I’ll never get a -” And so on.

Anyway, that’s the Concavity of Depravity, where Cinderella posed, waiting for her Prince. (Who did come.)  

UPDATE:

Cinderella has naming rights, for various reasons. She tells me the whole room is the Library of Depravity, and only the sex books section is the Concavity of Depravity. That seems fine to me.