Triumph and the fountains of Rome!

I’m keeping to four posts a week, at the moment. I looked back a couple of years, back in this blog, and found I was doing seven posts a week.

They tended to be shorter, because I’d write something, get carried away as I always do, and it would turn out longer than I’d expected. So I’d chop it into two or three parts, and run them on three successive days. 

But now I’m writing a novel, and I’m keeping at it because I want to finish it soon. There are five parts, and the final part is expected to be relatively short. I’m on Part 5 now, and I can smell the finish line. I feel triumphant!

I’d like to do more discussion pieces, think pieces, for this blog.

But at the moment I can’t think of anything but Rome and a rich Scots girl, who paints but seems only able to sell her art to men who fancy her, and how she breaks through to a wider audience. I can’t afford to do any thinking except about how to make that sexier and funnier.

I just wrote a scene (for Part 4) in which the hero fetches his beautiful but mildly drunk girlfriend out of Trevi Fountain. It adds absolutely nothing to the plot, I think, but it belongs in the book just the same. 

In honour of that scene, here are some photos of girls in Roman fountains.

The top two are from a news story that said Romans were “outraged” to  find pretty underdressed girls in a fountain. Bullshit, I have to say. Possibly a couple of lemon-sucking Romans somewhere went all crinkly-mouthed about it, but Romans in general are overwhelmingly pro-pretty girl.They even seem to like underdressed, wet girls. Go figure.

Don’t let the Murdoch press (or Dacre press in this instance) tell you otherwise. In fact, don’t let them tell you anything. 

Here’s one I prepared earlier.

Marie Bonaparte’s amazing moveable clitoris!

Marie Bonaparte. Great grand-daughter of the Emperor. Mad as a meat-axe. Orthodox Freudian.

Marie Bonaparte. Grand-niece of the Emperor. Mad as a meat-axe. Ultra-orthodox Freudian.

I’ve finished Between the Lines, revised, final edition! This involved, among other things, going through and making sure all the footnotes are correct.

The last footnote I verified concerned the amazing mobile clitoris of Marie Bonaparte, grand-niece of Napoleon.  

Freud’s disciples followed him in focussing on the problem of ‘masochism’. After all, if you think masochism causes Nazism, as Freud did, then you’re bound to pay it a bit of attention.

 The orthodox insiders included Anna Freud, Karen Horney, Marie Bonaparte, Theodor Reik, Helene Deutsch, Karl Abraham, Melanie Klein and others, up to the June Rathbones of today.

They’re as eccentric a line-up, in their various ways, as the Medieval Catholic saints.

Marie Bonaparte for example, great grandniece of the Emperor Napoleon, had such faith in the doctrine of female masochism that she “discovered” the masochistic ovum.

She believed that because eggs are female and they are beaten by the head of the penis during intercourse – Bam! Bam! Bam! – they come to enjoy that pounding. This, she concluded, is the cause of the essential masochism of women. As a Freudian true believer, Bonaparte had to believe in the essential masochism of women. 

Clitoris, getting the hell out of Marie Bonaparte's way.

Clitoris, getting the hell out of Marie Bonaparte’s way.

In one of the more amazing demonstrations of faith that any disciple has ever given a cult leader, Bonaparte had her clitoris surgically relocated closer to her vaginal entrance, so that she complied with Freud’s directives on the superiority of vaginal orgasms.

She needed another operation later, to fix the mess made by the first operation. Her Freudian wound never healed.[i]

[i] Appignanesi, Lisa, and Forrester, John, Freud’s Women, Basic Books, Harper Collins Publishers, New York, 1992, pp 329-351.

Dental porn

Ah, there's porn of it. Thank god.

Ah, there’s porn of it. Thank god!

Sorry. It’s been a while since I posted. I’ve had a hole bored in my jawbone and a steel pin inserted into the hole. I’ll get a crown some time in December.

That was on Tuesday. The rest of Tuesday was a write-off, and so, surprisingly, was Wednesday as well. Probably because of the pain-killers more than the pain. 

I was a bit more battered than I thought I was. Battered like an old car, not like a fish. Or a battery. I was the batter-ee.

Now I’m still trickling the odd bit of blood, and I’m guessing that the floor of an abatoir must taste a lot like the inside of my mouth.

But I’m feeling a lot better. Thanks!

My main memory of the whole thing was the hair, hands, mouth and breasts of the dental assistant who was using one of those slurping machines to suck out the blood and bits of bone. I suppose it’s natural to focus on the best life has to offer, at a time when most of the incoming sensory information is (literally) bloody horrible. 

Maybe the reason why dentists tend to have pretty girls as assistants is so that patients, at least those who are susceptible to pretty girls, have something to distract them from the gory goings-on in their mouths. 

And male dentists also like to have a pretty girl about the place, since the inside of someone’s mouth, when that person needs dental treatment, ain’t that pretty at all.

I’ve been to two women dentists, by the way, and neither of them had dental nurses. So dentistry, like political assassinations, can be done by one person acting alone. 

I know that dental nursing is a skilled job, and it shouldn’t be turned into a wank fantasy.  

It is required by law that this picture be captioned, "Open wide." (I fought that law, but the law won.)

It is required by law that this picture be captioned, “Open wide.” (I fought that law, but the law won.)

But the people who get that job tend to be young, pretty and female, which isn’t entirely fair on job-seekers who aren’t. That’s not the fault of the pretty young women; it’s more the fault of, oh, you know, patriarchy.

In some ways it’s odd that dental fetish is such a strong theme in porn. I guess it’s the hint of bondage in the chair, though the patient is held in place by the situation, not by actual bonds. There’s the appealing contrast between the angular sterility of the room, and the curved, not-sterile human body. Cold colors against warm skin, and so on. And, of course, the dentist commands and the patient obeys.

For me, no matter how charming I might think I am, I know that dental assistant has seen the inside of my mouth at its bloodiest and worst. That’s got to be a profoundly repellant sight. 

There must be guys who spring out of the chair once they’ve got the all-clear, flashing their most brilliant smile at the nurse and trying to engage her in witty, flirtatious conversation. But me: Nah. Just … no.

Into the wild! (That’s you, readers…)

My post on pornography and erotica got so many replies that it set me thinking about what happens when we put things out on the internet. 

This got discussed a bit in the comments, and because people often don’t read comments, I’m going to re-shape what I said, and put it up here. 

Released into the wild

The words and images we make have one set of meanings to ourselves, as their makers, but once we release them into the wild they become anybody’s, to interpret as they want. 

Reader: you know who you are

Readers: you know who you are

I suppose people could read something like the Raylene saga and conclude that I’m too cruel and vicious by half, as doms go, or they could decide that I spend far too much time fretting about what’s ok to do, and so I’m too soft and conciliatory as doms go. Or both. 

I think I’m telling the story of a dom who tries to do the right thing, and who tries to tell the truth about what that’s like and what it involves. There’s stuff about the pleasures of being a bit cruel, in the Raylene saga, but there’s also stuff about love, self-doubt, and, as far I can know them as a dom, the pleasures of surrender. But it would be easy to quote this blog accurately though selectively, and make me sound, well, anything, good or bad, as desired.

And that’s only the people who don’t disapprove of male doms as such. Most people wouldn’t get far past a sentence like, “I brought the cane down across her ass,” before deciding this Jaime fellow is a blot on the landscape’s fine silk tie. 

But that’s talking mostly about deliberate or ideological misreadings. There’s also chance. I think that the word I’m most likely accidently to leave out of a sentence is the word “not”. So that I might be stuck with having posted some abomination like, “No matter how horny they might be feeling, men should try to talk to women wearing headphones.” At least until I re-read the post and go into an editing frenzy, three letters long. 

Or, more importantly, someone can read something I wrote and see the unconscious and unexamined bias or prejudice I left in it, and read it against the grain of what I thought I was saying. That is, readers can get things right, about my own writing, that I missed.

The eyes of the beholders (image by Rene Magritte)

The eyes of the beholders (image by Rene Magritte)

Certainly, if I were running for office (“Vote Jerusalem Mortimer, or I’ll have you in irons! Or, at least, nipple clamps!”) and someone found my blog, that’d be the death of my campaign right there. My words would be hostages.

But I’m not really whinging about how words and images slip further out of our grasp than we expect when we release them. So they should. Live, little pixels! Be free!

Words and images finish up in the eye of the beholder, and we who make them just have to accept it.

Homeward bound and gagging (a girl) for it

tiedbedSomeone just wrote me saying that last night they dreamed I was tying their wrists together before tying them to the bed-end. They said it was a good dream, so that was a nice thing for me to think about.

I’ve had a similar dream about her, but I used leather cuffs rather than rope.

She’s dropping by. “Dropping by” makes it sound a bit more casual than it is. It’s the sort of “dropping by” you have to pack for.

And she brings new experiences, which is to say, herself. 

Obviously it won’t be the first time I’ve done that small bit of bondage in general, but it will be the first time I will have done it with that woman. Like Prometheus, she’s been more or less unbound. Till now. Or till soon, anyway.

So it will be exploration: a completely new experience. You don’t have to leave home for them. Which is lucky because I’ve been to so many new places, including 200 miles above the Arctic Circle, in my travels. Now I’m back in my bit of the world I’d hate for the Shock of the New to stop coming. 

gagfuckThe gag reference was only there for the feeble pun. But it’s funny how a casual idea, that only crossed my mind for the silliest possible reason, solidifies into a project.

So I shall explore that – with her – too. She’s a vocal girl, and what she has to say is always interesting. So she’ll find silence hard. I suppose she’ll find me hard in her silence.

I think we’ll both be happy. Happiness is simple. 


In the four weeks I’ve been away from home, a tree has blown down so I’ve got plenty of firewood. The lawn hasn’t grown (winter) so that’s good. Six new book cases were delivered this morning, so I’ve got my work cut out getting them into place without making the place seem crammed. And I have to get organised for that wonder-girl’s arrival.

And once I’ve got myself organised, I can continue with the Raylene story. The episodes can appear while I’m too busy to write.

The (slightly drunken) coolness of Russia!

I’m back from a Russian restaurant (of course it’s a Russian restaurant; I mean Russian in the sense that it serves Russian food). It was a game restaurant, where neither the proprietor nor his son spoke more than a couple of words in English. There were guns, crossbows and animal pelts and mounted heads all over the walls.

A vegetarian’s nightmare. I ate bear, and elk.

catskinI gained the admiration of the proprietor by asking about the pelts on the wall. Since we had no words in common, I finished up by pointing at something I thought was a dead wolf, or what a dead wolf used to wear, and asking, “Ah-hoooo?”

And so on, through to bear noises. And my version of a civet cat was, essentially, “miaoww?” to establish the genus, then doing it again in a deep voice.

Anyway, as a consequence, though I arrived at nine and was still there at midnight, their sole customer, they brought out “samples” of their vodka collection.

They were home-made vodkas, with various things steeped in each one. For example, cedar, birch, ginger, horseradish, some red berry, peppery-sweet, and one other. The proprietor said, “Taste!”

They weren’t “tastes”; they were double shots. I managed heroically, except for the horse-radish vodka, which defeated me.

So now I’ve had an encounter with “the Russian soul.” We agreed on things like, “Russia good”, and “Australia good”, and other important matters.

Neither of those propositions is true, by the way. Russia is transitioning into a theocratic fascist state, and Australia has just voted in a bunch of red-necked racists who run off-shore concentration camps where refugees are kept, subject to being raped or murdered, until they go mad. Then they’re kept on in captivity anyway. But we couldn’t manage nuance.

horseI got home. On the way a beautiful girl nearly ran me over with a horse. Oddly enough, that really did happen. You can hire horses in St Petersburg, even after dinner. She may have taken on more vodka than me.

The evening was good, because I started today not much liking Russia or its culture, because of the relentless nightmare of Immigration: two hours in a concrete bunker while nothing happens. Now I’ve changed my mind. Russians are cool!

The Baltic Beat!

I’m in Tallin. Drinking beer, in the square. 

The beer’s compulsory because buying one is the only way to sit and get wi-fi. But I’m not actually complaining.

I’ll add some pics to this post tomorrow, when I’ve got properly working wifi. For now, text is the best I can do. I’m in a sailing ship going down the Baltic. They’re not big on wifi or democracy, really, round these parts. 

Anyway, here’s a “Viking Slave” from Stockholm. He doesn’t seem too unhappy about his predicament.

vulcan love slave

“Pick me! Pick me!”

A Malmö question: Can men come without touching their cocks?

I’m at a sexology conference in Malmö, in south Sweden. It’s just across the water from Copenhagen, with a rail bridge connecting the two cities, and countries.

images-3Malmö’s not as cool a town as Copenhagen, where I’d move at the drop of a troll hat. I haven’t found a really nice place in the shade looking at water, where some waiter will bring me beers or mineral waters whenever I manage to make eye contact. Lots of places like that in Copenhagen; scarcer in Malmö.

Before I get to my question, here are some observations about Scandinavia, as experienced by me so far. 

1  The people here, and the way of doing things, are friendly and (some people would say “but”) punctual and efficient. 

2  It’s all very civilised. For example, they’ve preserved weekends as times when friends and family can get together and do things, because most people aren’t working at week-ends. Most English-speaking countries were fooled and bullied into giving that away, at great social cost and to no economic benefit. 

3  However, they can’t make a cup of chai tea to save their lives. I asked for a cup in Christiania in Copenhagen, and the girl asked me “what flavour”. By “chai” they mean some sort of powder that you mix with hot water, and that might be vanilla, chocolate, strawberry or whatever. 

4  You should have heard the cheers when England lost to Iceland at soccer the other day. Brexit has not exactly endeared the English to Europeans. 

5  There are no non-pretty girls in Scandinavia. Or if there is one, she must be hiding in Trollhättan. (Trollhättan is a town in Sweden. I think of it as meaning “Behatted Troll”. Obviously, it doesn’t mean that. I think “hättan” has the same meaning as in “Manhattan”.)

Anyway, at the conference there are poster sessions for academics who have something interesting to say, but who don’t have the material or weight for a full session of their own. So you get a room full of posters, with the relevant person standing beside it hoping you’re interested enough to want to talk about their work.  

The orgasm question

One raised a question about male and female orgasm. It’s that some women can come without touching their own genitals, or having someone else do it for them. Just the arousal, the flow of erotic ideas, can bring them to orgasm. But men can’t do that. They can get erect, obviously, without penile touch by themselves or others, but they can’t come without touch. They need friction, ideally slippery friction, to be able to come. 

I thought about that. In bdsm we do a lot of orgasm control. Me, I like female orgasms (I might be a female orgasm fetishist), so as a dom I may deny a submissive girl the right to come without my permission, and sometimes withhold that permission when she really, really wants to let go. However, usually I don’t deny her for long, if we’re in the same bed. Even a few minutes of denial, where she’s fighting back her orgasm while still being vigorously fucked, can get a huge release when I finally tell her to come. 

There are doms who’ve taken that further than I’ve ever felt the urge to. So they might deny the girl any orgasm while she’s being fucked. And then tell her to hold herself in suspense, not erotically relaxing, until he or she gives the word.

Because I like female orgasms, and the more of them the merrier, I’ve never done the kind of training. you need for that However, I’ve met submissive women who can hold on to their peak ready-to-come level for over an hour, and you can command them to come when they’re doing something like watching a movie or doing the dishes. I think of that as interesting rather than peak sexy, but it is interesting.

Master? Tell me a story?

Master? Tell me a story?

The closest I’ve come to that is getting a girl to come by tying her legs apart and her hands behind her back, and telling her a story calculated to appeal to her particular sexual tastes and fantasies. It’s the best possible writer’s audience. 

But she was cheating in a way. That is, she wasn’t being touched externally, but she could get physical stimulation by clenching and unclenching the muscles around her vulva and clitoris.

think that’s how women get to orgasm without apparent touch, though I could be wrong.

But men … We don’t seem to be able to do that, or any useful equivalent. If I have an erection, and I clench the muscles around my penis, I’ll make it wave up and down in a friendly way. But there’s no stimulation for me in it.

And I thought: If anyone can make a man, at least a submissive man, come without his being touched, it’d be a pro-domme. I asked this on Twitter, and got a couple of replies from pro-dommes saying that they’d never seen it done.   

Now I’m throwing the question to the room. Does anybody know of men being made to come without touch?

I’d  count it if the dom/domme used touch to bring the man close to orgasm, followed by orgasm denial, followed by instructing him to stay ready, and more than an hour passing before he was told to come. 

Can anyone help? (I mean, with reports of having that done to them, or doing it to some guy.)

Humiliation of an ex-Nazi submissive 101: A male dom, a straight girl and a bi girl wait for Lynette 2

Dorabella dropped her eyes from eyes from Raylene’s cunt when she saw I was looking at her. She told me, “She’s very turned on.” As though she’d been making scientific observations.

bellie smackedI stepped beside her, and pulled her dressing gown up, to hold her left buttock. Round she was, and firm, and her skin cooler than Raylene’s ass, for obvious reasons. I said, “You were ogling.”

She smiled, as if pityingly, and shook her head. So I slapped her bottom, where I’d been holding. Not hard, but not a pat. It was an experiment. My hand settled back on smoothly round skin, and rode the rapids while she rocked her hips, forward and back. She turned to look at me, so I kissed her.

After a while she drew back and opened her mouth. Then she thought better of whatever she’d been going to say, and closed it.

I tried not to look triumphant. She said, “Smug bastard.”

I rubbed her ass to remind her that my hand was still there. She looked worried, then comfortable when it appeared that I wasn’t going to smack her again. After all, having her ass rubbed isn’t such a bad thing.

Still, Dorabella had been enjoying the sight of her sister’s arousal. I didn’t know why Dorabella and Raylene seemed to be so close sexually. In those threesomes they did together, I was sure they both concentrated on the male guest and didn’t do anything with each other, but still…

I can see the attraction from her point of view. But the fact is, neither of those guys would be me.

I can see the attraction from her point of view. But the fact is, neither of those guys would be me.

Dorabella was het; so am I. But no matter how much I wanted to please a woman, I wouldn’t bring another guy into bed with us. I’d be happy for her to enjoy herself with two other guys, but I wouldn’t want to be there myself.

It’s just more intimacy than I’d want to have with any guy. Let alone one of my brothers. The awkwardness would more than cancel out any sexiness.

That’s just me; I’m het to an almost embarrassing extent. But so was Dorabella, so why would she join her sister and me in bed?

I didn’t know, but there were some things I had worked out. I was so sexually popular in that house just then mainly because of Dorabella. The night she’d taken me to her bed she’d had a good time. So had I. I never fully understood why she’d left something so good after just one night.

Though I suspected it was partly because of the domming thing. She’d asked me about it because she knew other women I’d had sex with. Bdsm was part of my sexual reputation, for good or ill. She’d accepted it when I told her about it, and she she didn’t think it was wrong or anything. But it wasn’t for her. A bit later a previous boyfriend who’d changed his mind and wanted to come back turned up, and Dorabella had given him another chance.

When I’d told her I was writing a piece about the boot boys, she’d mentioned Raylene’s time with them, and said she’d ask her if she wanted to talk to me about it. When the two of them talked, Dorabella would have given me a good sexual review. And mentioned bdsm. That had to be why Raylene had steered things into a sexual direction so fast, and given me cues that had led us to this point.

I’d thought I’d been pushing her towards submission but she’d been driving things too. She was quite strongly submissive, and as submissives will, she’d got what she wanted. All I’d had to do was turn up, not be too much of a creep and keep my nerve, and here I was, being addressed as “master”.

It's no bad thing, being a man her friends had warned her about.

It’s no bad thing, being a man her friends had warned her about.

That’s one of the good things about having a reputation as a kinky man. It has its downsides, but the caution, “look out! he might want to push you round, hold you down and smack your helpless little arse” also works as advertising. The female half of my circle of friends all knew that about me, some from direct experience and some from gossip, and being out to that limited extent had never done me any harm.

Raylene had tested and found that I was as advertised. So here she was, doing as she was told, waiting for the cane, in her bedroom. 

While I had my hand on her sister’s ass.