The Tale of the Tawse: Volume 2

Last year I wrote a very good book, The Tale of the Tawse. It’s funny, sexy as hell, romantic and exciting.

In it, a man with a name like a Wodehouse character (Freddie Underhill) meets two women, Daphne and Shar, and helps each of them deal with a life crisis, with occasional applications of his hand or a long leather strap, the tawse of the title, to their firm proud et cetera.

At the end of the book, he’s back on his own in New York, and he gets an invitation from each of the women to come to a global warming conference in Wellington, New Zealand. Daphne is having an art exhibition there, and Shar is the translator for the diplomatic team of a small mid-eastern country. Freddie ends the book wondering how he’s going to manage his way through that.

The Tale of the Tawse is currently with a publisher, under consideration, but it’ll be out soon. I have every confidence in that. And one thing the world will be demanding is the continuation of the story. What happens in New Zealand?

I think – just working this out as I go along – that he lets each woman know that the other woman will be there. They both already know of the other’s existence. On the day he arrives in Wellington he invites both women to dinner. 

They get on very well. However, Daphne’s up for a threesome, or even a twosome with just her and Shar. But Shar’s not having that. She’s a straight girl. 

In the meantime they decide that they’ll get a hotel suite together, the three of them, and they’ll each take turns to sleep with Freddie, while the other sleeps in the next room.

Then Shar hears that her younger cousin, Mahtab, who she hasn’t seen since she was three years old, is also in Wellington, to be married off to a Saudi aristocrat of striking physical and moral unattractiveness. She and Daphne go to meet the girl, and Shar gives Mahtab a card with their hotel room and phone number. Daphne tells the girl about  Freddie, and says they’ll get Freddie to help her. She writes down Freddie’s number and gives it to her. 

The next day, on the way to the global warming conference, Freddie is attacked and stabbed. He manages to break away and staggers into a butcher’s shop, bleeding a lot. The attackers follow him, but are attacked by the huge butcher, and they run. The butcher calls an ambulance for Freddie, and the hospital stitches and bandages Freddie and says he’s fine to go home.

Back at the hotel, Daphne and Shar are waiting. When they see him injured they realise it must be their fault for giving Mahtab written information, that has obviously fallen into the wrong hands. Shar begs him to punish both of them.

He does. Shar, now sore and weeping, begs him to help her cousin escape. Of course he agrees.

I’m thinking the escape takes place on the ferry running between the North and South Islands. But I’m a bit vague about the details.

 

That’s as far as I’ve got, so far. I’m making this plot up as I write this post, and I’m out of ideas now. Thank you for listening. 

2018: The Year of Four Books!

I finished four novels in 2018. That’s two erotic novels and two “mainstream, literary” novels. 

It involved working like a bastard all day, practically every day, from morning to night. 

Me, at local orgy: “Of course, girls! Just got to finish this chapter and I’ll be right with you”

I was thinking I was going to calm down a bit this year, and achieve a wiser work/life balance. 

Maybe I will, but I realise that next year I intend to finish the erotic post-apocalypse science fiction novel I’m working on at the moment: That Oceanic Feeling.

And Volume Two of the sexy Bdsm rom-com, “The Tale of the Tawse“. That’s from scratch. Not a word of it has been written yet. 

And Volume Two of “Probation“, a fairly serious bdsm novel about an inter-racial love triangle set mostly in LA. Cops, a corrupt judicial system, racism and drugs figure. Fortunately, about two-thirds of that is already written, and I have the rest sketched out in my head, so that shouldn’t be so hard. 

Ands there’s a non-erotic novel that I think it likely to outsell all the erotica combined. So I’ll start work on that in about February. Not a word of that is written either, though I have the plot sketched out.

So… work/life balance may have to wait. Stop this man before he types again!

Happy this-time-of-year to you!

It’s Christmas Day in the mountains. I’ve mostly been ignoring it, though I bought presents for my loved ones, as a gentleman should.

This graph gives an accurate representation of my feelings with regard to “The Little Drummer Boy”

I’ve really appreciated that the supermarkets, and most shops I’ve been to, haven’t been piping bloody hymns and carols at me.

I hate “The Little Drummer Boy” with the fire and fury of 10,000,000 suns, and I can’t stay in the same room as “God rest ye, merry gentlemen.” So silence has been golden. 

But carollers came to the supermarket while was I doing the last food shopping and sang Christmas songs at me, and I really didn’t want them. I felt the urge to say something piss-offy, though I didn’t. They’re probably nice people.

Anyway, I don’t feel my usual relaxed self about Christmas this year, because too many lunar right Christians are behaving badly.

Catholic Archbishop Fisher expressing something short of love for gays, lesbians, secularists and raped children

So, for example, Sydney’s Catholic archbishop Fisher came out and did a spray – it was his Christmas message! – about wanting the right to discriminate against gays and lesbians, and force kids to go to church, and to continue to protect pedophile priests: if they say in confession that they’ve raped some kid, then the duty to report them won’t apply. He calls this fucked-up agenda “religious freedom.” 

So far-right Christians are making Xmas a cultural war zone, where what they’re fighting for is evil. It makes it harder to feel an unconflicted goodwill vibe. And there’s the whole pretence that there’s a war on Christmas, which is just an angry, arrogant exclusion of non-Christians. 

All that has got my back up. I usually say, “Merry Christmas” and don’t give a fuck, but some Christians are trying to turn it into the equivalent of a Trump slogan. So, without thinking it matters or affects anything, I’ve been saying “Happy solstice”, or “Good Yule.” Not angrily. Just don’t want to take part.

Anyway, the reason for the season is this planet’s orbit, and in the Northern Hemisphere it means, “Happy Hump Day; the weather gets better now until Spring.” And lots of cultures have turned it into a time of celebrating each other, being alive, being kind, feeling hope.

It’s the people who bang on about this time of year being ONLY about Christianity who don’t understand Christmas.

Solstice, as every good pagan knows, is a good time to get somewhere warm (I like to make my own warmth) and play and fuck like rabbits

All that said, this is as good a day as any to celebrate the spirit of hope, warmth in cold times, renewal, love and tolerance, I wish everybody a wonderful loving time.

Please keep warm – other people help. If you’re lonely reach out to someone, or else give yourself delicious food and a good book in the bath.

Look after each other, and remember to let other people look after you, too. Those are the best gifts.

Warmth and happiness to all!

Running a Munch for Preverts

I organise a munch for perverts in my mountains. It’s just for people to meet and chat.

I got a message after yesterday’s Munch, the sender asking me if it was a great party and if I’d got any sex. Which suggests that if he ever does get to one off my munches, or anyone else’s, he’s in for mild disappointment.

I guess he was thinking a munch is something like
<– this.

Anyway, it came to about eight hours work. A couple of hours to tidy the space and provide food and wine.

Then I chatted with two guys who turned up more or less on time. They left after a couple of hours, and I went and did other things.

A woman turned up about three hours after start time, so I was back in host mode. We chatted very pleasantly for 90 minutes or so, and I could say with complete sincerity that it was nice to meet her. Then she left. 

I thought I was done, but another woman turned up shortly after the first one had gone. And she was nice too, and we chatted away very happily. 

But five people came to that munch, counting me, but there were never more than three people in the room at a time. So in the end I was performing hostly duties for about seven hours. Which is not a whinge, though I do wish everyone had come a little closer to the advertised time. It’s more about it having been a surprisingly tiring day. 

But, at its hottest, a munch is more like <— this…

This is just a slice of life thing. That was my day, working as a humble servant of the bdsm community.

Fortunately, (it’s probably a good thing in a dom) I am immensely patient.

 

 

 

I’m a Top Sex Blogger!

I’ve won an award! I’m a Top 100 Sex Blogger!

So you, reading this blog, obviously have good taste! Congratulations! 

Here’s my rosette!

I really want to thank Molly for this. She’s at Molly’s Daily Kiss, and she’s a fucking inspiration for the rest of us! 

And Chaturbate, for putting some money into this “runs on smell of an oily rag” community! They are here!

And this is your author, looking well pleased! No really; that’s me looking happy! 

Some of you will see me next March, at Eroticon! But whether I meet you or not, please enjoy the stuff I write. And look through the work of the other Top 100 Sex Bloggers! They are, every last one of them, pretty damn amazing!

 

Plans

I’m going to get back to my schoolgirl spanking story, the Jennifer and Maddie saga, soon. 

This is a plan, or map, of the island to the south of the Australian mainland. For some reason you only have to say  “map of Tasmania” to make Australians laugh.

I also intend to publish it in a series of e-books. Probably in slices of about 40 pages at a time, since that seems to be around standard for erotic e-books. 

Which means I have to find a couple of women ready to be cover models. Pleated skirts and side-boob. No twats. Will be paid. Interested? Contact me!

I have to finish my non-bdsm novel, which I’d hoped to have done by the end of August, but I got held up by paid work coming in. That takes precedence. 

I have to tidy up a novel I’ve had provisionally accepted by a publisher. Because of fuck-ups in version control it needs one last go-through to lose the typos, repetition and inconsistencies. I want to save their copy-editor some work.

This is the legendary Louise Brooks, who will never get lost in Tasmania.

I’ve also got to tidy up another non-erotic novel, which has a few problems that can be fairly easily repaired.

It really should be on the market, so I’ll take the time to make it at its best and most saleable self. That should take about five day’s work. 

Then I get back to the novel I was supposed to have finished by the end of August.

And I need to do some paid work soon. The bank account is starting to look a little sad. 

And that will keep me busy enough for a while.

Anecdote: Dom life, and being a “good” man

A while back I was running a law project. It helped get representation for people who were being fucked over by cops, generally because they were black, or young, female and blue-haired, or gay, or poor, and so on. It meant getting into confrontation with cops a lot. Sometimes it meant having to confront them physically, because they’re used to being able to beat people up without much risk of their victims being believed or having the power to do anything about it.

So although I hate confrontation, let alone violence, I found myself getting into violent confrontations on a fairly regular basis. I wasn’t an adrenalin junky at all; but I was a justice junky.

The big thing was to have people with cameras, and people who looked useful in a fight and not scared of cops. That meant that cops wouldn’t do the violence they’d intended when they set out. So there’d be stand-offs. A quick anonymous bashing, with their number badges off, wasn’t an option. So it usually ended peacefully.

But it was risky. I’d do macho posturing during the head-to-heads, and afterwards if there were girls watching, but it always scared the shit out of me.

Anyway, there was a girl whose landlord wanted her out. The landlord had cop friends who were prepared to act, illegally, as eviction agents. I defended her, and was both virtuous and heroic. I put myself in harm’s way for her because that was my job, and in the end I won, and the cops backed off and left her alone.

Talking afterwards, at her place, we were kind of attracted. Which means I fancied the arse off her and she thought I might be all right: I’m just declaring the average.

But because we’d met in a context where I was a sort of heroic community activist, and I thought she fancied the virtuous version of myself, I gave her a lot of feminist posing. It was real, I mean, they were things that I really thought, but the result was that she decided she didn’t fancy me.

I did eventually see her naked, though.

It was eight months later. I was visiting a friend of mine, who I hadn’t seen in a while. Someone had tried to burn down the apartment he was living in, but he was an artist and he thought the charred beams improved the place. So he was still living there.  

Anyway, there came some unmistakeable sounds from one of the bedrooms: Thwap! followed by a hard breath.

Then THWAP, followed by a low, female moan. Then THWAP! followed by a high-pitched pain/pleasure noise. Some girl was getting the cane, and she was enjoying herself.

Anyway, a bit later the door opened, and it was my blue-haired girl, the dye gone so she was back to her natural red, skipping naked out the door with fresh cane stripes across her arse, to make a cup of tea for her mistress. She was utterly, exuberantly happy.

So, I’d hidden my dom side from her, because I’d thought she didn’t want that. What I got for my carefulness was a teary vista of her naked, freshly caned body. I mean that about “teary”: she was so beautiful and sexy that I cried that night.

I mean, when I got home.  

Oh. But she made me a cup of tea.  

WHO drops BDSM, fetishism, transvestism off the “sick” list! Part 4

I just want to explain why perverts should be carrying me round in a sedan chair for the rest of my life. 

The sedan chair life. I’d prefer my porters to be less male and less dressed, but the technology is right.

The first Australian Survey on Sexual Health and Attitudes (ASHR) findings were reported in 2003.

At that point I became part of the story. I was struck by the presence of a question about bdsm in a national survey, and by the utter beauty of the huge, randomly selected sample that the Australian researchers had reached. I love data!

However, I learned that the ASHR team had made no analysis of how the responses of people who had participated in bdsm in the last year differed from those who hadn’t.

So I contacted them. I explained that I was fascinated that they had a data set that could for the first time test the claim that bdsm is pathological, using a large-scale sample of the population in general. I met with the Australian team, Anthony Smith, Chris Rissel, Juliet Richters, Andrew Grulich, and Richard de Visser, who were a little amused by my very specific enthusiasm for their bdsm data.

Anyway, I suggested further data analysis to compare the responses of their bdsm and non-bdsm respondents, focusing on indications of mental and social health like the response to questions about education, career and income, whether people were in a relationship, how they reported their sexual happiness, and their self-assessment of their own physical and mental health. The data could also reveal whether bdsm people were more or less likely than non-bdsm people to have been forced into sexual activity when they were children, or as adults.

The team thought this analysis would probably turn up something that they could publish in a scientific journal, even if they weren’t as interested in bdsm as I was. None of us expected that the findings would make anything like the media impact that resulted. 

This is from The Age, in Victoria, Australia. But we were in The Times, the NY Times, the LA Times, probably every major newspaper in the world

The key finding was that bdsm people showed no sign of being socially or personally dysfunctional, and every sign of being well-adjusted and happy. This made TV news and newspaper headlines across Europe, the Americas, Asia, the Mid-East, Australasia, Africa and so on. Much of the coverage was written in newspaper-ese, with headlines like: “Smack happy”, “You can’t beat bdsm”, “Bound to be happy”, and so on.

There was a lot of that sort of thing. Our news cheered many people who enjoy bdsm, but we made the world’s sub-editors absolutely ecstatic.

From my point of view the results contained their share of disappointments. For example, since bdsm relies on verbal and symbolic communication for much of its power, I’d expected that people attracted to bdsm would be more educated than average. However, there turned out to be no significant differences between bdsm participants and others, in terms of educational attainment.

So my self-flattering expectations were as wrong as those of the people who expected to find us haunting the mental hospitals and the jails.

Thomas’s pina colada milkshake is better than yours. Splooshie!

That’s the beauty of evidence. It’s a piece of piss to make up theories that “justify” bigotry. But evidence is a hard-shelled beast. Watching beautiful theories encountering evidence can be as messy as watching a wagon loaded with pina colada hitting an armadillo.

 

Wicked Wednesday: Darkness and light

I’m a dom. When I go to meet a bunch of people who also do bdsm, I’m likely to wear black: black boots with metal rings, black jeans with zips all over the place, black t-shirt, black jacket.

That’s traditional. It’s probably only thirty to forty years old, as traditions go, but I tend to go with traditions where they’re harmless. But in general I’m not an enormous fan of black or darkness.

Dr Frederick Wertham was quite right to say there was a strong fetishistic streak in comic book characters. (That’s Superman and Power Girl, by the way.)

For example I always preferred Superman to Batman; Superman’s story is about optimism and ethical issues, while Batman’s story is about poor Bruce Wayne being psychologically messed up because he saw his parents murdered in front of him.

Superman’s problem is essentially that he’s a god, and he has to work out ways of using his powers to help humanity without getting in their way too much. To me that’s more interesting and actually far more relatable that Batman’s dead-parents-bitterness problem.

Because we all have some power, and we all need to work out how to use our allocation of power to make things better.

 (Don’t get me wrong. I like the Batman mythos and I ain’t dissing Bruce Wayne. I just prefer Superman’s world. And worldview.)

Wertham’s mistake was in thinking there’s anything wrong with that. (Batman with Catwoman.)

Similarly, I’m not really interested in the problems of the traditional powers of darkness. I could never take vampires, werewolves, ghosts, demons and devils seriously. I don’t just mean that I don’t think they’re real. It’s that as story elements they seem kind of silly, rather than sexy or stylish or chilling or whatever. I can’t be scared by a vampire story or movie, because they just don’t feel real. 

Darkness, when I’m writing, tends to come in the shape of a corrupt or authoritarian politician, a racist cop, a violent husband.

Or just malign chance, like disease or car accident. 

Most of the people in stories I write, including the erotica, are well-meaning. They may get ratty, and thoughtless, but that’s because they’re under stress. Given time to relax and think, they behave better. I write that kind of interaction not because it’s a fantasy world I want to live in: it’s actually the way that most real people actually do behave. I also think it’s more interesting: the struggle people have, in trying to find and make themselves do the right thing. And conflict between people who both think they’re doing the right thing, and are well-meaning, is more interesting that struggles between “good” and “evil”. 

Once we’ve got our black gears on, all male doms think we look like this. In our dreams…

As a dom, I give control, restraint and certain kinds of pain to women who want that, to be controlled, held tight, bound, given carefully measured touches of pain, while knowing that they are loved and looked after.

That doesn’t seem to me to be “dark”, or enhanced by pretending that it is. It’s colourful, the colours of blush and arousal, which vary with different skin colours, but are seldom really “black”. Sex, and especially bdsm, is not at all monochrome. 

It’s an exchange, for love, or at least affection, and pleasure on both sides. We give each other things that the other fiercely needs, while receiving the equivalent from them.

So I don’t deal much in darkness, or in black. Except for the clothes. 

 

I’ll be back to Maddie’s saga next week. 

 

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.