Gams of Brixton 2

Anyway, before I’d gone into the Brixton Electric, where the Public Enemy gig was, I’d bought a cocoanut drink from a stall. I’d held up the girl who worked the stall because I can’t figure out British coins. The size of the coin has no connection with its value, and they don’t always have numbers on them to tell you what they’re worth. 

So I’d been a bit flustered and embarrassed because I was being slow while she was busy. I explained that I couldn’t sort the UK coins out at all, and finally just held out a palmful of shrapnel and let her pick out the ones that she liked. 

But when I was in the Electric Brixton, when the lights came up again while Public Enemy’s crew set up, I felt someone poking me from behind. I turned around and it was the girl from the stall, still laughing at me. She said, “‘Ello, you”, in the South London voice.

Her face was shiny-black, her lips were plush and plump and the colour of ripe aubergine (egg-plant, to some people). And because she was laughing, her tongue and throat were shockingly pink, and her teeth blinding white. 

I said, “ye gods, hello!” Because I try not to swear when I’m talking to women, until they’ve said fucking, or fuck’s sake or at least bloody, first. “Cold-drink-selling stall girl! Um, unless that’s not your name..? I’m Jaime. Hey, it’s nice to meet you.” 

“I’m Mollie-o. Hey, Jaime. I didn’t pick you for a Public Enemy fan.”

I looked around. There weren’t many white guys there, come to that. “Well, I’m in Brixton, Public Enemy are in Brixton. I just thought, what can I do? It was meant to be.”

girls of brixtonMollie-o laughed again. She was bouncing. She was wearing a low-cut top, like of lot of Brixton girls. Her breasts were about 35 centimetres from my eyes. They looked firm, dark, warm, and other good things. They wouldn’t keep still.

“You’re being stalked by Public Enemy, eh? Oh la, I should be so lucky.”

“I’m being stalked by Brixton drink-sellers. Believe me, that’s better.”

“Hey, Jaime, you mind if I smoke?”

I did mind, a bit. But I said what a man says when he’s talking to a girl who isn’t a submissive but who is prettier than ciggies are foul. So she lit up. “I couldn’t get over you holding out that handful of change,” she said. “I could have paid for my ticket out of that.”

“Ah, but you wouldn’t have done that. I could tell.”

“Oh, I’m a bad girl, me.” It means something different when a girl who isn’t a submissive says it, but it can’t help but focus my attention.

“Bad girls are the best kind, Mollie-o.”

“Ah la, I am the best kind.” She leaned forward. Her breasts were closer to my nose. 

 And then I remembered a girl back at home. I’d made a promise that I was going to keep my willie out of the girls I met, until I got back to her. So I didn’t say, “you’re clearly the best,” and put my hand on her side, so that her breast pressed against the inside of my wrist, and pull her in for a kiss.

Nor, to take things in a different direction, did I say, “I know a way of turning bad girls into good girls.” 

Instead I only said, “Oh, you sure are.” 

Mollie-o smiled, with brilliant teeth. “I love your accent. It’s … your voice is adorable.” 

I said, “your voice is as cute as puppies.” The puppies came to mind because I wasn’t really thinking about her voice. Her breasts were irresistibly cute, they had a black circle at the tips – though I assumed that Mollio’s nipples wouldn’t actually be cold and wet. And above all, they wouldn’t keep still. “So are you.”

Mollie-o smiled and waited. I wanted to kiss her. It wouldn’t have been hard. I said, “Oh, you are a bad girl. But I’m going to have to go. It’s been lovely to meet you.”

Fortunately Mollie-o knew her value. It was my loss. “Hey, lovely to meet you too, Jaime. You have a good night.”

So there you are. I came to that town while I was spoken for. But I love Brixton.  

Gams of Brixton

I was at a Public Enemy gig in Brixton a few nights ago.

I’ve been staying with friends in Herne Hill, a town in Sarth Lonnin. Brixton’s the last stop on the Underground rail system on the way home, and I just fell in love with the place.

electric brixtonBrixton used to be famous for race riots, or inter-community tensions as we ex-parole officers say, as well as crime, hard stares and so on. But now the place is wonderful. It’s bursting with life. There’s lots of music being played on the street, also drumming if you count that as something different from music.

And pretty black girls walking three abreast down the street singing in harmony, not because it’s part of a show but because it’s a nice day and they feel like it. 

And a guy who offers services like making people fall in love with you, or making people come to harm, or telling your fortune and curing all your diseases is standing outside the station handing out his business card, because this is, after all, the modern world.

Anyway, Public Enemy played the local hall, and I went along.

I gotta go now. I’ll tell what happened later.

Bondage in the Ice Age: BSDM 20,000 BCE!

About twenty-two thousand years ago a tribe of humans crunched across white grass in a frozen landscape that’s now called Russia. Somewhere near the Don river valley they left behind two little sculptures. That’s how we know that these people, whoever they were, passed that way. It’s also how we know something surprising about their sexual imagination.

Kostenski Venus figurine, with her wrists bound

Kostenski Venus figurine, with her wrists bound: 20,000 BCE

These two sculptures, each one about the size of your hand, are of women. Like other Paleolithic “Venus figures”, the women are naked, or nearly naked, with exaggerated sexual features: their breasts hang hugely, like great sacks of grain, and their bellies swell, pregnant and vastly fat, like a ship’s sails.

What’s unusual about them is that one of the two women is shown with her wrists cuffed and tied, while the other woman is shown wearing a sort of harness that both restricts her movements and emphasises her breasts. That’s all they are depicted as wearing, although these images were created in the middle of an Ice Age. These two little sculptures seem to be the oldest known bondage erotica.

That tribe moved on, their destination and fate unknown. Since their day humans have done and built a lot of things, but some things don’t change. For one thing, it can’t be said that Russia’s improved much.

For another, it’s still true that whenever a new medium appears, from carving rocks to 3D imaging, one of the first things people will do is use it to make sexual images and tell sexual stories. And shortly after the first nudes are produced, someone else will come along and use the new medium for more specific sexual desires.

So the cultural history of what people now mostly call “bdsm” began about 21,000 years ago. 

Constanze Mozart: Mozart wrote to her, promising her a "thorough spanking on her dear little, kissable arse", when he got home. Di he deliver? The look in her eye says yes.

Constanze Mozart: Mozart wrote to her, promising her a “thorough spanking on your dear little, kissable arse”, when he got home. Did he deliver? The look in her eye says yes.

People who are interested in bdsm have built up a quite impressive pile of art-works and artefacts. There are bdsm references in Mozart’s operas, Christopher Marlowe’s plays, and Mapplethorpe’s photos, just to skim the Ms for a second.

As a Mortimer, I’m quite proud of my sculpture, “Caning Bench No 1, with Comfort Saddle and Hooks for attaching Cuffs”. If some archeologist finds it  21,000 years from now, I hope he or she puts it to good use. 

But it’s odd that we – we people who do bdsm – have failed to celebrate our novelists, and our poets and painters and composers, and so on.

I’ll be doing to some of that celebration over the coming months. 

E[lust] 56

 elustheaderPhoto courtesy of Understanding Fluttery

Welcome to e[lust] 

This blog is part of the E[lust] circle. And here’s the latest e[lust] digest, E[lust] 56.

~ This Month’s Top Three Posts ~

Trick of the Light

What Does Porn Lead To

The Posh Life of a Sex Toy Reviewer?

~ Featured Post (Molly’s Picks) ~

Eleven Quarters

Society for Prevention of Cruelty to Sadists

~ Readers Choice from Sexbytes ~

*You really should consider adding your popular posts here too*

All blogs that have a submission in this edition must re-post this digest from tip-to-toe on their blogs within 7 days. Re-posting the photo is optional and the use of the “read more…” tag is allowable after this point. Thank you, and enjoy!

Erotic Fiction

The Watchman
Short Story: Tucked Away
Property’s Progress
Glass Houses
Proud and Prejudged
You’ll Do…. Now Step Closer.
Pet Ballerina
Superotica Valentine – Day 7
Get In Me, Daddy
White Gloves

Blogging

Posting a photo a day!
How to Handle Your Junk in Public
My first trick on a corner
Mid Morning Musings ~ The Catharsis of Pain
Francesca Woodman Inspired Self Portraits
Eve’s Quandary – Blogging Between Fig Leaves
What I Be

Sex News,Opinion, Interviews, Politics & Humor

Why 3 out of 4 young women don’t masturbate
An Open Letter To Sex Toy Manufacturers
Daily Photo – Day 1: Full Disclosure

Thoughts & Advice on Kink & Fetish

Fantasies, deep and dark
Fun with ropes
Where we started from
Kink from a humbler perspective
To Err Is Human, To Punish May be Advisable
Reader Q&A: How does a sub say ‘no’?
Finding Balance

Erotic Non-Fiction

Suspended
Sister, Oh Sister
My First Trick
This one’s for you
Angela’s orgasm 
His Rope Show
Finger Banging With Daddy
Feeding Submission
Valentine’s Day Diary
Balance at the Boat Launch
Rope, Rhino Cock, and a Balancing Act
Exquisite

Thoughts & Advice on Sex & Relationships

Monogamous, Kinky Couple-Friends
As Lust Fades
A discussion with Mom
When Did You Realize You Were Dominant?
How to Fake an Orgasm
How To Increase Your Libido Without Cialis

Writing About Writing

Talking Dirty
Fiction! Thank You!

Poetry

I’m Willing To Earn The Right
Bad habits

elustbutton200

The road hits me

I held her yesterday, and her eyes filled with tears. She said, “I can’t do it.”

She meant various things. She can’t love two people at once. She can’t submit to me.

The woman she’s fallen in love with is freaked by bdsm, and so the girl who was mine doesn’t want it in her life. She probably will need to submit again, eventually, but by then it will probably have nothing to do with me.

Our relationship is, or was, master and slave. We just are. Or we were. There could never be any other dynamic between us, even if we tried. So she cannot have two lovers.

But it was the tears that ended it for me. I’d meant to comfort her and make her smile. I loved it when she cried because my paddle had hurt her ass, and so did she. 

But I can’t think of anything worse than making her cry when it’s not for pleasure. When I can’t comfort her, when my touch and smile make her sad, then it’s over.

moonI broke the hug and said, “All right.”

We hugged later, with slightly different emotional meanings. There’s nothing bad between us, just sadness.

This is going to hurt so much. I’m going to miss her so much. 

Today’s music: “They moved the moon”, Warren Zevon.

Meta (isn’t she the heroine of Deathworld?)

deathworld1Yes, Meta is the heroine of Harry Harrison’s Deathworld series. She probably looks like a sexy weightlifter. (Born on a high-gravity planet, you see.) Anyway, meta is also my word for the posts that are just me blogging about blogging. 

So, it has to be said that I’m having an emotional time at the moment.

I’m even listening to various kinds of emo music. Not Tristan und Isolde; that would pretty much destroy me in my current state. But I do recommend Don’t Fight It, Marsha, It’s Bigger than Both of Us by Blam Blam Blam, for the lovelorn. 

Meta

Meta-Meta

I don’t feel like getting drunk so I’m going to do the other thing men sometimes do to deal with misery. Which is to forget about it for a while, and bury it in work.

I’ve had relationships end before, but this one has hit me really hard. But you have to leave yourself open to hurt, or you won’t be open to love. 

Anyway, I’m back to the probation officer story tomorrow. 

Checking in

Once I had the ward to myself, apart from the sleeping patients, I unlocked the staff toilet and went in and took a look at myself. I found that I’d ripped my jeans where my shin had hit the rock. There was a serious looking cut there, deep and wide, as well as gravel abrasions, and I’d bled quite a lot. But it was already forming a dark crimson scar. It was still shiny and wet, but the bleeding had stopped. I wasn’t feeling any pain yet, because of the shock.

So I put my uniform on, and cleaned up the wound and applied bandages from the medical supplies in the nurse’s station. I limped for a few days afterwards, and I’ve still got a tiny dent in my right shin where I may have powdered or splintered a bit of my tibia. And that was that. 

Fools are lucky. Drunks and babies too, but I wasn’t drunk or a baby. 

As for the landing that’s coming up for me now, I don’t think it’ll be so easy. I love that girl, and I know that in a sense she still loves me. It’s just that she hasn’t got her mind on me right now.

I have to stay optimistic. I don’t want to protect myself. There’s still a chance that we can save us. She may still need me, when she remembers. (Does that sound bitter? It’s not so much. It’s just that she isn’t thinking about me or us. And she isn’t protecting herself emotionally either.) In the meantime, I still have the duties I took on as her master. I have to be there for her unless it’s clear that we’ve separated. So whatever happens, even the best outcomes, it’s going to hurt a lot. Well, it already does. 

Hitting the road

I’d been flying through the air for maybe three seconds, maybe four, with the bike spinning along below me. The headlight swept in circles, a prison searchlight looking for escaped rabbits, and sparks fired when the footpeg scraped across a rock. Half motorbike, half Catherine Wheel. The engine was still going. 

Then I hit the road, still moving fast. I landed on my side, and – bashing my elbow a bit as I did so – turned myself onto my front so that I could see where I was going. Mostly the camel hair coat protected me. It reached nearly to my feet, so the only damage I took, apart from the elbow I’d used to turn, was when it had flapped free of my lower legs and my shin hit a rock. After that I kept my hands and feet in the air. 

Eventually I glided to a stop. The bike was a few meters behind me, smelling of petrol, the engine still running. I got onto my knees. I’d expected to be in worse shape. I stood up and walked over to the bike. Then I shrugged, pulled it upright, got on, and rode to work.

I turned up at the nurse’s station only a few minutes late, still wearing the coat. I let the nurse I was replacing think I was in uniform under the coat. Why not? It was a cold night.

Leaving the bike and flying

I used to own a Norton 650 motorbike. It was made long before I was born and it was a beautiful piece of machinery. It was superbly balanced, so that although it was a heavy machine it felt light to the rider. It went where you leaned; you only had to give it a hint, like a horse that knows and likes you. And it had power to spare.

I was working as a psychiatric nurse. It was a security hospital far out in the country. I mostly did night shifts, because I’m a night owl and I didn’t mind odd sleep patterns as much as most people. The patients were mostly asleep at night, with some spectacular exceptions, so I could usually get some reading or writing done.

I went to a party one Friday night. It was a good party, and I lost track of time. So when I looked at my watch I found it was 10.35PM. That meant I had less than half an hour to get my uniform on and get to the ward. I had my uniform in a backpack, and I decided to get changed at the ward once I’d arrived. That was a lucky decision. The other lucky thing was that I put on a long coat made of camel hair, that my grandfather had worn in the second world war. He was in desert fighting, where the nights seemed as cold as the surface of the moon. 

But by the time I had my foot on the kickstart I had less than twenty minutes to get to the ward, and it was a half hour ride. It was a pitch black night, cloudy, moonless and starless.

I was on a stretch of gravel road when I saw a packing case on the road ahead of me, that must have fallen off the back of someone’s truck. I swerved to go round it, but I didn’t have enough time. The front tyre missed the box but hit a large stone, and suddenly the bike was sliding along the ground on one footpeg and one handle bar, spinning but still heading in the general direction of work. But I was in the air, having gone over the handlebars when the bike went down. I was flying a bit less than a metre above the ground, at the speed that the bike had been going. 

I had what seemed like a long time in the air, long enough to experience every microsecond and to wonder, in an abstract way – since I couldn’t do anything about it – what I was going to hit, and how badly whatever I hit would break me. There were trees, and a ditch. 

I feel like that now. I’ve left the bike, I’ve done the things I can do to try to save us. I don’t know if they’re enough, but more would make things worse. And for now there’s nothing more that I can do except to fly and hope that I’ll be ok when I hit whatever it is that I hit.