Condoms: fictional contraceptive of choice

Posted on January 27, 2016 by sexblogofsorts

I’ve written several times (here, for example, and here), about why, in real life, I’d always rather be on the pill. I like semen. I like spontaneity. I like intimacy. To a certain extent, I think condoms interfere with the enjoyment of all those things. But in erotica? In erotica, I think they come in to their own.

There’s been a lot written by erotica writers about whether we have a responsibility to write condoms into our sex scenes, a responsibility to write safe sex. That is not the purpose of this post: this is less what about what we do through obligation to reflect best practice in real life, and more about how condoms can actually serve a fictional purpose.

In fiction, you can almost argue that the pill is the contraceptive of deceit and stability (almost, because right now, helpfully, I can’t think of any specific examples – I thought Gone Girl was one, only to be reminded that what Amy does is worse still.) It’s the form of contraception that women ‘accidentally’ forget to take, or the one they make an active decision to stop taking when they want a family. It feels, to me, more about conception than sex.

Condoms, and other barrier methods, on the other hand, are visceral – though condoms more than say, the diaphragm, since they’re on the outside of the body, not the inside. The pill, the coil, the implant – they’re intellectual decisions, made in a GP’s surgery, out of the heat of the moment, separate, really, from desire. The rip of that foil packet? It screams desire.

The sheer physical presence of the condom is a great device in fiction – I made my own attempt at writing that here, but it’s better shown, I think, in Kristina Lloyd’s Asking for Trouble, which is my go-to novel for demonstrating how to do stuff well – not least because unlike my fictional take on condoms, it has actual sex! Condoms recur throughout this novel – they’re symbolic…

‘Just a sec,’ I said, and scurried to get a condom from my desk drawer. That had been a real treat for me when I’d first moved in: hiding little condom stashes here and there, making every room in the flat a potential fuck zone. No more having to worry about other people. The whole place was mine.

… but that symbolism works on a very real level …

When he withdrew, I saw the rubber wrinkling on his prick, its teat drooping with liquid. I just hadn’t felt it. I guess my vagina wasn’t concentrating. Thank God one of us is in control, I thought.

There’s so much in those three sentences. The comedown from the out-of-control desire that fuels this sex scene is captured in ‘drooping’ alone, but the fact that Ilya, the hero, puts on a condom despite Beth not realising, and that she goes on to frame that as ‘Thank God one of us is in control’ foreshadows the way that she relinquishes control to him all the way through the novel, and it’s all captured in one perfectly written piece of latex.

Symbolic objects in fiction fascinate me. And condoms lend themselves perfectly to symbolism, whether your characters use them, or whether they don’t. It’s why a blanket insistence that we include them just to remind readers of the importance of safe sex denies the writer, and the reader, so much damn potential.

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Free porn

Posted on January 20, 2016 by sexblogofsorts

‘It has a great bar, and -‘ Emma pauses for effect and she and Jason chime at the same time ‘Free porn!’

Bless them. They had their first baby three months ago, and this was the first time they’ve spent alone together since. We should be kind.

I picture the two of them in a hotel room, watching said porn. Emma drifting off and Jason …

Urgh.

‘Sounds great!’ you say. ‘We should book it; have a weekend away. What do you think, Soph?’

‘Fine by me!’ I say.

‘You must try the strawberry margarita,’ Emma says. ‘Best cocktail I’ve ever had.’

I knew she hadn’t watched the porn.

The hotel has everything they promised, though the gin fizz is better than the strawberry margarita. When we’ve put our bags down in the room, you flick the TV on, and sure enough – free porn!

But the carpet is covered with random words, and you make me pick one – I choose ‘sign’ – and then you scrawl ‘Free porn’ on the back of the room service menu, tell me to strip, and make me stand, naked, in the window, holding the sign you’ve made for thirty minutes, while you lie on the bed and drink a glass of red.

And then you fuck me against the glass, because you’re not a man to break your promises.

Over the course of the weekend, the action in the window varies. You make me wank, you order me to suck your cock, you press my face to the cold pane while you stick your dick in my arse.

We take breaks to head down to the bar. I rank the cocktails. The gin fizz is better than the strawberry margarita, the strawberry margarita is better than the negroni.

It’s a good hotel. And there’s free porn.

But we’re making it; not watching it.

We three kings …

Posted on January 6, 2016 by sexblogofsorts

France is … well, France is fucking lonely, actually.

Coming back after Christmas is hard, even though she loves him, even though she wanted to live here. She just didn’t know it would be *so* damn hard. She makes plans with her friends for them to come and visit and she trawls the papers for a job.

Working will help.

Adam agrees – it will. He likes his colleagues, has even joined the five a side office football team – he plays on Thursday nights and then a few of them grab a beer in the cafe down the road.

‘Bring them here this week,’ she suggests. ‘We have beer. And pizza.’

‘Sure,’ he agrees. ‘But it’s the sixth on Thursday. I guess some of the guys will be heading home for la galette.’

‘Shit, I forgot! We could do that here though? With beer. It’ll be cool … right?’

‘It’ll be cool.’ He kisses her forehead. ‘Every party you’ve thrown has been damn cool. Right?’

He holds up a hand, and she high fives him, grinning. ‘Right.’

The three guys he ends up bringing back adore her. He’s not surprised. Everyone adores her when they get to know her – she thinks her snark is a barrier, but it just endears her to people even more.

Drinks poured, he pulls her aside. All of these men are single – they’re the ones who don’t have girlfriends, wives or families to head home to – Epiphany is a big deal for the French. They’re hot, and charming and they have a plan.

‘You know your New Year’s Resolution?’ he asks. ‘Were you serious about it?’

‘Is this a dare?’ she asks. ‘Because I’m competitive, remember?’

‘Oh, I know,’ he says. ‘Which is why I’ve upped the stakes. You wanted to go down on a stranger. How does tonight sound?’

She’s learnt so much with him. He makes her want to try stuff she’s never tried before, makes her believe in herself. She clinks her beer glass against his. ’You’re on.’

She’s a stickler for tradition, and it works well with this plan. Tradition dictates that the youngest person gets under the table and decides who gets each slice of the cake. As luck would have it, she’s the baby of the room.

Beneath the tablecloth, she flirts. More than flirts, in fact. She takes her time calling out their names, stroking their stiffening cocks through the denim of their jeans, running her hands up their thighs, stoking the anticipation.

By the time she crawls out from under the table to claim her own dessert and see who the victor of the spoils is, every dick in the room is rock hard.

Nobody speaks, and when Xav digs his spoon into the cake, the clink of metal on porcelain is audible to them all.

She smiles; lets him finish his dessert. Then she fetches the paper crown, ceremoniously places it on his head, and tugs him in the direction of the sofa.

The other guys gather round – there’s no way they’re missing this. Xavier opens his fly and frees his cock, and she kneels, takes his hands and puts them on the back of her head. He gets the message.

‘You want it rough, huh?’ he says, and she nods, eagerly. She wouldn’t have it any other way.

Sure enough, she takes him deep and she’s vocal in her pleasure – she slurps and whimpers while Xavier pulls her hair and arcs upwards, forcing even more of himself into her mouth. When he comes she swallows, licks her lips and turns to face Adam and the other two guys, all of whom are wanking unabashedly.

She lifts her skirt, slides her knickers down. ‘As far as I remember,’ she says, grinning wickedly. ‘The three kings all brought different gifts. Fancy showing me the other two?’

Réveillon

Posted on January 5, 2016 by sexblogofsorts

The Eurostar is half empty. It’s not due to arrive in Paris till 20:30 – most people’s festivities will be underway by then, she thinks.

She has no particular plans. She’s alone – she has been for three months now, but unlike at Christmas, tonight she’s grateful for the solitude. It doesn’t even bother her than the train has no power sockets; her phone is dead, and she’s uncontactable, at least until she gets to the hotel.

She goes straight to a bar.

At a corner table, she sips a Kir Royale, slowly. A man gestures to the seat opposite her. ‘T’es d’accord si je laisse ma veste ici?’

She smiles. ‘Bien sûr.’

Even once he’s draped his jacket over the chair, he lingers. He was breaking the ice, she realises – there’s a coat stand in the corner. She’s not in the mood to make conversation just yet, and turns back to her book. He gets the message, and leaves her in peace. It doesn’t stop her checking out his arse as he turns away.

Her second cocktail is on the house. The barman laughs off her attempts to pay – ‘J’insiste, mademoiselle!’ – and holds her gaze as he pours. She hangs out at the bar for a while, flirting with him between orders and in return he shows off – there are flaming drinks, bottles being juggled, and champagne fountains.

Because she has no intention of fucking any of them, no man is off limits. She smiles broadly at a guy with a wedding ring, makes eyes at another while his wife is in the Ladies’. She glances at bulges in trousers, at well fitting black tie, at stubbled jawlines. When midnight comes, she’s not short of kisses – they’re practically queuing up to wish her a Bonne année.

And it will be. She knows it.

She takes a taxi to her hotel a little after one. She’s tired, but exhilarated, alive with the possibilities that await her in the year ahead. In the elevator mirror, she smiles at her reflection. It’s one of those rare evenings where she can see her own beauty; has utter faith in it.

In her room, she takes off her make up, hangs up her clothes, and lays down between cool sheets. Her fingers find her clit and she rubs firmly, thinking about those men, imagining them without the black tie, without the wives, with hard cocks and eager hands. She imagines going back to the bar, naked this time, and them pushing tables back, making room for her to get down on all fours.

The men in her head are queuing and jostling not to kiss her, but to fuck her. She conjures up one – the barman, with his cheeky grin and deep blue eyes – fucking her mouth, and another – the one with the salt and pepper hair and the gold band on his ring finger – in her cunt.

She doesn’t have to imagine her orgasm.

Satisfied, she curls her knees up to her chest, and drifts off. There are so many potential men out there, she realises now. And they can all wait until tomorrow.

Flash fiction: Piper

Posted on January 1, 2016 by sexblogofsorts

She’s tired of her own voice, the irregular click of her heels on the ground, her laugh, which sounds braying to her now, and her breathless, anxious sobbing.

More than anything she’s tired of fucking sobbing.

She’d like to be gracious – elegant, even – in her sadness: all weak smiles and silent weeping, but her anger demands otherwise. Her anger demands she gets drunk every Saturday and rants about him in the street. Not only did he dump her; the fallout has seen her refused entry to three different nightclubs.

Even her friends are sick of it.

‘I’ve booked a spa weekend,’ Emma tells her. ‘In the highlands. You deserve a break.’

She knows an intervention when she sees one.

The hotel is quiet, just as Em promised. The average age is perhaps forty years their senior. And it’s nice, really it is, but neither massage, nor hours in the jacuzzi, nor the wine at dinner can stop his goodbye from playing on loop in her head.

It stops when the entertainment starts.

The ‘entertainment’ is a solo piper. A solo piper who distracts her not only with the godawful noise he’s making, but with his epic legs and twinkly blue eyes. For the first time in maybe a month she stops wondering if she’ll be alone forever and wonders instead what’s under that pleated tartan.

He plays on, and on, and on. The grannies love it. Or maybe they love a man in a kilt. Hard to say.

She marvels at how, in spite of the racket he’s making, this man is causing her to grow wet and twitchy. At one point, he starts a new song (she thinks – it’s hard to tell), and catches her eye across the room.

Once upon a time, she’d have said the most awkward thing that could happen with a guy you liked was catching his eye when he looked up from giving you head. Now she sees that this is untrue: it’s far more awkward to make eye contact with a sexy bagpiper mid-blow.

Emma knows, she can tell – her desires and emotions have always been transparent – and when the ‘music’ finally ends and everybody – piper included – makes their way to the bar, she makes herself scarce.

He packs the damn windbag away, and makes a beeline for her. ‘Can I buy you a drink?’ he asks. ‘I mean, I’m sorry, I know that’s unprofessional, but I promise it’s not something I do every time I play here. As – ‘ he gestures at a group of old ladies playing cards, ‘ – you can probably tell.’

‘I believe you,’ she says. ‘Gin and slim, please.’

They drink in companionable silence, companionable at least until her mind fails to catch up with her mouth and she says ‘Well, this is a little more peaceful, isn’t it?’

For a moment, he’s speechless. As if he can’t believe she had the nerve to say that. To be honest, neither can she.

‘You’re not a fan, then?’

She shakes her head. ‘Er … no.’

‘You didn’t even like that last tune?’

She makes air quotes with her fingers, hoping it comes across flirty, not bitchy: “Tune…”

‘Hey!’ he protests, ‘It’s a tune! And you didn’t answer my question. I thought you might have enjoyed that one.’

‘Why?’ she asks, curious now. She has no idea where this is going.

He grins a wicked grin; adjusts his sporran. He leans in, so the grannies can’t hear him. ‘”Cock o’ the north,” it’s called,’ he says, the grin widening. ‘I’ve heard it said it’s the one I do best.’

Her grin mirrors his. She looks around urgently for Emma. She needs to persuade her to sleep in the bath.

£10.53

Posted on December 11, 2015 by sexblogofsorts

The coins are for her, but he decides their purchasing power. He pushes them round on the table as he does, sorting them by size.

‘2p for vanilla, 5p for a hand job, 10p for anal, and £1 for a blow job.’

‘What?! How is fucking my arse worth a tenth of fucking my mouth?’

He smiles, and tosses a pound coin in the air, snapping his fist closed around it as it falls.

‘Twenty-four days. Ten pound coins. You sure about that?’

She hates it when he outwits her.

‘Let’s stick with the original plan.’

She thinks it’ll be easy. There are twenty coins and although they usually fuck at least once a day, with Christmas parties, family visiting and work deadlines, she’s sure the coins will last the length of advent.

But he’s strict.

When they fuck that night, she drops to her knees from sheer habit, wrapping her lips around the thick length of his cock.

‘A pound down already,’ he says, as his cock pulses in her mouth. ‘Quite the little spender, aren’t we?’

She yanks her mouth free. ‘This is foreplay!’

‘Nuh-uh. My rules.’

December is still in its infancy and she’s £5.19 down. She hadn’t bargained on the way he’d play the game – rubbing his cock against her arse as she searches for something in the pantry, his parents just metres away, as if they were teenagers again. Nor, it seems, was she paying enough attention when he assigned the values, since there are only four 2p coins. Three and a half weeks, weeks in which she has to find a gift for her crotchety grandfather, along with at least twenty others, sew an angel costume for her youngest, and find time to attend rehearsals for her choir concert and she’s only allowed to actually fuck him four times? It’s the worst advent calendar ever.

Her cunt aches for him. She jerks him off one morning before work and her underwear is so soaked she has to change it.

‘Tonight?’ she suggests, as he tucks himself back inside his suit trousers, and straightens his tie. ‘Please can we fuck tonight?’

There’s only one 2p left.

He sips his coffee, and she waits, patiently. It still astounds her that he has this power over her – she has no patience for anything else: not for traffic jams, late people, cancellations or delays – but with him she’d wait forever.

‘Tell me how you want it.’

It rushes out of her. She’s been thinking about it for days. ‘I want you to hold me down, make me beg, my mouth filled with fingers and my cunt filled with cock. I need you to pull my hair, to bruise me, bite me. I want to do stuff I’ve never dreamed of.’

He leans in and nips at her neck with his sharp, white teeth. ‘My brother’s coming for dinner, remember?’

‘Not till 8. Leave work early.’

But he’s late; so late in fact that her frustration turns to anger, and her anger turns to worry. What if he’s been in an accident? She texts him, but there’s no response. Her calls go to voicemail. She burns herself on the roast chicken dish. What will she tell his brother?

There’s a knock at the door. She guesses she’ll tell him the truth; that she has no idea. She likes his brother, trusts him. It’ll be ok.

He’s brought flowers, and wine, and she hugs him, tighter than she might normally. ‘I’m sorry,’ she says, as he lets go of her, ‘It’s just I can’t get hold of Mike. I’ve tried calling but his phone – ‘

‘Shh, shh,’ he comforts, ‘He just called me. He’s on his way. But first he wanted me to give you this.’

And he drops two pence’ worth of chocolate into her hand.

Sea (s)witch

Posted on December 2, 2015 by sexblogofsorts

The costume is a too-tight purple satin vest top she’s had since uni – she almost spills out of it these days – and two pairs of black tights stuffed with the rest of her hosiery drawer. Her hair is silver with cheap spray from the party shop, blue eyeshadow smeared from lids to eyebrows.

‘Isn’t the theme -?’

‘Disney princesses? Yes.’

‘And you are?’

‘Ursula, obviously.’

‘But she’s a …’

‘… sea witch.’

‘Not a princess?’

‘No. *Much* cooler.’

‘Doesn’t she have eight legs?’

‘Nope, six. Easier to animate. I checked Wikipedia.’

She had her first baby a year ago, and she’s not quite lost the weight. She can’t bear to try to pull off the princess look alongside a load of skinny minnies who’ll do it so much better. She’s always been strangely drawn to Ursula, recognising her anger, her jealousy, her venom in herself, and wanting, perversely, to celebrate those things.

‘Like it?’

‘I do, actually. You look weirdly hot.’

‘Charmer.’ She kisses him, leaving his mouth smeared with scarlet lipstick.

She flirts with everyone, at ease with her anti-heroine status. She watches him do the same. She trusts him.

By midnight, though, she’s ready to lure him away. On the drive home, he’s tipsily chatty, until she pulls up at the lights and places a finger on his lips. ‘Shh, now…’

He looks at her curiously, but says nothing.

Back home, he brushes his teeth, while she roots at the back of the wardrobe. The bathroom door opens and he stands in the doorway, surveying the scene: her, still in costume, draped across the bed, and next to her, a ball gag that up till now, only she has ever worn.

He gets it, she knows, but, as his eyebrows raise, she says it anyway.

‘I’m not asking much. Just a token really, a trifle. You’ll never even miss it. What I want from you is your voice.’

Bathroom

Posted on November 17, 2015 by sexblogofsorts

She wants to suck his dick in the bathroom. She’s knelt too many times on the plush, cream carpet in the bedroom, fellating against a backdrop of family photos in silver frames, his wife’s perfume hanging in the air, his copy of War and Peace on the nightstand. Every time he brings her here, she surreptitiously checks his progress, but his narrow leather bookmark never seems to move. He must be the slowest reader in the world.

He’s careful not to muss her hair or clothes too much – there’s always a 3 p.m. meeting, or a client presentation, or another reason why he won’t come on her face, no matter how much she begs for it. There’s nothing dirty about this affair.

As she pees, her knickers round her ankles, her head resting against the cool, teal tiles – she’s dizzily tipsy – she imagines the ache of the stone floor under her knees, the anticipation of waiting for him to empty his bladder before he lets her suck him (as if he’d let her watch), and the moment that he’d turn, not yet finished, and piss all over her face, while a bottle of Matey looked on disapprovingly.

She could persuade him tonight, she thinks – they’re on their fifth bottle of Merlot, and his wife is too busy playing the perfect hostess to query a ten minute absence. She’ll go back to the dining room and grope him under the table, she’ll text him her plan. He never goes more than ten minutes without checking his phone. Maybe they can absent themselves when everyone moves to the living room for coffee – she’s never been bothered about after dinner mints anyway.

She slides two fingers inside her cunt, and slicks her nape with her juices. She’s read about this somewhere – apparently men can’t resist it. And even if it’s bullshit, and it probably is, it makes her horny – and that’s all that really matters.

‘Want to suck your cock. Meet me in bathroom in 10’ she texts, before returning to the table. She wants to see his face when he gets the message.

But in the dining room, he’s not the one fiddling with his phone – Steve is.

‘There you are, darling!’ he says. ‘Cab’ll be here in five. I said we’d skip coffee – I’ve an early start tomorrow. You don’t mind, do you?’

She curses under her breath, shakes her head. ‘No, no problem.’

His wife holds out a box of After Eights. ‘Take a mint for the journey,’ she says. ‘I’d hate to see you miss out.’

As the door swings shut behind them, she sees him check his phone. Sees the missed opportunity and the disappointment register on his face. What she doesn’t see is him wanking frantically in a cold bathroom at 2am. She can imagine it though, for days afterwards, and it ruins everything.

The affair ends a month later.

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Naked Goodbye: An Extract

Posted on October 13, 2015 by sexblogofsorts

I am bad at endings. Really bad. I don’t want to burn bridges, but nor can I sit quietly and ride out the pain. So the bridges burn and I burn with them.

Endings are part of what makes me wary of the way erotica has shifted as a genre. I’ve never wanted to write happy endings (this makes my Dad snigger every time I say it) but the move towards erotic romance has made it the most commercially viable path.

So when I successfully submitted my first short story to the For Book’s Sake anthology ‘Tongue in Cheek’ in Spring this year*, I was sort of amazed that the longest short I’d ever written turned out to be about an unhappy ending that turns happy.

Here’s an extract, and if you want to read the end of the story, you can buy the anthology here.

*I meant to write this post way back in May. This week’s #WickedWednesday prompt has finally spurred me into remembering to!

Naked Goodbye

I can’t remember our last time.

If I’d known it’d be our last, I wouldn’t have gotten so drunk. Wouldn’t have let him order that last bottle of red, that last plate of cheese. I’d have dragged him home while I could still match key to lock, still walk in my heels.

Instead, we grappled against an office block wall while waiting for the taxi, his kisses wet and his hand up my skirt. We stumbled through the door and I sat cross-legged on the bed, whipping off my bra with a wine-fueled flourish. And then… nothing.

We might have done it, we might not – I have no idea. The wine, and the resulting hangover, are a heavy fog that stifles my memory, letting me see details from that night, but not the bigger picture.

And now, it seems, we’re done.

It’s only ever been a sex thing, so I shouldn’t be surprised. It was never going to last forever. Yet,my hand trembles as I thumb through his text: “Met someone Friday. Don’t know where it’s going but thought I should give you a heads-up.”

It would be wrong to wait and see. I could sit tight, knowing that at this stage he has no way of knowing how promising this encounter is likely to be. But I don’t like loose endings. Plus he’s already dropped the kiss from the end of his messages. This is no time to be sentimental, but I wouldn’t mind making a few last memories. I text back: “Goodbye fuck? x”

If he’s surprised, he doesn’t let it show. His reply is brief. “Sure. Saturday? Your place? x”

By the time Saturday comes, I have to change the sheets. My pillow is streaked with mascara, and I’d rather he didn’t realise I care, not now it’s too late to do anything about it. So I switch pink cotton for blue striped flannel and hope that by later that evening, I’ll have replaced one set of salty stains with another.

We don’t make it to the bedroom.

It doesn’t feel like he’s gone off me. His cock is still rock hard as he manhandles me up against the kitchen worktop, sweeping my hair to one side and biting my neck, making me slosh wine over the side of the glass I’m filling. There’s no dithering or uncertainty in the fingers that push my knickers to one side and thrust deep inside me, a little too much a little too soon. The way I’ve begged for in the past.

Just as I start to sink in to it, knuckles whitening on the worktop, his name crystallising on the tip of my tongue, he pulls his fingers free, takes my hand and leads me to the living room. He leaves our glasses behind, and suddenly I’m longing for a mouthful of cool chardonnay to dissolve the lump at the back of my throat.

More than the chardonnay though, I want him inside me. I don’t care where – for all it matters to me right now he could bend me over the arm of the sofa, grate my knees against the carpeted stairs or have me on all fours on the wooden floor. But no. He unbuckles, frees his cock and makes himself comfortable amongst my scatter cushions.

“Come here …”

I want to, really I do. It’s just that there’s no blind on my front window and, well, it’s a sunny Saturday afternoon. Anyone could look in. I dither. Apparently I do care where, after all.

He holds out a hand, and a promise. “It’ll just look like we’re kissing.”

Oh, fuck the passers-by.

***

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