Sploshing part 2

It’s time for an update from kinky land.

I recently went to a party and found myself a little bit tipsy and very eager to plant my lips all over a friend’s face. (Well, more than one friend, but that’s another story). Don’t worry, she was expecting it and it felt happily received.

The kissing? Fine. All’s good. Desperately missed!

Fondling. Fine. All seems well.

Sex? Not today. Fine. Everything’s still lovely.

Sploshing? Yes? Maybe? OK! Ugh…ok? Well, that’s happened now hasn’t it.

One deliciously moist chocolate birthday cake got firmly squished into her face and breasts. I did the regular check-ins one does before sexually advancing or, ya know, destroying a friend’s clothes. I tried to keep the sexiness focused on the cake – with lots of licking and nibbling, but ultimately, this just didn’t do it for me.

I think I found the joy was more in the fight of it. My favourite part was cuddling on the couch afterwards. My least favourite part was realising that I had probably destroyed her “just a work bra” underwear.

I think next time I try my hand at sploshing it won’t actually be sexual. It will be a food fight. And, hopefully, I’ll remember to have old clothes to hand.

I’m off to shop for replacement bras.


The wonder of exploring

There are so many ways in which we can label ourselves these days. Especially if we’re talking sexuality. Even more so, if we’re talking kink.

Browsing some well known kinky sites, I find a list of ways to identify oneself: gay, straight, bisexual, heteroflexible, dominant, submissive, little, kitty, leather (family member), mentor, polyamorous, monogomous, trans-gendered, sis-gendered, pansexual… The list goes on and on.

And it’s not just about who or ‘”what” you are sexually attracted to. It’s also about how you perceive your lifestyle, or sexual lifestyle, your relationships and your role(s) within them.

Personally, I try to hold on firmly to the terms ‘bisexual’ and ‘queer,’ because they feel right to me. Someone else may dispute my queer status. Why? Because I’m cis-gendered female? Because I have a male primary partner? Because I’m not an activist for queer rights? Because my hair’s the wrong length? Because I paint my toenails the wrong colour? Because I happily kneel at my partner’s feet and…*ahem*

You get the idea. Anyone could decided to turn around at any moment and tell me that I’m not *really* queer or I’m not *queer* enough. I love the labels, don’t get me wrong. I think labels or ‘identifiers’ can be powerful. Especially if you’re trying to portray a certain image of yourself, or just if you’re trying to have it off with other people who just might fancy you too.

Still, I think there are some problems with rigid labels. No one ever gets a microchip under their skin marking them as ‘male’ or ‘female,’ just like no one gets marked ‘architect,’ ‘blogger,’ ‘stay-at home Dad’ or any other lifestyle defining term. Fluidity is where it’s at for me. Fluidity with gender, with life, with self. There’s a lot of experience to be had out there and I feel genuinely saddened for anyone who feels they are not constantly learning something new about themselves and the people around them.

Will I still call myself queer, bisexual and kinky as hell? Of course I will, because I feel pride in those labels. What I don’t want, is the myriad of labels out there to become something we must declare as un-changing. I honestly think I will be a geeky, little, bi, sex-positive pervert for the rest of my life. I also know I’m exploring. I’m curiously poking my head around corners and finding new parts of myself that I hadn’t looked at before. And that’s fantastic.

How about you? Do labels have a place in your world, or do they drift in and out?

On little failures

When did we decide that one mistake can tear down the world?

We can all be too hard on ourselves sometimes, but I’ve always been a constant bully to myself. I feel like I’m finally recovering from this nonsense. Still, back slides happen. This weekend I was wrecked, frustrated, drained and frankly fed up with the boredom surrounding me. As I yelled at my partner “but it is my fault” he gave me confused and exhausted eyes. This shit wasn’t my fault. It was his issue. I just didn’t know how to help yet.

Later he said: “You are so brutal to yourself ”

“Too hard” on myself  I’d heard over and over, but “brutal”?

He was right. I was ready to resort to the old habits of brutalising myself. Why? Because I was just too god damn tired.

That was it. I was burnt out. And when given the opportunity to blame a plethora of external factors that really were fucking with my body and my life, I chose to tell myself I wasn’t being tough enough.

So, when did we decide little failures were the end of the world? When did life become a series of tick boxes labelling us as successful or not?

I don’t know about you all, but this week I’m giving myself credit for all those times I didn’t backslide. All those times I didn’t hurt myself in some way, just to prove I could control something.

As for little achievements, I have recently:

Worked when tired.

Kept working despite being exhausted.

Scheduled a sleep in.

Asked for help.

Played with the cats, just because it makes me feel happy.

All those movements when I didn’t drink, binge, purge, cut, talk about how much I suck. Yeah, those. Definitely those.

How about you?


Review: The guilty feminist podcast

A few weeks ago I had an entire day off to myself. No work, no friends to visit, no partner available to share time with. I had dedicated the day to myself!

And it was DIFFICULT!

A few weeks passed and I’ve remembered how much I enjoy listening to podcasts. I’ve also been excited to learn more about feminism. So, naturally, I searched “feminist podcast.”

Straight away, I found Sofie Hagan and Deborah Francis White’s ‘The guilty feminist.’ Ironically, listening to these two women and their guests makes me feel much less guilty! We can’t all be perfect feminists all the time, but we can damn well try. This podcast is a good reminder of that.

About the podcast:  The two comedians leading this podcast discuss a topic every week. They relate this to feminism and their own personal experiences, evoking quite a few laughs whilst doing so. I’ve intentionally said they don’t raise inherently “feminist issues.” Rather, they look at challenges of life and society, which many people could relate to. OK, maybe not all sis gendered, white men could relate to what it’s like doing yoga with your period, or how to deal with people leering at your breasts. But, they do look at issues that don’t just effect women. For example, the two speak about nudity, what the media tries to sell to us, self esteem, food, public spaces etc. etc.

What I love most:  I’ve got to say two things here. The first is the weekly challenges that Sofie and Deborah set themselves! I won’t give any huge spoilers, but the tasks these comedians create are always meaningful and frequently presented with hilarity.

Secondly, each podcast opens with: “I’m a feminist but…” then continues with a guilty confession of very un-feminist behaviours.

What I’d improve: Nothing! Whilst this podcast is very much in it’s infancy, I’m eager for more.


How to?

The more time I spend within the kink community and the more time I spend around sex positive and considerate people, the less tolerance I have for the same old bullshit around sex and gender. I spent my weekend with amazing people who all seem so keen to learn about and celebrate everything sex, sexuality and gender. Then, I come home with my usual research enthusiam. At the first googling of my fingers, I am faced with the mantra of “how to please a man.”

After a few interesting conversations with some new friends I thought I’d start my research with tantric sex. Honestly, I’ve always been a skeptic in this area, but my curiosity was peaked. With the words “tantric” and “how to,” I was given a barrage of:

“How to give a man…”

“How to please your man…”

“How to give him a tantric massage…”

There are no words to express the depth of my guttural sigh, in response to this. I am all for pleasure for people, no matter where you fall along the gender spectrum, but let’s stop polluting the world with this suggestion that women always blindly give and men always selfishly take. What kind of message does that give the eager teens of the world?!

To turn it around, I’m going to direct you to a woman I came across lately. I listened to an interview with her and was immediately struck by how confidently she speaks about herself, her body and her desires. Psalm Isadora talks about sex and tantric sex as though she was born to seduce the world! Or at least help others to. I’m yet to delve further as a lot of her info seems to come from in person workshops. However, it’s always good to remind myself to keep digging past that surface level of misogyny that is often pumped out by media. So, please, throw out that copy of Cosmo, and delve a little deeper. There is a lot of feminist, sex positive stuff out there, you just gotta search for it.  


Hello again fellow Bloggers and Bloggees!

I’ve had a combination of holidays and ‘real world’ things to deal with, which is why I haven’t posted in so long! But, I’m back at the keys now and I have loads to share with you all.

I have to admit, my enthusiasm to dabble in different kinks and report back, may be biting off a little more than I can chew. As such, we’ll have to call this part of my blog semi-regular, at least until I can find some kinky connoisseurs to interview. With that disclaimer in place, here’s my view on…


Experiences so far:

I’ve known that food and sex have paired together well in my mind for a long time. I still remember sneaking around with a high school boyfriend at 2am, trying to decide whether chocolate sauce or honey would be more fun to pour all over him. Since then I’ve add post coital chocolate and pre or during coital strawberries. And, there have been many an “accidental” spillage of whipped cream. One of my fondest memories is of a friend, pouring cream all over her breasts in a rented dungeon and declaring “Oh no!” in the not-so-innocent voice.

Still, thus far, my experiences with sex and food have all felt fairly mainstream or, vanilla. (Accept maybe having a strawberry dipped into my cunt – that felt very cheeky).


Where to go next:

Of course, my first step in exploring this further was to talk to my partner. “How would you feel about sploshing?” and “I’m thinking of exploring this with other people also…Thoughts?” were my go-to starting points. The later is yet to unfold, principally due to the interference of life and the encumbrance of scheduling. As for the former, my partner was willing to give it a go.

Getting turned on:

Next I had to think about what “did it” for me or could turn me on, by adding food to sex. Or simply by playing around with food. After looking at the kinkier version of ‘food porn,’ I came across a lot of spaghetti and meats ripped and smeared all over bodies. As it turns out, split spaghetti makes me think of a toddler trying to eat and the ripped meats made me want to go vegetarian. Not exactly turn ons!

What I needed was texture, smell and taste. Vanilla, sweet, smooth, thick, warm and cold were all appealing to me. Again, I found myself remembering where food had cropped up in my life previously. Pouring powdered milk into a warm bath and using it to wash a former girlfriend. That. That was a turn on. Sucking the whipped cream from the aforementioned friend’s chest. Again. Turn on. With this and the enthusiasm for something playful, we started with cakes. Soft, fun, sweet.

Where it went:

Playing with cake was actually a major turn on for me. It felt fun and easy. Nothing too heavy and lots of giggles. Safe words and after care plans really weren’t needed for this one. After we tried cake, we revisited this activity a few weeks later with yoghurt.

In both cases, I feel myself and my partner had loads of fun. We got very turned on and enjoyed taunting each other, smearing food on each other and of course licking, licking, licking. There was also a very 1st world feeling of taboo within this. The thought of ‘wasting’ food for our own sexual pleasures was quite tantalising. We were ruining something and not using it for it’s original purpose. It felt a little perverse. Which, can often be fun.


I think I would need to explore this one further and talk to more people, in order to get a more complete picture of why this particular kink turns people on. I would definitely do it again, but despite some arousal, this felt much more like a cheeky food fight without clothing, rather than a debauched sex act to jack off over.


If you have your own experiences with sploshing that you’d like to share, please go ahead and comment. If you’d like your opinion to be heard anonymously, shoot me a message and I will consider adding your thoughts to another queer and kinky post.




Anything you like

This piece of writing is NOT SUITABLE for those under the age of 18 years. Please turn back if you’ve come here by mistake.

I’m not 18. Take me somewhere else.

“You’ve been taking care of me. What can I do for you?” He asked. He smiled as he spoke and sat straight up, awaiting my response. “How about a massage?” He offers.

A massage sounded wonderful and god knows I needed it. Physically. Mentally, I needed to stop thinking. I needed to be cherished and loved and desired. And I needed someone else to decide what form that took. I needed a break from my own planning and decision making.

I told him what I wanted. “I need you to decide. I need you to be in control.” He paused. “Even if it’s only for 20 minutes. Really. You can time it if you like. But I want to lay down and have you take whatever pleasure from me that you want. Do anything you want and ask for anything you want. Even if it is simply silly, and has nothing to do with sex.”

He half laughed to himself and I realised he was already turned on from my request.

“20 minutes then.” He announced and began to set a timer on my phone. “20 minutes, but you’ll use your safe words if you need them and I’ll stop. Only then will I stop.”

I nodded. He stared at me and declared he wasn’t starting the timer yet. “Yellow means I need to pause, red means…”I repeated the rest of our safe words and what they meant. He kissed me, pushing him lips hard against mine. Took a deep breath as he looked down at my body, and started the timer.

I was so curious. Would he start with something silly? Would he simply rip my clothes off and pound himself into me? Use me as a masturbatory aid? I sat breathing and staring at him for so long that I was glad I couldn’t see the timer ticking down.

He began by running his hands over my body. I was clothed in a small top and floaty, blue, summer trousers. He pulled my trousers and socks off, commenting on my mismatched choices as he did so. He continued to explore my body with his hands. Pausing on my thighs and breasts. He moaned as he watched my skin beneath his.

I was still waiting.

Then, with clear conviction, he clamped his lips onto the top of my nose and suckled. I giggled. He did it again. Then moving away from my mouth his fingers poked and lingered over almost every ticklish part of my body. I kicked and squealed and tried not to pull away from him as he pushed under my arms, behind my knees, across my ribs.

Finally, he stopped. I could breathe again. “Shirt off” he demanded. I complied and lay back down, flat on the bed. He picked up my hand and used it to guide my arm upwards. Straight up in the air. My back flat on the bed and my arm 90 degrees to my torso. It was unnatural, yet oddly comfortable.

“This stays here.”

I melted at the confidence in his voice. Fuck. It began again; poking and prodding and pushing. My arm stayed exactly where he had placed it, whilst the rest of my body jerked and wiggled beneath his hands and mouth. I couldn’t stop myself from laughing. But I could keep that arm still. I was proud of myself.

“Good.” He announced as he lowered my arms. “Now take off your bra. Don’t use your hands.” After a lot of awkward wiggling and shimming, I pushed my bra to just above my waist. As I desperately tried to hook the clasp on a door handle, he frowned. He told me to stop, tenderly placed me back on the bed, rolled me over and removed this last piece of clothing himself.

“Stay there.” He fetched pens from a nearby shelf and brought them back to the bed. As he straddled me, he took the black pen, slowly pulled the lid off and pondered my body. He delicately and smoothly drew shapes on my skin. Circles around my breasts, ovals over my parts of my waist. I wanted to ask him if he was marking his favourite parts. I didn’t. He continued with circles and lines across me. Always mirroring each side, making sure that his designs were symmetrical. He was drawing with more speed now. Furiously adding more to the patterns he was making. Finally, he took the bright pink pen and began to write in large, block letters, just below my naval. I felt the first clear letter, but didn’t know what it was.

“I’m going to write ‘fuck me’ across you now.” He looked at me and waited. I re-affirmed my consent. I’d seen photos with people covered in patterns and dirty language like “fuck me” and “ruin me.” I’d never really understood the appeal. Until now. Still, I did my own kind of self check. Did I want this? Yes. Yes, I wanted this. I was wet already. The words made me ache. I wanted it. I gave him our safe word for Everything is fine. Please keep going. And he did.

He was near shaking when he’d finished writing. On my thigh, I could feel that he was as hard as he could get. He switched to the red pen and began drawing lines across my arms and thighs. Long, deep strokes, covering me. It felt dangerous. But I knew, in the back of my mind, it was only red pen and everything was as it should be.

“I’m going to fuck you now.”

And he did.