Two pictures and a story

I’m putting the blog into hibernation.

I haven’t had the energy or inclination for a while.

There’s one more image I’m still debating posting for a final Sinful Sunday, but for now I’m signing off with a quick flashback to the three most popular posts I’ve published this year (not that they’ve needed any help so far).

In reverse order, then…

3. Sinful Sunday: Sharing the bed
Written and posed in late August. Not long after this it really hit me, and as anyone who’s read the few things I have written since will know, I’m still reeling. The lovely Ouizzi picked it for that week’s Sinful Sunday round-up, which I’m fairly sure gave it an extra boost.

2. Cerulean
I work best when I have a prompt or inspiration from a third party. There are two stories I’m especially proud of; I had twice the inspiration for the other one, which should be appearing in an Actual Real Book at some point in the very near future. The origins of this one can be traced to a list of Jade A Waters‘s favourite words… and a Tantus dildo, and the window of She Said.

1. Sinful Sunday: The Reveal
A re-enactment in words and pictures of my biggest public outing to date, as a burlesque dancer performing in front of a slightly overcrowded tent – and The Chap. Apparently we’ll be doing it all over again next May. No, I shan’t tell you when and where to get tickets. Unless you’re very very good.

Thank you those of you who’ve read, commented, held my hand virtually, and encouraged me, but for now… Adieu.

Sunset over the beach, Hove



Sinful Sunday: Happy Birthday

Today is my birthday – or, rather, given the shortness of the day, my birthdate.

It was growing dark by the time I was born; had I been a little later I could have been a midwinter night’s baby, instead of a murky twilight child, straddling the second shortest day and the longest night.

Because it’s so close to Christmas, planning anything to mark it is always a bit of a gamble – but this year I get a trip to the Rocky Horror Show tomorrow, and tea and cake in one of my favourite tea shops later today.

And speaking of cake – or brownies, in this case… it’s not a proper birthday without candles.

Woman holding plate of brownies with candles

Who else is playing this weekend? Click on the kiss:

Sinful Sunday

Sinful Sunday: New boots

“…and with that, she turned on her heel and stalked off.”

I’ve never “turned on my heel” in my life. Whenever I turn away from something, it’s been by pivoting on the ball of my foot.

The things that go through my head when I’m prancing about in new boots.

I do like wearing boots. It doesn’t matter how I’m feeling about the rest of me, I can’t help but strut – my Shirley Manson walk – when I’m wearing them. And new boots, that make me two inches taller, and bounce under my heels – they put a hell of a spring in my step.

Enough to turn on my heel and stalk off? Only for a Sinful Sunday photo.

Walking away in boots

Who else is playing this weekend? Click on the kiss:

Sinful Sunday

Sinful Sunday: Festive Sparkle

For all this has been a rough week, on Tuesday I woke up smiling.

It’s December.

For most people that means Christmas, but for me it means birthdays – mine and those of many of my friends. Other people only get glitter and baubles and fairy lights for landmark birthdays; we get them every year.

And it’s finally proper winter. I love the feel of summer on my body, but I love the bite of winter on my face just as much. The cold makes me pale in a good way, while giving me roses in my cheeks. People comment on the light in my eyes, even if there aren’t any Christmas lights reflecting in them.

Not that I’m averse to adding a bit of extra sparkle, of course.

Festive sparkle

And yes, I’m still covered in glitter.

Who else is playing this weekend? Click on the kiss:

Sinful Sunday

Shopping list

I would like to have sex with someone else.

I would like them to lick my spine, from tailbone to nape of neck, to kiss and massage my shoulder blades. I would like them to bite my nipples, to run the lightest of fingers along the join between my breast and body, up the underside of my arm. I would like them to work up from my ankles, to have their body warm against my thighs as they focus on my calves, the back of my knees, fingers scouting ahead as their lips and tongue move along my legs. I would like them to grab my hips as they bury their face in my pussy.

I would like someone else to make my pelvis rock, to make me sigh, to make me yearn for more.


The long goodbye

Last week Facebook announced plans to help users deal with breaking up with someone. The idea is simple – it’s easier to get over them if we’re not exposed to them all the time, so when we split up, Facebook will give us the option to filter their posts out of our timelines. Sweet.

But it relies on us being public about our lives, on FB at least. The filter is only going to be presented to users who change their status from “in a relationship” to “single”. Those of us who don’t share every detail of ourselves will have to go through it the hard way: muting, unfriending, possibly blocking the other person.

Years ago, the then boyfriend and I had a shared dislike of Facebook’s already bothersome tendency to get overinvolved in its users’ lives, and we wanted to protect our privacy a little without relying on the unclear jargon of FB’s privacy policy.

So we decided to delete our relationship status. We were still together – although the people who didn’t know us all that well sent lots of concerned messages asking if we were okay, wanted to go for drinks and occasionally slagging off the assumed ex. When we did break up, we posted special updates saying it was over, it was mutual, and we were fine.

The Chap and I were never public knowledge. We had our reasons. The day he said he’d told his mum about me – “she wanted to know why I was always attached to my phone” – was one of the happiest I can remember. Ironically we only started to be a pair really publically in the month or so before I decided to sabotage things.

Then, not long after we broke up, an article appeared in my other Twitter timeline about ghosting – vanishing completely from your ex’s life. Real ghosting is horrible. There’s a world of difference between having to mute or unfriend each other in order to get through the day without torturing ourselves, and being wholly cut out of existence from every sphere of their lives.

There are situations when it’s necessary – getting out of an abusive relationship is the most obvious. But for most of us, ghosting is harsh and unnecessary, a quick way to escape the messy reality of untwining entwined lives and experiences. Dealing with all that hurts because we care.

That’s been a shock to me. I have never cried this much over someone – over a man – in my entire life. One of the reasons this break-up has been so painful is because the relationship was in full flush. It hadn’t fizzled out as a result of familiarity, and my better handle on my mental health meant that even when I was ill earlier this year, I was present, aware of my needs and wants, still sensual if not sexual.

In past relationships I wanted out, recognised that whatever I might have had with a partner was gone, or damaged as a result of the depression. I just couldn’t do it until the relationship was at absolute crisis point.

I didn’t want out this time. I loved him with all my heart. We were both fragile, wounded, sensitive, and alive and passionate. We just fell foul with our timing.

That lack of deep passion on my part when things have ended in the past has meant I’ve felt able to be friends with several of my old partners. If I loved them still, it was in a very different way – and sometimes I wasn’t capable of caring that deeply for them. Unsurprisingly some of them weren’t keen on remaining friends back. Of those who were, I’ve drifted away from some, but at least one is still my friend in a not-often-in-touch-but-able-to-pick-up-where-we-last-left-the-conversation kind of way.

It hurts like hell that with The Chap I know we can’t go back to being friends. I feel far too much; he feels… something more but not the same thing. I have a whole theory about what happened, why it went the way it did, but this isn’t the place for that.

And that feeling something more, so deeply, it’s made ghosting seem almost attractive.

I have the most amazing brain. It’s sharp, it’s fast, it’s adaptable. It’ll hit me with what feel like intuitive flashes that often turn out to be the result of it joining the dots before the rest of me has realised there are any dots in the first place.

My heart, my gut, they’re much slower. They haven’t had anywhere near the practice at working things out, and it takes a very long time for them to process. They’ll recognise that something feels wrong, but it’ll take them ages to work out what it is, or how to work through that feeling, and then to recover.

Every time I’ve started to feel like I’m recovering, he’s reappeared. He asked last time if there was any point in our staying in touch, and I pointed out gently that it wasn’t me that kept making contact, that I would get in touch only when I felt ready.

He was back again this week. When I asked why he admitted he didn’t know, wondered if maybe he was looking for “absolute closure”. Over a couple of hours of messaging, we actually talked about a lot of the things that had gone wrong, that had affected us, did some useful clearing of the air.

A few hours later he messaged me again, expressing further regret. Despite the air clearing… my focus for the day had been wrecked, I could feel my gut churning, I knew my healing process had been set back again. I knew I’d be crying again, just like when it first hit me, when I got home.

So I asked him to please let me go, to learn to live with happened – which, as I didn’t say, was what I’ve had to do. I wished him well. I asked him to let me be, to let me heal. I said goodbye.