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: 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

Sinful Sunday: Fireworks

I’ve been debating what to post for this week’s Sinful Sunday for a while. There’s a picture I took at the same time as this one, which is far more revealing and daring than anything I’ve posted before, but there are a few reasons I didn’t want to post it this weekend in particular.

Besides, I live in a part of the world where a few towns over they go a bit doolally at this time of year. The nice middle class town of Lewes takes it upon itself to set fire to everything in sight (apart from the Castle, the Really Old Bookshop, and Waitrose), all in the name of tradition.

I’m not so much into the fires myself. Don’t get me wrong, I love a moderately sized one in a grate, with a big chair beside it and a pint or mug of cocoa in my hands, but my favourite part of Bonfire Night is the fireworks.

Sparkler held in front of woman's breast

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

Sinful Sunday

Sinful Sunday: Out of touch

That feeling you get when you’ve been wearing a watch or ring for a long time, and then you’re not. You’re suddenly, constantly, aware of its absence.

My back has felt like that for the past month.

There was one night when he was being much more demonstrative than usual. He’d barely kicked his shoes off before pulling me in to him by my waist, then anchoring me to him with a hand sliding up my spine, the other resting lightly on my waist.

I almost swooned.

He’s a clever Chap (well, mostly), and he realised very quickly that if he wanted to have me melt in his hands, all he had to do was brush them across my kidneys, along my vertebrae, over my shoulder blades.

He wasn’t the most touchy-feely of people; I’m much the same, only really demonstrative when I feel totally secure, or a little bit giddy on cocktails. But now I ache for contact – and my back feels it most.

It feels like there’s a vacuum around it. No amount of sinking into a Pilates mat, pulling a duvet tight around it, attempting to give it a pebble massage on the less breezy days on the beach, eases its need for the human touch.

Indy's back

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

Sinful Sunday