It's Not Just About The Sex, But It Is Mostly About The Sex

That was what I had thought of writing in the description box under the title of this blog. I might still do when I can be arsed. However it strikes me that I haven’t described so much as a throbbing erection or ecstatic sigh these last three weeks or more. I’m slipping.

If you think this is symptomatic of our sex life taking a somwhat downward turn, well, you’d be absolutely…right. Entirely my own stupid fault of course. I gave house room to that annoying little voice called self-doubt and the little bugger took up residence for a couple of weeks. I don’t know if it’s a seasonal thing. The last time he dropped by was about this time last year. I know the symptoms, I know exactly what to do about it, I even started to write post on the subject which is even now sojourning on my USB key and may not ever see the light of day.

No worries, btw, I am back on top form again leaving my beloved Heather a bit bemused as to what the hell happened. She’s blameless. It’s all me.

Symptoms: Well, no sex. In this case a total collapse from mind-blowing, fun, naughty, original sex to absolutely nothing in the course of a day. Not a loss of sex-drive as such, no diminishing in desire for ones’ partner. That’s what makes it all the harder to bear. Every night for ten days or so I lay flat on my back on the bed beside her, aching just to hold her and yet somehow not being able to. Actively avoiding sexual contact: Averting my eyes as we passed each other on the way to and from the bathroom; her naked, me with my dressing gown pulled tightly around me.

Triggers: It could be a word, a glance, a missed opportunity for sex. I think in this case it was the latter. It was a midweek evening, we had nothing planned and nothing we absolutely had to do. We had the house to ourselves. I should, for reasons I will elaborate on in a later post, have dragged Heather into the bedroom and made long and lingering love with her there and then, but at the critical moment she went off on some trivial little errand which gave that little voice just enough time to worm it’s way into my head.

”You know you want it, but how do you really know she wants it? Put her to the test. Wait and see if she suggests it when she gets back, then you’ll know.”

She didn’t, and that’s where it all started. The nagging self-doubt which convinces you that sex is something you do to her and she just lies back and counts ceiling tiles until you come and it’s all over and once that thought has lodged itself inside your brain you’re in a downward spiral where every misplaced word, every unconscious action on the part of your partner serves to confirm your belief. I would lie there on or on the bed, putting her to the test, waiting for her to make the first move, with that little voice crowing all the time:

”See, she doesn’t want it. She doesn’t desire you as much as you desire her. Sex is something she lets you do to her, it does nothing for her”

The first couple of nights she didn’t really notice anything amiss. We were very late to bed in any case. But for me, that too was a sign. To me in that state we weren’t late to bed because we had so much that needed doing, it was because Heather was deliberately finding things to do, to keep from going to bed until it was too late for me to reasonably demand sex. The corollary of that being that, to her, just about anything was preferable to me doing sex to her.


She tried, of course. When, after the first few nights, she realised that something was wrong she started fondling me more, kissing me more, straddling me on all fours and dangling her tits in my face. None of it was enough. I had managed to convince myself that our sex life was a sham to such an extent that I doubt if I could have been persuaded otherwise even if she had lashed me to a table, sucked my cock to full hardness and squatted down on it. She interpreted my inactivity as a sign that I wasn’t interested in her when all the time I was aching with desire for her but desperate to know if she felt the same way about me: We've been together thirty years this very week, for God's sake. I really ought to know by now. I wanted to hold her close, but even more I wanted her to hold me. It was a vicious circle. More of a vicious spiral really.

It lifted as suddenly as it had come. One night, just like any of the previous ten or so, the voice of reason managed to shout down that other one in my head. Nothing else had changed. I was lying on my back, naked and fully erect on top of the bed. Heather came in form the bathroom, lay down beside me and took hold of my cock, just like the many previous nights. Just like most nights in fact. Only this time I didn’t just stay lying on my back, impassive, until she lost interest, rolled over and went to sleep. I turned towards her and for the first time in days I kised her, long and hard and deep. I lay on my stomach as she lay on her back and I cupped her head in my hands, running my fingers through her hair and pressing her lips onto mine, probimndeep into her mouth with my tongue and letting her tongue probe me.

I shifted position and ran the tip of my tongue from the point of her jaw to just behind her earlobe as she shivered and moaned before latching onto the top of her neck, just below the ear, with my lips with just enough suction to stay there but not enough to leave a mark, teasing her soft skin with the tip of my tongue and holding her ever closer.

My lips sought out hers again. This time, one hand slid up through the her hair behind her ear while the other slid slowly down from her forehead and spread out across her face, palm pressing down over her eyes. She murmered her appreciation and I twisted and turned my mouth on top of hers to ensure that our lips met perfectly all the way around and pinched her nose shut.

I could feel the vibrations as she vocalised her pleasure despite being unable to speak. She arched her back and started to squirm. I could feel the little ebbs and flows of her breath in my mouth until she eventually broke free, gasping. I hardly gave her time to draw breath before I was on her again. And again and again. All the while she was becoming wetter and I sought out that wetness with my free hand.



She came suddenly and unexpectedly, grinding her pubis up into my hand. Legs squeezed tightly together, back arched. I had to force those legs apart in order to penetrate her. I overpowered her, pushed her legs up onto my shoulders, pinned her wrists down and fucked her.



And she loved it.



She gasped and she writhed and she wrapped her legs around me as I sank myself deep into her until at last, bodies still entwined, we rolled over to the side as spasm after spasm of orgasm made me helpless and she covered my face with kisses.



And so there we lay, in the dim blue glow of the clock radio, wondering what the last ten days had been all about.and I found myself wondering if I would trade ten ordinary fucks for what I had just experienced.



No, of course not. As far as Heather is concerned there's no such thing as an ordinary fuck.

Upside Down

Sometimes, without warning, in the middle of a perfectly unremarkable and routine day, something occurs which could end up turning your life upside down.

And not always in a bad way, I hasten to add.

This morning we had a visit from a salesman from one of the companies we do a lot of business with. He asked us if we were interested in taking on another business, because he knew of one for sale. It is in a little town not too far from here, and yet not too close. It is only open for business on weekdays from 1 to 5 pm and yet has a very respectable turnover. There are no competitors in the vicinity. The current owner has a bought new, larger business elsewhere which will demand all his time, but for us to continue it on the current basis would suit us just fine as I could divide my time between that and our two existing businesses.

Well, I broke open my piggy bank and Heather tipped out the contents of her handbag but we couldn’t quite raise the £250,000 (or equivalent in local groats) that we would need to buy the property and the business outright. Fortunately we know a man who can and we’ll be talking to him soon. The current owner would like this all to happen before Christmas, so I can see we’ve got a busy few months ahead of us.

In Other News…

It’s official: This is now the most heavily taxed country in the world. The tax burden on the individual citizen is higher here than in any other country. However, large foreign concerns operating here, such as Shell and MacDonalds, who probably have greater turnovers than our entire gross national product, manage to pay no tax at all. The bunch of amateurs who run this country must be really proud.

It has also been announced that we are, alongside Finland and New Zealand, the least corrupt country in the world. Presumably because our politicians are so busy dreaming up new ways to tax the populace and draughting petty new laws (we are also one of the most over-legislated countries in the world) that they simply haven’t got time to hold directorships in companies seeking government contracts and suchlike. I suppose it’s some comfort to know that the reason why the MacDonalds corporation as a whole is paying less tax than their lowest paid trainee burger-flipper is entirely due to incompetence and not because some government official is regularly being slipped a large wad of banknotes.

Ian Bendtsen, a local 38-year old computer consultant and father of four has just published a 192-page book entitled ‘Cunnilingus-better oral sex’. The whole project came about after he and his wife, together with three other couples, had decided to hold a licking-out contest one evening and he emerged (sic) the winner. One of the others told him he really should write a book on the subject. It will soon be available in an English translation. Why do things like that never happen to me?

The world famous mime Marcel Marceau has died at the age of 83. Unconfirmed reports say that friends had become so used to his having a white face and not saying anything that it was several days before they realised anything was wrong.

Christmas In England!

It’s the same every year. No sooner is summer over and done with than the charity Christmas catalogues start dropping through the letterbox. Before long, adverts for Woolies or Tescos on the telly will feature baubles and wreaths of green stuff and bloody sleigh bells. It’s far too early to start thinking about Christmas.

And yet….

Last Sunday, as we sat at dinner and in between the gales of immoderate laughter from Son and Self, Daughter asked, in a still, small voice, whether we could go to England for Christmas this year. After all, our last English Christmas was the year before we moved over here.


“Well, darling, you must understand: Christmas is the busiest time in the business. We’re rushed off our feet right up until the evening of the 23rd (over here Christmas I celebrated on the 24th, so we are closed on Christmas eve). We can’t let any of the staff have time off up to Christmas, so we can't really take it either and it’s just as bad when we reopen after the holiday. Everybody wants a bit of time off with their families and we’re actually very busy between Christmas and New Year”.

She looked downcast, but said she understood. It really isn’t very practical. Much better to save it up and have a nice long holiday in the summer, when the weather’s better. That's what we say every year.

She soon cheered up and we drove her back to school. But it set us thinking. We haven’t had a Christmas in England since she was four years old: For various reasons this could be the last Christmas we have together as a family for the foreseeable future: It’s pretty cramped in our house now since the rebuilding and we don’t really have the room for tree and decorations and all that stuff.

The 23rd this year falls on a Sunday. People will have had fourteen days of unbroken shopping opportunities. Maybe even the most hardened of Christmas shopper will have had enough. Staff can be bribed. We started to look at the possibilities a bit more seriously. We could get a flight on that Sunday afternoon from our local airport, not 30 minutes drive from here, to Gatwick. Not only that, it is by a cut-price carrier and there were still seats available at 30 quid a head (plus airport taxes, plus baggage charge, plus handling charge etc. etc. You know the drill). We thought we’d better just check with Son whether he wanted his gf to come with us.

Son was something of a problem: He’d love to come with us, of course, but he’d promised to hold a pagan Blót with some of his mates from college.

“What’s a blót?’

“Well, traditionally you sacrifice a goat or something and send up incantations to Freya, then roast the animal and eat it, washed down with mead, or possibly beer. Problem is that Per’s dad won’t let him worship pagan gods until he’s 18 and I don’t suppose he'd be too keen on us sacrificing goats in his back garden either, so we’re just going to cook some meat over an open fire and drink beer”.

“Right. You mean a barbecue then?”

“That’s about it”

"In the middle of December?"

"Uh-huh"

“Do you think you could defer your barbecue until after New Year without seeing it as an affront to your freedom of religious expression?”

“I’ll have to ask the others”.

And so yesterday, in a rare moment of magnanimity, he gave us the all-clear to book four seats to Gatport Airwick on the day before Christmas eve. Daughter stood next to me as I made the booking online.

We don't know where we're going to stay, or if anyone will have us but:

WE’RE COMING TO ENGLAND!!!!!!!!!!!

And you’d better lock up your daughters because Son’s coming too!

Cunt

There, that got your attention, didn’t it?

I’ve been meaning to post something along these lines for a while but this recent post from Belle De Jour prompted me to actually do it.

If you read back through the 18 months-worth of posts here you will see that I am not at all shy about using the C-word. It is so pithy and earthy and anglo-saxon. Nothing else comes close. I love the sound of it rolling off my tongue as I talk dirty to my beloved, and she loves it too.

But that’s the only context in which I use the word ‘cunt’. I could not dream of calling someone a ‘stupid cunt’ or accuse someone of ‘behaving like a complete cunt’. Not because I am a polite, well-brought-up boy (which I am) but because I have too much respect for that most delightful part of the female anatomy. Why should that part of a woman that is capable of giving so much pleasure be debased to the level of an insult? By the same token I never refer to anyone as a ‘cocksucker’. Not merely because, as a Brit I have an abhorrence of such Hollywoodisms, but because any woman who would consent to suck my cock would be deserving of my deepest gratitude and respect.

Germaine Greer in ‘The Female Eunuch’ contends that “Part of the modesty about the female genitalia stems from actual distaste. The worst name anyone can be called is cunt”. To turn that argument around; to use the word ‘cunt’ in a derogatory context is to display distaste for the female genitalia and, by inference, an ignorance of their delights. Next time someone calls you a ‘cunt’ you can comfort yourself by concluding that the person delivering the insult probably isn’t getting all that much himself.

However, ill-equipped though I am to lock intellectual horns with the redoubtable Ms. Greer, I think it is misleading to see the use of the word ‘cunt’ as invariably a deliberate act of oppression against women in general, offensive and oppresive as it may appear. Personally, I think it has much more to do with sound of the word itself: It starts in the back of the throat and is projected out of the mouth with an explosive exhalation, finished off with a contemptuous spit. It is a deeply satisfying word to enunciate. I don’t know how it is in other languages, but certainly in my adoptive language there is no equivalent of calling someone a cunt. The analogous word is ‘kusse’ which is altogether softer, gentler, and is never used as an inult. You could probably use it earlier on in an intimate relationship than you could the word ‘cunt’ without getting your face slapped. (I would hasten to add that I have not tried this out in practice.)

Belle goes on to suggest that the word ‘cunt’ is losing it’s power to shock and proposes the word ‘cooze’ instead. This bears an uncanny resemblance to the above mentioned ‘kusse’ and simply doesn’t pack the same nuclear punch . Sorry Belle, it just doesn’t do it for me. So what does do it for me? What do I call someone who has really pissed me off? Well, ‘wanker’ works. ‘Shit-for-brains’ is a particular favourite and, disingenuous it might be, bearing in mind the arguments against using ‘cunt’ presented above, I also favour ‘arsehole’ or the even more satisfying local equivalent ‘røvhul!!!’. I am however open to any suggestions: What’s your fave expletive?

Meanwhile I’m going to carry on unrepentantly using the word ‘cunt’, in its’ proper context, both in this blog and as a means of getting my beloved good and wet as a prelude to a bloody good fuck.

Crisis? What Mid-Life Crisis?

*****Gone now!******

This is the new look me. What d'ya think? (Be brutal).


Anybody would think that, having just clocked up my half century, I was trying to show that I could still pull if I wanted to.


Everybody loves the ear stud. Son said it boosted my coolness rating in his eyes.


Everybody except Heather, that is. She's really not sure.


Help me out here, people. Is it cool or just sad? Do I pull it out now and let the hole grow over, or do I keep it and get a Beckham-sized rock put in there when the sleeper comes out? Actually I had a very good, if somewhat unusual, reason for having it done. All will be revealed later.


The curls are natural- I've just been spending years trying to suppress them. There's a post in that somewhere.


The watch I got as an anniversary present. I love it.


All I need is the flame tattoo covering my upper arm to match the sides on my specs.

Or maybe not.

Bugger!

Some weeks ago I was invited to attend a seminar in Oslo by one of the companies we deal with. All expenses paid, overnight stay in a hotel, free food and booze up to the minute information on the latest developments in this particular field, from an international line-up of speakers.

Problem is, it’s tomorrow. I’m already booked on another training course, nearer home, for which I have paid cash money and which, to be quite honest, is more relevant and useful to me right now. But the other was a freebie, with flight and hotel and everything paid for!!! BUGGER!!!

Still, I didn't really want to go there anyway. Had it been in Surfers Paradise or Sun City or Hong Kong or Las Vegas I would have been in there like a shot. Copenhagen or Stockholm, Paris, Milan, Barcelona or London would have tempted me to cancel my prior engagement. But Oslo is the dreariest city I know. A dour, grey, miserable place populated by dour, grey, miserable people. I probably wouldn’t have enjoyed it anyway.

Sour grape, anyone?

A tram outside Oslo's central railway station-believe me, this is about as interesting as it gets. (Photo: © Fat Controller, 2002)

Helpless With Laughter

Sunday evening, and, for once, both kids were home. We decided we should have the full roast dinner. Chicken, as we happened to have one in the freezer.

The plate was just going round with seconds and Son asks:

“Anybody want stuffing?”

Well I just cracked up. Whether it was the tone of his voice, I don’t know but I just lost it. I was just helpless with laughter, which started Him and Heather off as well. The three of us were incapable of coherent speech and daughter going “Whaaat? Whats so funny? Does that mean what I think it means?” just made things worse. She ended up having a minor strop because none of us were able to give her a sensible explanation without starting to laugh again.

You’ve got to feel sorry for her. Although she’s completely bilingual she hasn’t lived in England since she was four and sometimes gets frustrated when she misses out on the subtleties and double entendres of everyday English. Maybe a gap year in the old country would put her right.

Tell Me About Me Meme

I pinched this shamelessly from Lady in Red. I thought we could have a bit of fun with it. Fill in the blanks and then drop the results in my comments, or mail them to me if you don't want everyone else to see!...Go on, be brutal!



1. I ____Fat Controller.



2. Fat Controller is ____



3. If I were alone in a room with Fat Controller, I would ____



4. I think Fat Controller should ____



5. Fat Controller needs ____



6. I want to ____ Fat Controller.



7. Someday Fat Controller will ____



8. Fat Controller reminds me of ____



9. Without Fat Controller ____



10. My memories of Fat Controller are ____



11. Fat Controller can be ____



12. The worst thing about Fat Controller is ____



13. The best thing about Fat Controller is ____



14. I am ____with Fat Controller.



15. One thing I would like to know about Fat Controller is ____



16. Fat Controller should go and ____



17. Fat Controller ____me.

Now copy it and try it on yourself.

Roses Are Red...

It's our wedding anniversary tomorrow.

I would never be so cliché'd as to forget our anniversary like I, as a husband, am apparently expected to.

A nice cosy little meal out somewhere would appear to be in order, but daughter is home for the first time in weeks so we're deferring that so as to make a fuss of her instead.

I have, however, ordered a bunch of 23 red roses to be delivered to Heather while she's at work tomorrow, slushy sentimental fool that I am.



That should earn me a fuck.

My First Baby-Unfit!!

I pinched this meme from Vi. It seemed like fun and also appropriate as I was going to post about Son anyway.



MY FIRST BABY! It's a questionnaire, all about your first born child.


1. Were you married at the time? We both were. To each other. Very much so.


2. What were your reactions? Thrilled to bits. It was very much planned


3. How old were you? 31. She 30-Flatteringly referred to as a senile prima gravidæ in hospital


4. How did you find out you were pregnant? I found out she was pregnant when she told me. I think she found out in the normal way when Auntie Flo stopped coming to visit.


5. Who did you tell first? We were at a party when she told me, so we told about twenty college mates simultaneously straight after.


6. Did you want to find out the sex? No. That's like opening your present before christmas


7. Due date? 15th October


8.Did you deliver early or late? A week early. You know that old wive's tale about a good shag bringing on labour? It ain't an old wive's tale. I had well and truly dented the baby's head the night before.


9. Did you have morning sickness? Me, no. Her, not too bad.


10. What did you crave? I craved sex with this beautiful pregnant woman. She used to eat cheese last thing at night and wondered why she woke up with nightmares. On the negative side, she hasn't been able to drink coffee ever since.


11. Who irritated you the most? My mother, bless her. She decided to do her bit by helping to finish painting the cot (which was second hand) and ended up by kicking the pot of blue paint across the carpet.


12. What was your first child's sex? At a party in this house for a load of his classmates. Oh , I see what this means. Male.


13. How many pounds did you gain throughout the pregnancy? Not sure


14. Did you have any complications during your pregnancy? None at all. except that her employers weren't too thrilled at her taking maternity leave as they'd just promoted her.


15.Where did you give birth? The Royal Hampshire County Hospital, Winchester.


16. How many hours were you in labor? Most of saturday morning.


17.Who drove you to the hospital? I drove her to hospital.


18.Who watched? Me, Midwife, other midwife at short mid-on because there was a risk of it shooting out rather quickly.


19.Was it natural or c-section? Natural.


20.Did you take medicine to ease the pain? No. Not even Entanox. She took one whiff from the gas bottle and said "I'm not having that, it makes me sick" and that was that.


21.How much did your child weigh? 3160 grams (That's 6lb, 15oz in real money)


22.Did your child have any complications? No.


23.What did you name him/her? First name had to be something that wouldn't seem out of place in England or the country in which we now live. 'Peter' or 'Tom' would have worked equally well, as would my name, which he has as his middle name.


24. How old is your first born today? 19 in a couple of weeks


25. Where does he/she live? In a flat we own just across our back yard.


26.Does he/she have children? I sincerely hope not, but you never know. We could have grandchildren scattered across the country. However on one memorable occasion he came into the house to ask his mother to lend him some money because his girlfriend was coming over and he needed to buy some condoms. I can't imagine many kids asking their parents that. I take this as a good sign.




So, our Son got his call-up papers a few weeks ago. We still have National Service over here although it only lasts four months. We had to drive him to the recruiting centre yesterday morning 8:20 sharp for aptitude/physical/medical tests.

Turns out he was classified as unfit for military service. Some years ago he had quite a bad bout of depression. While away at school he had been quite badly beaten up by a gang while out in the local town with threats not to report it and all sorts. He didn't tell anybody for a long time but suffered from insomnia and just withdrew inside himself. We still haven't got the full story even now. He was on medication for about 18 months.

He's fine again now, but with that history the military weren't about to give him the keys to the armoury. Recruiting officers must have the same graveyard humour as surgeons and pilots. He was told that the only way he would be called into uniform was if this country declared war on Sweden. Seeing as they lost the last time they tried that, they've not been in any hurry for a return match these last 200-odd years.

Pity really. He was on a work-experience week when he was 15 with this outfit. He had the time of his life, charging around in APCs, firing live automatic rounds, sleeping out under camouflage netting only to be woken at stupid o'clock by an ambush with loads of thunderflashes. They even had a sort of passing out parade at the end of the week and a group photo. He looked so proud in his battledress and beret.

Still, now he can concentrate on his studies. He knows what university he wants to apply for next year and has already been allocated a flat in the city should he be successful.

They just grow up so fast!

Bad Habits

I'm bored.

Bored and frustrated and restless.

Guess what I do when I'm like this.

I snack.

This afternoon I ate TWO peanut butter sandwiches simply because I didn't have anything better to do.

I know, I shouldn't even have peanut butter in the house.

I'm going straight to hell.

Avast Behind

Well, We’re back in one piece from our weekend away in the hilariously-named town of Middelfart. Good food, good company, good party on Saturday night, good bed.

Too good, in fact. We both collapsed into it at about 2am and fell asleep straight away. I know; we’re getting too old for this shit.

It was a bash organised by our purchasing group. A chance to see and order new products for the next six months , when we do it all again. The most outrageous product on show? Well not quite as outrageous as this, but: LEATHER SUNGLASSES!!!. Plastic frame underneath, I suspect, but with black leather glued on outside. Just the thing for the dominatrix who has everything. We didn’t buy any, we don’t know any dominatrix’s. Well, that’s not exactly true. There is one in town, the mother of one of Son’s pals. We used to see her at parents meetings at school. A small, plain, rather grey woman. Whenever I see her I look at her and try to imagine her dressed up for the rôle she fulfilles in a club in a local city a couple of times a week. Try as I might, I just can’t visualise it. My suggestion to Heather that we might invite her round to tea one day as she would clearly be an interesting person to know was met with a flat refusal.

I digress.

Saturday night, instead of the customary posh nosh-up in some fancy hotel, we were herded on board five small boats and ferried, in true Dunkirk fashion, to the grounds of this place where we feasted on large chunks of whole roast pig and token salad, which would have been just fine if Hurricane Floyd’s younger brother hadn’t been blowing up Kolding Fjord, sending sheets of spray lashing over the deck of our little ship (actually a 2-masted schooner built in 1934 ).






Still, there was plenty of free booze and a musician on board to keep us amused. I tried to get him to do ’Twas On The Good Ship Venus’ but the subtleties of the English language contained therein was too much for most people. I made do with adding the obscene verse to a rendition of The Beatle’s ’Yesterday’:

Syphilis/How the fucking hell did I get this/It’s like razor blades each time I piss/Oh I believe in syphilis

Possibly pathalogically incorrect, but great fun to sing at the top of your voice.

As the old guy used to say on ’The Fast Show’: ”I'm afraid we were very, very drunk”

We were pitched back onshore again around eleven and the party continued well into the night in the hotel with even more food and free bar. Actually ’bar’ is stretching things a bit. More accurately it was a table with crates of beer and bottles of all sorts of spirits were you could just help yourself.

I’m glad to say I stuck to the beer this time although I was tempted to try the Southern Comfort-A fancy licker like me deserves a drop of fancy liquor now and again- but in the end I didn’t get to do any fancy licking or very much of anything else when we finally got back to our room. Hence there is no picture this time of a JBFI hotel bed. We just fell into it and fell fast asleep.

Still The Silly Season

The summer holidays might be over, but it's obviously still a slow news time at the moment. I was driving home past the local newsagent the other night and I glanced, as I usually do, at the headlines for a national tabloid newspaper, displayed in letters six inches high out on a stand on the pavement:

“Vicar shoots neighbour’s poodle”

Now isn’t that almost the perfect tabloid story: It features the clergy, a pet animal and mindless violence. It has almost everything.

The only thing missing is sex. To be the perfect tabloid story it would have to be something like:

“Vicar shoots gay ex-lover’s poodle”.

But that may be a little too close to a story that kept the tabloids busy for a good long time in the late 70’s. Who remembers the Norman Scott affair?


Heigh ho. Another weekend, another hotel bed. We’re off again tomorrow to another trade fair. Smaller this time and with only one overnight stay but hotel sex is always special. It’s almost as if we're scoring more ‘away’ goals than we are home at the moment. There’s also some sort of party organised for Saturday night so that should be fun.

Have a good weekend, all!

The Icing On The Cake

One of the many things which Heather has to put up with is that I am absolutely anal about missing trains, flights and ferries. The trip home from Copenhagen on the Sunday, which involved a 50 minute ferry crossing, was no exception. Never mind that it was a high speed ferry and there was only 15 minutes check in time, I still fretted about punctures, roadworks or other calamities that would prevent us from getting to it on time. However, as we drove towards the terminal it became clear that we were going to have an hour or more’s wait in the holding area before the boat even arrived, let alone started loading.

The road to the terminal runs along a very pretty penninsula with spectacular views out to sea, alternately to the right and left, and little wooded hills and valleys. It was a lovely day, we had plenty of time and a picnic area was just coming up so I suggested to Heather that we could pull over, stretch our legs and admire the view. That was really all that was on my mind, although I had a job to convince Heather of this later.

It was only when I discovered that the picnic site stretched up a wooded hillside and that from the topmost table one could see anyone in the vicinity without being seen, that a naughty idea formed in my head. Heather needed a little persuading to drop her drawers, but only a little. I managed to convince her that when we were old and grey (ok, greyer), if we should ever pass that way again we could point it out to each other and say ”do you remember that time when…?” or if in the company of our children or our children’s children we could just smile at each other knowingly.

The clincher, though, was when the other car which had been parked there drove off. I went back down to our car to get some tissues from the glovebox for cleaning up afterwards. I’ve got no problem wiping my dick on a dock, but Heather is a bit more particular.

She dropped her jeans and knickers in a no-nonsense sort of way and leaned forward with her palms flat on the picnic table. I dropped my jeans and underpants and manoevered in behind her, taking care not to reverse onto an enormous nettle which was swaying ominously close to my bare behind.

The table.

I was expecting to have to work to get Heather interested, but I needn’t have worried. Despite her declared objections and reservations she was good and wet and slippery. She wasn’t just indulging my lusts, she was just as turned on by the idea of fucking out in the open as I was, although she’d never admit it.

To be honest, it wasn’t the most wonderful, earth-shattering fuck in the whole history of fucking but the scenery was nice and it felt good and it was fun and we both had a laugh about it afterwards. We hadn’t fucked in a public place since about a month before Heather fell pregnant with Son, back in 1988. I would have liked him to have been conceived on top of that Welsh mountain, but it just didn’t happen that way.

The view.

And later, safely on board the ferry, we sat on the saloon deck and amused ourselves by looking around at our fellow passengers in the knowledge that we'd had a shag within the last hour and they probably hadn't.

We Interrupt this Blog...

I was planning last night what I was going to post about when I had a bit of spare time today, when I received a comment from Vi, nominating me for a 'Thoughtful Blogger' Award. I must admit to being truly touched. Thanks to you, Vi. I'd nominate you for the same if you hadn't already got it.

All the blogs you see in the sidebar here are deserving of some sort of recognition and I feel somewhat mean in leaving some out. For a start, they all deserve the 'Creative Blogger' award because one of the things that keeps me reading a blog is the quality of the writing.

So, hopefully without offending anybody, here are my nominations:




Alfie Loves Emma. The posts are short and sweet. A mixture of everyday events, mythology, great photographs and reminiscences of a forty five year honeymoon

Always Aroused Girl. It's always worth spending some time reading through her prodigious output. She has wisdom, humour and sensitivity, but above all She has a healthy appetite for sex and clearly enjoys writing about it.

Having My Cake. I've only been reading this a short time. When I first discovered it I devoured the whole cake at one sitting!

Lady In Red. Musings, occasional fiction and a busy social life to say the least! It's hard to keep up with this witty, thoughtful and very sexy lady.






Fussy Bitch I was moved by her willingness to be a friend to another blogger recently. Also she writes kickin' prose (sorry!) .

Dammit, I AM going to nominate Vi again. I just love the way she likes to meet face to face with so many other other bloggers.


So there it is. The creator of the Writer's Reviews Blogger Awards is Christy Z. If you receive one of her awards, you are to go to the link I just put in, and nominate another 5 bloggers one of her awards. She has 5 to choose from. It's up to you who you want to receive which awards.


Now I suppose I'm going to have to start bribing people with bottles of vodka so that I can collect the full set.

Saturday Is...

How many people shouted out ”Tiswas day!”? If so, you’re showing your age there.

No, Saturday (and here I’m talking about Saturday before last, when we were still in Copenhagen) was designated ‘bondage day’.

Having seen all that was worth seeing at the trade fair, Heather decided she was going to do a bit of shopping – well that was a no-brainer. Mind you, when I saw what she bought I didn’t mind one bit; a figure hugging little dress with a thong to go under it. Very sexy; it’s making me hard just thinking of it now. I could have taken her there and then when she tried it on for me in the hotel room when we got back, it wouldn’t have taken very much pushing up, but she didn’t want it creased, new as it was. She took it off, hung it up neatly and we laid down and had a delicious quickie before showering together and going down to dinner.

As it was our last night in the hotel, we splurged a bit in the restaurant and when we eventually got back to the room we were full up and ever so slightly drunk. Heather quickly stripped off again and lay face down on the bed as I produced the handcuffs and leg-spreaders. I stretched her legs out wide - she loves being stretched – and cuffed her wrists together high up behind her back. I gave her a few playful swishes across the legs and bottom with the tail end of the pony-tail butt plug before easing it into her, arranging the tail so that it fanned out on the bed between her legs. The rubber bit, strapped around her head, completed the pony motif and she was dripping with anticipation as I mounted up to give her a good hard ride.

It would have been very easy just to have driven myself, and her, over the edge there and then, to have given way to that overwhelming desire. But the night demanded something more. It demanded delaying the pleasure so as to magnify it. I pulled up abruptly and eased out of her, giving her a slap on the bum as a foretaste of what was to come, and then reached into the holdall for the riding crop and the leather flogger…

Helpless and with legs spread, her most intimate parts presented an easy target for my riding crop. I teased it over the inside of her legs, gave her a little tap on the bottom and then shifted position slightly, hesitated just a second or to so that she could not guess where the next blow would land, then stung her full-on on her swollen labia. She stifled the cry in the pillow as I struck again in the same spot, then immediately after on her bottom. I rained down little stings on the backs of her legs and buttocks, sometimes hitting the same spot twice or three times in succession, sometimes pausing, never letting her guess where or when the next blow would fall. I dropped the riding crop and gave her a couple, no three, resounding slaps on the bottom with my bare hand, then grabbed the flogger and laid its full length up her back, whipping her again and again with increasing ferocity.

As always, it was me who called a halt at last, for fear of really hurting her. We have a safe word of course, but she's never used it. I unlocked the handcuffs and had her roll over. No mean feat with her legs still stretched wide apart. As she sat, resting against the head of the bed she offered her wrists to be cuffed once more, in front of her this time. I leaned over her and suckled at her breasts until her nipples were plump and hard, then gently put the nipple clamps on, joining them with a loop of red ribbon. With one hand on the ribbon, pulling her breasts upwards, I delved down between her parted legs with the other and started massaging her slippery little clit. She clasped her hands around my cock and the cuffs jingled as she wanked me harder and harder in her excitement. At last she came hard, despite herself, despite not being able to close her legs fully and I barely gave her time to catch her breath before I was pushing her shackled legs upwards, hanging onto the bar that was holding them apart as I pushed myself into her gaping, wet hole. She contracted on me augmenting the pressure from the butt-plug still up inside her and reached out with her cuffed hands,cruelly grabbing and twisting my nipples until I came, not explosively but with a long drawn out sigh.

For a while it was as if I was unable to move, but eventually I reluctantly lifted myself from her. She half rolled over onto her side, her shackled legs splayed out at odd angles like a grotesque broken doll. We were both exhausted. We had been at it for the best part of two hours.

I unlocked the handcuffs, gently so as not to bruise her wrists. I suppose that’s odd considering that not long before I had been trying to find as many different ways to inflict discomfort as I could. But there is a time for everything, and this was a time for gentleness, for kissing, soothing, holding and comforting.

As I took off the leg spreaders I asked how she had liked them. Her only comment: she thought they didn’t spread her out far enough.

As I said: She loves being stretched.

Ice Scream

After our second day at the trade fair we decided to see what delights the downtown Copenhagen could offer on a Friday night. We wandered up the famous pedestrian street ’Strøget’ (have a look at the slide show), window shopping in shops such as Louis Vuitton, Prada and Chanel, until we found a bustling square ringed by cosy little restaurants and had no difficulty getting a table inside-most of the punters were seated outside, smoking.

Afterwards we went here, which was interesting to say the least. The had a copy of the oldest known pornographic photograph. French, of course, and from 1855 would you believe. That’s only about 30 years after the creation of the first ever permanent photographic image. As with VHS and now the WWW and Bluetooth, the sex industry is never slow to embrace new technology. For me the high spot was the video wall showing 16 different porn dvds simultaneously. I must get one of those installed in the bedroom.

Needless to say, by the time we had been around the exhibits we were keen to get back to the hotel as soon as possible. Stopping only to collect a couple of tumblers of ice from the machine in the corridor, we stumbled into the room and again wasted no time in stripping off. Heather spread herself out face down on the bed, demanding a back massage. Well, I had promised and we had been standing pretty much all day. She squealed in shock as I ran the first ice cube down her back; she hadn’t been expecting that. She writhed as I lodged the second between her bum cheeks until it melted. Then she rolled over and propped herself up to let me melt one between her breasts and then lick up the water as it trickled down her body. I had yet another in my hand as I massaged her labia and finally pushed it up into her cunt so that the cool meltwater trickled out of her. She returned the compliment by kissing me all over-and I do mean ALL over- with an ice cube in her mouth. I very nearly screamed when she teased the backs of my knees with her tongue and then finished off by rolling me over and taking my cock in her mouth and rolling the ice cube around it.

I had her roll over onto her front again, retrieved the njoy and held it in the cup of iced water while I massaged her bum cheeks. From where she was lying she couldn’t see what I had in mind so it was a total shock when the shiny stainless steel, iced and lubed, plopped into her arsehole which had been made tighter by the cold. I could feel the thrill running through her as she gripped the end of the mattress. I had her get up onto all fours and slid myself into her slippery cunt, feeling the coldness of the njoy pressing against my belly. Having taken my pleasure inside her for a while I pulled out again and reached for The Rabbit. Yes, Njoy, and Rabbit together taking care of clit, cunt and arse in a glorious triple whammy. By this time Heather was shouting, almost crying, into her pillow, but I always like to push things to the limit. I gently extracted the Njoy again, easing my own cock into the tiny space and pushing hard to stop it being squeezed out by the Rabbit next door which was now running at maximum revs and was exciting me just as much as it was her with the vibrations sending waves of pleasure through me as well.

Heather reached a hand between her legs to stop the Rabbit being shot out backwards across the room, and to guide the ears to just the right spot. I squatted up behind her in true porn star style, grabbed her shoulders and banged mercilessly into her arse, my animal grunts and her muffled screams combining and rising in a grotesque symphony.

At last, breathless and at least temporarily sated, we collapsed sideways onto the bed. The Rabbit plopped out and lay there on the counterpane, buzzing uselessly for a good few minutes until one or other of us summoned the energy to reach out and switch it off. Reluctantly we peeled ourselves off each other and staggered, in each other’s arms, into the bathroom to clean up. Both ourselves and our playthings.

Who says the Rabbit is only good for solo play?

Please Shoot Me Now

(Gone now....)



…preferably with a sixgun


Last night I did three things I swore I’d never do:


Heather is on the organising committee of the town harvest festival, which had a ‘western’ theme this year. There was a genuine American country singer, and two pretty mediocre locally grown ones.

There was a mountain of spare ribs and fried chicken.

There was line dancing.

Stetson hats were available at the bars.

In order to boost ticket sales Heather decided it would be a jolly good wheeze to invite all the staff with their respective partners and make it a company outing.

I HATE country and western music with a passion. Almost as much as I hate Rap, in fact.

There is of course only one way to survive under such circumstances. I drank heavily.

And that, m’lud, is the case for the defence. That is why, by the end of the evening, I:


1) Was wearing a Stetson

2) Was drinking Smirnoff Ice

3) Had taken part in a line dance ffs.

I’m so fucking cheap. I have no principles left (take note, girls).




P.S. As Heather is on the committee she had to stay behind to clear up the hall afterwards. We didn’t get back to the house until 3am and yours truly, sex Olympian that he is, was fast asleep and snoring before she even got into bed. So no nookie there, then.