Prompt #111: Masturbation Fodder

(Second related theme : selfies)

You take a pic. You angle it for your best assets to show. You write a short piece. It’s hot sweaty sticky and delicious. You make these public, you share. Do you care what the viewer or reader does with them? Does it turn you on to know that you stimulate? Do they ask you for permission bringing you into their pleasure? Does it humiliate you to be reduced to their masturbation fodder, you a merely specimen of the species?

Conversely, that picture, the light, the angles, something’s clicks. The words, the ideas, the movement of the story. Your body reacts. You save it for later. You know why. A private movement and moment. Do you value it less for it’s immediate function? Is it art or literature when you masturbate over it? Are they human or porn in that moment of pleasure? Do you read the words or stare intently at the picture, or use it just to get you going? Do you return to favourite pieces?

Sorry, folks. I know my header clip is beyond obvious but I adore this Divinyls song – excellent memories of dancing about to it at university with a dildo and a whole bunch of other girls for the visual pleasure of a single guy (long story) – and just couldn’t stop myself from including it here.

Before I start babbling, can I just say that this is a bloody awesome Wicked Wednesday prompt by @tigger_sub. It made me realise that in the entire two years of blogging here on Chintz that I’ve never done a post on masturbation, which is both extremely shameful (not the act of masturbation, the fact that I haven’t written anything about it) and incredibly ironic considering that of all the sexual acts I enjoy and partake in, it’s the one I engage in most frequently.

Before I get to the crux of Tigger’s prompt, a little background …

I stumbled upon this rather delicious form of sex at a relatively young age and quite by accident. I used to ride a lot as a child and although it’s something of a cliché, I invariably discovered that when I sat astride a pony and my bottom was connecting with the saddle in a certain way (generally at a walk) something bloody amazing happened:

I got this incredible feeling between my legs.

A feeling that, provided I maintained whatever friction and rhythm I had going on against the tack, invariably spread over my whole body before peaking and leaving me feeling unbelievably good. Cataclysmically good … although on occasion pursuing it almost made me fall sideways off my horse. Needless to say, it didn’t take me long to work out that I could recreate this very moreish sensation with my fingers, and the rest, as they say, is history.

I don’t recall specifically when masturbation and fantasy started to hold hands with one another but I can tell you that when I discovered eighties bonk-busters, just before hitting my early teens, that the two become irrevocably intertwined. And that to this day, the written word remains my masturbatory aid of choice.

Why?

Well, while I definitely find certain images arousing to look at, I get far (far) more mileage and satisfaction out of scenes that I am able to paint in my own mind through textual cues. I like to be able to imagine – to spin a situation in my head to make it suit my purpose, i.e. getting myself off.

So, what sorts of things, exactly, will cause my fingers to drift south? And do I return to the same masturbation fodder over and over again? In asking myself these questions, I am reminded of a different one asked of Molly Moore during a session at Eroticon 2013:

“When did you know you were submissive?”

Well, if you were to ask that same question of me (and I consider myself to be a pretty messy mix of bottom and sub), I’d say that my textual masturbation choices gave me some pretty damn strong cues as to my sexual proclivities very early on, even though I didn’t acknowledge them or understand them properly until much later. Indeed, to this day, it is very, very unusual for me to get myself off to something that doesn’t have an element of D/s in it. And I’d go so far as to say that my ‘go-to’ masturbation texts over the years outline pretty clearly my personal sexual trajectory …

Age 14: Defy the Eagle, Lynn Bartlett

As a young teen, this scene absolutely fascinated me. It still does. It’s incredibly tame but even though there’s no actual sex in it, the forced bondage element fairly shouts its erotic intent. These few words had my hand (and mind) very quickly occupied.

Jilana lowered herself onto the pile of furs and, while Caddaric towered over her, stretched out full length. He knelt beside the pallet, dropped the rope and then his hard hands bit into her shoulders. When Jilana gasped at his touch, Caddaric merely raised an eyebrow at her and flipped her onto her side so that she faced the tent wall. He released her shoulders and a moment later, Jilana felt the bite of the rope as he coiled it around her ankles. Her arms were pulled behind her back and her wrists bound by the same length of rope which tied her ankles. In the space of a few minutes, Jilana was trussed in a manner that left her immobile. Even as Caddaric rose, Jilana could feel the strain in her muscles and joints as she was arched backwards over the rope.
.
.
.
She had to strain in order to turn far enough over her shoulder to see him, and when she did he smiled mockingly. “Wait for me, Jilana.”

With those sarcastic words he was gone and Jilana was alone in the dark tent. Wait for me. Jilana laughed a trifle wildly. As if she could do anything else.

Age 15: Till We Meet Again – Judith Krantz

This one, I read over and over and over and over and over and over. In fact, I don’t have enough fingers or toes to count how many times my teenage self got off to this particular interaction between Sabine de Koville and Bruno de Lancel. I had no idea that what I was reading at the time was a D/s scene. All I knew was that it appealed to me. A holy hell of a lot.

“Madame must stand absolutely still. Madame must do whatever I tell her and nothing else,” Bruno said harshly. “Does Madame understand?” She nodded gravely, feeling the hot, heavy congestion grow between her thighs as she looked at the boy’s suddenly fierce features.
.
.
.
“Madam must stand against the wall,” he muttered. Madame will not remove her shoes.” She complied, her back straight and her breasts proudly high. He stood over her, only inches away, his thumbs roughly weighing her heavy breasts while his thumbs and forefingers sought her nipples under the thin folds of silk. He found them and pinched them, knowingly and repeatedly, with stern fingers that came perilously close to causing pain.

Age 36: Kaylee’s Keeper (Masters of the Castle, Book 2)

Skipping ahead a fair few years, lest this become a post of excerpts, a book that I picked up about a year ago and have returned to over and over again. There are a number of scenes in Kaylee’s Keeper that really hit the mark for me, but I do so (so) love this one, where the heroine, Kaylee, is punished in front of an audience.

“Look how wet she is,” Alan announced, and soft laughter filled the room. He laughed too, even as he purred down at her, “What kind of naughty girl gets wet during her punishment?”

“My favourite kind,” Master Marshall drawled, winning another round of chuckling laughter from everyone. “Open your legs for him, pet, nice and wide. Give him your naughty little pussy and ask Master Alan to spank it for you.”
.
.
.
“I’m waiting, pet,” Master Marshall said. Is there something you want to say to Master Alan or do I need to put you across my knee first?”

She shivered even harder, but dutifully raised her chin and, horribly embarrassed, whispered, “Please spank m-me–”

“Spank what?”

“Please, sir.” She moaned, hiding her eyes behind her hand as if that could somehow shield her from this wanton debasement. “Please don’t make me say it.”

And even more recently? This edgeplay scene from Cherise Sinclair’s recent Edge of the Enforcer.

As to the question of selfies … Do I care that people might get off on the pictures that I take of myself? Feel ‘reduced’ in any way? Nope. If anything, it kind of gives me hope that people are embracing the idea of everyday men and women with everyday bodies being sexy and erotic and desirable. Because, as I’ve said before, that’s my ultimate objective when I photograph myself in various states of undress.

I could very easily go on about this topic for another few thousand words but I’ll haul myself back at this point before I bury you any more than I already have done in a grave of verbosity. A thought to end if I may, though:

“To masturbate is to imagine: physically.”
― Mokokoma Mokhonoana

The post Wicked Wednesday: I touch myself appeared first on Behind the Chintz Curtain.

Today, 3 July, marks the second official blogiversary of Behind the Chintz Curtain. I’ve actually managed to babble smutty stuff at you all for a full two years.

Wow.

I’m not really going to say much in this post. Just thank all the awesome people who’ve supported me thus far (fellow bloggers, authors, writers, reviewers, friends, family) give you a little visual glimpse back over the past year’s worth of photographs (my favourite images taken for Molly’s Sinful Sunday – c.f. the collage at the top of this post), and leave you with the next little snippet from a story beginning I posted for last week’s Wicked Wednesday. This was the tale the majority of you wanted continued. And, of course, your wish is my command.

Hope you enjoy.

Jane

xxx

LOT – PART TWO

*For those who missed Part One, you can find it here. Simply scroll down to Story Two.

Oh, Christ, but I don’t want to go up there. Can’t think of anything more humiliating. To be stared at by all those men and then sold like a cow at a farmers’ market. Despite the pressure it puts on my windpipe, I find myself planting my feet as my handler begins to move forwards, trying to delay the inevitable, but as soon as he feels the resistance he stops and turns back towards me, his grey eyes narrowing. “Now, now. None of that, girl.”

I expect him to haul me forwards, much as the other girl’s keeper did, but it appears I have completely misjudged the man in charge of me. Before I can blink, his arm is clamped around my torso, we’re chest-to-chest, and a heavy palm is landing on the flesh of my bare bottom. The are blows strong, designed to hurt and, pinned as I am to his torso, I cannot pull away, only yelp in pain each time his hand makes contact with my flesh. On and on the spanking goes, until the cheeks of my backside feel as if they’ve been scorched beneath a hard desert sun. When he finally stops, I am crying, breathing hard against his chest, trying to get my head around the hurt and emotions roiling through me. I concentrate on sucking in air through my nose, releasing it through my mouth, and notice, bizarrely, that the shirt I’m pressed against smells of faintly of laundry detergent.

Fresh, clean and grassy.

“Ready to behave?” he says as he releases me.

His voice is gentle – completely at odds with the physical punishment he has just met out – and I find myself looking at the ground and nodding furiously, unable to meet his eyes.

“Good.” He tugs lightly on the leash. “Let’s get you up there.”

I keep my gaze fixed on the wooden floor as we move forwards, me slightly behind him, refusing to look at the audience, trying to forget that they’re there. But they begin to murmur as we emerge from the wings of the stage and, once again, it becomes impossible to avert my eyes.

Faces. So many faces. They blur, the sea of men seemingly becoming one before me. My heart is beating so fast it aches.

“Watch the steps.”

The softly spoken command has my head swinging back to the man at my side; we’re at the very centre of the stage and he is waiting patiently for me to mount the auction dais. When I don’t move, he steps closer to me and drops his mouth to my ear. “If you don’t get up there, little girl, I’ll bend you over right here so that every man in this room can see just how wet that little pussy of yours is. And then I’ll spank your ass until it’s purple.”

I recoil, his words sending a volatile cocktail of shock and horror raging through my body. “You wouldn’t dare,” I whisper softly, face flaming. “And I’m not wet.”

His mouth hardens and I notice a glint in his eye.

“Did you just challenge me?”

What?! Oh, lord. “No!” I say frantically, reaching out to touch his arm with a placating hand. “I didn’t mean it like that!” I close my fingers around his forearm.

For a second he simply stares at me and I think he’s going to let it go. But then he looks away, opens his mouth to address the room, and I know I am done for.

“Gentlemen!” His voice carries across the rumble of voices swirling around the room. He waits for them to fall silent before turning and nodding to the man with the gavel. “Auctioneer.” The man inclines his head in response. “It appears that,” he looks down at the number written in permanent marker on my left breast, “Lot 14 doesn’t know her place.”

Oh God, oh God, oh God.

“In fact, I’m not entirely sure she is fit for sale.”

I want to hide in shame and fear as sounds of disapproval swell out from the audience.

“First,” this as he holds up a single finger to the audience, “she refused to come out onto the stage when instructed.” A second finger. “Then, she refused to climb on the block.” A third finger. “And, finally, she challenged me and denied her little cunt was wet from the spanking I just gave her.”

More disgruntled sounds from the audience.

“So, tonight, if you are all in agreement, I would like to propose an amendment to proceedings.”

An expectant silence.

“That I be allowed to purchase Lot 14, free and clear, and in return give you the opportunity to observe the corrective lesson that I intend to give her.”

He can’t be serious. He can’t be. I close my eyes and try to ignore the excited whispering that floods the room at his words.

“Does anyone object?”

A chorus of ‘nos’ hit us as the sea of men give their approval and I squeeze my eyes shut more tightly as if doing so will make them go away.

“Excellent.” My keeper’s voice holds a definite note of satisfaction and I feel his warm fingers clamp around my wrist. “You’ve just been bought and paid for, little slut.” The sound of footsteps tapping a steady beat across the wooden stage have my eyes springing open of their own volition; another guard is making his way towards us, a pair of antiquated metal shackles in one hand, a long, thin cane in the other. “Now. Let’s see about getting my money’s worth.”

The post Two: Best Sinful Sundays … and a little bit of spanking appeared first on Behind the Chintz Curtain.

Image: MAKY. OREL via Wikimedia Commons

There’s nothing quite like penning the first few lines of a new story. Realising a new character, allowing them to step out of your head and onto the page; setting a scene and creating a world for them to walk about in. In fact, I think I may have a slight addiction to beginnings because I’m particularly good at writing these as opposed to middles and ends! Looking in my Drafts folder, I’m greeted by a veritable wash of documents containing snippets of text – monuments to ideas that I absolutely had to get down before they disappeared into the black hole of lost thoughts and then, after typing those critical words, promptly did nothing with.

It’s not that I consciously abandon creative flashes, rather that I an idea strikes and nine times out of ten I’m working on something else that means I can’t give it my undivided attention. Inevitably, by the time I have the breathing room to explore it, the urgent creative outpouring I initially experienced has ebbed or I’ve forgotten that I had the idea in the first place. There have been quite a few occasions when I’ve gone to open a document up, seen a file I have no recollection of creating, opened it, and gone “Oh, yeah! Why didn’t I keep going with that?”

So, I need your help, my lovelies. Below, are snippets from three stories I started writing and failed to continue with. There is one that stands out more than the others to me but I thought it would be fun to see which introduction is most appealing to you.

Given the choice, which story should I continue to write? Which would you most like to read?

EXCERPT ONE: “CLEAN”

“What do you think you’re doing?”

I shriek, spinning around as I do so. Almost slip on the wet, soapy tiles.

He’s standing right next to the glass door of the shower cubicle, completely naked, a grim look on his face.

Busted.

My face flames and I drop my guilty hands to my sides, the hot shower spray washing the last of the frothy suds from my belly and between my legs, sending them swirling down the drain.

There’s nothing I can say.

We both know that I’ve broken my promise.

I’d hardly say that I’m a neat freak. I’m not the sort of girl who folds up her clothes after wearing them, who makes her bed neatly every morning before skipping merrily off to work. No, more the kind who leaves the washing in the dryer for as long as possible rather than putting it away. Leaves flowers in vases until the blooms have long dried up, withered and crumbled into dust.

In fact, I’m not really tidy at all.

But when it comes to cleanliness? Well, you know that old mantra. It really is next to Godliness in my book. Especially when it comes to my body. I shower at least twice a day, every day – and always, always after sex.

The drip and trickle of rapidly cooling semen coating my pussy and legs?

The sticky smear of my own arousal?

The urge to wash both from me pounces within seconds of him pulling out.

I know it’s irrational. I do. And he hates that I’m so eager to wash the evidence of his possession off of me, his disappointment seeping into me like a cold, dismal damp. I think we both knew that my promise to try and accept the mess of our joinings was a hollow one but to have my lack of commitment to our agreement confirmed is worse than I imagined.

His gaze bores into mine.

 “Get out of the shower. Go and lie on the bed.”

EXCERPT TWO: “DOCTOR’S ORDERS” 

Your eyes are as wide as saucers; white moons eclipsed by little planets of deep green. “I … I’m sorry?”

Mortification perfumes your voice, makes it vibrate and shiver like smoke.

Oh, this is perfect.

You heard me. No question. But on this occasion I’m happy to repeat myself – not least because I want to see the look on your face when the words finally sink in.

“You’re going to be examined,” I say blandly, careful to mask my pleasure at your reaction.

“But …” Your eyes skitter across to the shiny metal table winking beneath the bright, hanging lights and then dart quickly away, as if the sight of it burns your retinas. Even as I watch, the skin over your collarbone turns a delicious shade of strawberry. “You know I don’t like being …” You trail off again, wavering from the path of speech.

I remain silent, delighting in your struggle to find the right words. To admit the truth.  And your fear. Bless. There really is nothing more beautiful, more intoxicating, than a sub who’s just realised she’s about to be eaten by the wolf. That he’s going to sink his teeth in.

“People will see me,” you finally blurt out, your gaze locked to the floor, seemingly absorbed in watching your left foot paint awkward patterns on the wooden floor.

“They’ll see your cunt, you mean.”

The blush climbs your neck and threatens to scorch your lovely, pale cheeks.

“I can’t do it,” you say, almost defiantly, although when you finally look up, your eyes silently plead with me for mercy. Mercy we both know I’m not going to show.

For a time I simply watch you, enjoy observing the war you’re waging with yourself play out across your face: your ingrained sense of modesty versus your need to submit. To me. I know what the outcome of the battle will be, of course – knew before the skirmish was even declared – but I have no doubt your humiliation will be far, far deeper if you agree to this without any form of coercion on my part. None of this “he gave me no choice” crap.

I want to fuck both your body and your head. Invade every recess of both and turn you inside out until you’re nothing but a ball of shame and need.

You’re going to hate me for it, without a doubt. But you’re going to adore me in equal measure.

It’s just the way it is.

EXCERPT THREE: “LOT”

The auctioneer’s gavel strikes like an axe against a neck.

“Sold, for five hundred pounds, to the gentleman in blue.” Polite applause. “Congratulations on your purchase, sir.”

Don’t look, I tell myself. Don’t look. But, inevitably, I find my eyes scanning the audience of smartly dressed men, trying to spot the buyer. It isn’t difficult; he’s tipping his head slightly in acknowledgement of his purchase, a smirk on his too perfect face.  Arrogant shit. I stare at him for a few moments but the sounds of a struggle pull my attention abruptly away.

It’s the red-headed woman he’s apparently just bought. She’s being led from the auction block, resisting like crazy, by a huge blonde man.

“Please. Not him. Please, not him!”

Her feet scrabble at the floor as she tries to pull backwards but her jailor pays her absolutely no attention, remains completely unperturbed. He just marches her relentlessly forwards until she stands, trembling, before the blue-shirted man who has paid for her.

The buyer doesn’t bother to get up, doesn’t touch her. Simply regards the naked woman in front of him with a detached expression. A faint smile plays about his lips, though, and it appears that he is pleased with his purchase.

A tug at my neck startles me and I jerk in fright before remembering the collar at my throat and the leash dangling from it like a thin, black snake. I turn and glare at the man holding the latter.

“Watch it,” I growl.

He chuckles slightly. “You’re next, darlin’.” Nods his head towards the stage and the auction block at its centre. 

The post Wicked Wednesday: Beginnings appeared first on Behind the Chintz Curtain.

“The above screenshot comes from an article of The Guardian, which was linked on Twitter. If you have anything to say about trigger warnings, now is your chance. But you might want to read the article first.”

Wow. This is one hell of a Wicked Wednesday prompt. Where, oh where do I start?

Firstly, by saying that I don’t believe in the censorship of books. Period.

Secondly, that I’m well aware that this liberal view of mine comes at a price. There’s no question that there are grotesque things out there in written form, things that I have no interest in reading. Ever. But I know that for freedom of expression to be truly ‘free’, then we must allow writing on all subjects, whether or not they offend us. When we start drawing lines, defining what is and isn’t okay from a personal viewpoint – and, ultimately, all censorship comes down to an individual (or individuals’) own set of judgements and beliefs – we risk getting ourselves into serious trouble: persecution, marginalisation, oppression.

The beauty of freewill is that we get to choose what we read. And what we don’t. You only have to look at the various books that have been banned over the years to see just what a blunt instrument censorship is. It doesn’t understand fine detail, it doesn’t make subtle distinctions. It is wrecking ball that smashes its direct target but also tends to take out everything else within a hundred-mile literary radius.

So, then. Trigger warnings. We’ve all seen them. In fact, it’s actually becoming increasingly difficult to purchase a book without being hit in the face with one. They run the gamut.

From the very simple:

To the incredibly detailed (A.K.A. ‘the entire book in a paragraph’):

To the vaguely humorous:

But if we accept that we’re not going to censor the written word, that we’re going to allow the publication of books of all kinds, regardless of whether we personally abhor or champion the content, shouldn’t we as readers expect to be explicitly warned about potentially distressing content (in the manner of the above) lest we encounter something we’re not prepared to deal with?

Well, no, actually.

Because giving a reader a pre-emptive Get Out of Feeling Free card has the ability to be more harmful than exposing them to potentially controversial content.

If we are only ever advised to read books that detail the safe and happy and benign, are warned away from texts that have the ability to shock, challenge and make us question our beliefs, our conduct – our morality – then are we not devaluing our humanity? Our ability to feel? Our ability to make our own informed choices?

The idea that reading should spare us tough or difficult emotions, that we should live in a perfect bubble where we pretend nothing bad ever happens, frankly, scares the living daylights out of me because it suggests that we could very easily become a society that doesn’t acknowledge or deal with anything difficult. An apathetic human race.

Just think about what that would look like for a second.

I’m personally guilty of using trigger warnings in my own work. Have employed them in the past to alert readers to content that I think they might not be expecting – pseudo non-consent in my short story Frostbite, for example. In writing this post, I’m actually starting to feel a little unsure as to whether I should have done so. My intention was to ‘protect’ readers who may have stumbled across my blog (and thought they were going to get something light and fluffy and ‘floral’) from an unwanted textual encounter. But in using trigger warnings, have I not made assumptions about their expectations? Censored their experience of my writing? Pushed them away and told them that I don’t believe that they’re capable of making a decision about a story’s content for themselves having read the first few lines?

The irony is that I pay little attention to trigger warnings when I’m deciding what I, personally, do and don’t want to read because I’m not prepared to rely on another person’s judgement of a text. I am my own barometer and I’m far, far more concerned with writing quality, an engaging story and an author’s ability to engage my head and my heart. My emotions.

It’s our reactions to books to books that count.

Hate.
Compassion
Distress.
Peace.
Anger.
Love.

These are normal human feelings. And we shouldn’t be warned away from them.

The post Wicked Wednesday: Pulling the trigger appeared first on Behind the Chintz Curtain.

“What is hidden in your life? Or what would you like to hide? Or maybe you have found a treasure that was hidden for some time? Or you would like to find a treasure? Sometimes things are hidden in plain sight…”

The prompt for this week’s Wicked Wednesday is both intriguing and thought-provoking – not least because for someone like me, who blogs about sex and erotica, it raises a number of interesting questions about what I reveal and what I keep hidden from people who know me in ‘real life’.

I like to think that I am a fundamentally honest person. Bluntly, I’m just not that keen on keeping secrets or holding back the real ‘me’. (As I’ve gotten older, I’ve realised that life is way too short to pretend to be someone you’re not or deny yourself the things that you find pleasurable.) It took me a long time to get to this point and I don’t want to go backwards. That said, there is an inevitable rub that comes when I have to balance my ‘me-ness’ with mainstream society. Because like it or not, there is still a lot of judgement and stigma around those of us who talk openly and honestly about sex.

If you’re a regular Chintz reader, you’ll be well aware that I:

1)   Like erotic books;

2)   Enjoy the hell out of sex toys;

3)   Love to write (darkish) smut; and

4)   Have a penchant for kink.

My immediate family – a very important group of people in my life, obviously – know about all four of these things. They’re aware of my blog and even read it on occasion. Most of my close friends and even some ex-colleagues know about Chintz, too. They’ve all – to date – been super supportive of my endeavours, even if they don’t always agree with or understand why I might write about the things I do. (Interestingly, I had an hour-long debate with a very close non-kinky friend the other week about the group Pain Positive post from last October. Her perceptions of masochism and sadism are very different to mine, but even though we couldn’t agree with each other’s opinions, we could talk about our thoughts rationally. I didn’t have to hide anything from her. More to the point, I didn’t want to.) Then there are the friends who have been generous enough to volunteer their time to test various items out for the Chintz Toy Box. Again, nothing hidden between us.

But now I find myself in a new space. I’ve moved to a different country, to a small town, to an area unfamiliar to me. I’m making new friends. To them, I am a blank canvas and they are slowly forming an opinion of exactly who Jane is. For the first time in a long time, I am being very careful about how much I reveal about myself. (Funnily enough, my dad asked me just last night whether I’d found any new, local, acquaintances to test sex toys out for me, to which I replied “God, no! I don’t think we’ve reached that level yet!”)

It’s hard – really hard – to hold myself in check at times. I’m a big girl and, frankly, strong enough to defend myself, my opinions and my life choices to others. My children, who are oblivious to the chintzy curtains and all that goes on behind them, on the other hand, are not. And I don’t ever want my choices to adversely affect them because someone hasn’t taken the time to understand me as a whole.

My real life revelations at this point in time are thus selective. Censored (Urgh! I hate that word!). But I remain ever hopeful that they won’t remain so.

The post Wicked Wednesday: Selective Revelations appeared first on Behind the Chintz Curtain.

Image: Christmas Fairy. (Me, wearing my halo, whilst sitting in a Pohutukawa – also known as the ‘New Zealand Christmas tree’.)

This Wicked Wednesday is an unapologetic, sentimental and festive ‘thank you’ – a big one! – to all the amazing people who have made my 2013 so happy and wonderful.

Bloggers, writers, readers, fellow kinksters … There are so many of you that I am pleased and proud to know (both online and in person), and who have been totally selfless in support of me and this little Chintzy corner of the Interweb these past twelve months. To that end, I’d like to embarrass a few of you by specifically calling out your awesomeness.

Firstly, Marie, who runs this fantastic meme and has always encouraged and given me the opportunity to participate in it.

The truly lovely and talented Tamsin Flowers. We met over a coffee table at this year’s London Eroticon, and I can honestly say she’s been one of life’s best chance encounters. (It’s not often you find a kindred spirit in smut-writing crime.) Not only that, she’s been a constant source of encouragement and patience. (Read: she’s put up with me even though I’ve been completely rubbish at delivering … well, anything useful to her these past six months.)

Michael, who I adore reviewing erotic books with and who never fails to keep me entertained with John Norman Gor analogies. That, and he doesn’t bat an eyelid at my over-the-top book rants.

Author Natasha Knight. All-round good person and willing to drink cocktails with me on Messenger whilst talking kink.  (I can type ‘nanl exs’ and she still knows what I mean.)

E, who has consistently gone above and beyond the call of duty to help me out with Sinful Sunday pictures (shielded my topless self from unexpected dog walkers in English fields, shooed neighbours away from the front door whilst I’ve lain half naked in her sitting room covered in glitter, etc., etc., etc.).

Molly and DomSigns, who have been nothing short of amazing with me and my other half, M. Thank you both for absolutely everything this past year. Your company, your advice, the excursions, and your friendship. I (we!) miss you guys.

And last but certainly not least, my family, who, without exception, have been unflinchingly supportive of my slightly left-of-centre life and blog – and aren’t afraid to own me and what I do. (Although in future, a certain brother might want to wait until his friends don’t have mouthfuls of crisps and beer before nonchalantly asking me ‘how my porn site is going’.)

Merry Christmas and a happy New Year to you all.

Jane
xxx

The post Wicked Wednesday: Glad Tidings appeared first on Behind the Chintz Curtain.

Anyone who knows me will tell you that I really enjoy letting my hair down; there’s nothing quite like chatting, laughing, dancing and generally having a good time with a load of like-minded sorts. In my salad days (God, I sound ancient, don’t I?), I partied a fair bit, but now that I have a family and live in a fairly rural part of England, I’m a little more sedate. Well, most of the time at least :-).

So I’ve been wracking my brain and trying to think if I’ve ever done anything outrageously sexy at a party (it is Wicked Wednesday, after all) but I honestly can’t recall an occasion that I was particularly wanton at a social event. What can I say? I have chintz curtains – and more than a few square edges! In any case, just to prove that I’m not a complete recluse, I thought I’d compile a little catalogue of some of the best and/or most unusual parties I’ve been to over the years …

Late ‘90s

Mystery Bus
First year at university, an event/party called Mystery Bus. It involved the Hall of Residence I was living in piling 300 of us into coaches within the first week of our arrival, driving us to a hill in the middle of nowhere, and leaving us with music, 30 kegs of beer, and buckets of condoms. Students away from home for the first time, hormones raging – I’ll let you work out what happened next. (Bloody freezing in that hillside grass, let me tell you.)

Steins & Brätwurst
University again. Yep, the same Hall social team that organised Mystery Bus decided to throw a Bavarian festival party that required all the ladies to dress as beer wenches and wear gingerbread cookies around their necks for the blokes to eat off of them. (Lots of crumbs down cleavages that needed to be, er, retrieved with tongues and fingers.)

Very late ‘90s

Captain Stubing & 077
Moving forwards to a slightly more responsible time (just go with it), I was living in a lovely old villa in New Zealand with three others (two girls and a guy) and every so often we’d throw a big themed party. One year it was The Love Boat, the next James Bond. We’d empty the entire house of furniture, make chilly bins full of (very strong) alcoholic punch, and decorate the house with anything we could get our hands on. For the Love Boat, we had palm trees, beach umbrellas, and even a Barbie doll with a pool who we put outside to create a ‘pool deck’. (She ended up stripped naked and violated in a pot plant within the first hour.) For Bond, we spray painted black rubbish sacks silver, used them to wallpaper the sitting room, and then stuck huge silhouettes of the various 007s on top so that it felt like you were in a gun barrel. Those bashes were always awesome. They’d go all night and would get more and more raucous in the early hours as the punch buckets got lower. One of the girls had a particularly entertaining friend, M, who never failed to turn up in an outrageous costume and try to convince all the women to partake in some sort of raunchy game.

Y2K

Beach bunnies
Yep, the millennium. Poured with rain but it didn’t matter. At my mum’s beach house in northern New Zealand, tealights on the lawn, dancing in the drizzle to Cream and Ministry of Sound. Everyone stripping at midnight and running into the waves, then sitting in the sand waiting for sunrise …

Present day

Jubilees & neighbours
Street parties. We live in a small hamlet and are lucky enough to have neighbours who are pretty damn awesome. Every so often there’ll be a BBQ or a celebration of some kind and most of the lane will pitch up with drinks, kids, dogs, and extra sausages. These gatherings are enormous fun, largely because they’re informal, irreverent, and filled with laughter – all things I love. We’ve had some great get-togethers over the years, including a gorgeous tea for Will and Kate’s wedding in 2011 and a fabulous bonfire party for the Queen’s Diamond Jubilee.

School fundraisers
Have you ever seen parents on a night out? It’s like they’ve been let out of prison for the evening. To date, every event I’ve been to of this ilk has involved some sort of raucous behaviour: loss of clothing, parents shagging in the carpark, hilarious drunken dancing … and a few other things that shall remain nameless. All I’ll say is that mums and dads really know how to make the most of a three-hour window.

So there you have it. A party history. Not very wicked, I’m afraid, but (I hope) not completely boring, either!

Happy meme-versary, Marie. xxx

Title image: The Love Boat cast, 1977, ABC Television, via Wikimedia Commons

The post Wicked Wednesday: Let’s party! appeared first on Behind the Chintz Curtain.

*Can’t read the minuscule copy? Me neither! Click on the image to make it bigger.

For me, personally, the word ‘no’ doesn’t work in quite the same way within the bedroom as it does outside of it. Oh, it still exists all right – it just takes on a different form, wears a different set of clothes. The bulk of its clout is transferred, temporarily, to another combination of letters. In my case ‘red’ – and this is what the above poem would look like if I used it:

*Yep, more small copy. Click, click.

And there’s even a step before that – a ‘semi no’, if you will:

*More clicking needed.

So, really, my personal ‘no’ looks a lot like this:

The super ginormous caveat to all the above? My consent to change the meaning of the word ‘no’ in a sexual context is pre-negotiated and only valid when it comes to my OH. Everybody else? Yep, those two letters mean exactly what you think they do:

The post Wicked Wednesday: My No appeared first on Behind the Chintz Curtain.

‘When you see this acronym [BDSM], what do you think of?’

I’m a girl who likes precise definitions. Blame the ex-editor in me. But I’ve come to understand that these four letters don’t fit into nice, neat little compartments. I like that Wikipedia has made an attempt to break out all the possible letter combinations in the ‘aspects’ box on the BDSM page (see image on left) but, to me, these groupings are still quite narrow.

BDSM, as far as I’m concerned, is a bit like cooking a roast chicken for Sunday lunch; how I do it will be different to the way you do it, which will be different to the way the way the postman does it, which will be different to the lady down the road. It’s still roast chicken, it still tastes good, but the seasoning and condiments will undoubtedly be unique. The divergences may be subtle, but they’ll almost certainly be there. What each of us defines as the ‘standard’ plate will differ according to diner.

The subject of ‘roles’ is equally confusing and I do wonder whether it is easier to define what we are not than what we are. Again, the culinary analogy: I could tell you pretty readily which foods I don’t eat (fish, fennel, liquorice) but ask me to list my favourite meals? That’s a struggle. There are loads. And tastes change over time, too.

BDSM, to my mind, is an incredibly complex banquet that caters to many diners, many tastes, many palates. There will be those who partake that simply sample small morsels. Others who will enjoy a vast array of the complex courses on offer.

In the end, BDSM is about us. Our needs. Our wants. Our desires.

A kinky and delicious feast.

The post Wicked Wednesday: Feast appeared first on Behind the Chintz Curtain.