Thursday, 19 April 2018

The cost of sexual assault


This is not so much a Wicked Wednesday… but despite mulling the topic all week, I have really struggled to think sexy thoughts about money.

Here is my trigger warning folks…I’ve just spent the day fighting the Criminal Injuries Compensation Authority over semantics in the case of my children’s claim. This has no sexiness to it, but since it will never make a storyline in a soap opera and I think it is worth knowing about I want to open up about it here. The only link is that is it about the monetary value placed on sex.




WickedWednesday






I watch people’s faces turn to “slapped with a wet fish” or “sucked a lemon” when I talk about what happened to my children. The thing is, they are human beings growing up, who I want to be happy and healthy. And to me, being sex positive means I consider their future should probably include sex to be those things. I write that under the proviso that I have made a statistical judgement here… if sex is not your thing and turns out to not be theirs, I’m fine with that too.

Today’s joy was trying to argue that my child was raped, even though the CPS chose to drop the charge against his abuser at trial. Here’s the thing. The abuser had been caught for assaults on five children. When you reach two charges of rape, among the many other sexual offences against children he was charged with, the starting tariff on sentencing rises. He had admitted in interview to raping my second child. When it came to trial, he admitted something like 45 of the 60 charges in front of him, ranging from child pornography to rape. To save the children from having to testify, the CPS decided that was enough of a sample and dropped the rest. They said they were pleased with the result. He got 10 years, with parole available after 6 years 8 months. 

In interview, my child described being orally raped.

We have made an application for compensation in the children’s names for being victims of crime.  Child number two gets the full award for being raped. Child number one gets fifty percent, because despite being well below the age of consent, the most serious sex act the abuser was charged with in his case was that he forced my child to penetrate him. I never imagined having to fight out the difference in financial value they place on anal and oral sex and on sexual assault where the one being assaulted is forced into an act of penetration. I never thought about what level of proof was necessary to prove oral rape.  

And the amounts are paltry. £16,500 is the maximum payout for the child they accept was raped multiple times.

We have spent upwards of £70,000 so far on supporting the children and safeguarding them over the past years since the assaults. Both children are disabled and have acted out on the new information they got about how friends behave to each other from their abuser… so for a long time have had to have round the clock support to make sure they didn’t accidentally assault each other or their other sibling, or friends.

We have had to fight to get therapy for them. In the UK, for children, the support comes at first instance from a charity who give you 20 sessions. As the children are disabled by their autism, this didn’t work for them and we had to persuade Social Services we needed more specialised treatment, which only happened when one of them said they’d touched their sibling. There is no NHS counselling or trauma recovery. At least not in our area. We have no private health insurance to buy in such a thing and services are very scattered. Our psychologist drives a 200 mile round trip to see the children each week. When a break came in her funding and we had to apply for more, it took nearly 3 months to get the continuation approved for a further 12 weeks. 

There are very important conversations coming about from campaigns about assaults on adults. Very important. But what actually happens when a child has been assaulted is astonishing opaque and the availability of services and funding astonishingly small.  Disabled children are four times more likely to be sexually assaulted than their able peers. As they cannot necessarily access “mainstream” services, there is often little in place to support them. Certainly, no financial packages. No go-to support services. They have no voice.

That £16,500 will become available to my middle son when he turns 18. Until then the state will look after it, as it depreciates. It cannot be used to buy in the support he needs now. “It is not for paying for treatment” said the disembodied voice on the phone when I rang to ask why everything was taking so long. “You can apply before he is 18 for treats like a new bike or computer, but it is compensation, not for services like a carer”.

So a million dollars. I wouldn’t turn it down right now.

Sunday, 15 April 2018

SInful Sunday...Night Out



Sinful Sunday
A rare moment. 

A hotel room. A few hours of utter quiet. Clutter-free. 
Just us, some rope and a pristine white bed to be mussed. 
Oh.. and a party where we were asked to come dressed as ourselves... the parts we don't show to the casual observer. 

I did wear more than this. I wore electric blue rope and for the first time in public, I wore my collar. 

Probably more on that later... but for now, just the image. 

Then click on the kiss to find out who else has been being sinful this week...








Wednesday, 11 April 2018

Travelling

I'm travelling this week. Travelling rather than on holiday.

For various reasons, we chose to home educate our children and that gives opportunities, like this lunchtime, having just eaten lunch surrounded by the beautiful naturalistically inspired Gaudi inspired landscape. I had decided the next stop was the Picasso Museum. My children thought it should be back to the youth hostel for an hour or two on their tablet computers, then to the beach.

We're three years into home education, so there was no real contest. Listening to two of my autistic kids explaining Picasso and Gaudi's work as though it was obvious what was going on was fantastic. However, I deviate...

Eldest child had put forward this was a holiday, hence the beach. I say this is a field trip. A trip...therefore a chance to travel.

We see a trip to the airport too often as being about the destination.

Travel is about the journey. Seeing and experiencing every step of the way and growing while you do.

Gaudi's work makes more sense if you see the process, from idea through drawing to complete object. Picasso's later art... the stuff we associate most with him, with irrational, child like images, makes sense when you see his earlier work and associate it with the changes in technology that were happening at the same time. Unlike great master's of the past, if you wanted a representative likeness in the 20th Century, you could just use a camera. Picasso said he painted what he thought, not what he saw. The movement in the painting especially made sense if your saw his sculptures, which gave different impressions when viewed from different angles.

Listening to my children speak about this art has changed how I will listen to them in the future.

Too often we rush past the pleasure of the journey for the perceived destination. Work, work, work... then a holiday lying still, then work some more. Exploring the beginning of potential relationships isn't about enjoying where we are, it's about wanting to be somewhere else... coupled up and potentially married...or at least committed. And then what?

"You have reached your destination." Time to sit still, like knackered holiday makers on the beach, then start moving again.

When life is a series of destinations, you miss the anticipation and planning, the unexpected sights and sounds of the journey and arrive as a completed action, not as part of a bigger whole.

I am travelling. I don't know my destination, but I am all about the journey. I don't want to miss a second of the learning and seeing and doing I am experiencing as part of that trip with my husband. equally, I have realised I missed out on parts of the journey I should have been savouring, back when I was younger and single, because there is no going back, no do-overs now I am committed with metal, children, a mortgage and a well invested heart.


WickedWednesday



Saturday, 7 April 2018

Alone at last


We had family come to stay for Easter. Which was lovely, but meant the Easter Rope Bunny couldn't come out to play until Monday evening. 


Sinful Sunday











Tuesday, 3 April 2018

TMI ...seven things about me

TMI Tuesday... enjoyed reading Cammies on the Floor's version, so I thought I would have a go.

 


1. Would you rather be the smartest or hottest man/woman in the room?

I've always been a bit of a blue stocking... which whilst not a bad thing, is pressure. People tend to assume I'm smart which sets me up for a fall. But I've never been the hottest person in the room...so I'd love to try that...

2. Do you get aroused by hearing the sexual moans and noises of others having sex, e.g., neighbors, people next door in hotel room?

As a teenager I was part of an organisation which meant we had trips away from home. I remember listening to my friends having sex- one pair would spur on another and those of us alone would be left trying to jill or jack off in a too tight sleeping bag...in the morning light we would carry on as though nothing had happened. To this day, listening to real people having sex, being around them, is a big turn on.

3. What are some small things that make your day better?

Touch. Broadly speaking, I flash between being a sensory seeker and touch adverse. Part of my Autism diagnosis. If I think of good moments this week though, they are all about touch- having my hair washed at the hairdressers, a surprise hug from a friend (I'm not a casual hugger!), a hand on the back of my neck whilst I was on a difficult phone call.

4. It’s the night before Christmas and you hear footsteps on the roof — what do you do?

I still believe in Father Christmas. If my bedroom is not tidy on Christmas Eve I am in a panic. I think I would lie very still and pretend to be asleep and hope he would come, because I hate having to be someone with grown-up expectations and responsibilities all the time.

5. What does your ideal Saturday morning look like?

I don't know, because I would have slept through it... I have a better idea of how it would sound. Silent. Might be accompanied by the gentle wafting scent of someone baking me fresh pain au chocolate. A daft romance and time for a fantasy led wank.

6. What does your ideal Saturday night look like?

While Saturday morning is all about me... Saturday night would be about others. I'd love to be comfortable being more "me" in public... My partner and me alone would be fine. With others... that would be good too. He loves rope and I love pleasing him, so being tied in a quiet calm room, just me and him would be a lovely relaxing evening.

Bonus: What is the craziest, most outrageous thing you want to achieve?

I want to be seen as a professional in my "normal life" occupation, which is specialist and niche, but because I am also a client in that field I am usually looked down upon. So this might not seem to be that outrageous, but it would feel really empowering to be seen as an equal when I sit in the meetings I have to attend. That world and this one are diametrically opposing. More outrageously, I want to be able to wear this part of me on the outside more often.

Monday, 2 April 2018

Cataclysm


I love a good action movie. Pierce or Tommy Lee or Chris (take your pick, Hemsworth, Evans or Pratt) saving the known universe from any number of world changing events. Milla and Kate fighting evil.

External evil versus self-preservation  is taught and understood in fairy tales and action movies alike, but self sacrifice is saved for the purest-hearted and is only available when saving others.

But what if you don't want saving? Who defines evil?

A few weeks ago, I wrote that I didn't really dream of a job when I was growing up. That is true. but I did think about several service roles, including ones which would involve the sacrifice of a sex life for celibacy. Sacrificing self to become an acolyte.

I love the mythical world where these choices are stark and clear.

I'm still into self-sacrifice.

So to this week's Wicked Wednesday prompt.

Catastrophe

1 : a momentous event ranging from extreme misfortune to utter overthrow or ruin
2 : utter failure : fiasco the party was a catastrophe
3 a : a violent and sudden change in a feature of the earth
   b : a violent usually destructive natural event
4 : the final event of the dramatic action especially of a tragedy



Perhaps I've ended up more Cataclysm, than Catastrophe, but they have crossing definitions...




Lost in the seductive glow of my e-reader, the sudden burst of living room light burns my eyes.

“Upstairs. Now,” barks my man.

The flippant answer doesn’t make it to my mouth, retreats from this harsh, naked animal that is sometimes my husband. Unable to react as quickly as a switch, I mutter and take my time closing my book and darkening the lights as I climb the stairs behind him. With every action, the part of me that operates day to day is also shutting down and rising is the slut that answers to this part of him.

The slut and the wife battle as they pass. I don’t deserve anger for staying up and reading my book says the part of me that wonders if the children have uniform ready for school in the morning.  That isn’t what this is and you know it says the slut.

He closes the bedroom door with a gentle snick and slides the bolt home. Without words we start to methodically shed my clothes.

The battle is still unresolved as he pushes me down, knees hitting the waiting pillow. Stays that way as I open my mouth. As his fingers position my head. His musky cock, thick and dry, drags against my tongue and probes the roof of my mouth. Dabs the soft walls. Forces my focus to that small knot of action. Breath and gag and swallow.

Seconds left of the wife’s fight for control, trying to swallow and suck and lave, and then surrender. Trails of spit push from the corners of my mouth and hang from my jaw. Hair trapped by his large palms, glasses askew and eyes watering. Face fucked.

The slut takes it. Welcomes it.

The wife waits for waves of bitter, salty absolution that don’t come.

Moved from the floor to the bed, my blurred body is manhandled and draped over a stack of pillows. The wife doesn’t want this. Wants him to come in her mouth and let her sleep.

She hates the slither of rope. Wants to snarl at the matter of fact way he moves and shapes limbs from positions that are almost tolerable to one precariously unbalanced. Pulled apart, trussed like a joint being prepared for the oven. Ankles splayed from knees. No privacy in arousal, running as viscous streams, cooling tears of humiliation and want in equal measure.

The somnolent night is undisturbed. He doesn’t speak, preferring to listen to lips raw and swollen that scream truth than the lying mouth that would deny him even now. The useless, silent mouth, aching and empty and hungry.

Paralysed by the civil war, my arms lie loose against the black sheet, held motionless by something unfathomable that might be shame, might be pride. A heavy leather juggling ball is placed in the cradle of my left palm, weighted with significance. I curl my fingers to cage it but touch it as little as possible. The wife would throw it away. The slut squeeze it close. I accept it.


The first slap blooms from sound to sting. The second. I paddle into the white noise echoing through my nervous system as if dipping my toes into the lapping waves of an ocean. Let it wash away the need to count. To measure. To control. Waves taking my feet from beneath me. Tossing me with changes of rhythm and power. I want to sink and he pulls me back.  Spreads me open with controlling fingers, abraded skin tender. Stinging.

This has never been about what I want and always about what I need.

I need to be used.

Hips snap, plunging forwards with a wet slap into open, wet cunt, sensationless within the song of nerves clamouring for attention. Cheek pressed into cotton sheets is roughly scraped with every lunge despite the fingers yanking at my hair holding me bound to him. Arse in the air, hips improbably spread, the slide of knees halted only by screaming muscles, he pounds punishment into my flesh until I hear him. Until I listen.

Here I am. Unified and calm and dazed by storm, the small weighted ball my anchor.

Pulling back, the balm of cool air lasts seconds. Sharp cracks of palm shock my ears before the burn heats new fresh skin.

No hesitation. Four fingers in my quiescent passage, slick with welcome, he thrusts home in the same rhythm as he fucked and slapped. Relentless. Time passes unmarked. A twist, knuckles squeezing flesh against bone and his hand is fully seated. Buried. Watch strap grazing my lips and aching pressure on my cervix.

Stillness: the only disturbance his rasping breaths grating my ears.

My body is screaming but my brain is silent.

Everything fades to the squish of the lube. The rush of sickly sweet cherry. The slickness that somehow doesn’t disguise the callouses on his thumb as it demands entry.

My fingers don’t twitch as he pushes inside. The ball doesn’t move as he stretches me open. Thumb. Finger. Two thrust deep and twisting.

The gaping hole he has reduced me to. Waiting to be filled.

In through the nose. Out through the mouth. Breathing is the only control left. That, and the ball heavy in my palm.

His fingers flex deep inside, neither pain nor pleasure, just possession.

With a sharp, centering slice, I split under his relentless pressure and feel every ridge and valley as he inches forwards. The bouncing pattern of nudge and retreat, until his hand, slippery and cherry-scented, combs tear wet hair from my face and gathers it again in haphazardly cruel grip at the nape of my neck. Pulls. Distracts me for a fraction of a second and holds me there on the precipice.

Fucks me for his pleasure.

Stuffed with his hand.

Filled with his cock. 

Again and again and again. Breath huffing from slack mouths with every rutting drive.

The twist and drag and weight of his hand as he rakes his dick over his fingers, my body his glove as he wanks in my arse.

Nothing but him in my body and my mind.

Stutters to crescendo. A whisper of sound ground through clenched teeth. Heat. Maybe. If I were sure in the physical sensations. If I wasn’t forced apart by the furious pulse of flesh trapped between and around. Brought together by his ownership.

His sweat soaked body draped over mine. The wet gush as hand slides loose. Deflating cock slipping free. World re-framed. 

I am never more at peace than I am in that moment.

Tuesday, 27 March 2018

Crowded


I don’t like going out. It is fraught with anxiety about the things I can’t see and pulls my focus in a very anti-social way to the details of how people speak and stand rather than what they say. I don’t get the attraction to it… but I can see the social necessity.


Many girls diagnosed with autism manage social communication until the moment puberty hits. Sex makes the world go round and it is so complex. Fraught with layers of social context and power. No one teaches personal desire or tells you it is ok not to feel it. I think things are changing, but from the magazines that were the basis of social learning when I was a teen, I knew in some technical detail how to give a blow job but had no idea why I would want to. There is so much we are afraid to talk about and a lack of both the information I needed and the space to analyse it rendered me blind.

It was easy to imagine the picture would never resolve. Being presented with a Picasso and a Dali, when what you need is a mirror and a window.

When every step is an act of trust, or more accurately, faith, in the people around me to help me navigate the world. I have learnt to trust people who communicate openly and honestly about their motives and pleasures, whether or not that motive is broadly socially accepted.

I find this both within the sex positive community and the shallow waters of my personal kinks. I love the communication. The boundaries. Without the social necessity of guilt over having sex or not having sex, with the openness about consent. The permission for sex to be fun and pleasurable, or to be a much more complicated conversation.

What I discovered through reading the blogs of the people I first met at Eroticon '17, is that open communication seems to flow out from sex into other areas of their lives. Perhaps I see that as practicing bravery at a distance enhancing bravery in interpersonal interaction. Maybe only the inherently brave talk about sex. Maybe that is why Eroticon is such a lovely, inclusive experience. The social rules that govern the bullshit other take for granted on gender, disability, sexuality and the general power and social construct of the body, is taken apart. People listen to what is said explicitly, words are not drowned by pre-conceptions. Perhaps that is why we lament the shortness of the weekend in a million tweets.

I grew up believing you met Prince Charming at a ball, your future beloved in a nightclub. I tried to learn the language and when I couldn’t I thought I would be alone. But I met him. He was on a night out. I was in a more structured role so I could be with people and yet be apart. Hiding behind the bar pulling pints.

And then to keep him. To build a relationship where you don’t even understand the building blocks. I guess that was the initial attraction to a more explicitly negotiated relationship. More on that as I become more comfortable I guess.

So… more poem than story.

              
A night out.

A frenzy of visual noise. 
Posture. 
Mannerisms. 
Motives hidden behind social convention.

Attention on detail: venue, timing, the crowd. 
People are chaos. 
Social code an alien language. 
Every last second of communication analysed and processed. 
Camouflaged intentions.
What are they hiding?

Crowded, bodies mash against mine, 
Hard muscle and soft flesh 
Interchangeable in their casual intimacy. 
But your fingers, 
Solid and determined, 
Rest in the hollow of my spine, 
Burning through my clothes, 
Touching naked skin. 
Connected.  

Later, 
In the silent circle of arms, 
Breath, sweat and scent mingle. 
Cunt and cock kiss and dance, 
Honesty in the wet tracks spilling onto arse and thigh and sheet. 
Equally vulnerable, we put faith in quickened pulses and leaking fluids above words.

It is night out.
I am safe at home.