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.

Take me home... what I brought with me from Eroticon 18

This morning I sat at the gingham covered table of my best friend, K, and tried to explain what I loved about Eroticon. We’re friends through church and she is one of the very few who know of my alternative identity and she is cautiously interested by it and how it intersects with the me with whom she attends choir and autism coffee mornings. So, I told her all about my weekend.

Attended... for now. Looking forward to next year ;-)

The company: 

As experienced first-hand last year and written about in blogs from Girl on the Net to Mrs Dutch Veronique, the company is wonderful and relaxed and friendly. Positive, not just sex positive. Trying to explain to K beforehand that my virtue was not in danger (unless I really wanted it to be) from a conference full of sex bloggers seemed tricky, because she walks most frequently in a world where if you talk about sex you are “other”…pick your least favourite derogatory word… but again Eroticon proved to be a wonderful blend of people being themselves, being comfortable in themselves, and extending this to those around them. All within the well supported framework provided by Molly, Michael and GOTN, which meant you could feel safe in your chosen persona, even if that was anonymous and needed to stay that way. I met up immediately with Rose, a friend met last year, and Marie (with GrandMaster T), a new friend from her generous words when I'd written to her Wicked Wednesday theme this year,  to share a meal, and then off to the evening meet and greet. Which leads me neatly to my next joy…

"You don't have to post pictures of your boobs" said Victoria Blisse in her "Shy Creatures" talk...

Increased body confidence:

I am neither youthful nor slender… euphemisms aside I missed the gang-bang on my 40^th (Kendra's fault that now reads "missed" and not "never considered") and require enough M&S undies to feel like I am already in a Vac bed most of the time. Actually, I quite like feeling the constraint, but anyhow… I come to London and leave aside my normal school-run life and strut in unfamiliar heels into the life of a blogger. This year I left my darker clothes behind and boldly stepped out in scarlet. On the Saturday, in case I was brave enough to join in with the final afternoon free-play, I came in comfortable  dressed down clothes.  Zoe caught my shoes that day for her #footwearoferoticon! Didn’t matter. None of it mattered. I love that age and size feel irrelevant in this company, not just because someone has said it doesn’t matter, but because it shows through every last bit of action. Bruises and marks are admired no matter the flesh on which they're drawn. Rope wound around a person is sexy because it is: because of how it feels to be bound, because of how it feels to bind.  Watching Rose and Charlie and sex blog (of sorts) be spattered in wax from the safe hands of Volcanic Sparks (“Now, there is an interesting use of the word ‘safe’”, said K, given she’d read the bio's in the programme) was fascinating not just because of the sensuality of the wax, but the freedom of those receiving it.

The quality of the speakers:

I want to go back to University. Especially if that means thought-provoking lectures of the quality of the wonderful speakers at Eroticon. My particular favourites were MadelineMorris and Dr Jamie Lawson, because of their academic approach to their subjects, and Meg- John Barker and Justin Hancock, Anna Sky, Cressida Dowling and Victoria Blisse for their very practical approach. In fact from the moment Molly opened and handed over to Girl on the Net I just sat back and mopped up information and ideas. As ever the talks were so good, making choices about who to see was difficult, but the sharing of slides and information is so generous there is lots to follow up on now I’m home. And those that read their work on the Sunday afternoon. You could have heard a pin drop. Brilliant and brave.
(and if you missed them... try the anthology)

The generosity of skill-sharing:

Working out how to blog well is a marketable skill set, editors and legal advice even more so and yet here are professionals and amateurs (only in that it is not their main source of income) sharing their knowledge and experience in lectures yes, but also in the corridors, over lunch and in the pub. Handing out their emails and saying come and talk to me. The sharing of everything from your most successful moment to the bad advice you wished you’d never given. And then you come to…

Just a little something I made at our crafting circle... thank you Kinkcraft, I will never see paracord the same way again

Playtime:

Lovely, lovely sponsors. Personal favourite toys included Electrastim Wartenburg wheels and the Zumio, (last year’s demos meant I already had a Doxy and Ruby Glow for my birthday) but everything on the stalls was beautiful and inviting. The knowledge and practicality of the demonstrators was a massive selling point. Loved the variety of couples’ toys this year which, as I explained to K, was totally compatible with married life. She looked surprised, so I left her info to peruse when she didn’t have to hide looking more intrigued than embarrassed. Kinkcraft is an enigma. Making inventive and beautiful things in the calm circle of your favourite knitting group! Beyond what I felt was suitable to share with K, the idea of playtime is not unknown territory for me, but never in public. So, from the purposes of informing my writing, I loved watching people experiment with the Vacbed and Cube (see MPB's post Eroticon posts for photos) and spread out on the beautiful Sheets of San Francisco bed.  And then… back to generosity, Michael and Molly and their toy bag. The way the room dropped to silence at the thwack of toy against willing victim. Not being afraid to say “I want to try…” was liberating. And the medical stapler that arrived courtesy of my quickest online retailer is also not something for sharing with my best friend… but I am hoping it might make a good Sinful Sunday shot soon (not such a shy creature after all!).

So, it’s not 10 things. Individually, it is hundreds of sights, sounds, ideas and friendships made… and there were still talks I didn’t make, people I missed connecting with and a nagging regret I didn’t try the wax play, since it’s something I like and would have been an interesting thing to do in public… 

Coming Home

I feel like apologizing. But it's the prompt. Post- Eroticon euphoria will follow... but this needed to be posted first. 

Sadness is the quiet friend you don't remember making. While grief and anger rant and rage, sadness creeps in through the back door and makes itself at home. 

Sadness is not the death of a child. It is the piece of clothing hanging in the back of the cupboard that they will never grow out of. 

It is not the diagnosis of a life changing condition. It's the toy hidden under the bed that they'll never grow into. 

It's not the decision to throw away your toys and never play again. It's the understanding that intent to play is not always the same as having the time and the energy. 

The light was bright and white, bouncing off snow covered roofs before burning through her reluctant eyes. The alarm was chiming, cheerfully advising it was 6.05 in a voice so devoid of sympathy, it was nearly thrown at the wall in anger. But she didn’t. Sleeping in her own bed was like being bathed in apathy, so she swiped it closed and swung her legs out from the choking heat of the duvet. Cold. That was better. More in keeping.

It was her second morning home, yesterday hidden behind exuberant welcomes and cries of “Mummy”. Behind exhaustion and aching muscles and a backside scorched by a proprietorial hand. Yesterday had started with a cock bruised cunt and sticky thighs. Tuesday began with the alarm.

Celebratory meals welcoming the prodigal were scorched into saucepans and stacked in haphazard piles over unsorted recycling and remains of junk food. Twitter hashtags replaced by an ongoing argument over consent in the classroom. In every blink, the beautiful wax-spattered skin, the pristine white bed, the patterns of rope flashed and then were replaced with this. This needy beast of life.

Routine. Morning coffee at 11.15 was served by washing-chapped hands and tawdry, chipped nails. The nails she nearly cried over. With a promise of two weeks life, they were the gentle slope back to normality, the dirty secret in plain sight.  This second morning, they were gone, no match for the encrusted oven shelves.

She wanted to kneel, but the office was too small and the call too important to disturb. She needed fucking, to be used that way too. Instead, she sorted washing and repeated the mantra “I do this because I love you” as every t-shirt was peeled from its jumper, each sock retrieved and pocket emptied.

When lunchtime came, they exchanged 11 words. Yesterday, he’d murmured demands of lunchtime service thwarted by hungry children. Today, he barely looked up from the keyboard as he typed with shaking hands. She was not the only one exhausted by the weekend.

The computer open. Inviting blank document and the photographs of the weekend, bright and exciting. Her own. Others. Images of flesh and sex. Beautiful knickers and arses slapped red. Of the desire filled eyes, soft and black as they described their own fantasies. Their own worlds. Words wouldn't come, the void between then and now too stark and painful. 

“I endure. That’s what I want. I want to endure for him.” The words, spoken so casually that the speaker would never know they’d been imprinted on the listener’s brain. The timid whisper in her own head, answering yes, that was what she wanted too. And that was what she had. Just, not wrapped in flesh stinging from his paddle or scratched by his nails. Not today anyway.  He made her a cup of tea when she wanted him to feed her his dick.

As days crept forwards, she learnt again not to rely on a heart on twitter for her feelings of self-worth. Tried to write without remembering the feeling of being one of them, those beautiful fucking creatives who fed her soul. Remembered that service was a gift that he valued.

Sadness was his quiet sigh as he wanked under the sheets to her photographs, hand in her hair while she slept. 

Wave Hello

This week I've dusted off my blog and twitter feed and have been saying hi again to people I met at Eroticon last year. And being a bit more public facing, one or two friends I have known for a little bit longer have noticed me and got in touch for the first time in ages. 

Three things happened. 

First, I deliberately made some time, with the altruistic support of my lovely man, to think dirty thoughts. That hasn't happened in a "making time for myself" way in a little while. Pretty sure I'll blush at our meeting later in the week when the social worker asks me if I've been making some "me time" this month. 

Next, the wonderful Wicked Wednesday theme is games... and the prompt picture had me thinking more board games than mind-fuck games, although I am sure there will be wonderful stories about both types submitted and I look forward to reading them all. 

Then a friend waved. 

It started last Tuesday when you waved to me on Messenger.

I waved back.

Sam waved back.

Home for the weekend with Lilly and the kids, we meet at the Harvester so they can run off some steam. Eight years since we could be in the same place at the same time.  Lilly looks great. The kids have grown. Your parents are still well.

Even here, a place not even built then, I am 20 years ago and taking you with me. Sam and Lilly talk about something they watch on the TV. My skin is prickling with your nearness and your eyes are black with memories.

A news program crawls across a 60 inch screen above our table but all I am aware of are your nails scoring down my back as I lie across your hard bed in the Uni dorms. First man to mark me. I am so glad you shared that with me.

Sam knows and his hand creeps to my thigh beneath the table. Something small. My tell.  But he carries on talking as though nothing important is happening.

You know too and turn the conversation back to an innocent remembrance. A birthday playing card games. But it is not innocent, is it? We are both thinking about what happened an hour later when your friends asked me to be your birthday present. When they begged me to blow you in your parent’s sitting room. Plied me with vodka-cokes as though I would need them and forgetting I could drink you all under the table.

We played Baccarat, the game we taught ourselves to play so we could be cool like James Bond. Our friends made excuses to leave and I turned the flirt on them. Asked them to stay. Dealt another hand of cards. Loosened more clothing. Eyes widening and chests tightening as I played the role they thought they’d chosen. I was so fucking ready for you to use me. For them to watch.

They thought I was a vamp. Thought I was seducing you. Didn’t know we were both more than aware of the other. That even as innocent as we were, I knew you.

My skin is prickling against my bra. I don’t see them anymore, our friends from Physics class. Just you. When you are home. Or when I am.

I want to show you my new piercings, hiding, shifting behind the lace. But my body belongs to Sam, reclaimed for him post children. This isn’t the body we shared.

You drift into the conversation with the others and I stay on my knees on the crimson Wilton in your mother’s best sitting room. Feel your cock choking me, balls hairy against my chin as I pushed myself to swallow your length. The glorious freedom of four pairs of eyes watching me as heady as knowing I could get you off. The slick wet sound as one of them pumped their own dick and I matched their pace with my mouth, streams of spit dribbling from lips stretched wide and tight as I struggled to breathe and swallow and suck. The wonder as you gave in and fucked my face, holding my hair tightly as you bucked and took my mouth.

Messy and innocent and raw. Pumping bitter and thick into my throat as I tried to swallow like Cosmo said I should. The ache in my jaw. The damp cloth someone brought me so I could mop up my drool. Redoing my make up in the tiny loo under the stairs and wondering why I seemed so wet. Down there.

I am wet now. In the noisy pub with the scalding lasagne and our seven children running wild. You are shifting in your seat. Who we are with Sam and with Lilly began with those games.

Sam’s fingers dig knowingly into my inner thigh. He has been looking forward to this meal all week. Lilly smiles and kisses you softly.

The kids pile back to the table and we eat ice cream sundaes and talk about their upcoming exams. Watch as your eldest and mine dance with words and glances as we did at their age.

We are not now what we were then. I can’t call you my best friend and you can’t just ring me up for a game or to test a theory in a lab or a bed of our choice.  

But I love you. For who you are and who you were.

I know Lilly reads my blog. Sam wonders if she plays cards? 

Meet and greet me

In less than one week's time I will be on the threshold of Eroticon 2018. My hairdresser is booked, I've finally found some boots that fit and a friend of mine who finds it very funny that she's worked out the buttons to my submissive side told me I should wear more red... spot me and see if I've resisted the programming. 

Last year was my first time out in public as being me. All of me, not just the "nice and acceptable for the school run" parts. I thought I would dissolve like a vampire in the daylight, or that, worse still, I might be called out for not being a blogger or writer as I only had a handful of scribblings under my belt. Instead, I ended up chatting to Rose and Fred among others, and feeling like a might just be in the right place. I still ended up talking about my kids over lunch with other people who equally alternated their conversation between their kids and the sex toy raffle prizes... as though this was the most natural thing in the world. It just felt great to be in like-minded company. 

Name (and Twitter if you have one)

Alethea Hunt…. Allie in person,  @aletheaalone on twitter.

What are you most looking forward to about Eroticon 2018?

Being with the tribe. It will be a bit daunting walking in on the Friday night, because I’m naturally anxious, but after last year I know you are a safe space and plausibly the most accepting group of people I’ve met. There is not a lot of time for the me that plays out at Eroticon in the rest of my life, this last six months virtually none at all, so I am looking forward to a reawakening. Not to mention meeting up with people I met last year…and having the nerve to start conversations with new people.

The talks look great. Free playtime at the end of Saturday a little terrifying. Hopefully by then I will have relaxed a little... if not, someone grab me and make me join in. 

We are creating a play list of songs for the Friday Night Meet and Greet. Nominate one song that you would like us to add to the play list and tell us why you picked that song

Some really good songs are already there… Bad things that @sexwithrose has picked is a favourite, Nick Cave’s voice strokes my skin into goose bumps and @_Masterseye has picked The Ship Song, which has me happily burning bridges…both lovely growling voices… Shit. This is a hard one. Music was how I realised perhaps the whole boys and girls story I’d grown up with was missing some of the potential. From Nights in White Satin (Moody Blues) (Ina Morata got that one) via Lay Lady Lay (Dylan) through to seeing Brian Molko (Placebo) in a dress and eyeliner and thinking “wow”… mainly because “fuck me” wasn’t in my vocabulary yet. Still thinking…

…the entire soundtrack of my 1980s would have pounded through the speakers at Heaven… not that I had any idea of the themes behind the songs...just the energy and excitement.

…Ballad of Barry and Freda by Victoria Wood? First time I remember it being acknowledged that women had an interest in sex beyond finding a man and having children with him. And that sex could be fun. 

What’s the first career you dreamed of having as a kid?

Don’t think I ever really dreamed like that. Maybe my ambition was never to go to work? I think I realised I liked making people happy, so generally I went along with what people suggested for me. However, my mum quotes my first infant school teacher as saying word to the effect of “If you want something doing, ask someone else. If you want a book writing about it, ask Allie,” I guess writing about stuff might always have been on the cards. I think I wanted to make the world a better place but was never sure how to do it.

Weirdest place you’ve ever gotten up to mischief (define ‘mischief’ however you like…)

My first kiss was topless in the woods at a local music festival…various escapades in muddy fields followed as I was a scout and so a muddy field was the usual parent free venue. A camper van… loved that as then we could have a cup of tea afterwards…loads of occasions in the open air, but nothing really weird in terms of places… my sister’s bedroom on a visit to her at Uni… but that was only weird the next morning when mum brought up cups of tea and there were three of us in the bed. It was ok though… she went back down and got one for Ed...

When I was young I didn’t consider myself adventurous… but when I look back, I didn’t do too badly. Then the kids came along and the biggest game for myself and the lovely Mr is trying to have sex in silence. Or without falling asleep.

Tell us two truths and a lie about yourself

Bloody Hell, this is hard…

I have three cats, Dow, Fritz and Mouse.

I am autistic and lying freaks me out.

I’ve eaten chips and cheese with Jay Kay from Jamiroquai

Complete the sentence: I want…

…my kids to grow up in a society where we don’t define people by things we shouldn’t be and can’t be but by an acceptance that, whilst respecting others’ bodies and freedoms, we should be free to shape our own story without guilt or shame about our roots, our sexualities, our gender(s) or our desires. 

It's been a while

It's been a while.

Things came up and made me forget that I liked to hang out here. 

That it made me feel like me.

Going to Eroticon 2018 in a week or so. So I went back to places I felt safe to have a little explore. Now I've missed the deadline for this week, but this is a Wicked Wednesday prompt...because that has always felt like a good place to start. 

Peruvian Mocha Limu. Dark and dirty with a hidden sweetness. Just bitter enough to be challenging, smooth enough to drink more than one cup.

An expresso quickie to set you off with a bang. A long latte with caramel syrup wrapping me up like a feather duvet.

I do have moments of coffee infidelity.

Sometimes I crave a good hard Javan hand roast.  

It’s all about finding the right coffee for you and more than that, its mixing it the right way. Taking care and time over the preparation and not just accepting what someone else thought you might want to drink. Asking for what you want.

Good coffee though, takes effort. I’d stopped requesting coffee. Stopped making it for myself. There was never really time and you don’t die from a lack of coffee.

The cafetiere had gone back in the cupboard. The special cups were put away out of reach. I didn’t bother. And I didn’t miss it. After all I had tea.

I’m not knocking tea. Socially, I feel it’s easier just to go along with it when it’s offered. It’s warm and wet and will do.

But it’s not something I love.

I don’t wake up in the morning craving a cup of tea. And I’d forgotten how good coffee could be.

Until today.

I checked twitter for the first time in months and there was Rebel, daring me to think about coffee.

And I remembered the smoky power charging through my veins, making my heart beat that little bit faster, my mouth water for the taste.

The matt glory of the beans. The fullness of the aroma as they are ground, changing with an exciting moist earthiness through brewing. I can smell the bitter cocoa promise hidden in the depths. Chase it.

I want to drink it raw. Black. Powerful. Scalding. Want to drown in a cream filled mug topped with foam and crunchy brown sugar.

All of it.

Now.

It’s scary. Suddenly remembering means I had forgotten. De-prioritised.

I don’t want that.

I create a space for the cafetiere on the counter top. Move the cups down a shelf so I can see them.

Let the scent tease through the house.

In case anyone else needs reminding they like coffee too.