Do you trust yourself?

Somewhere along the line I forgot.
I forgot to trust myself.
I looked to others:
For advice
Validation
Direction.
I asked the same questions over and over again:
Who am I meant to be?
Am I enough?
Where am I going?
But I never quite believed their answers.
So I kept on asking.
And questioning.
Suspended
In confusion and indecision.
Until someone asked me the question:
“What if there is nothing wrong with you?”
And my simple answer was:
“Then I would trust myself.”

The question was raised as an invitation on social media by the very splendid Lauren Marie Fleming. And, as I journaled my response, I realised that the many desire lines I’ve walked and written about are all evidence of self-trust.

A fundamental belief and faith in the liberating expression of choosing my own path.

Which made me think of you, and us, and the question:

“Do you trust yourself?”

Note: None of this is a ‘one-time, done-and-dusted’ thing. We ebb and flow, change and evolve, find our faith and lose it, over and over again. Which is why prompts for self-reflection can be so helpful: those simple reminders to check-in with ourselves, to assess where we are at, and where we want to go next.

Metaphors are my kink

CONTENT NOTE: this post contains erotic and explicit writing

I can’t believe I’ve only just realised this!

When I’m writing, I see the pictures in my mind, and often those pictures are metaphors rather than the literal thing I’m thinking of.

Take Desire Lines, for example. In town planning, desire lines refer to the bespoke paths that pedestrians make and take rather than following the pavement or walkway that has been laid down for them.

But, for me, desire lines, are a metaphor for the paths we take on our unique sexual explorations and expressions.

Realising that metaphors are a kink for me only became truly apparent when I wrote a piece earlier called ‘Let Me Be Your Pianola’.

I got a definite thrill from seeing and feeling those pictures in my mind’s eye.

Creating the metaphor feels like a sexual act in and of itself.

It turns me on.

Curious to read more?

Here’s the Pianola piece (content warning: the metaphor alludes to BDSM practices)

You know the pianola, right? Those self-playing pianos you saw in the old movies. It looked like magic as the keys moved up and down and the music came out with no-one touching them: maybe a jaunty honky-tonk piece or an old time favourite.

The ‘magic’ comes from a roll of paper with holes punched in it. The positioning of the holes corresponds to the notes and the tempo. As the roll rotates, the music plays.

When we are in a scene, You are the composer and I am the pianola. Your deliberate and considered placement of marks and holes on my paper-skin cause me to sing to Your tune. You set the rhythm and pace. You create the tone. You play me. It can look – and feel – like magic.

Each time we meet You produce a different roll. You thread it inside me, aligning me with the music You are most hungering for that day (or night – I love it when the music plays in the dark).

I’m craving Your music. My voice calling out Your notes. You.

A Kiss From You

CONTENT NOTE: this post contains erotic and explicit writing

I have imagined your hands in such great detail.

I’ve dreamt of your hands stroking and smoothing my anticipatory skin. The slight drag where your calloused pads catch, reminding me that you are more used to working with hard, inanimate objects than with sensitive, malleable flesh.

I’ve pictured the shape of your fingers intertwined with mine, and felt our hands meeting: palm to palm in Shakespeare’s holy palmer’s kiss.

And I’ve fantasised about the eventual moment when your fingers slide inside me, reaching and beckoning to release more and more of me.

Despite having such a strong imagined familiarity with your hands, I have never imagined your kiss.

Strangely, a kiss from you feels so much more intimate than surrendering my body to your touch.

A kiss from you would mean tasting the story of your day: the bitterness of the coffee you drank this morning; the sweetness of the biscuit you did not refuse; and the richness of the steak you ate for dinner.

A kiss from you would mean a shared breath. The very essence of life being drawn from my lungs and into yours. The oxygen fuelling the blood pumping through our hearts. No pretending now that this is just a carnal exchange – not now our hearts are involved.

A kiss from you would mean your lips, your tongue, your teeth: exploring, tasting, sucking, biting. Densely packed nerve-endings sending out scores of messages to my biddable body: blood rushing faster; breath now in audible gasps; slumbering parts of me being awoken and engorged. And parts of you too.

A kiss from you would mean a thousand different things.

After the kiss there would be no going back. Regardless of whether we ever saw each other again, we would be joined forever at a cellular level. The intimacy shared through the kiss would not be just about the physical and the emotional, it would impact at an even deeper level: it would be – in that moment – a merging of our souls.

A kiss from you would be my undoing. And also my salvation.

A Kiss From You is taken from my book, Desire Lines.

Read more chapters from the book:

Preface // Chapter 1 // Lilith and the Daemon: short story // Chapter 2.

So, you want to write an erotic story?

Have you ever thought about writing your own erotica?

Perhaps you fancy turning one of your fantasies into a story to gift to your lover?

Or maybe you’d like to share your story with a wider audience: on the web or in a book?

Or maybe you just want to write an erotic story for yourself – completely for your own pleasure?

If you’ve answered ‘yes’ to any of these questions you are probably also wondering where on earth you even begin… How you start writing… And – most importantly – who you are as a sexual being, and how you access that part of yourself to find out more about what your fantasies are.

I spoke with Nicola Humber of The Unbound Press about writing as your Unbound Sexual Self!

We talked about:

  • how our sexual selves evolve and change over time
  • how we can use writing to explore and express who we are
  • what it means to be an Unbound Woman
  • how writing can help you to reclaim your desires (and the words you want to use to express them)
  • how to start writing!

Here’s the video…

(If you want more support with writing your own sexy story, take a look at my free Erotic Writing Guidebook.)

Breathe Into Me

CONTENT NOTE: this post contains erotic and explicit writing

The first thing I noticed about you? Your breath. As you spoke to me on that crowded Tube train a sweet-sharp waft of peppermint snaked its way inside my nostrils creating a sudden and unrequested intimacy.

It was odd that you were talking to me. Strangers don’t speak to each other on the Tube. Except perhaps in an emergency or when some unexpected event unites them. But there had been no sudden plunge into darkness, no crazy person bursting into song; you had simply turned to me and begun to tell me your story.

We had been riding side-by-side for a good ten minutes and I hadn’t noticed you eating your peppermints. I was zoned out in that typical London commuter way: intent on getting to my stop and finally getting home and away from the crowds and noise.

But as soon as you spoke, as soon as your flavour reached me, I forgot about the no talking rule, and I forgot about the quiet sanctuary waiting for me at home. Your voice – your breath – wrapped me up in an insulated bubble; the sweetness of you made me salivate, while the sharper notes gave me an uncommon clarity. I inhaled your breath and I knew how your tongue would taste.

The narrowness of the Tube seats gave us no choice except to sit close. I usually ignored the unbidden pressure of another’s thigh against mine on my journey home, but this evening I shifted my focus directly to it. The heat from your body contrasted deliciously with the coolness of your breath. Safe in our anonymous bubble, I shifted a little closer, leant a little closer, inhaled a little deeper.

When you stopped talking I was suddenly bereft. The scent of your words had been my oxygen supply, making it possible for me to breathe easily in this cocoon we had created. I felt a wave of panic begin to rise as the noise and movement of all the other passengers began to infiltrate our safe space. I felt vulnerable and exposed: too many people, not enough space for me – and you.

My eyes darted to the scrolling sign at the end of the carriage: where were we?

Your voice told me the name of the approaching stop and that one word was enough for me to breathe again. Then your lips were on mine, your peppermint tongue tasted my own, and we were alone again.

Holding it together

Today I am held together by safety pins.

 

There’s the one carefully threaded through the side seam of my t-shirt where the overlocker cut too closely and the stitches are missing. I meant to sew it up but tossed the shirt in the wash and then wore it again having forgotten about the hole. The safety pin is fairly well hidden, and I’ve got a cardi on top too, so I’m sure no one will notice.

 

Then there’s the safety pin that I stuck through my heart last night to help me hold it together while the ghosts of loss tore through me, burning a trail of regret and sorrow. We had company so I wore my fake smile and played the perfect hostess. I plucked at the edges of the hole in my heart and hastily stabbed the pin in to hold them together, still ragged and bleeding, for just a little while longer. Just until I could find some time to be alone and to cradle my grief, holding it close and soothing the tears with the rocking of my body. I’ve not found that time yet and I can feel the pin beginning to strain as my grief swells my heart and makes it leak bloody tears. Soon, soon, I promise myself. But when? When will the hole be mended?

 

There is one more safety pin needed to get me through the day. This one is pierced through my nose. I wear it punk-style: Fuck conformity! Fuck the patriarchy! Fuck being the good girl, the professional woman, the pretty lady! I wear it in the office. I wear it when I see my family. I wear it in the supermarket as I buy toilet cleaner and tissues. However, just like all the other pins I wear, this one is invisible to the world. But I know it is there. I know who I am.

 

I am a woman holding it together with safety pins.

Choosing to desire “desire” and other stories…

I had a joyful conversation with Nicola Humber of The Unbound Press about Desire Lines. Talking about all of this really lights me up, and I’m excited to share it with you!

Watch the video to hear more about:
* What desire lines are and how we can lose touch with how to follow them.

* Why exploring your sexual self is not just for those in relationships.

* How choosing to ‘desire desire’ can be incredibly powerful in terms of waking up our sexual energy.

Your story matters

We all have stories that form the unique tapestries of our lives.

Some stories we create. Others happen to us.

Some stories we tell. Others we keep secret.

Some stories we choose to share…both as medicine and healing for ourselves, and for those who will read them.

If you are ready to write YOUR story, my 3 minute guided visualisation might help you to give yourself permission, and to remember that now it is your turn to tell your story.

Our stories are our power.

The Perfect Ending

CONTENT NOTE: this post contains erotic and explicit writing

The fantasy had been running through my head all day like a buzzing film projection on a loop. The images were smoked and fuzzy around the edges and the sound dipped in and out depending on where I was and who I was with. Every so often, in the moments when I found myself alone, the playback froze and I could indulge that particular still in more detail.

I stepped into the screen and really felt myself to be there. My lips tasting the lipstick of your kiss. The whisper of your delicate sighs. The irresistible urge to feel you melt deeper into my embrace until our edges became flowing silk.

My body carried the sensations all day long: an invisible ache that wrapped me in a promise of later, later, wait ‘till you get home, respite will be waiting for you there.

The final bus ride was near torturous as the vibrations from the engine magnified the buzzing hum I’d been carrying in every cell. I walked the last block home without feeling my contact with the ground, my senses now overwhelmed with their own inner kinesis.

Finally, in the shelter of my apartment, I locked the door behind me, stripped off my outside trappings, and lay down.

My hands travelled over my skin as I replayed my favourite fantasy scenes. After the day-long build there was sure to be a thunderous climax.

Except there wasn’t.

There was pleasure. There was heat. And then there was a quiet peaking: the molehill to the mountain of sensation that I’d been feeling throughout the day.

As I gazed at the ceiling through resigned eyes I realised that the true pleasure of this experience wasn’t about the orgasm, it was about savouring the hours and hours of tingles and throbs and aching that had led to this moment. It wasn’t about ‘one moment in time’; it was about the capacity and the pleasure of my body all the time.

And the fantasy?

It’s not over either. The film projection can be rewound, replayed, even rewritten. I can spend a moment or a lifetime. It’s not about the perfect ending after all.

The Good Boy

CONTENT NOTE: this post contains erotic and explicit writing

I handed the plastic tray back to the air stewardess, most of the food untouched. The movie had finished, it would be a few hours before the next meal was served, and the lights in the cabin were being dimmed. I walked my feet up and down on the spot. If the plane did manage to stay up in the sky for the duration of the flight, and I survived this long-haul ordeal, the last thing I wanted was to arrive in Australia and promptly die of a DVT.

Australia had been a lifelong dream and it had taken me until now, until the grand age of 43, to finally pluck up the courage to get on the plane. I wasn’t enjoying it one bit.

“You could try and get some valium,” my friend Susie had suggested. “Or take a dirty book – that always takes my mind off the flight.”

I’d gone for her second suggestion and pulled the book I’d borrowed from Susie out of the seat pocket. This had better work. The drone of the plane’s engines filled my head and every slight change in its sound signaled how close we flew to disaster.

As I reached overhead to switch the reading light on, the young guy in the seat next to me did the same. The backs of our hands brushed each other for a second and we were both illuminated in the blue-white spotlights.

He extracted his book and held it in his hands. I glanced across. I saw a well-read, leather-backed book, and long, slender fingers. Then I read the title: The Bible.

As I looked up I noticed that he had also been checking out my choice of reading. The cover of Master at Midnight featured a picture of a woman, head thrown back, neck exposed, with a man’s hand entwined in her hair. I refused to feel embarrassed. This guy was simply a stranger on a plane, in another eight hours we would arrive in Sydney and I’d never see him again. I opened my book and started to read and he did the same.

I hadn’t even got past chapter one when the plane started falling. It suddenly dropped, bumped us in our seats, and then rose again as we hit what the pilot called “a spot of turbulence”. I clutched my book and squeezed my eyes shut. “Please god,” I muttered.

“Are you praying?” His voice was warm and rounded with an upward, Australian inflection.

I opened my eyes. “I’m scared of flying,” I admitted.

“Do you want to hold my hand?” I nodded and his smooth fingers wrapped around my own. The plane stopped bumping. “Better?”

“Thank you,” I went to draw my hand away but he added his other hand over the top, now clasping mine gently.

“Reading helps,” he said motioning to the discarded books in both our laps. “I’ve done this flight a lot, it’s best to find something to distract you.”

“Thank you,” I repeated and he released my hand. We picked up our books again, he opened his but I just help mine in my lap. He looked serene and calm as he read on through the passages of Corinthians. A theology student? I wondered. He didn’t look much older than 21 or 22 and, even in the unflattering, artificial light of the cabin, I could see he had a handsome yet boyish face.

The plane started lurching again and I automatically grabbed at his hand. He held it tightly and, with his free hand, switched off both our overhead lights. “I know something else that helps,” he told me.

“Anything,” I told him, “oh Lord, just make it stop.”

His free hand worked under the blanket that was covering my lap and I felt his thumb rub firmly over the top of my thigh. “Yes?” he paused and waited for me to respond. “All you need to do is just focus on my hand,” he added.

“Yes. Please, yes,” I responded, pulling my concentration away from the bouncing plane and honing in on the sensation of a stranger’s touch. His thumb moved closer and closer to my groin in tight circles. I was still grasping his other hand and felt an invisible line connecting our bodies. As long as he keeps touching me, we’ll be safe. It was an irrational thought, but it was all I had.

His thumb reached my mound and kept on circling. I shifted in my seat to open my thighs and allow him to continue his journey. The circles moved down, working a path along the length of my pussy lips and back up again. He applied consistent pressure and kept to a steady pace. It was hypnotic.

I wriggled a little further down into my seat and felt his thumb make contact with my clit. The layers of fabric between his touch and my flesh were beginning to annoy me. I wanted him to touch me. As if reading my mind, his fingers worked open the button on my jeans and deftly slid down the zip. Now his fingers walked a path underneath the elastic of my knickers and slipped smoothly into the well of moisture he’d created. He stroked me gently and my clit grew hot and swollen.

He soothed and stroked over and over, up and down, and around and around. Every now and then he dipped a finger inside me – just one slender finger dipping in and stroking up.

He held me in this place of languid bliss, making no effort to hurry me to orgasm.

My entire being was poised under his fingertips as he caressed my clit and lips. I relaxed under his touch while my body responded; I grew harder and slicker.

Another dip inside me, a sweep up and over my clit, and I felt my orgasm begin to release. With each touch my body rose higher and higher until I was flying.

He cupped his hand over me and whispered, “It’s okay now.”