Wilful Damage

They Come in Colours Everywhere

2009-11-07T11:14:00.000+11:00

Distraction is everywhere. It comes in shiny colours making vivid pictures in my head. The supermarket has never been so much fun.

HNT - Not Quite Atlas Two

2009-10-30T00:34:00.001+11:00

Regretfully up until a couple of years ago I had no idea how good it would be to feel strong. Who knew about triceps and lats, and deltoids...and all those other great names? Since then I've been mucking about with weights regularly and pretty much loving it. I plan to be a tough old bird! Or at least be able to wrestle you to the ground if the occasion arises.

Go wrestle Osbasso! Happy HNT everyone.

Not Quite Atlas One

Tico Tico

2009-10-25T23:48:00.002+11:00

I am a little in love with this sweet thing.

HNT - The World, The Flesh and The Devil.

2009-10-22T23:53:00.003+11:00

"Sex takes us deep into the body, deep into the emotions of love and desire, and deep into the entanglements of relationship. Because of this inward and downward movement, sex has been regarded as temptation against higher human aspirations and has been relegated to a dark trinity of values known as the world, the flesh and the devil.

From that place in us where we imagine a life of virtue, orderliness, and social responsibility, sex may appear as a threat or an obstacle. In imagination it is often placed low, as though it were a weight holding us down from our more exalted concerns.

From an archetypal point of view, where we try to find a place for all human inclinations and fantasies,it is valuable and necessary to be pulled down by our sexuality. We need depth as much as we need higher vision. We need the shallow side of all life, and sex offers plenty of opportunity to experience the shadow. We also become persons of character by dealing courageously with the many challenges sex offers during the course of a life.

But there is another aspect to sexuality that can easily be lost in the dark and downward emphasis on the sensuous life. Sex also has a role in the upper regions, where the spirit is dominant. Sex can lift our attention upward and offer a visionary experience of life based in love and passion that is the equal of any abstract philosophy or highly spiritual form of contemplation. Sex is not only earthy, it is also sublime."

From Thomas Moore - The Soul Of Sex - Cultivating Life as an Act of Love

How would it be if we valued sex and sexuality like this, like a life enhancing precious thing?

Happy HNT! Go visit the Big O!

Love Letters and The Resumption of Regular Programing

2009-10-18T00:51:00.002+11:00

You could be forgiven for thinking that I have forgotten about this blog. I haven't, but apologies all round on the lack of posting.

To be honest I have been doing more reading than writing and just throwing a few lines out there at Twitter to show I'm still alive. It may be that winter is dragging on and I am still heavy hearted, but these last few weeks I seem to be feeling maudlin and fragile all the time. Perhaps it is hormonal?

I dunno, I have been upping the ante with more exercise to try and shake off the flatness and taken to cupboard clearing with a vengeance. It's not ennui, just a rawness. I used to feel more resilient but not so much anymore. Whatever it is, I hope it's not going to hang around too much longer - I have a summer to plan, a garage sale to organise and a life to live.

Thanks as always for continuing to visit and for those kind souls who have sent comments and notes - cheerful, flirty - pick-me-up notes, my thanks.

Regular programing will resume shortly.

"I like you very much indeed... what do you say if we become engaged..." enjoy the letter here

In keeping with the wearing of my heart on my sleeve, and the walking wounded mood I've been puddling around in the Australia Post "Letters Of A Nation Archive". I've loved letters for many years. Helene Hanff's "84 Charing Cross Road" remains one of my favourite books. I've just waded through the very wonderful "Words In Air: The Complete Correspondence Between Elizabeth Bishop and Robert Lowell" by Thomas Travisano with Saskia Hamilton and wiled away an hour or two revisiting the lovely "George Sand - Gustave Flaubert Letters" at Project Gutenburg.

"...Darling you don't know how much I love you and long to be with you for ever and ever..." enjoy the letter here.

The shining declarations of love and heartfelt proposals in so many of the Australia Post letters are deeply moving, and as mentioned above it doesn't take much to make me weep nowadays, but I think it's the idea of sustaining rich, rewarding, affectionate relationships through text over many years that speaks to the real romantic in me.

"I don't know what sort of feeling I have for you, but I have a particular tenderness for you, and one I have never felt for anyone, up to now. We understand each other, didn't we, that was good. "

Gustav Flaubert to George Sand

The Conquest of Happiness

2009-10-08T23:56:00.001+11:00

"Of all forms of caution, caution in love is perhaps the most fatal to true happiness."

Bertrand Russell, The Conquest of Happiness

Some Of My Fave Posts @ Wilful Damage

2009-09-26T18:19:00.010+10:00

With this blog fast approaching its fifth birthday I thought I'd start pulling out a few posts from the past that I've particularly enjoyed writing. You'll find them in the sidebar and I'll update the list every few weeks. Indulge a girl a little nostalgia will ya!

In the meantime I'll put me head to thinking about how to celebrate.

To read, go click. :)

Sometimes...

2009-09-26T18:07:00.006+10:00

Sometimes decorum gives way to desire.
Almost all the time.

For more vulgarity go here.

“The Intent to Arouse: A Concise History of Sex, Shame, and the Moving Image"

2009-09-21T16:20:00.001+10:00

Image courtesy of Comstock Films

Readers of this blog will know that I've been a fan of Tony Comstock's particular brand of filmmaking for a long time. You might also know that I am keen on exploring ideas around sexuality and expressions of sexuality in society. To that end I have particularly enjoyed reading Tony's "The Intent To Arouse" blog where he's been digging a little history, telling some stories and recounting some of the challenges and battles (a couple fought here in Australia) he and his wife Peggy have faced in the quest to make films with real people, real life and real sex.

Tony's observations on "Sex, Shame, and the Moving Image" are on one hand broad and intelligent and on the other, detailed, insightful and very personal - all are fascinating. I'm not sure if anyone has ever told this story and certainly not from this perspective. If you haven't already, go visit the blog, or if you are in New York go along and hear Tony speak as a special guest presenter at the Tisch School of the Arts this coming Wednesday. Details are below.

Tony Comstock - The Intent to Arouse: A Concise History of Sex, Shame, and the Moving Image

Event Date and Time: Wednesday, September 23,2009, at 6:15pm
Location: Department of Cinema Studies, Michelson Theatre
Tisch School of the Arts
721 Broadway, Room 648

Guest Speaker
Tony Comstock – “The Intent to Arouse: A Concise History of Sex, Shame, and the Moving Image”

In a world that seems awash in sexualized imagery, why is it that so little of this imagery speaks to the common pleasurable reality of sex? Award-winning filmmaker Tony Comstock (Real People, Real Life, Real Sex erotic documentary series) takes us into the legal and business realities that shape and too often warp the sexual imagery we see.

Drawing on examples from Hollywood's history of self-censorship, landmark obscenity cases, and the collision of technology and image-making, Comstock offers an expanded framework for understanding how what we do and do not see in cinema effects our understanding of our own sexuality.

This event is free and open to the public.

Refreshments are provided at all Wednesday Night Series events.
For more information -

Jeff Richardson
Phone: 212-998-1649
jeff.richardson@nyu.edu

Or visit for details and transport information - Tisch and for the whole program go here.

Feasting

2009-09-18T21:49:00.007+10:00

She was hungry, of that there was no doubt
She could think of little else
When noon struck, her stomach spoke
But lower in her belly was the real hunger
When ten past rolled by, she needed sustenance
Or spend the afternoon light headed and distracted
Home was where she had to be
She needed lunch and she needed it now
She’d needed it at midnight and seven and ten
At 11.45am the ache that was want, gnawed
She needed lunch and she needed it now
She needed it fast, good and hot and plenty
Plate piled high - need met chance
with fingers and the flash of steel
And greedy repeatings
‘til dolce brought a sweet,
syrupy satisfaction of fullness
She feasted at lunch

Half Nekkid Thursday - Lace Edge

2009-09-18T00:55:00.001+10:00

The lace edge is soft and stretchy - demure almost, and it serves to mark where fabric and skin meet but there is almost always a tussle, a dispute over where that line might be.

Happy HNT to you all! Go check Osbasso for all the other lovely HNTers.

I Make Him Drip

2009-09-07T21:39:00.002+10:00

I make him drip, little love drops, glistening in the Saturday morning light, sun shining through our window telling us we should be up, but we are not. We have taken to our bed in our child free house, after a very late night, we need sleep, but we need each other more.

“I love the way you smell, I love the way you look” – he takes my pussy into his mouth and tugs at my lips.

And all the while the drip. Shiny threads drip down. Clear and bright.

There are fingers and tongue and the loving stretch of a fist twisting and turning making me moan and fly. The slippery drip makes him glide over my flesh, lubricating his thumb in its placation of my clit.

There is this way and that, bending, kneeling, straddling, spreadeagle – his arms spread my legs impossibly high and wide – it’s too much, too deep, too wide, too hard, too perfect.

And the drips find their way in wet, silky threads – with a fingertip I lead one from him to me - joining cock to cunt. I make him drip.

Tim Gunn's Favorite Fashion Photos

2009-09-07T13:22:00.006+10:00

Diverse Designs by Christian Dior, 1957
Photo: Loomis Dean./Time & Life Pictures/Getty Images
Jan 01, 1957

It maybe a little caustic, but dear God I do love Tim Gunn's take on the modern model. Of the vintage image above he says -

"What strikes me about this image is the maturity of the look of the models. Their faces say, 'I've seen a lot of the world, and I'm confident in my style, and I possess a sophistication and beauty that is enviable.' This is in stunning contrast to corresponding photo shoots today. Today's editorial models appear to be barely out of puberty. Their faces say, 'I've been to a few rock concerts, I use a lot of illegal substances, and the closest I come to a book is reading the wall on my Facebook page.' C'est la vie…"

...just what are those girls doing on the ladder? But the gowns, the gowns!

Thanks to Virginia at Deep Glamour. For more of Tim Gunn's Favorite Fashion Photos - go here.

My Mother's Passing

2009-08-31T11:08:00.014+10:00

My mother is dead, dear, wonderful woman that she was. I have trouble believing this to be true, but sadly it is, I saw it with my own eyes and felt the coldness that confirmed it.

My Mum had rapidly advancing Alzheimer’s and as is the way of so many elderly folk, broke her hip in a fall and some six weeks later she suffered a severe stroke that left her in a semi conscious state. Her carers and specialist declared, well, not so much declared as quietly suggested, that further treatment was futile and that moving her to a hospital was not advisable.

So she stayed where she was, in the very lovely care centre that had been her home for the last few months, in a private room that overlooked a sunny garden courtyard. And her passing was eased. In that last week she took no food or water, no medication, just a clean, expertly pressed nightie each day, some talcum powder, a little salve on her lips and four hourly turning. We sat, held her hand, stroked her hair and talked with her.

My daughter had sent her Grandma hand drawn cards – entreaties to “Get Better Soon” and heartfelt declarations of “We Love You So Much” – decorated with big purple love hearts and flowers – gently, gently we shared the news that this time there would be no getting better.

My mother looked like a little bird there in her bed, she was quite still save for her quiet breathing. The contrast to her previously feisty, vibrant self was so very stark.

She was terribly thin. She was terribly vulnerable and she was terribly dying, each day spending a little more time deeper in sleep.

I opened her curtains so that the bright sun of northern Australia that she so loved would shine in – the sky was deepest blue every day that week. We gathered to tell stories around her bed, each one of us adding another vividly coloured thread of our memories to her story. She seemed to hear our voices. She loved Test cricket, and flowers and knitting and dancing and Scrabble. She lived for breakfast and tiny cups of strong espresso coffee throughout the day.

I filled her room with boughs of the exuberant purple blooms from her favourite tree that grows so vigorously outside her kitchen window. She loved the view from that window, especially when the tree would fill with birds in the early evening – I wanted her to be surrounded with the life and abundance and the colour she was so fond of. She wore bright batik sarongs and borrowed library books by the bagful, she loved ice cream.

I played her favourite passionate tangos in the vain hope that some of the intrigue and sensuous life contained therein would nourish her. As a child I had loved her telling the story of how she had met my Dad at a dance and that she was quite sure on that first meeting that they would be wed. Her love was like that – sure and enduring. At dances she’d tire my father out and still want more. Up until her 80th birthday she’d dance, and just as she had when we were children, she’d take our hands and encourage us to move and be moved by the music. She believed in the power of music to transport, to transcend and transform. In her declining years the music moved her beyond the limit of her illness. She loved the Samba, the Rumba and the Cha Cha Cha.

I kissed her dear, dear face and breathed the familiar scent of her soft skin and her beautiful hair wanting desperately to imprint her in my memory more securely. I told her I loved her, that we all loved her and that we would look after our Dad. She loved romance and opera, she loved Greek and Roman mythology, she loved languages, she loved her husband, she loved her children and she loved our children.

Facing the inevitable we clutch and grasp when it comes to life and death and each parting becomes a time of terrible uncertainty in which goodbyes must be said in the knowledge that each time might be last time, until one day, it is. We were close she and I, and though we lived at a distance, I never doubted that I was in her thoughts as she was in mine. We were used to goodbyes, but that week of comings and goings from her bedside, morning and evening was hard, so very hard.

I listened while the dear man, who as my mother's doctor for more than ten years, had concluded each consultation with a hug and a fond kiss to her forehead –the same family doctor who in 2005 had been loathe to give my father the news of my mother’s official diagnosis because, “Alzheimers is a bastard of a disease”- soothed my Dad’s torment and sadness about the decision to stop her treatment and sustenance, and his terrible feeling that he was literally starving her to death.

I watched as that young doctor rose quietly to the occasion. He calmly gave my father exactly the information and reassurance he needed to hear, in a way that he could hear it – each word chosen to bring maximum comfort, frankly and gently confronting the truth of her impending death and his sincere wish that her last breath and passing be peaceful.

Hardest of all was leaving my courageous father alone to tell his beloved wife of 55 years that she mustn’t be afraid, that it was all right to let go.

My brother stayed with her through the nights that week, we didn’t want her to be alone. She passed away in his arms very early in the morning on the Friday, the same morning that I slept in her bed, in her bedroom, in her house. When his call came and we’d talked, I made tea and sat in her chair in the quiet of the house that she loved and weighed up the kindness of letting my father sleep a few more hours before having to bring him the news. Later, just before dawn I tucked him back into bed with his grief.

Days after, having been strong for my Dad, having been organised for my family, after being calm for my kids, I was angry. I was furious – not at her, no, not at her, but at this gross injustice perpetrated against her, against our family, against my dear father, angry at a disease that granted her little peace. How could she been so reduced, how could her world have been made so tiny? How could she be dead?

I wept in her garden. I cried so many tears, sobbed great hard sobs there under that tree with its purple blooms, I cried like a child until I thought I would break. Later I sat with my father on the sofa and let him be my Dad, holding his hand while we talked and became resigned, letting him comfort me. I told him that I was sure my mother had felt well loved all her life and how grateful we were of his steady and compassionate care of her in the last years of her illness. I told him how very well loved he and our mother had made us feel all our lives.

We reminisced about travelling and the fine holidays we had fishing and camping all over the country. We spoke of her feisty tenacity and her ability to enthuse people into doing whatever was necessary. We laughed about the times he and she would lead a team cooking for two hundred fire fighters battling blazes in the Victorian bush for weeks on end and how much those fellows had loved my Mum’s food and loved her for cooking it.

When the time came we sent her off in fine style with a bower of vivid blooms, we wore colourful clothes in her honour. Her friends scattered scented rose petals and patted the pale wood of her casket in the same gentle way they might of patted her shoulder in conversation.

Eulogies were spoken – we spoke of her sense of fun and adventure, her keen intellect, her vivacity, her energy, her dignity and mostly her love of family. Her love was all embracing, generous, and non judgmental.

We spoke of her love of life. We spoke of her great capacity for friendship.

Even in her seventies she gathered friends and admirers. One such dear fellow recited with a voice thick with emotion, romantic passages from The Divine Comedy by Dante Aligieri at her wake, recounting fond times when he and my mother would discuss and share their love of literature. Dear little white haired ladies who’d link their arm in hers and say of their friendship, “She’s my long lost sister!” with big grins on their faces, were saddened that there would be no more little chats and sharing of confidences.

And so, Nat King Cole crooned “These Foolish Things” while we reminisced over lovely photographs and after poems and prayers were said we played “Shall We Dance?” from the King and I – quite loudly. When the first notes were heard, through their tears, friends and family smiled in the full knowledge that my mother would have liked that -

…Or perchance,
When the last little star has left the sky,
Shall we still be together
With our arms around each other
And shall you be my new romance?
On the clear understanding
That this kind of thing can happen,
Shall we dance?
Shall we dance?
Shall we dance?

– she would have liked that very much, and her answer of course would have been an unequivocal, enthusiastic and emphatic, “Yes!”

I miss her dreadfully already and even on the days when I think I’m okay something will trigger a moment when I’m quite not okay – I understand that that is just the way it is. She’s not gone though – she’s here when I throw the dish towel across my shoulder when I cook, when I discuss the Latin and Greek origin of words with my eleven year old, when I call my daughter ‘Stellina’, when I say “take care’ each day when they leave for school, when we say “buon appetito” each meal time and “buona notte” before “sweet dreams” each and every night. She’s here when I kiss our kids and tell them they are clever and lovely and kind and that I love them very much and my dear, sweet Mum is most certainly here when we dance.

More information on Alzheimer's Disease here and her e.

The King and I - enjoy!

Not Drowning - Waving

2009-08-02T21:28:00.003+10:00

Apologies for my neglect of this, my small corner of the internet. The sailing isn't so smooth at this point in time, and on land, I'm looking forward to the return of the leaves to the trees.

At 46

2009-07-12T01:15:00.003+10:00

Earlier this week I celebrated another turn around the sun with tea in bed made by my ten year old son, hand crafted cards decorated with many, many kisses, a fabulously extravagant gift of perfumed goods, glorious books, flowers, cake and calls and kind messages of love from family and friends.

A dear friend and mentor who has known me since I was 21 sent me a lovely note wishing me a “spectacular year of great happiness.” It was that generous message in particular that had me contemplating the nature of happiness and how sadness and happiness interact and maybe balance each other out – mellowing the “spectacular” and at the same time softening melancholy.

My happiness these days is tempered by a deep sadness at the decline of my sweet mother – last year we danced together a little, holding hands in her front room to a Tom Jones tune. I’m so glad we did. She’s not going to be dancing again as far as I can tell after making a poor recovery from a hip replacement operation and sliding ever more deeply into the grip of Alzheimers. She’s chair and bed bound now and her world seems to be getting smaller by the minute.

Then there is my dear old Dad – he’s a slightly lost but brave soul missing the love of his life who has been his partner for more than 55 years. “I miss my girl,” he tells me and my heart breaks a little more. It’s a strange kind of limbo. She’s not gone but she has gone, if you know what I mean. Gone into a kind of holding pattern that doesn’t allow for the relief of grieving. I miss her too.

Against this background a new love begins and brings me joy. My beautiful niece has found the love of her life and will marry later this year – the very same niece I recall cradling in my arms when she was an infant what feels like just a few years ago. The same sweet niece who was the flower girl at my wedding has chosen my own dear little daughter to be hers.

As always the arrival of children into my life brings great excitement as the news that two very eagerly awaited babies have joyously been welcomed into the world and their respective mothers, dear friends of mine, are well and happy. There’s a little piquancy when I look at my own beautiful children and think that they too were babies only moments ago. That feeling is countered by my very real and abiding pleasure in the wonderful people my children are growing into. They are lovely.

And for every acknowledgement that my youth is slipping away comes the happiness that my minor triumphs bring. I am possibly fitter and stronger than I have ever been, I can lift heavy weights and enjoy it very much. My sweetheart occasionally feels compelled to give my shoulder a hearty, blokey slap every now and then, and make remarks like “I like that you’re not flimsy.” I’m taking that as a compliment! The fact that after nearly 21 years of marriage we still find pleasure in each other’s company and in each other’s bodies is very sweet indeed.

At forty six I have plenty to be happy about.

Muscular Admiration

2009-07-05T23:59:00.005+10:00

Photo from Just Jared Click image to biggify.

Love her or hate her, you have to admit Madonna has great quads.

Testing, testing...

2009-07-03T22:51:00.000+10:00

HNT - Unsuitable Tights

2009-07-02T23:59:00.010+10:00

This afternoon brought with it an icy blast straight from Antarctica that made my lacy tights quite unsuitable leg wear - there's obviously more skin than fabric. I did however have some fun making a few images with my iPhone and a cute app called Camera Bag . Happy HNT! Go tickle Osbasso. A few more at Flickr.

The Duel

2009-07-01T23:08:00.004+10:00

He said it was cluttered, I said it was clustered. Cluttered. Clustered.
I know clustered when I see it. It was very clearly clustered.

Back and forth it went.

We bickered, batting combatant words like a tennis ball around the courtyard.

Then he struck a low blow.

He said he didn’t like what I did with the plants.

I didn’t like that he didn’t like what I did with the plants.

It, of course was not about the few plants in pots.

It was a territory battle. The garden is his, apparently.

It seems, unbeknownst to me, in a treaty unsigned by my fair hand, he was awarded ownership.

Back and forth we traded insults with all the panache of two juvenile delinquents.

Idle threats were made – “I’ll just move them back when you’re not here.”

“I don’t think so.”

With the ball in my court, I went for the slam, “You should be nice to me.”

“I am nice to you.”

“You should be a whole lot nicer, I am your wife.“ He grinned at that.

This duel ended as only duels can, with pistols at ten paces.

Water pistols.

He doesn’t shoot fair, in fact, having grown up with a younger brother he’s unscrupulous and borderline vicious, aiming for vulnerable water-averse places like inner ears (the Geneva Convention be damned!)

Growing up with two older brothers, I’m well versed in the art of commando water warfare and am nothing if not malicious and persistent.

Shots were fired, streams found their target, much ground was covered - up around the vegetable garden, under the grapefruit tree, vantage points were taken up, behind the chook shed, sniper action was encountered, until at last the ammunition was all gone and we were both very wet.

This high noon showdown and the preceding squabble I am ashamed to say was witnessed by neighbour friends who’d dropped by. They feigned mock discomfiture at our arguing until I reassured them, “Don’t be worried, we argue so we have something to make up over.”

They thought we were (and remain) quite mad. There was a real risk that they too would get caught in the drenching water crossfire.

Our kids looked on in amusement before returning to the sanctuary of the house – they decided to leave to the safety of the neighbour’s house, taking the neighbours with them.

Water dripping from our respective heads, we retreated into the house in search of towels. When I’d dried the worst of the soaking, I went in search of him – retribution would be mine. I meant to make him pay.

I cornered him in the kitchen, puffing myself up to my full five foot, six inches I was at my most menacing best. I can be formidable you know? I could tell he was scared, he had that look in his eye - scared enough to immobilise my wrists in a tight grip and pull me into the walk in pantry.

His fear oddly manifested itself in the desire to shuck me out of my top. He pushed my bather top up until my tits bounced free. Perhaps he felt I’d be less of an opponent when rendered semi-naked. Whatever his cunning plan, my breasts seemed to be the target of his attention.

“You can’t do that, I’m still sandy from the beach.” He didn’t care, pulling the gritty flesh into peaks making me grunt a little with each tug.

Soon my shorts were on the floor and I’m was being lifted bodily.

This part of the duel ended as only a pantry based offensive can – with fucking.

Me, splay kneed on the counter, him with jeans tugged down to his ankles, standing between my thighs. Him, pushing his way into me, kissing me to stop my moans escaping our hideout. Kissing me to stop me talking, kissing me to stop me claiming my rightful victory.

“Clustered.”

“Cluttered.”

“Clustered.”

Brett and Melanie:Boi Meets Girl

2009-06-28T23:54:00.006+10:00

Tony and Peggy Comstock have announced the release date for their next film Brett and Melanie: Boi Meets Girl and opened up pre-orders with a great price offer.

Says Tony;

"A classic story of: boi meets high femme girl; boi wears big, black, strap-on; boi and girl share a spirited romp with their toys and each other. Wait, you mean you don't know that story? Trust us, it's a good one!

Brett and Melanie: Boi Meets Girl is the seventh film in our Real People, Real Life, Real Sex erotic documentary series. We're very excited about this film for the way it opens up questions about strength and vulnerability in the context of how we portray and interpret gender. Throughout Brett and Melanie’s interview, there is a constant dance of who is strong for whom, of who is vulnerable and who nurtures; and this dance continues when Brett and Melanie make love.

Brett and Melanie: Boi Meets Girl is currently in post-production with an anticipated release date in Fall 2009. This is your opportunity to pre-purchase Brett and Melanie: Boi Meets Girl at a super-special price ($17.95)—available for a limited time. "

Go here to see a clip from Brett and Melanie's interview and take advantage of the pre-order price!

Half Nekkid Thursday - Brace Face

2009-06-25T20:27:00.008+10:00

It’s been eight months since my teeth went into brace bondage and while I was kind of eager to just get on with it, part of me was filled with a sort of claustrophobia, a sense of getting into something and becoming trapped and being unable to escape or turn back – the labour of childbirth was the last time I think I felt like that.

For the first few weeks a good deal of my energy just went into learning how to eat and speak with a face full of metal and establishing a whole new oral hygiene routine, the details of which I will spare you dear reader. I am getting used to this contraption that seeks to tame a slightly errant bite and I am doing okay after a shaky start that involved a near death incident when a crusty crouton provided an unexpected choking hazard at lunch just a few days after I had the braces installed. I narrowly averted calamity by having a quick rethink on merit of talking and eating, lucky I was with friends huh? I had to laugh when I looked up from my soup bowl, I must have been concentrating hard because all three of them had looks of sweetly concerned amusement as I negotiated liquid from bread – my companions were apparently preparing themselves to perform the (now outdated) Heimlich manoeuvre on my unsuspecting self should the need arise.

Braces certainly make you consider food in a totally new light and the most innocent of condiments or garnish can provide unexpected challenges, for example seed mustard – grave mistake my dears, don’t do it.

In the first few weeks the things I missed were rubbing my lips together in that MMMMMMing motion to smooth lipstick, I’ve learned how to do this now but eating spaghetti remains especially difficult. Lately my top lip which is quite full at the best of times, now has this slightly odd pouty thing happening – after every visit to the orthodontist for an adjustment my teeth feel very slightly loose like I have been punched in the mouth. Not very sexy I’m afraid. However, and again I think this goes to show that there is indeed a kink for everyone - at a forum I visited for adults with braces the forum moderators warn against posting pictures of your teeth in braces as they’ve found that the images end up on fetish sites devoted to orthodontic devices. Who knew? Who knew I ask you!

And yes, it is entirely possible to give a blow job with a face full of braces. :) See previous post.

Happy HNT - go hit up Osbasso!

The Romance of Cocksucking By Candlelight

2009-06-24T23:35:00.007+10:00

As the winter begins in earnest and I’m home with a cold that’s rendered me weak and cranky my thoughts have turned to summer… or particularly, summers passed.

My sweetheart has a thing about light. He likes to do it with the lights on and for that matter so do I, we’ve been known to fuck in the living room and use the reading lamp to create a bit of theatre. We have nice lamps that throw around a warm, flattering light in our bedroom at home. I have a beautiful little antique silk shade on my side of the bed and he has a brighter, whiter lamp on his bedside table, together they combine to make enough light to see the juicy details but keep the atmosphere intimate. The bedroom we have under control, it’s camping that throws up all sorts of challenges when it comes to lighting design.

Friends kind of make fun in a light hearted way when they know we’re off to camp over the summer (at powered sites) I don’t exactly pack light. Our tent based bedroom is a love nest – rug on the floor, top grade mattress, underlay, good cotton sheets, bedding according to the season, extra pillows and a soft furry rug – the bedside table is usually makeshift, a box of some kind that we’ve used to transport our stuff – upturned it holds the lamp, a travel clock, a book or three and a drink – the ever so handy built-in tent pockets alongside our heads hold lube and massage oils in carefully zip locked bags. I see no reason to abandon comfort or the trappings of leisure that I enjoy at home – I’m not backpacking, I’m not required to carry this stuff on my back, I will make a tent my home in the fashion of a luxury safari as opposed to that of a scout.

That said, as mentioned before at this blog, the proximity to one’s neighbours in the highly sought after beachside paradise that is the coast not far from here, can be tricky for the vocally inclined or even the visually inclined. Without careful attention to light placement you can find yourself putting on quite the shadow play…

Thing is, I like to see him, he likes to see me, the way he looks is a major turn on for me and he’s very fine looking. At home in our bedroom, we often like to be at opposite ends of the bed and tease each other just with looking, drinking each other in, in a leisurely way. Camping, whilst it appears to be about living more simply, if even for a short time, can actually make lovemaking more complicated, so we play this balancing game of wanting to remain relatively private, quiet and discreet but wanting to be able to see each other. That’s where the candles come in.

A couple of years ago as part of a school fundraiser we bought a batch of pretend candles. When I say pretend, I mean they are short, squat candles made in a soft, cream coloured plastic with a low golden light powered by a couple of batteries. They sound dreadfully tacky but in fact they are quite sweet and have done duty when the occasion needed some sort of safe night light for our kids. Anyway, the candles seem to find their way into our camping gear regularly and the children keep them close to their camp beds in case of midnight toilet excursions.

On this particular evening our kids were tucked into their sleeping bags, fast asleep after a busy day at the beach, cosy on their stretcher beds, zipped into their own private tent bedroom, their father and I just on the other side of the canvas wall in our own space.

It’s warm and we’re naked, we kiss, he kneels alongside my head so that I, without too much effort can lazily take him into my mouth. Everything is going along fine. He looks beautiful, long sleek body poised right there. He feels so good on my tongue, in my throat. He stifles little groans. I suck quietly as his hands roam all over my body. We have light. It’s a nifty torch that converts to a lamp that gives off a soft glow but not soft enough to blur the now explicit shadows of his kneeling body complete with rampant cock, that paint the outer wall of our tent. He notices this.

“Hold on,” he says.

I reluctantly relinquish his cock while he leans across and shifts the lamp to another position aiming to obliterate the shadows.

“Okay, that should do it.”

Only it doesn’t. Now the shadow quite clearly shows my head bobbing towards his belly while his cock slips down my throat – in, out, in, out.

This makes me giggle and it’s hard to giggle when you’ve got a mouth full of lovely cock.

“Just a sec, this should fix it.”

Again he shifts the lamp. Again I resume my work, all the more eager for the interruption.

Somehow this time the effect of the lamp is to make us both huge, so not only are we naked, and cock sucking, but enormous, our shadow taking up an entire wall of the tent. The end wall. The wall that faces onto our fellow campers tent.

“Bloody hell,” he murmurs, cussing under his breath. “I’ll be back.”

He zips through the wall and disappears into the kid’s room, grinning he returns with a plastic, pretend candle. My sweetheart can be ingeniously single minded, remarkably inventive and clever when his quest involves my mouth around his cock.

He turns off the pesky lamp.

The room plunges into darkness, emerging into dim light as our eyes adjust to whatever moonlight makes itself available and the warm glow of the pretend candle.

He kneels again, thank goodness I think, looking forward to snuggling my head into his lap again, picking up where we left off, feeling him grow hard again in my mouth. Apparently we had the shadow issue under control. We could relax.

Everything was okay until I took the opportunity to glance upward from my place at his thighs to see my sweetheart with the aforementioned battery powered faux candle held proudly aloft, his arm high above his head, dim light of the candle cast triumphantly heavenward.

For a brief moment I saw myself sucking the Statue of Liberty, I know she has no cock but dear God I broke out laughing, he laughed too but tried to silence me by pushing his cock further down my throat, but my mirth wouldn’t be contained.

By the fourth night we thought of the brilliant idea of moving the light sufficiently to the outer edge of the tent so that it threw what shadow it might back into the tent

Of course, now we’re back home, I can’t look at the little candles in the same light ever again.

The Big Chill - Robe

2009-06-19T22:50:00.003+10:00

Time to drag out the cosy robe here.

The Splendour That Is The Sartorialist

2009-06-18T00:35:00.007+10:00

If you haven't visited The Sartorialist lately, now is a very good time to do so. I am pretty much in love with the fantastically beautiful photographs he generally takes but even if you're not a fashion hound it's hard not to enjoy the sweet exuberance of the most recent Dance Day Sunday photos. Really wonderful photography stands out by a long mile.