Archive for May, 2010

marble arse
This was originally written for the official ‘fauxmos’ blog: We Haven’t Kissed Enough Pretty Girls ‘Fauxmos’ simply refers to anyone who rejects fixed sexual and gender identities. But also it relates to the group blog we set up in that name.


It is fast becoming a ‘Fauxmos’ catchphrase. I have to admit it is as good as any I have heard: ‘Bumming up the arse anally’ does have a nice ring to it.

But actually, when it comes to sexual and gender identity, and specifically, control of and limiting of those identities, bumming is a very serious business indeed.

My first experience of anal sex felt like my first time of any kind of sex, all over again. The slight fear and anxiety, the pain when his cock entered my unmarked territory, the shock of being so utterly attached physically to someone. The way he held me and shook, when he came. The strange sensation in my arse afterwards, the sheer intensity of it.  It opened my eyes and made them sting a little all at the same time.

But I never talked to my friends about bumming, not the way we might casually laugh and joke, and share details of the rest of our ‘sex lives’. This suddenly felt taboo. I remember a mate of mine saying she didn’t like ‘fetish’ things, such as anal sex.  It’s not a fetish I thought, it’s just something else to do.

But anal sex has become fetishised in our culture. It signifies male homosexuality, and not in a positive way. If you call someone a queer or a fag, or a sodomite, or a bugger, or a bummer, you aren’t really giving them a compliment are you?

I am not an expert, but I know that historically, the laws around homosexuality have fetishised bumming too:

I feel like I could go on about this subject at great length, not because of my vast experience, but because it sheds a little light on why sexual identity is so ridiculous. Does it matter if you are a man fucking another man with your dick in his ass? Or a woman with a strap-on fucking a man? Or a trans man fucking a woman with a strap-on? Or a woman fucking her girlfriend with a finger, or a fist, up the ass? Do these separate yet really quite similar acts warrant being classified into whole types of people? I don’t think so. I don’t think Melissa Gira and her friend think so either:

I have introduced anal sex to a number of men. I have enjoyed their eye-watering, intense, exciting ‘first time’ as much as I enjoyed my own. I loved especially their wonder and slight discomfort, at doing something with a compliant (yet assertive) woman, that they probably only really imagined men did with other men. This  implied being gay, which they weren’t, so they tried not to think about it at all. I like to believe that I have done my little bit to break down the barriers between sexuality typologies,  and got rid of some of the assumptions and prejudices that make us all so unhappy.

Don Paterson is the only writer I know who has written about anal sex in a heterosexual relationship. He captures something of the sadness I feel at no longer knowing my first bumming partner – who would have loved fauxmos. Paterson’s poem also captures the sadness of doing something that means you don’t get to look in your lover’s face, and you don’t get to feel ‘normal’ and safe.  But what the fuck is the point in normal and safe anyway?

and though I know it’s over with
and she is miles from me
I stay a while to mine the earth
for what was lost at sea

as if the faces of the drowned
might turn up in the harrow:
hold me when I hold you down
and plough the lonely furrow.

A Confession #2

Posted: May 31, 2010 in Desire, Writing

I have just realised: the sex blog is a confessional.

It is just that the confessor and the priest keep switching roles.

I love that image, two people in isolation, speaking so intimately, like lovers. Sworn to secrecy.

If we could just get rid of the concept of ‘sin’ it might be a very therapeutic process.

I absolve you of your sins. Now tell me everything.

Extreme Pornography

Posted: May 30, 2010 in Porn

In my real life, I am much better known for being political than for being kinky.

My blog leads to many more conversations about  its kink/erotica than its politics.

On a friend’s erotica  blog, I was drawn to the only post that was very political. I found that post incredibly sexy.

People try their hardest to seperate sex/arousal from thought/serious action.

I am going to continue to do my damdest to make that separation impossible.

Call me Foucault’s disciple. Call me whore. Call me Jeanette Winterson’s biggest fan. Call me a rubbish pornographer.

Pornography is defined in America as material with no artistic merit with the sole purpose of achieving sexual arousal.

Artistic merit is not defined. The purpose of making profit is not mentioned.

In the UK it is illegal to possess extreme pornography. But not to make it, if you are participating in the extremities.

I am participating in the extremities. But these are only words so how can you be sure?

Currently, sexually extreme words are still not illegal. This may not always be the case.

My pornography is just another form of resistance.

I hope you came.

It All Starts Here

Posted: May 29, 2010 in Kink, Porn
Tags: ,

Dawn bathed the mountains in a cool blue light. The sun touched snowy peaks with pale yellow fingers. Ice glistened and snow began its slow build-up towards avalanche.

At the house, wooden shutters kept us in darkness. I woke anyway, to the sound of the stream rushing and gurgling past, as if it had an urgent appointment with the sea, and was running late. I heard another sound that I was struggling to recognise in my semi-conscious state. The clink of metal against metal. It reminded me of the sheep’s bells. These were rusty make-shift tin things, attached by the ‘bergers’ around the necks of the unsuspecting creatures to signify their march down from the higher slopes onto the grassy hillsides. But the clinking sound was closer than that; it was coming from me.

I didn’t need to look. In a sudden flash of clarity I knew the source of the sound. I had been lain there all night, naked apart from two thick metal chains, padlocked to ankle and wrist cuffs. Every time I moved in bed, the clink of metal against metal gave me away. Next to me someone was sleeping. I listened to his breathing and tried to keep still so as not to wake him. Outside the stream paid no attention to our situation; it had more important things to do.

So much for freedom, so much for independence. So much for my theory, long-held and much-discussed with whoever would listen, that I needed my personal space. Not least when I was abed, tossing and turning in my private domain. I preferred to sleep alone, I moved and dreamed on my terms, and I would not compromise for anyone. The heavy chains between my legs and arms, and the man sleeping peacefully beside me knew different. Between them they had blown my theory to pieces. I lay there trying not to breathe, suddenly feeling sheepish.

Before I had time to really compute the implications of this paradigm shift, before I could find a new theory to replace the old, a new but equally acceptable way of asserting my autonomy, the man beside me stirred. ‘Good morning’ he said, contentedly, as he turned and touched my arm, and the metal that adorned my skin. ‘Morning’ I mumbled in reply, attempting to remain statuesque, as if that was the dignified thing to do. But dignity had long gone from this room, and was tumbling towards the sea on a wave of abandonment. The man, alert and sure of himself, didn’t waste time with watery metaphors. He had already got out of bed, moved around the room,opened the shutters and returned with something clinking in his hands.

As he added more chain, and padlocked my arms to the metal bedstead, and I clinked and chimed like church bells, as he pushed my arms behind me and went down to part my legs to take what was his, just before all hopes of rationality were lost, as the water rushed over my head, as the sheep scattered and stumbled down the mountain, as everything went dark, I had one last tiny helpless thought: it all starts here.


Posted: May 29, 2010 in Porn, Writing
Tags: ,

I have recently been in receipt of some mindblowing academic porn. I am open to all sorts of methods and media for turning me on. But nothing beats a full-on, intellectual analysis of my favourite topic of enquiry: sex.

I have come over all Dr. Ross of Scrubs fame, because I want to have sex with these ideas, this argument; it makes me want to cheat on all the other ideas and arguments I  have been dating all these years.

We live in anti-intellectual times. We live in very prescriptive, censorious times. Our bodies and minds are not respected as the beautiful, free, intelligent organs that they are and could be.

So writing and thinking about, and analysing sex has the potential to be a revolutionary act.

Except for one small detail.

If we don’t actually fuck, this whole subject becomes completely academic.

The second Sex In The City Movie has just been released, and judging by my little corner of the interwebz it seems to be causing something of a furore.  I keep being sent links to article after article, blog after blog, all wailing about how utterly awful it is. If the majority of the (feminist in the main) detractors of the film are to be believed, SATC2 is the worst misgogyny to come out of Hollywood since Roman Polanski. The main thrust of these feminist writers’ arguments is that what was once an entertaining, empowering, feminist TV show about independent, career minded women, has now descended into a turgid shopping and fucking fest. With a little bit of racism sprinkled on top for good measure.

I don’t understand these tirades. It feels to me like these people have been watching a completely different show from the one I have. I thought SATC had always been about shopping and fucking. Oh and eating, and drinking cocktails, and most of all talking. Women talking about shopping and fucking. The careers of Samantha, Carrie, Charlotte and Miranda were merely backdrops to their decadent sex-filled lifestyles. A private view at Charlotte’s gallery for example, was just an excuse for the girls to pick up men between the canapes. A new male PA at Samantha’s firm was a lead-in to some hot on-the-desk fucking. And perhaps the iconic image of the show, Carrie typing away on her laptop, wearing only a bra and pants, was always about the bra and pants not the writing.  But I didn’t think we watched SATC for stories of empowered women, making it in the male dominated professional world. We have The West Wing for that don’t we?

God knows there is enough to criticise the TV show for, let alone the films. Its representation of anyone who doesn’t belong to the whiter than white, middle to upper class, all-American Hamptons set was pathetic. The constant refrain from the main characters of ‘I need a fuck/boyfriend/husband’ to complete me, got boring after a while. Though the programme was made by Gay writers and producers, the portrayal of gay, lesbian, bisexual and transgender characters was cliched and grating. But I forgave it all that and more, because this was the first time in the history of mainstream, primetime TV that women had been shown in leading roles, seeking out, enjoying, and talking about orgasmic, pleasure-filled, exhilarating sex. This is the revolutionary aspect of SATC, and its legacy for feminism. No Hollywood feature length moneyspinner can take that away from us, can it ladies and gents?

Ah, but wait. I am not sure everybody does agree on this one. In reading these diatribes against SATC2 (which by the way I am sure is a terrible film), I have noticed something. The sexy, exuberant, experimental sexuality of the characters in the TV programmes, was not what these feminist critics enjoyed at all. They actually seem to have found it kind of vulgar. Take this quote from a review by Lindy West that has been Retweeted to notoriety on twitter today

‘Samantha, being the prostitute (< crossed out)  sexual revolutionary that she is, rages against the machine by publicly grabbing the engorged penis of a man’

What was that word you crossed out in this new, faux ironic way Lindy? Prostitute. Oh. That word.  Now I am a supporter of sex workers and I would love to see a sex worker character in a hit TV comedy. But Samantha Jones is in no way shape or form a prostitute. Her character has always been based around someone who has assertively sought out sexual experiences, on her own terms, for their own sake, and she has dated men from a range of economic backgrounds. She is the type of woman you could imagine hiring a rent boy for the night, and think nothing of it. Samantha’s longest most serious relationship was with Smith, a young out-of-work actor, whose career she boosted with her PR contacts and marketing know how (and cash). This is not the narrative of Pretty Woman.

Samantha is a feminist hero to me. She is sexy, intelligent, funny, independent, a bit guarded emotionally, but also vulnerable, sexually adventurous and fearless. What’s not to like?

Underneath the veneer of outrage at feminine stereotypes, objectification of women, and needy female heterosexuality, these critiques have revealed themselves to be just another attack on women like Samantha, who enjoy, speak openly about and experiment with their sexuality.

Another feminist hero of mine, Zoe Margolis, has recently won a libel case against the Independent on Sunday newspaper, who, in an article about her latest book: Girl with a one track mind: exposed, called her an ex ‘hooker’. When she won her case, Zoe said that she was celebrating her win as  ‘a small victory for feminism’ because it was a successful challenge of a sexist media, which ‘conflates female sexuality with prostitution’. It is depressing to find that it is not just the media, but also influential feminists, who are making this same, sexist conflation between women’s sexuality and sex work.

I support sex workers. And I support women who want to enjoy and discuss their sexuality, without being labelled prostitutes or hookers. I am sure sex workers themselves do not want to be defined only in terms of their job, and that they would like also to be treated as women with sex lives,  women who watch SATC  maybe, and laugh and talk about sex with their mates as we all do.

So basically, what I am saying is, fuck you neo-puritans. Samantha rocks!

A Confession

Posted: May 26, 2010 in Writing

Dear friends,

I have a confession to make. I suspect the more perceptive amongst you have noticed already. But I thought I would come clean.

I am one of those bloggers who thinks before she thinks before she has a cup of tea, before she writes (often in…gasp!… Longhand) before she types before she drafts before she posts before she edits before she finally publishes her work.

This, on the whole, I believe is beneficial in terms of the quality of my smut and the clarity of my arguments.

But sometimes, just sometimes, I feel like sitting down in front of the computer with a glass of wine and… letting rip. Writing about how I feel. Now. In this moment.  I want to describe the strange, familiar yet not-often felt feeling of butterflies in my stomach. I want to tell you how I think I sometimes deny myself certain pleasures for the sake of being ‘strong’ or ‘principled’.  I want to describe a fantasy I had earlier today, that was as far away from kinky debauchery as you could get. That involved me, lying on the grass in the sun, my lover lying next to me with his hand on my belly. The rush of warmth and excitement that flowed through me, my body pressing down into the earth…

I guess I want to use this blog as an outlet, like all those other ones I read, sometimes in horror, sometimes in utter utter boredom, but occasionally with great admiration and respect. For opening up about personal feelings and insecurities in a public arena, I think is a very brave act. Whether or not you identify yourself in the URL.

But, as the more perceptive among you will be well aware. I’m not going to.

Partly because I am thinking of you. I want you to continue to enjoy the more thought-out prose I post on these pages. I don’t want to turn this into a confession booth. But I feel like it. Just this once I feel like it.

Dear Father, please forgive me for I have sinned.