Thanks to tasty Tich for the pic. Love & seasonal kisses all over from Sadie
Exploring the dark places of the body and mind.
Thursday, December 22, 2005
Hope you unwrap someone sexy on Christmas Day
Thanks to tasty Tich for the pic. Love & seasonal kisses all over from Sadie
Sunday, December 18, 2005
That moist feeling
I’ve not been feeling myself lately.
Although in one respect that sentence isn’t quite true as with no girlfriend around I’ve been doing rather a lot of it actually. However, in the other sense, that of mood swings I’m afraid I’m swinging lower than a bulldog’s balls.
I’m feel so bad that I’m even beginning to like Coldplay’s songs for Christ’s sake. Yes, it’s getting that suicidal!
So my concerned friends are rallying around in their own particular rally styles.
My two special Christmas fairies Dolce and Gabbana decided a big hairy alpha male would perk me up (and we’ve all tried that, haven’t we girls?). So they took me to see King Kong.
I don’t know which of us cried more. I started blubbing at the Central Park ice scene and by the time Kong and Naomi were staring into each other’s eyes on top of the Empire State we were all in a right state. In fact, I can't remember whose eye make-up ran more.
Still a touch of dampness around the eyes does wonders for your spirits and I felt much better afterwards in Couch 33. Fuck Coldplay let’s have another cocktail.
My good friend Ms Rude prescribed dampness too - but at the other end of my body.
Her vast experience suggested that what I needed was a good seeing-too so she set up a blind date (and what with my puffy eyes and sallow complexion they’d have to be blind)
“A contented cunt means a contented soul”, she said sagely.
My, what a beautiful thought for the human race. Set it to music, have it crooned by James Blunt and it could be a surprise Christmas No 1. “A con-ten-ted cun-t…” yes I can almost hear his girly voice.
Sadly the evening itself wasn’t a hit. My date turned out to be an avid reader of my blog and my stories so I expect she imagined I come in the pub door on a sled pulled by polar bears wearing a white latex thong, thigh boots and a 12 inch strap-on and then proceed to shag her over the snooker table.
In fact, the only bending that night was of the ear variety. We talked, and talked about love lost and found. And later at Ms Rude’s flat the promised fuckfest became a kiss and a cuddle although remembering that I was 'Sadie Dark' I did slip my hand down her knickers.
Sadly though, whilst my finger was definitely into it, my heart wasn't. We parted soon after promising to ring each other.
(It’s not your fault Darling D – I was absolutely hopeless that night)
All this sorrow has put out the fire in my writing a bit. So when I got snappy with Morgan (my co-writer) over his comments about some of the jokes appearing a bit forced he decided to humour me.
He turned up one beautiful, crisp, blue-skied morning in his Morgan sports car and off we went for a country pub lunch.
Our arrival at the ‘Goatshagger’s Arms’ or whatever it was called, was great. A group of sheepskin coated male and female drinkers drawn outside by the winter sun just gawped.
If we’d turned up stark naked in the Queen’s State Coach we wouldn’t have created more interest. The Morgan, (a 1930’s style racer) is a star - all the men nodded approvingly and moved over to make envious comments.
The women hung back so I decided to show them some more shapely superstructure.
Out I got in my tight black pants, my knee high boots and Morgan’s flying jacket.
I got a flash of the women’s lined faces – each with a disapproving mouth like a cat’s bottom. So I decided to give them a flash.
On the pretext of reaching in for my bag I gave everyone a long and lingering look at my upturned bum.
As I straightened and turned, I noticed the men’s car chatter had briefly stalled, Morgan was smirking at me, and the women…the women. God those boozy bitches hated me.
The meal was brilliant but then it’s amazing what a seasoning of self-confidence can do to bangers and mash.
I felt like my old self (and I like my old self – she’s a spunky minx). I laughed so much with Morgan that there were actually tears in my eyes. At one point I felt like spontaneously breaking out into a rendition of “I’ll Survive”.
But I didn’t. I wonder if the pub realised how lucky they were.
Love & Laughter Sadie
Although in one respect that sentence isn’t quite true as with no girlfriend around I’ve been doing rather a lot of it actually. However, in the other sense, that of mood swings I’m afraid I’m swinging lower than a bulldog’s balls.
I’m feel so bad that I’m even beginning to like Coldplay’s songs for Christ’s sake. Yes, it’s getting that suicidal!
So my concerned friends are rallying around in their own particular rally styles.
My two special Christmas fairies Dolce and Gabbana decided a big hairy alpha male would perk me up (and we’ve all tried that, haven’t we girls?). So they took me to see King Kong.
I don’t know which of us cried more. I started blubbing at the Central Park ice scene and by the time Kong and Naomi were staring into each other’s eyes on top of the Empire State we were all in a right state. In fact, I can't remember whose eye make-up ran more.
Still a touch of dampness around the eyes does wonders for your spirits and I felt much better afterwards in Couch 33. Fuck Coldplay let’s have another cocktail.
My good friend Ms Rude prescribed dampness too - but at the other end of my body.
Her vast experience suggested that what I needed was a good seeing-too so she set up a blind date (and what with my puffy eyes and sallow complexion they’d have to be blind)
“A contented cunt means a contented soul”, she said sagely.
My, what a beautiful thought for the human race. Set it to music, have it crooned by James Blunt and it could be a surprise Christmas No 1. “A con-ten-ted cun-t…” yes I can almost hear his girly voice.
Sadly the evening itself wasn’t a hit. My date turned out to be an avid reader of my blog and my stories so I expect she imagined I come in the pub door on a sled pulled by polar bears wearing a white latex thong, thigh boots and a 12 inch strap-on and then proceed to shag her over the snooker table.
In fact, the only bending that night was of the ear variety. We talked, and talked about love lost and found. And later at Ms Rude’s flat the promised fuckfest became a kiss and a cuddle although remembering that I was 'Sadie Dark' I did slip my hand down her knickers.
Sadly though, whilst my finger was definitely into it, my heart wasn't. We parted soon after promising to ring each other.
(It’s not your fault Darling D – I was absolutely hopeless that night)
All this sorrow has put out the fire in my writing a bit. So when I got snappy with Morgan (my co-writer) over his comments about some of the jokes appearing a bit forced he decided to humour me.
He turned up one beautiful, crisp, blue-skied morning in his Morgan sports car and off we went for a country pub lunch.
Our arrival at the ‘Goatshagger’s Arms’ or whatever it was called, was great. A group of sheepskin coated male and female drinkers drawn outside by the winter sun just gawped.
If we’d turned up stark naked in the Queen’s State Coach we wouldn’t have created more interest. The Morgan, (a 1930’s style racer) is a star - all the men nodded approvingly and moved over to make envious comments.
The women hung back so I decided to show them some more shapely superstructure.
Out I got in my tight black pants, my knee high boots and Morgan’s flying jacket.
I got a flash of the women’s lined faces – each with a disapproving mouth like a cat’s bottom. So I decided to give them a flash.
On the pretext of reaching in for my bag I gave everyone a long and lingering look at my upturned bum.
As I straightened and turned, I noticed the men’s car chatter had briefly stalled, Morgan was smirking at me, and the women…the women. God those boozy bitches hated me.
The meal was brilliant but then it’s amazing what a seasoning of self-confidence can do to bangers and mash.
I felt like my old self (and I like my old self – she’s a spunky minx). I laughed so much with Morgan that there were actually tears in my eyes. At one point I felt like spontaneously breaking out into a rendition of “I’ll Survive”.
But I didn’t. I wonder if the pub realised how lucky they were.
Love & Laughter Sadie
Wednesday, December 14, 2005
Happiness is a warm bum
When I started this blog I intended to comment on the dark side of sex and Dark’s side of sex. That’s right, I also wanted to discuss my personal experiences of social shagging.
But, decorum prevailed. My g/f seriously didn’t want her legs-apart action taken apart. And even my friendly licentious Brighton buggers and fuck-bunnies desired anonymity. So what could a gabby girl do?
Well, I gave my friends nicknames and ignored my personal pantings (but not in some of my other writing though). But now it’s all changed.
My g/f is in London and out my life. And I’ve had some fun with a close acquaintance who doesn’t mind if I blog my bedtime goings-on.
She’s Ms Hastings. I’ve mentioned her before and if I was absolutely accurate I’d call her Mrs Hastings.
That’s right, she wears a slave ring on her left 2nd finger. But, as she says, she’s Mrs when she’s with HIM but a Ms when she’s with me and other pals.
I’ve known her for a couple of years. We met when I worked at a gym and she was a customer. It wasn’t love at first sight – because it wasn’t love, just a friendship.
I’d worked in marketing and that’s what she did. We also just clicked like women often do. Chats became chats over coffee became lunches became regular phone chats.
I can’t pretend I hadn’t checked her out in her lycra exercise pants but I didn’t want to get into them.
She wasn’t part of my Brighton life, my friends didn’t know her at all and that was great. We’d meet every two months or so and have a laugh. She loved my gay goings-on and I was sympathetic about her pathetic husband. After all I’d been there too.
So, she rang me, as she does most weeks expecting the usual gossip and smut, and got the ‘mygirlfriendsleftmeandI’msoupset with added boo-hoos’ rant instead. This, she quickly realised needed special treatment.
Being a sensible little nurse she prescribed alcohol and so on Friday night we hit the hot spots of Brighton.
And seven hooch-filled hours later she was guiding me back to my flat whilst I held passionate conversations with lampposts.
She told me this later because, well, I was out of it at the time. But, suddenly, in the early hours something suddenly awoke me. I was in bed and in my best underwear and Ms Hastings was next to me.
However, the alarm bell was my bladder and quickly I staggered off to the lavatory. I sat there gushing many, many, many cool cocktails into the Brighton sewer system. Fuck, I bet the rats were really raving down there.
I wandered back and saw myself in the mirror. A hung-over woman in a hung-over bra was just too depressing so off it came. And now bare-arsed naked I climbed back into bed.
I lay there, suddenly focussing on my companion. She lay there huddled up but the sight was soooooo sexy.
Don’t get me wrong, this wasn’t that special. For most of my adult life lots of my female friends occasionally slept over in my flat and I did, in theirs. And, if there was just one bed we shared it (innocently, like Morecombe & Wise)
On lifting the sheet I looked down on her smooth tanned body and her pricey pants and bra. She was wearing a thong in fact, a coffee coloured shiny sexy piece that, all too quickly, hid itself in between her bum cheeks.
These were special. Ms Hasting is a generous girl and her bum overflowed in a particularly grabbable way.
Our state of undress wasn’t unusual. I’d seen her underwear as we chatted while she’d changed earlier from her business stuff into her party gear. And she, like all my male and female friends, had seen my ass and tits many times as I’m not over particular about wearing anything as I wander around the flat.
So a typical early hours scene in the Dark place. What wasn’t typical was the way I was feeling. I’m afraid I’d pissed all my high spirits way along with the booze.
In the cold light of dawning realisation I suddenly remembered my g/f was gone and I felt totally shitty.
I looked down on the warm body of Ms Hastings. I loved the way the bobbles of her spine pressed against her skin as they flowed down to her arse crack. I wanted to be comforted and she could do it. So I carefully edged my way across the mattress until her bum pressed into my belly in classic ‘spoons’ fashion. My knees slid up against her legs and I buried my face into her hair.
Her warmth and nakedness instantly began working on me. But it wasn’t feelings of lust just a longing to be cuddled and told everything was going to be fine.
Her hair smelt a bit smoky to be honest – all those low Brighton bars. But her body smelt wonderful to me – that close, fleshy, warm, sleepy scent.
I ran my hand down the edge of her body and over her hips and she moved languorously in her sleep. Was I taking liberties of my friend, possibly, but I didn’t care? My hand reached her bare bum and I gently stroked it. Again she moved in her deep sleep and she moaned gently.
I pressed my groin deeper against her. And the warmth finally worked and I dozed off.
Later, I woke again. My tits were rubbing against her back, with the nipples gently grazing against her bra strap.
It took seconds to realise this wasn’t my girlfriend next to me and I instantly felt sad. It was a deep and upsetting feeling
But then I remembered when I was young and upset. My mother would hug me and I’d press my face into her breasts. I needed this kind of comfort now but could I really expect Ms Hastings to give it too me.
Well, I thought (still a bit pissed I’m sure) there’s only one way to find out.
Her bare bum cheeks were hard against my naked thighs and the heat had caused my skin to get slightly damp. The sensuality of a woman’s unknowing body in such erotic circumstances excited me. I should have been happy to leave it that way. But I was dying for comfort.
So I reached over carefully and cupped her tit in my hand. Her shiny firm bra shielded her natural softness but even in her sleep her body responded to my touch and I felt a nipple pressing against the silkiness of the fabric.
She moaned softly…and her eyes opened. I froze, suddenly petrified at how she’d react. We were just friends after all and, for all I knew, she’d be horrified at my, well, groping hand. I could see her angry face, hear her horrified voice and imagine her furiously getting dressed and going home to her husband.
She spoke. “Saaaaadddddddieeeeeee” she said in a mock-shocked voice. Then she giggled, sat up, reached behind her back and unclasped the bra.
It fell away from her plump tits and her big beautiful nipples rose to greet me.
She reached out and placed her hands behind my neck. Her voice was as encouraging as her nipples, “Oh Sadie” she said, “why have we waited this long?”
With that she pressed my face into her soft warm breasts. And I…I…I…I started to cry.
I sobbed for myself, my fucked-up life and for all my regrets. She hugged me closer and her fingers gently massaged my back.
When I’d stopped crying I focussed on what I was feeling.
And I was feeling better. So I kissed her silky skin, then I kissed her nipple, just holding it between my lips for the briefest of time.
And now she was aroused. She kissed me full on my lips. Then our tongues met and they were wet and almost animal-like.
I whispered her name. And her mouth was on my nipples. She sucked me like a baby and I wondered if this was the first time she’d felt the wonderful tactile sensation of a woman’s strange rubbery nipple in her mouth. Her tongue licked my bumpy brown circles relishing the feeling of wet sensitive skin again dry oh-so-sensitive skin.
Now it was my turn to moan softly and try to pull away as her teasing tongue sensually tortured me.
But her mouth hung on – what a little slut she was. I kissed her passionately and she released me.
If this was one of my erotic stories then suddenly all sexual hell would break loose. My tongue would be tickling her tonsils via her arsehole and her orgasmic screams would be terrifying the seagulls on Brighton Pier.
But this was real – so we just kissed, and kissed. I squeezed her bum a couple of times but our hands and fingers never went further southwards. Instead I sought out that space between her breasts and buried my head in there, away from all the troubles and pain.
That sweet stretch between her tits smelled of Miss Dior, her favoutite scent and was soon wet with my tears as my emotions overflowed again…and then we must have both fallen into a contented sleep.
My personal alarm woke me again and within seconds I was sitting on the loo gushing pina coladas into the pan.
I wandered into the kitchen to put some coffee on and when I got back to the bed she was sitting on the edge – getting dressed.
The thong lay discarded on the floor and she’d put more sensible knickers on. But sexy too, cotton and white – my favourites on other people.
She smiled up at me, in I felt, a rather embarrassed way, and fastened her bra, the clasp firmly holding her breasts and also firmly locking me out.
I stood there,not knowing what to say and unashamedly staring at that tantalising spot where her knickers divided into those delicious creases that would suggest her cunt – Christ I’m so obvious!
To give her credit she didn’t slam her thighs apart. Instead she gave me her mock-shocked look and spoke with love and affection.
“Look Sadie” she said, “you’re fucking wonderful but this has all gone too fast for me”
I looked up from one set of lips to another and these spoke again
“ Give me a bit of time…I do find you soooo sexy”
I walked over and kissed her as a friend. As she dressed we chatted more, it was more like our normal banter but somehow different. But then we’d crossed the line between friend and lover – not all the way but enough to change the way we reacted to each other.
Later I walked her to the ugly car park where she’d stowed her company runabout. As no one was about so we kissed languorously, enjoying each other’s taste.
“This is making me dizzy Sadie” Ms Hastings said – and then she joked. "If you write about this, make me sexy"- and then she was gone. Back to Mr Hastings and normality.
I strolled along the promenade with mixed feelings in my head - what the fuck did I think I was doing?. And strong feelings in my cunt - I really didn't have to make her sexy, she was Ms Hot!
Then I bumped into Ms Rude (now my only ‘you think they’re doing it – but they aren’t’ friend).
Over hot chocolate she told me a long story about a party where she’d almost seduced one of the shapely but brainless elves from Santa’s Grotto in that hideous Shopping Mall. I wasn’t surprised, after all green tights and red pixie boots would always do it for Ms Rude.
So it was back to normality for me too.
Love & Kisses Sadie
But, decorum prevailed. My g/f seriously didn’t want her legs-apart action taken apart. And even my friendly licentious Brighton buggers and fuck-bunnies desired anonymity. So what could a gabby girl do?
Well, I gave my friends nicknames and ignored my personal pantings (but not in some of my other writing though). But now it’s all changed.
My g/f is in London and out my life. And I’ve had some fun with a close acquaintance who doesn’t mind if I blog my bedtime goings-on.
She’s Ms Hastings. I’ve mentioned her before and if I was absolutely accurate I’d call her Mrs Hastings.
That’s right, she wears a slave ring on her left 2nd finger. But, as she says, she’s Mrs when she’s with HIM but a Ms when she’s with me and other pals.
I’ve known her for a couple of years. We met when I worked at a gym and she was a customer. It wasn’t love at first sight – because it wasn’t love, just a friendship.
I’d worked in marketing and that’s what she did. We also just clicked like women often do. Chats became chats over coffee became lunches became regular phone chats.
I can’t pretend I hadn’t checked her out in her lycra exercise pants but I didn’t want to get into them.
She wasn’t part of my Brighton life, my friends didn’t know her at all and that was great. We’d meet every two months or so and have a laugh. She loved my gay goings-on and I was sympathetic about her pathetic husband. After all I’d been there too.
So, she rang me, as she does most weeks expecting the usual gossip and smut, and got the ‘mygirlfriendsleftmeandI’msoupset with added boo-hoos’ rant instead. This, she quickly realised needed special treatment.
Being a sensible little nurse she prescribed alcohol and so on Friday night we hit the hot spots of Brighton.
And seven hooch-filled hours later she was guiding me back to my flat whilst I held passionate conversations with lampposts.
She told me this later because, well, I was out of it at the time. But, suddenly, in the early hours something suddenly awoke me. I was in bed and in my best underwear and Ms Hastings was next to me.
However, the alarm bell was my bladder and quickly I staggered off to the lavatory. I sat there gushing many, many, many cool cocktails into the Brighton sewer system. Fuck, I bet the rats were really raving down there.
I wandered back and saw myself in the mirror. A hung-over woman in a hung-over bra was just too depressing so off it came. And now bare-arsed naked I climbed back into bed.
I lay there, suddenly focussing on my companion. She lay there huddled up but the sight was soooooo sexy.
Don’t get me wrong, this wasn’t that special. For most of my adult life lots of my female friends occasionally slept over in my flat and I did, in theirs. And, if there was just one bed we shared it (innocently, like Morecombe & Wise)
On lifting the sheet I looked down on her smooth tanned body and her pricey pants and bra. She was wearing a thong in fact, a coffee coloured shiny sexy piece that, all too quickly, hid itself in between her bum cheeks.
These were special. Ms Hasting is a generous girl and her bum overflowed in a particularly grabbable way.
Our state of undress wasn’t unusual. I’d seen her underwear as we chatted while she’d changed earlier from her business stuff into her party gear. And she, like all my male and female friends, had seen my ass and tits many times as I’m not over particular about wearing anything as I wander around the flat.
So a typical early hours scene in the Dark place. What wasn’t typical was the way I was feeling. I’m afraid I’d pissed all my high spirits way along with the booze.
In the cold light of dawning realisation I suddenly remembered my g/f was gone and I felt totally shitty.
I looked down on the warm body of Ms Hastings. I loved the way the bobbles of her spine pressed against her skin as they flowed down to her arse crack. I wanted to be comforted and she could do it. So I carefully edged my way across the mattress until her bum pressed into my belly in classic ‘spoons’ fashion. My knees slid up against her legs and I buried my face into her hair.
Her warmth and nakedness instantly began working on me. But it wasn’t feelings of lust just a longing to be cuddled and told everything was going to be fine.
Her hair smelt a bit smoky to be honest – all those low Brighton bars. But her body smelt wonderful to me – that close, fleshy, warm, sleepy scent.
I ran my hand down the edge of her body and over her hips and she moved languorously in her sleep. Was I taking liberties of my friend, possibly, but I didn’t care? My hand reached her bare bum and I gently stroked it. Again she moved in her deep sleep and she moaned gently.
I pressed my groin deeper against her. And the warmth finally worked and I dozed off.
Later, I woke again. My tits were rubbing against her back, with the nipples gently grazing against her bra strap.
It took seconds to realise this wasn’t my girlfriend next to me and I instantly felt sad. It was a deep and upsetting feeling
But then I remembered when I was young and upset. My mother would hug me and I’d press my face into her breasts. I needed this kind of comfort now but could I really expect Ms Hastings to give it too me.
Well, I thought (still a bit pissed I’m sure) there’s only one way to find out.
Her bare bum cheeks were hard against my naked thighs and the heat had caused my skin to get slightly damp. The sensuality of a woman’s unknowing body in such erotic circumstances excited me. I should have been happy to leave it that way. But I was dying for comfort.
So I reached over carefully and cupped her tit in my hand. Her shiny firm bra shielded her natural softness but even in her sleep her body responded to my touch and I felt a nipple pressing against the silkiness of the fabric.
She moaned softly…and her eyes opened. I froze, suddenly petrified at how she’d react. We were just friends after all and, for all I knew, she’d be horrified at my, well, groping hand. I could see her angry face, hear her horrified voice and imagine her furiously getting dressed and going home to her husband.
She spoke. “Saaaaadddddddieeeeeee” she said in a mock-shocked voice. Then she giggled, sat up, reached behind her back and unclasped the bra.
It fell away from her plump tits and her big beautiful nipples rose to greet me.
She reached out and placed her hands behind my neck. Her voice was as encouraging as her nipples, “Oh Sadie” she said, “why have we waited this long?”
With that she pressed my face into her soft warm breasts. And I…I…I…I started to cry.
I sobbed for myself, my fucked-up life and for all my regrets. She hugged me closer and her fingers gently massaged my back.
When I’d stopped crying I focussed on what I was feeling.
And I was feeling better. So I kissed her silky skin, then I kissed her nipple, just holding it between my lips for the briefest of time.
And now she was aroused. She kissed me full on my lips. Then our tongues met and they were wet and almost animal-like.
I whispered her name. And her mouth was on my nipples. She sucked me like a baby and I wondered if this was the first time she’d felt the wonderful tactile sensation of a woman’s strange rubbery nipple in her mouth. Her tongue licked my bumpy brown circles relishing the feeling of wet sensitive skin again dry oh-so-sensitive skin.
Now it was my turn to moan softly and try to pull away as her teasing tongue sensually tortured me.
But her mouth hung on – what a little slut she was. I kissed her passionately and she released me.
If this was one of my erotic stories then suddenly all sexual hell would break loose. My tongue would be tickling her tonsils via her arsehole and her orgasmic screams would be terrifying the seagulls on Brighton Pier.
But this was real – so we just kissed, and kissed. I squeezed her bum a couple of times but our hands and fingers never went further southwards. Instead I sought out that space between her breasts and buried my head in there, away from all the troubles and pain.
That sweet stretch between her tits smelled of Miss Dior, her favoutite scent and was soon wet with my tears as my emotions overflowed again…and then we must have both fallen into a contented sleep.
My personal alarm woke me again and within seconds I was sitting on the loo gushing pina coladas into the pan.
I wandered into the kitchen to put some coffee on and when I got back to the bed she was sitting on the edge – getting dressed.
The thong lay discarded on the floor and she’d put more sensible knickers on. But sexy too, cotton and white – my favourites on other people.
She smiled up at me, in I felt, a rather embarrassed way, and fastened her bra, the clasp firmly holding her breasts and also firmly locking me out.
I stood there,not knowing what to say and unashamedly staring at that tantalising spot where her knickers divided into those delicious creases that would suggest her cunt – Christ I’m so obvious!
To give her credit she didn’t slam her thighs apart. Instead she gave me her mock-shocked look and spoke with love and affection.
“Look Sadie” she said, “you’re fucking wonderful but this has all gone too fast for me”
I looked up from one set of lips to another and these spoke again
“ Give me a bit of time…I do find you soooo sexy”
I walked over and kissed her as a friend. As she dressed we chatted more, it was more like our normal banter but somehow different. But then we’d crossed the line between friend and lover – not all the way but enough to change the way we reacted to each other.
Later I walked her to the ugly car park where she’d stowed her company runabout. As no one was about so we kissed languorously, enjoying each other’s taste.
“This is making me dizzy Sadie” Ms Hastings said – and then she joked. "If you write about this, make me sexy"- and then she was gone. Back to Mr Hastings and normality.
I strolled along the promenade with mixed feelings in my head - what the fuck did I think I was doing?. And strong feelings in my cunt - I really didn't have to make her sexy, she was Ms Hot!
Then I bumped into Ms Rude (now my only ‘you think they’re doing it – but they aren’t’ friend).
Over hot chocolate she told me a long story about a party where she’d almost seduced one of the shapely but brainless elves from Santa’s Grotto in that hideous Shopping Mall. I wasn’t surprised, after all green tights and red pixie boots would always do it for Ms Rude.
So it was back to normality for me too.
Love & Kisses Sadie
Thursday, December 01, 2005
Dark spirits
I’ve taken to riding a bicycle along the promenade.
I borrowed it from one of my male friends who now prefers boxing as exercise. It’s the latest gay thing apparently and I must admit the image of poofy pugilists slogging it out is a fascinating one – I expect the satin shorts have a lot to do with their enthusiasm. Still it does give a new meaning to ‘taking a blow’ and receiving ‘a right hander in the ring’!
But, back to my bike. It’s a great way to see amazing Brighton on a winter day and as it’s a sports bike it’s also an amazing way for Brighton to see my great arse on a winter day.
On this subject, I’m reminded of the answer a famous poet gave to the question of what he would like to be re-incarnated as.
His reply was “the saddle on a ladies’ bicycle”. But then this was John Betjeman and apart from being a witty and evocative writer he was also a randy old bugger.
In the last months of his life he was asked if there was anything he regretted. “Yes”, he replied, “I wish I’d had more sex”
I’m rather sympathetic at the moment as my girlfriend and I have split up again and the bike is the only action I’m getting between my thighs.
It’s a big split I’m afraid (and no I’m not still talking about what’s between my thighs). It’s pretty bad, we’re not speaking and I think she may be with someone else.
Like all couples we’ve had a problems. One is me being in Brighton and she being in London for most of the week. This is compounded by my writing as I think she imagines I live out my fantasies when she isn’t around.
This is of course ridiculous as I haven’t got the energy or the time. To paraphrase the ‘Essex Girl’ joke it would mean the answer to the question: “Why does Sadie Dark wear knickers?” would be “To keep her ankles warm”
So I’m in the bizarre position of having a silent and unforgiving former lover imagining I’m here in Brighton forever fucking whilst in reality I’m sulking about and sleeping very, very alone.
There’s a poster campaign for that unpleasant drink Tia Maria around at the moment. Its end line is “The Dark Spirit”
And that’s what I’m going to need to get me out of my present wintry mood. I’ve heard of SAD (Seasonal Affective Disorder) but SADIE is even worse!
Love & sobs Sadie xxxx
I borrowed it from one of my male friends who now prefers boxing as exercise. It’s the latest gay thing apparently and I must admit the image of poofy pugilists slogging it out is a fascinating one – I expect the satin shorts have a lot to do with their enthusiasm. Still it does give a new meaning to ‘taking a blow’ and receiving ‘a right hander in the ring’!
But, back to my bike. It’s a great way to see amazing Brighton on a winter day and as it’s a sports bike it’s also an amazing way for Brighton to see my great arse on a winter day.
On this subject, I’m reminded of the answer a famous poet gave to the question of what he would like to be re-incarnated as.
His reply was “the saddle on a ladies’ bicycle”. But then this was John Betjeman and apart from being a witty and evocative writer he was also a randy old bugger.
In the last months of his life he was asked if there was anything he regretted. “Yes”, he replied, “I wish I’d had more sex”
I’m rather sympathetic at the moment as my girlfriend and I have split up again and the bike is the only action I’m getting between my thighs.
It’s a big split I’m afraid (and no I’m not still talking about what’s between my thighs). It’s pretty bad, we’re not speaking and I think she may be with someone else.
Like all couples we’ve had a problems. One is me being in Brighton and she being in London for most of the week. This is compounded by my writing as I think she imagines I live out my fantasies when she isn’t around.
This is of course ridiculous as I haven’t got the energy or the time. To paraphrase the ‘Essex Girl’ joke it would mean the answer to the question: “Why does Sadie Dark wear knickers?” would be “To keep her ankles warm”
So I’m in the bizarre position of having a silent and unforgiving former lover imagining I’m here in Brighton forever fucking whilst in reality I’m sulking about and sleeping very, very alone.
There’s a poster campaign for that unpleasant drink Tia Maria around at the moment. Its end line is “The Dark Spirit”
And that’s what I’m going to need to get me out of my present wintry mood. I’ve heard of SAD (Seasonal Affective Disorder) but SADIE is even worse!
Love & sobs Sadie xxxx
Friday, November 11, 2005
A woman’s tastes
“So you say you’re an erotic writer?” people say or write accusingly to me “so what kind of stuff do you write?”
Depending how nicely they ask, I direct them to literotica.com, indecentblog.com, bigirlz.co.uk etc, etc or alternatively I direct them to kiss ma ass.
But I’ve been thinking maybe it’s time to publish a short piece on here. So I have.
However, before you read it let me kill off some of the usual preconceptions. First, not everything I write as fiction is about me, my friends, or anyone real. I make the story up and the characters.
Second, I’m a writer and I imagine things. But I don’t necessarily agree with them or do them myself. People who meet me are often surprised at the difference between shy sadie, Brighton resident and bookshop employee and SADIE DARK - foul mouthed, lascivious lady-licker of blog fame.
After all (and please, I’m not comparing myself in any way) Evelyn Waugh and Kingsley Amis were two of the funniest writers of the 20th Century but in private they were humourless, moody old buggers.
So here’s an example of wot I rite…
A woman’s tastes
by Sadie Dark ©
This is a love story - Jenny loves Julie. Or to be absolutely accurate Jenny loves Julie’s body.
Jenny lives in the city and can only see Julie at the weekend so she gets a bit frustrated and when, at last, she gets to Julie’s flat things can get a bit passionate.
Julie loves this and gets excited just thinking about it. Often her knickers get a bit damp but that’s fine because she knows this will make her even more attractive to Jenny.
She doesn’t change them because they are her best ones and, anyway, she ‘s been wearing them for a couple of days.
This is exactly what Jenny requests, in fact, she’d be happier if Julie wore them all week. She’s also asked Julie not have had a shower since Tuesday .
Julie’s waiting in her flat on an extremely hot day and, although the windows are open, the living room is airless. Even though she’s just in her bra and knickers she’s sweating, and her face and back gleam. She’s opened a bottle of icy Sancerre and is sipping from a large frosted glass that she then brushes against her face.
The coolness refreshes her and on an impulse she places the glass against her left tit. The sudden chill makes her nipple grow. She looks at it dreamily.
But then she hears Jenny’s car pulling up and without any need of cold glass both nipples thrust against the black cotton. And she feels a sudden yearning sensation between her thighs.
Jenny’s footsteps on the stair have Julie up and moving towards the door, the sudden movement causing her knickers to get trapped in her generous arse crack.
And this is what greets Jenny. Her lover - glistening with sweat, nipples aroused and arse exposed. The sight excites her but she keeps control. She kisses Julie on the lips and walks past her and into the bedroom because she knows there’s plenty of time and plenty of Julie to enjoy.
When she walks into the bedroom she’s wearing a T-shirt and jeans but minutes later when she comes back into the sitting room the jeans have come off and she’s just in the T-shirt and a pair of grey silky ‘boy short’ knickers.
She sips from the offered glass of wine but, however nice the Sancerre is, this isn’t the taste she’s been desiring on the journey from the city.
She puts the glass down, reaches out, puts a hand behind Julie’s neck and pulls her face towards hers. She kisses Julie’s lips then her tongue forces its way in to Julie’s mouth. She explores the wetness and the tastes, her tongue seeking out the corners and crevices.
As Jenny sucks on Julie’s fleshy tongue her hands explore her lover’s ample body. They go straight to the plump, damp arse cheeks cupping and squeezing them. One hand is playing with the edge of the black knickers and the other is gripping the bare skin. Now both hands gently pull the bum cheeks apart so the knickers slip into the crack. Then she gently pulls the knickers upwards until most of the damp material is trapped.
Her sucking action draws Julie’s tongue out of her mouth but then in a moment Jenny has moved down. Her hands move up from the bum to the bra straps and she unfastens the clasp.
The bra lazily slips off Julies’ big pendulous tits. It hangs for a second on a engorged fleshy brown nipple then falls to the floor. Julie has great tits with sexy white tanlines tracing the shape of her bikini bra. Jenny sucks on the nipples enjoying the faintest hint of Julie’s sweat.
She is about to enjoy Julie like a fine meal and she likens this part to the savoury snacks that prepare the palate for the tastes to come.
Her tongue slips under the left tit and traces the fold where the tit meets the chest. The salty tang of sweat is addictive and she must have more. Her tongue explores the right tit and then she moves sideways to Julie’s armpits.
The hair has trapped even more tiny globules of salty sustenance. She licks the concave sweep of one armpit then moves to the other, her nose relishing Julie’s smell.
She must have more sweat before she seeks further tastes. She turns Julie around and laps at her glistening back whilst her hands greedily squeeze the tits and her finger’s twist and pull the fat nipples.
Her tongue slips down Julie’s backbone and over the soft and silky flesh. She pushes Julie slightly so that her lover’s body bends over the sofa.
Then Jenny moves down, ignoring for a moment the temptingly bared arse with the inviting and shadowy crack. Jennie needs more sweat and she knows she’ll find it on Julie’s feet.
She lifts a foot, unbalancing her lover so that she falls slightly over the sofa. Jennie looks up for a second, loving the sexy sight of Julie’s arse cheeks seen from below. And to make it a perfect view, the gusset of her knickers is taut, clearly defining the outlines of her cunt, like a relief map in black cotton. Jenny reaches up and slowly runs her fingernail along the lines of the fat lips and Julie’s body shudders in delight.
But Jenny’s attention is now on the toes and her lips clamp around each of them as she relishes the taste. She sucks and tongues the toes as if they were tiny cocks and she senses Julie’s excitement.
It’s a great feeling because the more turned-on Julie becomes the more juices her body produces and the tastier she becomes. A woman's body is a source of so much gustatory pleasure to Jenny and she knows she can over-indulge on Julie.
Jenny has now feasted on both feet and she’s moving upwards, her tongue seeking out sweat on Julie’s legs and thighs. Finally she reaches the place where the twisted black cotton is jammed tightly up the fragrant crack.
She’s now ready for the second stage of her meal that she calls her ‘liquid lunch’. This name might be a joke but she’s very serious about enjoying this course to it limits.
But first she reaches out and grabs the waistband of Julie’s knickers, pulling them down and out of the bum crack.
She stands up and the, now, totally naked Julie turns towards her. She kisses her trembling lover then steps back holding Julie’s knickers to her nose. She breathes in enjoying Julie’s stale and fresh scents.
Jenny loves even the most basic of Julie’s smells and she presses her nostrils to the damp and stained gusset. Then she slowly and sensuously licks it and sucks on it in front of Julie’s blissful face.
But now it’s really lunchtime and she moves down towards the source of Julie’s pungent knickers.
Julie sits back slightly on the sofa edge and her thighs spread. Jenny’s hands force them further apart until most of Julie’s cunt is exposed.
The fat purpley pink lips glisten invitingly but Jenny stops.
She now teases her lover by taking time to slip off her T-shirt exposing a toned and tanned body with small but pert tits and big erect nipples. She then slides her hand down into her boy shorts to feel her own cunt. She relishes the slippery wetness knowing a dark stain will soon be spreading across the grey silkiness.
Julie' s eyes are closed, her tongue flits across her pouting lips and her fingers are twisting her own gorged nipples because she knows what's coming next and she wants to be ready.
And then Jennie's face is pressed into Julie. Squashing itself into the cappaccio of cunt meat.
Her nose is forcing itself deeper into the damp fleshiness seeking out the strong aromatic cunt smells. After two days of no washing Julie is ripe and Jenny is entranced.
Once her nose has been given a treat it’s time for her tongue. As she licks and laps and explores the crevices and crannies she tastes the thick white traces of snatch soup. Julies' juices seems special to Jenny and she feels she can never have enough.
The tip of her tongue rapes Julie’s hood until it uncovers the clit. Now the cunt shifts and shudders as Julie starts to go into orgasm. And the cum seems to flood into Jenny’s mouth.
Julie sighs, she’s satisfied - but Jenny wants more.
It’s time for pudding and so Jenny turns Julie around and bends her right over the sofa. Julie’s big arse juts out provocatively and Jenny kneels down to face the spread crack.
She grips the big hot cheeks and spreads then further revealing the tip of the cunt and Jenny’s target – Julie’s big brown arsehole.
She leans forward and runs her tongue up the seam of the bum until she reaches the puckered hole. The sweet smell stimulates her impulses and she plunges the tip of her tongue into the hole.
The tip meets some resistance, then Julie relaxes, and Jenny’s hot pink tongue sinks deep into the arsehole. The tight elasticity sucks on her tongue as if it was alive.
She gently fucks Julie, in and out, deeper and deeper and feels the big bare body tremble with ecstacy. Julie grunts and moans like a trapped animal.
She finally pulls out, the pinky brown skin slips back and Jenny fondly kisses the damp hole.
She then slides her fingers deep into her own cunt and, in second, she too is lost in a strong and sensual orgasm.
She sits back now she's satisfied - the feast is over for the moment and she calmly surveys her lover’s naked, vulnerable and now totally washed body.
Jenny loves the tanned skin, the white bits like tantalising targets, the quite shapely legs, the strong thighs, the grabbable soft cushions of the bum with the deep crack, the ever available arsehole and cunt, the smooth back with the dark hair falling on the shoulders, the generous tits, the tarty nipples, the soft belly and plump squeezable mound.
She loves the fleshiness and the femininity and the different flavours this produces. For her this is a love story.
But what about naked, exposed, explored Julie?
She lies over the sofa in an aftergow of varied sensations. But this is just the start of Julie’s sexy weekend and her mind spins forward.
Jenny and her will have breakfast naked – then she’ll be fucked and sucked and spanked and wanked throughout the hot humid morning and afternoon – and Jenny will always be with her – on the floor – on the bed – on her face - and even when she’s on the lavatory – when Jenny will giggle and say ‘who needs loo paper?’- and then after several total body washings and several orgasms it’ll be time to go drinking and clubbing with their girlfriends – and she’ll wear the outfit Jenny loves her in – the tight silky top into which she forces her naked tits and which enhances the outline of her nipples and the low-cut tight silky pants that she wears without knickers that displays her cunt slit at the front and her bum crack at the back as she sits down – the clothes that inspired some catty cow to say “you might as well be nude” and then pissed and high they’ll go back to the flat for a good sound all holes fucking with some of Jennie's favourite toys that'll make her moan into the night ..and then tomorrow…tomorrow?
So what of Julie? Well, after so many Saturdays and Sundays she’s absolutely confident that she loves Jennie's sexiness, her attitude, her sense of fun, her friendship, her protection and she wants this love to last. And she knows that Jenny loves her body.
She’s just not very sure about whether Jenny loves her. She rather worries that she may just be the flavour of the month.
And this means that her love story could have a rather unhappy ending.
Sadie Dark©
Hope you like it...tell me what you think.
Love & kisses all over (but not necessarily like Jenny!!!) Sadie
Depending how nicely they ask, I direct them to literotica.com, indecentblog.com, bigirlz.co.uk etc, etc or alternatively I direct them to kiss ma ass.
But I’ve been thinking maybe it’s time to publish a short piece on here. So I have.
However, before you read it let me kill off some of the usual preconceptions. First, not everything I write as fiction is about me, my friends, or anyone real. I make the story up and the characters.
Second, I’m a writer and I imagine things. But I don’t necessarily agree with them or do them myself. People who meet me are often surprised at the difference between shy sadie, Brighton resident and bookshop employee and SADIE DARK - foul mouthed, lascivious lady-licker of blog fame.
After all (and please, I’m not comparing myself in any way) Evelyn Waugh and Kingsley Amis were two of the funniest writers of the 20th Century but in private they were humourless, moody old buggers.
So here’s an example of wot I rite…
A woman’s tastes
by Sadie Dark ©
This is a love story - Jenny loves Julie. Or to be absolutely accurate Jenny loves Julie’s body.
Jenny lives in the city and can only see Julie at the weekend so she gets a bit frustrated and when, at last, she gets to Julie’s flat things can get a bit passionate.
Julie loves this and gets excited just thinking about it. Often her knickers get a bit damp but that’s fine because she knows this will make her even more attractive to Jenny.
She doesn’t change them because they are her best ones and, anyway, she ‘s been wearing them for a couple of days.
This is exactly what Jenny requests, in fact, she’d be happier if Julie wore them all week. She’s also asked Julie not have had a shower since Tuesday .
Julie’s waiting in her flat on an extremely hot day and, although the windows are open, the living room is airless. Even though she’s just in her bra and knickers she’s sweating, and her face and back gleam. She’s opened a bottle of icy Sancerre and is sipping from a large frosted glass that she then brushes against her face.
The coolness refreshes her and on an impulse she places the glass against her left tit. The sudden chill makes her nipple grow. She looks at it dreamily.
But then she hears Jenny’s car pulling up and without any need of cold glass both nipples thrust against the black cotton. And she feels a sudden yearning sensation between her thighs.
Jenny’s footsteps on the stair have Julie up and moving towards the door, the sudden movement causing her knickers to get trapped in her generous arse crack.
And this is what greets Jenny. Her lover - glistening with sweat, nipples aroused and arse exposed. The sight excites her but she keeps control. She kisses Julie on the lips and walks past her and into the bedroom because she knows there’s plenty of time and plenty of Julie to enjoy.
When she walks into the bedroom she’s wearing a T-shirt and jeans but minutes later when she comes back into the sitting room the jeans have come off and she’s just in the T-shirt and a pair of grey silky ‘boy short’ knickers.
She sips from the offered glass of wine but, however nice the Sancerre is, this isn’t the taste she’s been desiring on the journey from the city.
She puts the glass down, reaches out, puts a hand behind Julie’s neck and pulls her face towards hers. She kisses Julie’s lips then her tongue forces its way in to Julie’s mouth. She explores the wetness and the tastes, her tongue seeking out the corners and crevices.
As Jenny sucks on Julie’s fleshy tongue her hands explore her lover’s ample body. They go straight to the plump, damp arse cheeks cupping and squeezing them. One hand is playing with the edge of the black knickers and the other is gripping the bare skin. Now both hands gently pull the bum cheeks apart so the knickers slip into the crack. Then she gently pulls the knickers upwards until most of the damp material is trapped.
Her sucking action draws Julie’s tongue out of her mouth but then in a moment Jenny has moved down. Her hands move up from the bum to the bra straps and she unfastens the clasp.
The bra lazily slips off Julies’ big pendulous tits. It hangs for a second on a engorged fleshy brown nipple then falls to the floor. Julie has great tits with sexy white tanlines tracing the shape of her bikini bra. Jenny sucks on the nipples enjoying the faintest hint of Julie’s sweat.
She is about to enjoy Julie like a fine meal and she likens this part to the savoury snacks that prepare the palate for the tastes to come.
Her tongue slips under the left tit and traces the fold where the tit meets the chest. The salty tang of sweat is addictive and she must have more. Her tongue explores the right tit and then she moves sideways to Julie’s armpits.
The hair has trapped even more tiny globules of salty sustenance. She licks the concave sweep of one armpit then moves to the other, her nose relishing Julie’s smell.
She must have more sweat before she seeks further tastes. She turns Julie around and laps at her glistening back whilst her hands greedily squeeze the tits and her finger’s twist and pull the fat nipples.
Her tongue slips down Julie’s backbone and over the soft and silky flesh. She pushes Julie slightly so that her lover’s body bends over the sofa.
Then Jenny moves down, ignoring for a moment the temptingly bared arse with the inviting and shadowy crack. Jennie needs more sweat and she knows she’ll find it on Julie’s feet.
She lifts a foot, unbalancing her lover so that she falls slightly over the sofa. Jennie looks up for a second, loving the sexy sight of Julie’s arse cheeks seen from below. And to make it a perfect view, the gusset of her knickers is taut, clearly defining the outlines of her cunt, like a relief map in black cotton. Jenny reaches up and slowly runs her fingernail along the lines of the fat lips and Julie’s body shudders in delight.
But Jenny’s attention is now on the toes and her lips clamp around each of them as she relishes the taste. She sucks and tongues the toes as if they were tiny cocks and she senses Julie’s excitement.
It’s a great feeling because the more turned-on Julie becomes the more juices her body produces and the tastier she becomes. A woman's body is a source of so much gustatory pleasure to Jenny and she knows she can over-indulge on Julie.
Jenny has now feasted on both feet and she’s moving upwards, her tongue seeking out sweat on Julie’s legs and thighs. Finally she reaches the place where the twisted black cotton is jammed tightly up the fragrant crack.
She’s now ready for the second stage of her meal that she calls her ‘liquid lunch’. This name might be a joke but she’s very serious about enjoying this course to it limits.
But first she reaches out and grabs the waistband of Julie’s knickers, pulling them down and out of the bum crack.
She stands up and the, now, totally naked Julie turns towards her. She kisses her trembling lover then steps back holding Julie’s knickers to her nose. She breathes in enjoying Julie’s stale and fresh scents.
Jenny loves even the most basic of Julie’s smells and she presses her nostrils to the damp and stained gusset. Then she slowly and sensuously licks it and sucks on it in front of Julie’s blissful face.
But now it’s really lunchtime and she moves down towards the source of Julie’s pungent knickers.
Julie sits back slightly on the sofa edge and her thighs spread. Jenny’s hands force them further apart until most of Julie’s cunt is exposed.
The fat purpley pink lips glisten invitingly but Jenny stops.
She now teases her lover by taking time to slip off her T-shirt exposing a toned and tanned body with small but pert tits and big erect nipples. She then slides her hand down into her boy shorts to feel her own cunt. She relishes the slippery wetness knowing a dark stain will soon be spreading across the grey silkiness.
Julie' s eyes are closed, her tongue flits across her pouting lips and her fingers are twisting her own gorged nipples because she knows what's coming next and she wants to be ready.
And then Jennie's face is pressed into Julie. Squashing itself into the cappaccio of cunt meat.
Her nose is forcing itself deeper into the damp fleshiness seeking out the strong aromatic cunt smells. After two days of no washing Julie is ripe and Jenny is entranced.
Once her nose has been given a treat it’s time for her tongue. As she licks and laps and explores the crevices and crannies she tastes the thick white traces of snatch soup. Julies' juices seems special to Jenny and she feels she can never have enough.
The tip of her tongue rapes Julie’s hood until it uncovers the clit. Now the cunt shifts and shudders as Julie starts to go into orgasm. And the cum seems to flood into Jenny’s mouth.
Julie sighs, she’s satisfied - but Jenny wants more.
It’s time for pudding and so Jenny turns Julie around and bends her right over the sofa. Julie’s big arse juts out provocatively and Jenny kneels down to face the spread crack.
She grips the big hot cheeks and spreads then further revealing the tip of the cunt and Jenny’s target – Julie’s big brown arsehole.
She leans forward and runs her tongue up the seam of the bum until she reaches the puckered hole. The sweet smell stimulates her impulses and she plunges the tip of her tongue into the hole.
The tip meets some resistance, then Julie relaxes, and Jenny’s hot pink tongue sinks deep into the arsehole. The tight elasticity sucks on her tongue as if it was alive.
She gently fucks Julie, in and out, deeper and deeper and feels the big bare body tremble with ecstacy. Julie grunts and moans like a trapped animal.
She finally pulls out, the pinky brown skin slips back and Jenny fondly kisses the damp hole.
She then slides her fingers deep into her own cunt and, in second, she too is lost in a strong and sensual orgasm.
She sits back now she's satisfied - the feast is over for the moment and she calmly surveys her lover’s naked, vulnerable and now totally washed body.
Jenny loves the tanned skin, the white bits like tantalising targets, the quite shapely legs, the strong thighs, the grabbable soft cushions of the bum with the deep crack, the ever available arsehole and cunt, the smooth back with the dark hair falling on the shoulders, the generous tits, the tarty nipples, the soft belly and plump squeezable mound.
She loves the fleshiness and the femininity and the different flavours this produces. For her this is a love story.
But what about naked, exposed, explored Julie?
She lies over the sofa in an aftergow of varied sensations. But this is just the start of Julie’s sexy weekend and her mind spins forward.
Jenny and her will have breakfast naked – then she’ll be fucked and sucked and spanked and wanked throughout the hot humid morning and afternoon – and Jenny will always be with her – on the floor – on the bed – on her face - and even when she’s on the lavatory – when Jenny will giggle and say ‘who needs loo paper?’- and then after several total body washings and several orgasms it’ll be time to go drinking and clubbing with their girlfriends – and she’ll wear the outfit Jenny loves her in – the tight silky top into which she forces her naked tits and which enhances the outline of her nipples and the low-cut tight silky pants that she wears without knickers that displays her cunt slit at the front and her bum crack at the back as she sits down – the clothes that inspired some catty cow to say “you might as well be nude” and then pissed and high they’ll go back to the flat for a good sound all holes fucking with some of Jennie's favourite toys that'll make her moan into the night ..and then tomorrow…tomorrow?
So what of Julie? Well, after so many Saturdays and Sundays she’s absolutely confident that she loves Jennie's sexiness, her attitude, her sense of fun, her friendship, her protection and she wants this love to last. And she knows that Jenny loves her body.
She’s just not very sure about whether Jenny loves her. She rather worries that she may just be the flavour of the month.
And this means that her love story could have a rather unhappy ending.
Sadie Dark©
Hope you like it...tell me what you think.
Love & kisses all over (but not necessarily like Jenny!!!) Sadie
Sunday, October 30, 2005
Whatya cock!
Over the past week several things have caused me to ponder the male member – homos erectus.
Well, hopefully erectus…but often, sorry-this-has-never-happened-beforus.
I mentioned ‘chix with dix’ in my last blog, an amusing set of photo-posting clubs I found on Yafro.com featuring really stunning bodies, sexy ‘girly’ faces,super hair, big tits, enviable waists, great bums…and a cock.
Yea, lady-boys! I wrote, tongue-in-cheek, (not in their cheeks I'll have you know) I wrote that I thought, that as a bi-sexual female, this appeared to be a very tempting package. And this was interpreted in several different ways.
Members of the Brighton Muffia, those shaven headed, tattooed, pierced cunts…
…sorry, Blogger.com, a very liberal and cool organisation would want me to make it clear I’m not suggesting these people are cunts…I just mean that their genitalia is pierced. Is that clear? Absolutely clear? Good, I’d hate you to think that I have problems with the sisterhood in my fair city.
Anyway, my lesbian co-conspirators in the “war against the cock dominated fascist world - Brighton Battalion” gave me a bit of a hard time.
I got rounded on over my morning hot chocolate and my evening cocktail…oh sorry, did I just say cock…oops, pardon!
So, let me answer you all.
(1) I didn’t mean I wanted to have a cock – I’m a woman thank you and very happy in my present state. I don’t want to add six inches to my body – in fact I’d rather lose it, especially around the hips and bum.
(2) I was just fantasising about a sexual partner. It was a joke.
(3) Although for the last three years I have enjoyed sex solely with women I still think of myself as bi-sexual. Because for the other 15 years I was fucked by men – and I loved it.
It was the fuckers that pissed me off in the end, not the fucking. Plus I met an amazing woman just when I needed a bit of TLC. Then another, and now my g/f. So I’m cool, ok.
So, next question. This time from friends (especially Ms Rude)…do I miss something warm inside me on a chilly Autumn night?
Right, well, a strap-on is never going to replace a slip-in.
It may be 10 inches and totally realistic but it’s fake not real flesh and blood. So, yes, in that respect I do miss cocks. It was the extension (if you were lucky) of a sexy and loving human being and that really matters.
Today, a woman’s fingers and tongue can cause the same response in me and that’s fucking fabulous. But I’d be a hypocrite if I didn’t admit that I’ve still got a soft spot for a hard-on – and you know where to find it boysJ
But does this make me lesbian-lite? Just sort of playing at it rather than living the lifestyle 24/7. I don’t think so. I know what I am and what I feel – and so does my girlfriend.
I actually hate titles. I never thought of myself as a “hetero” during the rest of my life. No one nudged their friend and whispered ‘cocksucker’ as I kissed my boyfriends in public. I was me – doing what came naturally.
And that's how I am now. Fuck the labels – please get over it girls. We may have been oppressed along with the guys in the bad old days. But now, certainly in Brighton and London it’s out in the open and we’re all cool.
So leave me alone. Giving me and other bi’s a bad time is merely repeating the disgusting behaviour of the old fashioned gay-bashers.
On the subject of gays and giving it a bashing I must mention my pals Dolce & Gabbana. I’m going to have to change their names because I called them after the logos on their pants that appeared above their jeans in the accepted style followed by shirtlifters everywhere.
Now fashion has moved on and upwards and men’s pants have disappeared from public view.
(As have girl's thongs – a rather sexy look I thought in the early days when just foxy ladies with cute tight arses (and me) showed the weekly wash in a provocative way. Then the lardbutts of Brighton and the world consciously (and worse unconsciously) offered us a view of their greying twisted arse-wipers – urrrrrggggg. Thankfully, new jean's styles mean that’s all an ugly memory.)
So with D&G under cover what can I call my lovely boy friends? How about Alcock and Brown?*
See, I’ve managed to end my piece on the same theme as I began – that’s writing skill.
Love from the cockles of my heart. Sadie
*for my US pals Alcock and Brown were 1920’s guys who flew the Atlantic and “Brown” is vulgar slang for….oh forget it.
Well, hopefully erectus…but often, sorry-this-has-never-happened-beforus.
I mentioned ‘chix with dix’ in my last blog, an amusing set of photo-posting clubs I found on Yafro.com featuring really stunning bodies, sexy ‘girly’ faces,super hair, big tits, enviable waists, great bums…and a cock.
Yea, lady-boys! I wrote, tongue-in-cheek, (not in their cheeks I'll have you know) I wrote that I thought, that as a bi-sexual female, this appeared to be a very tempting package. And this was interpreted in several different ways.
Members of the Brighton Muffia, those shaven headed, tattooed, pierced cunts…
…sorry, Blogger.com, a very liberal and cool organisation would want me to make it clear I’m not suggesting these people are cunts…I just mean that their genitalia is pierced. Is that clear? Absolutely clear? Good, I’d hate you to think that I have problems with the sisterhood in my fair city.
Anyway, my lesbian co-conspirators in the “war against the cock dominated fascist world - Brighton Battalion” gave me a bit of a hard time.
I got rounded on over my morning hot chocolate and my evening cocktail…oh sorry, did I just say cock…oops, pardon!
So, let me answer you all.
(1) I didn’t mean I wanted to have a cock – I’m a woman thank you and very happy in my present state. I don’t want to add six inches to my body – in fact I’d rather lose it, especially around the hips and bum.
(2) I was just fantasising about a sexual partner. It was a joke.
(3) Although for the last three years I have enjoyed sex solely with women I still think of myself as bi-sexual. Because for the other 15 years I was fucked by men – and I loved it.
It was the fuckers that pissed me off in the end, not the fucking. Plus I met an amazing woman just when I needed a bit of TLC. Then another, and now my g/f. So I’m cool, ok.
So, next question. This time from friends (especially Ms Rude)…do I miss something warm inside me on a chilly Autumn night?
Right, well, a strap-on is never going to replace a slip-in.
It may be 10 inches and totally realistic but it’s fake not real flesh and blood. So, yes, in that respect I do miss cocks. It was the extension (if you were lucky) of a sexy and loving human being and that really matters.
Today, a woman’s fingers and tongue can cause the same response in me and that’s fucking fabulous. But I’d be a hypocrite if I didn’t admit that I’ve still got a soft spot for a hard-on – and you know where to find it boysJ
But does this make me lesbian-lite? Just sort of playing at it rather than living the lifestyle 24/7. I don’t think so. I know what I am and what I feel – and so does my girlfriend.
I actually hate titles. I never thought of myself as a “hetero” during the rest of my life. No one nudged their friend and whispered ‘cocksucker’ as I kissed my boyfriends in public. I was me – doing what came naturally.
And that's how I am now. Fuck the labels – please get over it girls. We may have been oppressed along with the guys in the bad old days. But now, certainly in Brighton and London it’s out in the open and we’re all cool.
So leave me alone. Giving me and other bi’s a bad time is merely repeating the disgusting behaviour of the old fashioned gay-bashers.
On the subject of gays and giving it a bashing I must mention my pals Dolce & Gabbana. I’m going to have to change their names because I called them after the logos on their pants that appeared above their jeans in the accepted style followed by shirtlifters everywhere.
Now fashion has moved on and upwards and men’s pants have disappeared from public view.
(As have girl's thongs – a rather sexy look I thought in the early days when just foxy ladies with cute tight arses (and me) showed the weekly wash in a provocative way. Then the lardbutts of Brighton and the world consciously (and worse unconsciously) offered us a view of their greying twisted arse-wipers – urrrrrggggg. Thankfully, new jean's styles mean that’s all an ugly memory.)
So with D&G under cover what can I call my lovely boy friends? How about Alcock and Brown?*
See, I’ve managed to end my piece on the same theme as I began – that’s writing skill.
Love from the cockles of my heart. Sadie
*for my US pals Alcock and Brown were 1920’s guys who flew the Atlantic and “Brown” is vulgar slang for….oh forget it.
Sunday, October 16, 2005
The world according to Yafro
Often when I finish writing my blog I hit the next blog button at the top of the page. This reveals a fascinating world. Or not!
Sadly, more often than not you get a 14 year old girl writing at tedious length about her extremely dull life and even more boring friends (OK I was 14 once and just as ass-achingly irritating).
But occasionally you get a really thought provoking review of today’s world. My favourite pen-pal (if that is the appropriate term in this on-line environment) is Hip Liz. You’ll find him on hippolyte.blogspot.com and his blog is full of carefully considered writing and commonsense.
Inspired by him and the other brainy bloggers I was determined to ignore my usual mucky nonsense and write something important this time. The threat of bird-flu perhaps, or the gripping contest for the leadership of the Conservative Party, or the worrying escalation of the Iraq Crisis…but then I discovered Yafro!
Yea baby www.yafro.com. It’s a site where people (predominately Americans) can post pictures. If you hit the ‘no adult content’ button then you get a reassuring view of the US. Nice pics of beautiful landscapes, of which there are plenty, smiling family shots – a kind of sweet visual blog, and although I haven’t looked, I’m sure, lots of Mum and apple pie.
But can you imagine me hitting ‘no adult content’? Sooooooooo…you won’t imagine what I uncovered.
Sure, all the usual stuff. Boys proudly presenting their pork swords. Girls bending towards the camera giving us an intimate view of their flappy bits – Kingsley Amis described it like looking at a close up of a giraffe’s ear. And yes I can see what he meant.
Yea we’ve all seen that before. The really interesting stuff on Yafro tells us quite a bit about the USA today.
How about ‘young girls on the toilet’? Believe me, the barriers have come done on what you can see on the internet. And in this case, the barrier is the ‘engaged’ sign on the loo door.
There are several ‘clubs’ featuring the startled faces of attractive females caught ‘knickers down’ on the pan. As their arses are as tanned as their faces they must be Americans and as the photography is a bit haphazard they must be real.
I might be wrong, but the ‘oh my god’ rather than the “get out of here you fucking pervert’ expressions suggest that it is their snappers are female friends. I know girls have a fairly relaxed view about peeing together but to then post it on the internet. Dear reader, I’m shocked!
So, from pulchritudinous pissers to saucy swingers. “Women over 50 being fucked by black guys” tells it like it is and is just one site amongst many showing white middle-aged women with a taste for black cock in one set of lips or the other.
These rather sexy shanigans seem to happen with the permission and, often, assistance of their husbands. The pics suggest that these are organised parties and ladies you expect to see at the Shopping Mall or on the golf course are portrayed, naked, arse in the air being drilled by a dark dork.
Is this a common activity in suburban America? If so, at weekly coffee mornings, “I prefer mine black” must take on a completely different meaning.
Cocks, black, white and cappuccino - coloured feature prominently in another very popular set of clubs. Transexuals or TS’s are men who’ve had some impressive cosmetic surgery.
“Chix with Dix” and Slutz with Nutz” are just a couple of the names of these clubs and the ‘girls’ are stunning.
They all boast tits we’d all love. Nice big firm bouncers with perky nips. And arses to die for. Am I jealous?…oh nooo of course not!
However, they’ve hung on to one important thing and there it is, in pic after pic, hanging down in front of them. And some of them are extremely well hung! (sorry, that’s enough ‘hung’ puns)
“MMMMMMMMM!” I thought. A sexy ‘women’s’ face and hair, a beautiful woman’s body…a nice fat cock. What more could a bi-sexual beauty like me want?
And then I thought again. All this also comes with a man’s brain. Sadly the surgeons haven’t discovered the skill to feminise this important bit. So, on second thoughts…No!
Well, so much for seriousness although most of these pics are seriously arousing in one way or another. Once again my blog’s a bit blue. Sorry, I promise, next time not to talk about ‘tackle’ but to actually tackle vital issues…like the euro or global warming.
Promise!
Now back to Yafro. What’s this…My God, I don’t believe it…
Love from Sadie xxxxxx
Sadly, more often than not you get a 14 year old girl writing at tedious length about her extremely dull life and even more boring friends (OK I was 14 once and just as ass-achingly irritating).
But occasionally you get a really thought provoking review of today’s world. My favourite pen-pal (if that is the appropriate term in this on-line environment) is Hip Liz. You’ll find him on hippolyte.blogspot.com and his blog is full of carefully considered writing and commonsense.
Inspired by him and the other brainy bloggers I was determined to ignore my usual mucky nonsense and write something important this time. The threat of bird-flu perhaps, or the gripping contest for the leadership of the Conservative Party, or the worrying escalation of the Iraq Crisis…but then I discovered Yafro!
Yea baby www.yafro.com. It’s a site where people (predominately Americans) can post pictures. If you hit the ‘no adult content’ button then you get a reassuring view of the US. Nice pics of beautiful landscapes, of which there are plenty, smiling family shots – a kind of sweet visual blog, and although I haven’t looked, I’m sure, lots of Mum and apple pie.
But can you imagine me hitting ‘no adult content’? Sooooooooo…you won’t imagine what I uncovered.
Sure, all the usual stuff. Boys proudly presenting their pork swords. Girls bending towards the camera giving us an intimate view of their flappy bits – Kingsley Amis described it like looking at a close up of a giraffe’s ear. And yes I can see what he meant.
Yea we’ve all seen that before. The really interesting stuff on Yafro tells us quite a bit about the USA today.
How about ‘young girls on the toilet’? Believe me, the barriers have come done on what you can see on the internet. And in this case, the barrier is the ‘engaged’ sign on the loo door.
There are several ‘clubs’ featuring the startled faces of attractive females caught ‘knickers down’ on the pan. As their arses are as tanned as their faces they must be Americans and as the photography is a bit haphazard they must be real.
I might be wrong, but the ‘oh my god’ rather than the “get out of here you fucking pervert’ expressions suggest that it is their snappers are female friends. I know girls have a fairly relaxed view about peeing together but to then post it on the internet. Dear reader, I’m shocked!
So, from pulchritudinous pissers to saucy swingers. “Women over 50 being fucked by black guys” tells it like it is and is just one site amongst many showing white middle-aged women with a taste for black cock in one set of lips or the other.
These rather sexy shanigans seem to happen with the permission and, often, assistance of their husbands. The pics suggest that these are organised parties and ladies you expect to see at the Shopping Mall or on the golf course are portrayed, naked, arse in the air being drilled by a dark dork.
Is this a common activity in suburban America? If so, at weekly coffee mornings, “I prefer mine black” must take on a completely different meaning.
Cocks, black, white and cappuccino - coloured feature prominently in another very popular set of clubs. Transexuals or TS’s are men who’ve had some impressive cosmetic surgery.
“Chix with Dix” and Slutz with Nutz” are just a couple of the names of these clubs and the ‘girls’ are stunning.
They all boast tits we’d all love. Nice big firm bouncers with perky nips. And arses to die for. Am I jealous?…oh nooo of course not!
However, they’ve hung on to one important thing and there it is, in pic after pic, hanging down in front of them. And some of them are extremely well hung! (sorry, that’s enough ‘hung’ puns)
“MMMMMMMMM!” I thought. A sexy ‘women’s’ face and hair, a beautiful woman’s body…a nice fat cock. What more could a bi-sexual beauty like me want?
And then I thought again. All this also comes with a man’s brain. Sadly the surgeons haven’t discovered the skill to feminise this important bit. So, on second thoughts…No!
Well, so much for seriousness although most of these pics are seriously arousing in one way or another. Once again my blog’s a bit blue. Sorry, I promise, next time not to talk about ‘tackle’ but to actually tackle vital issues…like the euro or global warming.
Promise!
Now back to Yafro. What’s this…My God, I don’t believe it…
Love from Sadie xxxxxx
Sunday, October 09, 2005
Weighty thoughts (and the usual smut)
Well, the weather here in Brighton has been unsettled – and so have I.
Today was hot and I should have been happy but then you start thinking, is this the last hot day of the year? Is it all over? Is there any meaning to my life? Are Franz Ferdinand actually crap? Yes, the big questions.
Which gets me to yesterday morning’s big question. Will my bum slip into this season’s slim cut jeans? My g/f was quite vocal on this subject as she took a close look at the subject in question.
I heard the threatening tone in her voice as she paused in doing what good girls do to their chums on Saturday mornings (or bad girls if you’re a Daily Mail reader).
Her chilling words echoed from below. “ You know Sadie you’ve really put on some weiggggggggggg….urgggggggggggggggg!"
Funny what happens to the human voice when it gets sat on. But her pressing problem was also mine – something had to be done.
So if Brighton residents woke to a strange damp slapping noise this morning I can reassure them. It wasn't two sealions fighting on the beach it was just the sound of my thighs coming together as I jogged along the promenade.
As I swayed along frightening the seagulls I was troubled. I might get rid of some of my subcutaneous fat but I couldn’t get rid of my sodding misgivings.
I felt that changes were just around the corner.
Actually, what was just around the corner was a café where they do the most amazing bacon sandwiches. But still the thoughts weighed heavily on my mind.
I’ve actually enjoyed the most tranquil period of my recent life – and it feels strange. I’ve got a steady relationship (most of the time) and now a steady and respectable job. I left the gym ages ago and then I finally gave up my role as a pub slut, thank God!
I now work part-time in a bookshop and I’m just getting used to having the female (and male) customers more interested in probing my mind than my behind.
Normally this wouldn’t have been ‘dark’ enough news to feature in my blog. But actually I’m having dark thoughts about this blissful time.
“When everything’s settled, is when you get restless Susie!” my ex-husband used to yell at me years ago. He said things like that because he liked a steady life, always knowing what lay ahead, same food, same holidays, same three positions, absolutely no surprises and all that boring bollocks.
Oh, and he called me Susie …because, at the time, that was my name!
“I get restless because of our boring life together” I seem to recall replying snappily (I’m trying to write better dialogue in my book)
And then I stormed out of the room because that is what women do in these circumstances – and because, fuck it, he was right.
Given a dazzling mirror-like pond reflecting a perfect sunset most people would just gaze lovingly at its inspiring surface and perhaps compose a little poem - I have to chuck a stone into it.
I don’t know why, it’s just my nature.
In the past when I faced a placid future, I lobbed my stone. It could have been extra marital affairs, chucking in a great job, a particularly painful divorce or even leaping into lesbianism, but it did the job!
Now, I’m older and, I hope, wiser (otherwise these wrinkles would be even more fucking unwelcome). So you can see why I feeling a bit gloomy.
Tracy Emin looks like a bit of a stone thrower too. She came to mind because (1) I was reading about her in the Daily Telegraph Magazine (my g/f's I hasten to add, do I seeeeemmmm like a Telegraph reader???) and (2) people say I'm quite a bit like her.
Well, if us both having brown hair, three holes and a tanker-like capacity for booze is all that counts then we're identical twins - but truthfully I can't see any similiarity. However I rather admire her and the article plus some of her writing confirmed my positive feelings.
Other feelings were aroused by the photograph of Tracy on the rooftop of her loft. There she stood with that quirky but oh so sexy smile in a tight skirt, slinky shiny tights, tanned fit body and just an amazing bra-top. It was green with silver stars and cupped Tracy's Turner Prize-winning tits.
Well, I thought, I definitely would...given the chance. I bet Tracy would be up for a bit of going down too. In fact, I'd be surprised if she hasn't tried a bit of rug-munching along with all the other things she's dabbled in.
I got quite imaginative about what exhibitions Tracy and I might create. As a porn pedlar my imagination has had many good work-outs and so is very, very lively. And as my thoughts got more rude so I got more moist. However I still don't expect my knickers would fetch what Tracy's did (along with her bed) at the Saatchi Gallery.
Sad about the artistic world isn't it. You can labour starving in garrets for years perfecting your skills and then see skidmarks valued at a hundred grand.
Still Tracy has suffered for her art. From childhood she's been upsetting everything and every one with her occasionally well-aimed but mostly haphazard 'stones'.
However, I’m hoping my writing will be the ‘stone’ this time and, because of this, the bits of life that I cherish won’t have to change. It would be nice to achieve a bit of recognition, a little more money and maybe a Bentley Continental GT. I not sure what the last thing is but that’s what my co-writer Morgan dreams about.
Morgan and I are beavering away. That sounds rude I know, but our relationship is strictly professional. I even put some clothes on when he comes round to compare re-writes.
On the subject of writing, ‘Sadie Dark Places’ got two mentions in the outside world recently.
The extremely perceptive, talented and, no doubt, strikingly beautiful people at the Brighton Source, an essential ‘what’s – on in the sexy city’ magazine picked my blog out in the September issue.
In an article it selected ‘the finest local blogs’ described as ‘the gems in an ocean of turds’. Hardly a ‘Booker Prize’ style of recommendation but gratefully received by me – thank you very much guys!
The other mention is a total mystery to me. There’s some American website called ‘Blogshares’ and they appear to invest in blogs. When I found the site (it was mentioned on Google) it stated that Sadie Dark Places was number nine and valued at $1,982.00. What the fuck is all this about? (if anyone knows please, please leave a comment or email me)
Comments! Ah yes, please comment on my stuff, because it’s fun to have some intercourse (oohhhh Mrs). However, thanks to some boring bastards who are latching onto blogs through some automatic server (or something), you now have to type a number in – sorry. Apparently this prevents the automatic thing automatically placing ads for dull Russian sex sites into my comment folder.
So carry on with your provocative comments – they’re just the thing to snap me out of my mood.
Love and moody kisses from Sadie (gazing into the distance in a moody sort of way)
Today was hot and I should have been happy but then you start thinking, is this the last hot day of the year? Is it all over? Is there any meaning to my life? Are Franz Ferdinand actually crap? Yes, the big questions.
Which gets me to yesterday morning’s big question. Will my bum slip into this season’s slim cut jeans? My g/f was quite vocal on this subject as she took a close look at the subject in question.
I heard the threatening tone in her voice as she paused in doing what good girls do to their chums on Saturday mornings (or bad girls if you’re a Daily Mail reader).
Her chilling words echoed from below. “ You know Sadie you’ve really put on some weiggggggggggg….urgggggggggggggggg!"
Funny what happens to the human voice when it gets sat on. But her pressing problem was also mine – something had to be done.
So if Brighton residents woke to a strange damp slapping noise this morning I can reassure them. It wasn't two sealions fighting on the beach it was just the sound of my thighs coming together as I jogged along the promenade.
As I swayed along frightening the seagulls I was troubled. I might get rid of some of my subcutaneous fat but I couldn’t get rid of my sodding misgivings.
I felt that changes were just around the corner.
Actually, what was just around the corner was a café where they do the most amazing bacon sandwiches. But still the thoughts weighed heavily on my mind.
I’ve actually enjoyed the most tranquil period of my recent life – and it feels strange. I’ve got a steady relationship (most of the time) and now a steady and respectable job. I left the gym ages ago and then I finally gave up my role as a pub slut, thank God!
I now work part-time in a bookshop and I’m just getting used to having the female (and male) customers more interested in probing my mind than my behind.
Normally this wouldn’t have been ‘dark’ enough news to feature in my blog. But actually I’m having dark thoughts about this blissful time.
“When everything’s settled, is when you get restless Susie!” my ex-husband used to yell at me years ago. He said things like that because he liked a steady life, always knowing what lay ahead, same food, same holidays, same three positions, absolutely no surprises and all that boring bollocks.
Oh, and he called me Susie …because, at the time, that was my name!
“I get restless because of our boring life together” I seem to recall replying snappily (I’m trying to write better dialogue in my book)
And then I stormed out of the room because that is what women do in these circumstances – and because, fuck it, he was right.
Given a dazzling mirror-like pond reflecting a perfect sunset most people would just gaze lovingly at its inspiring surface and perhaps compose a little poem - I have to chuck a stone into it.
I don’t know why, it’s just my nature.
In the past when I faced a placid future, I lobbed my stone. It could have been extra marital affairs, chucking in a great job, a particularly painful divorce or even leaping into lesbianism, but it did the job!
Now, I’m older and, I hope, wiser (otherwise these wrinkles would be even more fucking unwelcome). So you can see why I feeling a bit gloomy.
Tracy Emin looks like a bit of a stone thrower too. She came to mind because (1) I was reading about her in the Daily Telegraph Magazine (my g/f's I hasten to add, do I seeeeemmmm like a Telegraph reader???) and (2) people say I'm quite a bit like her.
Well, if us both having brown hair, three holes and a tanker-like capacity for booze is all that counts then we're identical twins - but truthfully I can't see any similiarity. However I rather admire her and the article plus some of her writing confirmed my positive feelings.
Other feelings were aroused by the photograph of Tracy on the rooftop of her loft. There she stood with that quirky but oh so sexy smile in a tight skirt, slinky shiny tights, tanned fit body and just an amazing bra-top. It was green with silver stars and cupped Tracy's Turner Prize-winning tits.
Well, I thought, I definitely would...given the chance. I bet Tracy would be up for a bit of going down too. In fact, I'd be surprised if she hasn't tried a bit of rug-munching along with all the other things she's dabbled in.
I got quite imaginative about what exhibitions Tracy and I might create. As a porn pedlar my imagination has had many good work-outs and so is very, very lively. And as my thoughts got more rude so I got more moist. However I still don't expect my knickers would fetch what Tracy's did (along with her bed) at the Saatchi Gallery.
Sad about the artistic world isn't it. You can labour starving in garrets for years perfecting your skills and then see skidmarks valued at a hundred grand.
Still Tracy has suffered for her art. From childhood she's been upsetting everything and every one with her occasionally well-aimed but mostly haphazard 'stones'.
However, I’m hoping my writing will be the ‘stone’ this time and, because of this, the bits of life that I cherish won’t have to change. It would be nice to achieve a bit of recognition, a little more money and maybe a Bentley Continental GT. I not sure what the last thing is but that’s what my co-writer Morgan dreams about.
Morgan and I are beavering away. That sounds rude I know, but our relationship is strictly professional. I even put some clothes on when he comes round to compare re-writes.
On the subject of writing, ‘Sadie Dark Places’ got two mentions in the outside world recently.
The extremely perceptive, talented and, no doubt, strikingly beautiful people at the Brighton Source, an essential ‘what’s – on in the sexy city’ magazine picked my blog out in the September issue.
In an article it selected ‘the finest local blogs’ described as ‘the gems in an ocean of turds’. Hardly a ‘Booker Prize’ style of recommendation but gratefully received by me – thank you very much guys!
The other mention is a total mystery to me. There’s some American website called ‘Blogshares’ and they appear to invest in blogs. When I found the site (it was mentioned on Google) it stated that Sadie Dark Places was number nine and valued at $1,982.00. What the fuck is all this about? (if anyone knows please, please leave a comment or email me)
Comments! Ah yes, please comment on my stuff, because it’s fun to have some intercourse (oohhhh Mrs). However, thanks to some boring bastards who are latching onto blogs through some automatic server (or something), you now have to type a number in – sorry. Apparently this prevents the automatic thing automatically placing ads for dull Russian sex sites into my comment folder.
So carry on with your provocative comments – they’re just the thing to snap me out of my mood.
Love and moody kisses from Sadie (gazing into the distance in a moody sort of way)
Sunday, September 18, 2005
Whipping up a party in New York
To get some research for my book I recently visited a local-ish BSDM club – well that’s my excuse and I’m sticking to it. A bit like the latex bustier stuck to me!
It was fun but in a terribly British way. And it was sooooooo different to the fun I had on a trip to the USA last December. You’ll have to wait for my book launch (am I dreaming???) for the English stuff but here’s a brief report on the spanking good time I had in NY.
*******************
I don’t know how you would spend your time in pre-Christmas New York. Watching the skaters at Rockefeller Centre or in Central Park? Watching the animated windows at Lord & Taylor? Or watching a naked woman taking it up the arse? Especially as she’s being fucked by a muscular tattooed lesbian with a strap-on.
Yes, I did all the usual festive things but it was the fetish things that made the trip memorable. An old friend of my girlfriend mentioned that it was the December party at her “lesbian BSDM club” and would we like an invite.
Oh yes! Which is why we were in a cab on the way to the venue in Queens dressed (under our long coats) in just skintight black jodphurs, rubber boots and our skin. We obviously hadn’t packed any fetish gear for a Christmas business and shopping trip to New York so a visit to a sportswear store supplied us with a cheap alternative.
At the ‘club’ female bouncers (with great bouncers, as a matter of fact) checked our invitations, which were sexy masks, peeked under our coats to make sure we’d followed the dress code and let us through.
Having lost the coats we looked around. It was a dyke’s dreamland. The party was packed with trimmed, toned and tanned New York girls in the minimum of clothing possible. Their interpretation of ‘fetish wear’ was varied. Some were authentically kitted out in leather basques and thongs with studs and straps. Some were in sexily ripped ‘boys/boi’s’ clothes. Others just used it as an excuse to strut around in fantasy wear. Many were naked. But who cares when you can’t move without brushing against some truly awesome tits and arses.
The ‘dungeon’ was anything but. No bare walls, no grubby floor, no chilly damp smell, no fat white Brits – this was the Bergdorfs of BDSM. It was a nightclub some nights, a gay club on others, and a couples BDSM and Swingers Club on a monthly basis. Tonight was girls’ only and very popular it was too.
We mingled in the bar area. My girlfriend’s friend was there with a group of mates. She came over to greet us. The last time I’d seen her she’d been in a conservative black Donna Karan number. Now she was in a purple satin basque and her tits spilled over it. They were obviously enhanced but stunning none the less. Big and brown with very pert nipples framed in silver ‘jewellry’. She kissed me and our nipples clashed, she knew it and licked her lips suggestively, she then kissed my girlfriend and grabbing our hands led us over to her friends. Her purple satin knickers full at the front, were cut away at the back revealing her big brown arse cheeks swaying sexily as she walked. Was it etiquette, I wondered, to grope your girlfriend’s friend’s bum without a formal introduction.
Her friends were equally elegantly undressed. One wore a black rubber catsuit with holes cut out to reveal her nipples, cunt and buttocks. Another wore a severe white top, starting from her neck and covering her arms and small tits but it all changed at waist level. Below she was naked but for a pearlstring thong dividing her cunt lips. The other two were obviously a team. One wore a leather ‘domme’ outfit consisting of basque, thong and thigh boots and the other was naked but for a rubber face mask and also a leather collar and chain that was firmly in the grasp of the ‘domme’. We all wore our sexy masks.
As a group we must have looked like an illustration from one of those ‘60’s’ lesbian soft porn novels. Including us Brits because although when compared to our American friends my girlfriend and I were overdressed but we were certainly causing an effect.
I haven’t worn riding breeches since Pony Club so I’d never noticed how sexy they look and feel. Because ours were cheap and thin they appeared glued to every curve on our bodies. The American girls spun us around and stared. Their tightness acted like a sort of ‘bum bra’ so even my womanly cheeks were pulled tightly together whilst displaying a fine crack. My arse felt great and I noticed my girlfriend’s smaller butt looked pretty cool too. We also both displayed amazingly defined ‘cameltoe’ around our crotches - I could have held a book in my slit! The breeches gripped my thighs like lover’s hands, and the elastic material massaged my cunt as I moved. And then, to complete the look, above the waistband we were both completely naked. A coating of St Tropez made us blend in a bit with our tanned colleagues but we both severely lacked toning. My tits were natural I’d like to think (translation: droopy) and my girlfriends’ are virtually non-existent but we were obviously Brits so this was excused by our cosmetically assisted colleagues.
Our group’s sexy clothing and nudity was echoed throughout the bar. It was pervy by Prada, and the girls were hot and excited but the atmosphere was very unthreatening. I wondered how many authentic lesbians there were in the room and how many were just straight girls out to dress sexy and have a laugh.
It reminded me of ‘Cake’, a ‘straight’ club in London where posh girls show their panties and let lapdancers sit on their knees. I mentioned this to the woman in the catsuit and she just grinned, reached round, squeezed my arse and said ‘wait and see until we get into the playroom”
Our New York friend had cautioned us that “outside rules don’t apply in the club – anything goes, if you want it”. So rather than just be two sloppy Brits self-consciously slapping each other’s bums in public we agreed to separate and ‘play’ with other women. My girlfriend admits she’s a bit possessive so this was an early Christmas present from her.
In keeping with the spirit of the place we made our parting kiss extreme. What started as a bit of a piss-take became a bit passionate. Our tongues snaked into each others’ mouths, darting in and out dripping with spit. My fingers greedily prised her arse cheeks apart and she cruelly twisted and tugged my nipples. I was getting sweaty - it was certainly setting me up for the night ahead.
The girls nearest us were appreciative too. Unlike the English, Americans express their enthusiasm loudly “Hey” they yelled, “Go for it girl”, “fuck her ass babe”. Later, I thought, as we giggled, kissed and parted.
I walked through the bar and through a curtain into a corridor. It suddenly got dark. My eyes adjusted and I saw on the right a room marked ‘playroom’. I peeked in. A suggestive low red light gave the place a sexy atmosphere but there was no sex as unfortunately the beanbags and the huge bed were unoccupied. I’d cum too early I expect.
The next room had a door marked “dungeon’ and a notice said “Enter here and leave your inhibitions behind” But don’t forget your ibuprofen gel, I grimly thought. I don’t do ‘pain’. I’d rather do oral on Osama Bin Laden than be whipped or flogged and as for ‘nipple torture’ I’m a definite ‘no clamping zone’.
But I’ve occasionally got moist sensations from subbing and light bondage and I’m a voracious voyeur so I entered. It was a bit brighter in here and better attended.
A naked woman was tied to a ‘cross’. Another woman was lashing her with a ‘cat o’ nine tails. I walked over to watch. The whipper was a muscular latino. She just wore a black thong that disappeared between her amazing arsecheeks. They were luscious like tanned leather cushions you could bury your face in and doze off. She’d either built up a ferocious sweat or she’d been lightly oiled. She had long black hair that almost reached her waist and it whipped against her rippling golden back as she soundly lashed the offered arse. A huge ‘American Eagle’ tattoo across her shoulders gave her biker chic. But it was her cheeks that really caught my interest and I just stared.
She turned and noticed me. She had a completely ‘dirty’ smile and she swayed over. Along with her lips I noticed her nips. Her tits were smallish but she had huge round rippled aureolas with nipples like a baby’s thumb
She looked me up down teasingly. “Want some of this sexypants?’ she purred. “Mmmmm, sexy pants”, her conversation continued - not very witty but making her point. To emphasise her feelings she slid her hand into the waistband of my breeches. ‘Want me to whip your ass, sexy” she added as her hand slipped down. I guessed she was one of the club’s domatrixes, a ‘pro’ in punishment.
“Ah thank you but not really” I stammered, sounding like a silly schoolgirlish Brit. “British, are you hun?” she replied, unnecessarily. “You guys like the kinky shit”. At this she slid her hand down inside my breeches and fingered my cunt lips. It was over in a second, then she kissed me, grinned and spinned way.
“Hey, you fucking slut” she yelled at the tethered nude, “don’t think you can fucking relax” At this she skilfully and brutally lashed the woman down between her, already striped, arse cheeks. Oh my god, I bet that stung, my eyes almost watered in sympathy. The woman’s body shuddered with the pain and her scream would have been echoed round New York if a ball-gag hadn’t reduced it to a gasping moan.
I moved on. Another naked woman was doubled up in a cage, two women, not ‘pro’s’ I guessed were teasing her through the bars. One was sliding a large black cock into the trapped ones mouth. ‘Suck on it, babe’ she called enthusiastically “cause it’s going into your cunt”.
Ahh, I thought, how so different from those family Christmas parties I used to enjoy.
Lashings of love from Sadie xxxxxxx
P.S. A little glimpse of 'Sadie's pants' - things that take my breath away. The latest is a website called Bi-girlz. It's Britain's (and possibly the world's) only female bi-sexual dating site and itz zo zexy!
You can place a pic or two or three (clothing optional), leave some interesting stuff about your little fancies and wait for the girlz to call. You can read some naughty stories (mine included) and if you're feel like getting warmed up on these chilly September nights you can just check out other member's portfolios - I especially recommend the many views of Flirtibabe. But to see if her bum is all it's cracked up to be you have to visit www.bigirlz.co.uk. Go on - you're worth it!
It was fun but in a terribly British way. And it was sooooooo different to the fun I had on a trip to the USA last December. You’ll have to wait for my book launch (am I dreaming???) for the English stuff but here’s a brief report on the spanking good time I had in NY.
*******************
I don’t know how you would spend your time in pre-Christmas New York. Watching the skaters at Rockefeller Centre or in Central Park? Watching the animated windows at Lord & Taylor? Or watching a naked woman taking it up the arse? Especially as she’s being fucked by a muscular tattooed lesbian with a strap-on.
Yes, I did all the usual festive things but it was the fetish things that made the trip memorable. An old friend of my girlfriend mentioned that it was the December party at her “lesbian BSDM club” and would we like an invite.
Oh yes! Which is why we were in a cab on the way to the venue in Queens dressed (under our long coats) in just skintight black jodphurs, rubber boots and our skin. We obviously hadn’t packed any fetish gear for a Christmas business and shopping trip to New York so a visit to a sportswear store supplied us with a cheap alternative.
At the ‘club’ female bouncers (with great bouncers, as a matter of fact) checked our invitations, which were sexy masks, peeked under our coats to make sure we’d followed the dress code and let us through.
Having lost the coats we looked around. It was a dyke’s dreamland. The party was packed with trimmed, toned and tanned New York girls in the minimum of clothing possible. Their interpretation of ‘fetish wear’ was varied. Some were authentically kitted out in leather basques and thongs with studs and straps. Some were in sexily ripped ‘boys/boi’s’ clothes. Others just used it as an excuse to strut around in fantasy wear. Many were naked. But who cares when you can’t move without brushing against some truly awesome tits and arses.
The ‘dungeon’ was anything but. No bare walls, no grubby floor, no chilly damp smell, no fat white Brits – this was the Bergdorfs of BDSM. It was a nightclub some nights, a gay club on others, and a couples BDSM and Swingers Club on a monthly basis. Tonight was girls’ only and very popular it was too.
We mingled in the bar area. My girlfriend’s friend was there with a group of mates. She came over to greet us. The last time I’d seen her she’d been in a conservative black Donna Karan number. Now she was in a purple satin basque and her tits spilled over it. They were obviously enhanced but stunning none the less. Big and brown with very pert nipples framed in silver ‘jewellry’. She kissed me and our nipples clashed, she knew it and licked her lips suggestively, she then kissed my girlfriend and grabbing our hands led us over to her friends. Her purple satin knickers full at the front, were cut away at the back revealing her big brown arse cheeks swaying sexily as she walked. Was it etiquette, I wondered, to grope your girlfriend’s friend’s bum without a formal introduction.
Her friends were equally elegantly undressed. One wore a black rubber catsuit with holes cut out to reveal her nipples, cunt and buttocks. Another wore a severe white top, starting from her neck and covering her arms and small tits but it all changed at waist level. Below she was naked but for a pearlstring thong dividing her cunt lips. The other two were obviously a team. One wore a leather ‘domme’ outfit consisting of basque, thong and thigh boots and the other was naked but for a rubber face mask and also a leather collar and chain that was firmly in the grasp of the ‘domme’. We all wore our sexy masks.
As a group we must have looked like an illustration from one of those ‘60’s’ lesbian soft porn novels. Including us Brits because although when compared to our American friends my girlfriend and I were overdressed but we were certainly causing an effect.
I haven’t worn riding breeches since Pony Club so I’d never noticed how sexy they look and feel. Because ours were cheap and thin they appeared glued to every curve on our bodies. The American girls spun us around and stared. Their tightness acted like a sort of ‘bum bra’ so even my womanly cheeks were pulled tightly together whilst displaying a fine crack. My arse felt great and I noticed my girlfriend’s smaller butt looked pretty cool too. We also both displayed amazingly defined ‘cameltoe’ around our crotches - I could have held a book in my slit! The breeches gripped my thighs like lover’s hands, and the elastic material massaged my cunt as I moved. And then, to complete the look, above the waistband we were both completely naked. A coating of St Tropez made us blend in a bit with our tanned colleagues but we both severely lacked toning. My tits were natural I’d like to think (translation: droopy) and my girlfriends’ are virtually non-existent but we were obviously Brits so this was excused by our cosmetically assisted colleagues.
Our group’s sexy clothing and nudity was echoed throughout the bar. It was pervy by Prada, and the girls were hot and excited but the atmosphere was very unthreatening. I wondered how many authentic lesbians there were in the room and how many were just straight girls out to dress sexy and have a laugh.
It reminded me of ‘Cake’, a ‘straight’ club in London where posh girls show their panties and let lapdancers sit on their knees. I mentioned this to the woman in the catsuit and she just grinned, reached round, squeezed my arse and said ‘wait and see until we get into the playroom”
Our New York friend had cautioned us that “outside rules don’t apply in the club – anything goes, if you want it”. So rather than just be two sloppy Brits self-consciously slapping each other’s bums in public we agreed to separate and ‘play’ with other women. My girlfriend admits she’s a bit possessive so this was an early Christmas present from her.
In keeping with the spirit of the place we made our parting kiss extreme. What started as a bit of a piss-take became a bit passionate. Our tongues snaked into each others’ mouths, darting in and out dripping with spit. My fingers greedily prised her arse cheeks apart and she cruelly twisted and tugged my nipples. I was getting sweaty - it was certainly setting me up for the night ahead.
The girls nearest us were appreciative too. Unlike the English, Americans express their enthusiasm loudly “Hey” they yelled, “Go for it girl”, “fuck her ass babe”. Later, I thought, as we giggled, kissed and parted.
I walked through the bar and through a curtain into a corridor. It suddenly got dark. My eyes adjusted and I saw on the right a room marked ‘playroom’. I peeked in. A suggestive low red light gave the place a sexy atmosphere but there was no sex as unfortunately the beanbags and the huge bed were unoccupied. I’d cum too early I expect.
The next room had a door marked “dungeon’ and a notice said “Enter here and leave your inhibitions behind” But don’t forget your ibuprofen gel, I grimly thought. I don’t do ‘pain’. I’d rather do oral on Osama Bin Laden than be whipped or flogged and as for ‘nipple torture’ I’m a definite ‘no clamping zone’.
But I’ve occasionally got moist sensations from subbing and light bondage and I’m a voracious voyeur so I entered. It was a bit brighter in here and better attended.
A naked woman was tied to a ‘cross’. Another woman was lashing her with a ‘cat o’ nine tails. I walked over to watch. The whipper was a muscular latino. She just wore a black thong that disappeared between her amazing arsecheeks. They were luscious like tanned leather cushions you could bury your face in and doze off. She’d either built up a ferocious sweat or she’d been lightly oiled. She had long black hair that almost reached her waist and it whipped against her rippling golden back as she soundly lashed the offered arse. A huge ‘American Eagle’ tattoo across her shoulders gave her biker chic. But it was her cheeks that really caught my interest and I just stared.
She turned and noticed me. She had a completely ‘dirty’ smile and she swayed over. Along with her lips I noticed her nips. Her tits were smallish but she had huge round rippled aureolas with nipples like a baby’s thumb
She looked me up down teasingly. “Want some of this sexypants?’ she purred. “Mmmmm, sexy pants”, her conversation continued - not very witty but making her point. To emphasise her feelings she slid her hand into the waistband of my breeches. ‘Want me to whip your ass, sexy” she added as her hand slipped down. I guessed she was one of the club’s domatrixes, a ‘pro’ in punishment.
“Ah thank you but not really” I stammered, sounding like a silly schoolgirlish Brit. “British, are you hun?” she replied, unnecessarily. “You guys like the kinky shit”. At this she slid her hand down inside my breeches and fingered my cunt lips. It was over in a second, then she kissed me, grinned and spinned way.
“Hey, you fucking slut” she yelled at the tethered nude, “don’t think you can fucking relax” At this she skilfully and brutally lashed the woman down between her, already striped, arse cheeks. Oh my god, I bet that stung, my eyes almost watered in sympathy. The woman’s body shuddered with the pain and her scream would have been echoed round New York if a ball-gag hadn’t reduced it to a gasping moan.
I moved on. Another naked woman was doubled up in a cage, two women, not ‘pro’s’ I guessed were teasing her through the bars. One was sliding a large black cock into the trapped ones mouth. ‘Suck on it, babe’ she called enthusiastically “cause it’s going into your cunt”.
Ahh, I thought, how so different from those family Christmas parties I used to enjoy.
Lashings of love from Sadie xxxxxxx
P.S. A little glimpse of 'Sadie's pants' - things that take my breath away. The latest is a website called Bi-girlz. It's Britain's (and possibly the world's) only female bi-sexual dating site and itz zo zexy!
You can place a pic or two or three (clothing optional), leave some interesting stuff about your little fancies and wait for the girlz to call. You can read some naughty stories (mine included) and if you're feel like getting warmed up on these chilly September nights you can just check out other member's portfolios - I especially recommend the many views of Flirtibabe. But to see if her bum is all it's cracked up to be you have to visit www.bigirlz.co.uk. Go on - you're worth it!
Friday, August 12, 2005
Foreplay for my imagination.
Well, I’ve been writing my stuff and yes, it’s not easy. I’m reassured by a quote that Ms Rude offered me for encouragement. Some 19th Century wordsmith wrote it and it goes “The only people who think writing is difficult are writers’ and, yes, its true.
In the past, I watched creative people at various advertising agencies crash their heads against the wall when thick arseholes of clients turned their imaginative and inspiring words into leaden un-involving shit. It was so easy for them, they didn’t care about originality and literacy and they paid the bills.
But at the moment I’m on my own (with Morgan, of course) and I’m trying to put ideas on the page that surprise and amuse people.
Occasionally, no make that very often, I wander outside my flat for inspiration and I’m so lucky. Within minutes I have everything I need.
If I need intellectual stimulation I drop into Yagnash Newsagents. Nothing kick starts the imagination like other writers. The Independent does it for me daily, (brilliant words provocatively presented) but then so does weekly Heat (ego’s successfully pricked) and monthly Vanity Fair (immaculate yet sleazy journalism).
With brilliant ideas buzzing around my head I stagger several feet to find a totally different kind of stimulation. My belly gets neat little taste orgasms via the Cherry Tree Delicatessen where everything is so naughty but nice.
As for food sex where better than Geo Watts & Son, proper fishmongers, (after all my gay men friends go on about us girl’s fishy taste – but how do they know I wonder). I don’t notice Geo or his son, as rather forbidding women serve up my plaice and cod. But it’s even tastier than a juicy cunt and that’s praise indeed.
I’m just a few minutes from my Mac and I’ve got Cardome cards with some really witty (and rather rude) one-liners about gays, lesbians and also those really perverted people who believe in sentimental birthday, wedding and Christmas greetings. It’s virtually impossible to make me laugh out loud these days (since I’ve stopped looking at bloke’s cocks) but the cards at Cardome do it everytime.
We’re still a stones throw from my flat and, if I want to surround myself with the stimulating beauty of nature, there’s Jane Greenwood for stunning flowers that add to my personal fragrance (say what you like about me but I always smell soooo nice) and Planted, where the wonderful guys offer up the most arty green things – proof that nature creates perfect sculpture.
On the subject of fragrance, the St James Centre laundry ensures that my over and underwear are fresh and inviting, although this will disappoint two of my most persistent correspondents who are keen to save me the cost of laundry on my knickers by taking them off my hands (and into theirs).
My final point of call has to be Dragons Gate. Every local neighbourhood needs its magic shop and this is one of the wickedest. As a trainee witch (black so suits me) I welcome their assistance with potions and spells. My enemies (you know who you are) better watch out – Sadie has her evil eye on you.
So there it is, one street, so many stimulating opportunities. If the terrorists struck and Brighton was cordoned off my various appetites could be totally satisfied within minutes of my home. I must include Brighton Rocks and Couch 33 for their inspiring cocktails. And I have to add Clone Zone with their eye-opening (and other parts, of course) selection of dildos and butt plugs.
Where else would you find all this but in the UK’s most amazing city?
With all this foreplay for my imagination lets hope the writing lives up to it. Now back to the book…
Love & Kisses from Brighton Sadie xxxxx
In the past, I watched creative people at various advertising agencies crash their heads against the wall when thick arseholes of clients turned their imaginative and inspiring words into leaden un-involving shit. It was so easy for them, they didn’t care about originality and literacy and they paid the bills.
But at the moment I’m on my own (with Morgan, of course) and I’m trying to put ideas on the page that surprise and amuse people.
Occasionally, no make that very often, I wander outside my flat for inspiration and I’m so lucky. Within minutes I have everything I need.
If I need intellectual stimulation I drop into Yagnash Newsagents. Nothing kick starts the imagination like other writers. The Independent does it for me daily, (brilliant words provocatively presented) but then so does weekly Heat (ego’s successfully pricked) and monthly Vanity Fair (immaculate yet sleazy journalism).
With brilliant ideas buzzing around my head I stagger several feet to find a totally different kind of stimulation. My belly gets neat little taste orgasms via the Cherry Tree Delicatessen where everything is so naughty but nice.
As for food sex where better than Geo Watts & Son, proper fishmongers, (after all my gay men friends go on about us girl’s fishy taste – but how do they know I wonder). I don’t notice Geo or his son, as rather forbidding women serve up my plaice and cod. But it’s even tastier than a juicy cunt and that’s praise indeed.
I’m just a few minutes from my Mac and I’ve got Cardome cards with some really witty (and rather rude) one-liners about gays, lesbians and also those really perverted people who believe in sentimental birthday, wedding and Christmas greetings. It’s virtually impossible to make me laugh out loud these days (since I’ve stopped looking at bloke’s cocks) but the cards at Cardome do it everytime.
We’re still a stones throw from my flat and, if I want to surround myself with the stimulating beauty of nature, there’s Jane Greenwood for stunning flowers that add to my personal fragrance (say what you like about me but I always smell soooo nice) and Planted, where the wonderful guys offer up the most arty green things – proof that nature creates perfect sculpture.
On the subject of fragrance, the St James Centre laundry ensures that my over and underwear are fresh and inviting, although this will disappoint two of my most persistent correspondents who are keen to save me the cost of laundry on my knickers by taking them off my hands (and into theirs).
My final point of call has to be Dragons Gate. Every local neighbourhood needs its magic shop and this is one of the wickedest. As a trainee witch (black so suits me) I welcome their assistance with potions and spells. My enemies (you know who you are) better watch out – Sadie has her evil eye on you.
So there it is, one street, so many stimulating opportunities. If the terrorists struck and Brighton was cordoned off my various appetites could be totally satisfied within minutes of my home. I must include Brighton Rocks and Couch 33 for their inspiring cocktails. And I have to add Clone Zone with their eye-opening (and other parts, of course) selection of dildos and butt plugs.
Where else would you find all this but in the UK’s most amazing city?
With all this foreplay for my imagination lets hope the writing lives up to it. Now back to the book…
Love & Kisses from Brighton Sadie xxxxx
Monday, August 01, 2005
Sadie's back again.
Well, fuck, it was springtime when I last posted a blog and we were all looking forward to a heatwave summer. Well, weather forecasts now join the famous lies like 'the cheque's in the post' and 'I promise I won't cum in your mouth'. I actually feel I've spent the last few months in Rainedon rather than Brighton. It's been damper than Jordan's drawers after a three-on-one session in a sauna bath.
What have you been doing since April? I tell you what I've been up to - I've been trying to write a book. Yes, ha ha, I know, everyone's got one book inside them, write it and shut it away, bullshit bullshit. But it's true. I've been tapping away on the mac and the pages are slowly appearing.
I say I but actually it's we. You've certainly forgotten what I wrote when Spring was sprunging forth and we were young and gay - but I mentioned a bloke with a Morgan, the 30's style sports car.
Well Morgan (as I'll call him) and I knew each other years ago in the ad business when he was a successful copywriter on glamorous accounts and I was a newbie account bunny. We flirted like mad, but he was married and I was Susie Bright, nice girl, so nothing naughty happened but we had some fun lunches. He really made me laugh and then he left/got fired/whatever and we lost touch.
I met him again last year at a mutual friends house and we clicked again. Our friend's mentioned my writing, I confessed to now being licentious leather clad lady licker and told him my book plot.
We started larking around (like the old days) and suddenly the ideas flowed or maybe it was the Sancerre.
So that's what I've been occupied with, writing stuff, e-mailing it to Morgan, getting his re-write and working on that. I think it's really coming together. It may not be Zadie Smith or JK Rowling but I hope the reader will end up moist, either through sexy thoughts or pissing themselves giggling.
As to Sadie's Pants.
Well I'm still with lovely Jane, my g/f, pant pant! I'm still very in love with Brighton and in the rare bursts of sunshine I've been toasting my tush on my favourite beach. So everything's kind of OK.
I've been to London a few times (fuck the bombers!) and visited a few fav places including Coffee, Cake & Kink, where I let an old gentleman fondle my tights on a 'stocking night' - oh what a slut I am.
That's it for now I'm afraid, sorry it's so short and unrevealing but I'm so exhausted by my hours of writing (puts hand to brow and looks tortured). On the other hand it may have been the hours at Charles St with the usual suspects.
However I promise I'll write more blog. Promise! Promise! You know you can trust me. Would I lie to you?
Love & Kisses from Sadie (pale and spent) xxxxxx
What have you been doing since April? I tell you what I've been up to - I've been trying to write a book. Yes, ha ha, I know, everyone's got one book inside them, write it and shut it away, bullshit bullshit. But it's true. I've been tapping away on the mac and the pages are slowly appearing.
I say I but actually it's we. You've certainly forgotten what I wrote when Spring was sprunging forth and we were young and gay - but I mentioned a bloke with a Morgan, the 30's style sports car.
Well Morgan (as I'll call him) and I knew each other years ago in the ad business when he was a successful copywriter on glamorous accounts and I was a newbie account bunny. We flirted like mad, but he was married and I was Susie Bright, nice girl, so nothing naughty happened but we had some fun lunches. He really made me laugh and then he left/got fired/whatever and we lost touch.
I met him again last year at a mutual friends house and we clicked again. Our friend's mentioned my writing, I confessed to now being licentious leather clad lady licker and told him my book plot.
We started larking around (like the old days) and suddenly the ideas flowed or maybe it was the Sancerre.
So that's what I've been occupied with, writing stuff, e-mailing it to Morgan, getting his re-write and working on that. I think it's really coming together. It may not be Zadie Smith or JK Rowling but I hope the reader will end up moist, either through sexy thoughts or pissing themselves giggling.
As to Sadie's Pants.
Well I'm still with lovely Jane, my g/f, pant pant! I'm still very in love with Brighton and in the rare bursts of sunshine I've been toasting my tush on my favourite beach. So everything's kind of OK.
I've been to London a few times (fuck the bombers!) and visited a few fav places including Coffee, Cake & Kink, where I let an old gentleman fondle my tights on a 'stocking night' - oh what a slut I am.
That's it for now I'm afraid, sorry it's so short and unrevealing but I'm so exhausted by my hours of writing (puts hand to brow and looks tortured). On the other hand it may have been the hours at Charles St with the usual suspects.
However I promise I'll write more blog. Promise! Promise! You know you can trust me. Would I lie to you?
Love & Kisses from Sadie (pale and spent) xxxxxx
Wednesday, April 13, 2005
Giving my body an MOT.
Yes that’s right it’s T&A time - the moment, usually after an unexpected bit of sunshine, when a woman stands alone in front of her bedroom mirror and bares her arse and soul.
After a winter of comfortable clothes cover up, a future of heat–inspired exposure beckons. So a critical eye must be cast over one’s bits and measures must be taken to improve measurements. I wish I could say I did this voluntarily – but this year it took a little gentle persuasion.
Like your g/f declaring, during a moment of sensual delight: “Christ Sadie your bum is getting fucking huge”
Thanks love, Jane Austen couldn’t have put it better! And my beloved (who’s built like a boy) likes and is always praising my cuddliness so I must have hit Jade Goody proportions round the rear end.
Which is why I’m studying myself closely. It reminds me of when I had a company car and used to take it to the Volkswagen dealers for a yearly MOT and check over. I wasn’t much of a car-lover and didn’t take much care of it. Darren the mechanic used to walk around it, shaking his head and sucking his teeth.
I can imagine him now, in my bedroom, walking around me with his clipboard and reciting his familiar litany.
“Oh Sadie, you really haven’t been looking after the bodywork have you?”
He leans closer. “I mean just look at the ripples on the surface, down here and right over the back end, it’ll take some work to get rid of them”
He nods sadly, grabbing my arse cheeks and pressing down. “Look at the play in these, that’s not right, they’ll need really tightening up”
He moves round to my tits. “And bloody hell, Sadie look at this, your suspension’s absolutely knackered – what have you been doing to yourself”
He gets on the floor to inspect underneath. “Tch Tch Tch!” I hear him sigh. “Those flaps are loose…they’ll need to be screwed up for sure!”
He gets up and stands by me, checks his clipboard and speaks sadly. “Well I’m afraid I’ve got to fail you Sadie. I know you’ve got a few miles on the clock and have given rides to several owners but I can’t pass you in this condition”
He tries to be helpful. “Tell you what, bring your chassis down to the works and I’ll give you a quick touch-up and a good service…”
I stop this stupid fantasising but the observations are correct. It’s gym’ll fix it for Sadie and I’ll sign up today.
But honestly, the nipples aren’t pointing downwards, the belly’s manageable and the thighs are ok – so it’s not all bad news. Actually I look fine nude, everything seems in proportion - it’s an odd fact that we often appear worse in clothes than we do naked. Squeezing into that tight fabric is a bad look.
I often muse on this when I’m on our famous nude beach. Whatever age or sex we all look quite cool (it’s probably the Brighton breezes)
Sure there’s the usual suspects, scraggy old men like used condoms, women with backsides you could park a Harley Davidson in and enough cellulite, beer guts and love handles to keep Hannibal Lector in snacks for a month – but there are also some really sexy tits and arses.
Unfortunately they’re mostly on men. Gay men make up the majority of the sunbathers. Of course, there are quite a few couples and, occasionally, women like me. But it’s definitely cocks on the rocks at Brighton.
But hot sun and hot bodies seems a world away on this cold April evening. So I stop the sag-survey and start to write this. I might be sitting on my fat arse but I feel optimistic.
The Volkswagen with the battered bodywork still got around a lot. And so will I!
Love & cuddliness. Sadie xxxxxx
After a winter of comfortable clothes cover up, a future of heat–inspired exposure beckons. So a critical eye must be cast over one’s bits and measures must be taken to improve measurements. I wish I could say I did this voluntarily – but this year it took a little gentle persuasion.
Like your g/f declaring, during a moment of sensual delight: “Christ Sadie your bum is getting fucking huge”
Thanks love, Jane Austen couldn’t have put it better! And my beloved (who’s built like a boy) likes and is always praising my cuddliness so I must have hit Jade Goody proportions round the rear end.
Which is why I’m studying myself closely. It reminds me of when I had a company car and used to take it to the Volkswagen dealers for a yearly MOT and check over. I wasn’t much of a car-lover and didn’t take much care of it. Darren the mechanic used to walk around it, shaking his head and sucking his teeth.
I can imagine him now, in my bedroom, walking around me with his clipboard and reciting his familiar litany.
“Oh Sadie, you really haven’t been looking after the bodywork have you?”
He leans closer. “I mean just look at the ripples on the surface, down here and right over the back end, it’ll take some work to get rid of them”
He nods sadly, grabbing my arse cheeks and pressing down. “Look at the play in these, that’s not right, they’ll need really tightening up”
He moves round to my tits. “And bloody hell, Sadie look at this, your suspension’s absolutely knackered – what have you been doing to yourself”
He gets on the floor to inspect underneath. “Tch Tch Tch!” I hear him sigh. “Those flaps are loose…they’ll need to be screwed up for sure!”
He gets up and stands by me, checks his clipboard and speaks sadly. “Well I’m afraid I’ve got to fail you Sadie. I know you’ve got a few miles on the clock and have given rides to several owners but I can’t pass you in this condition”
He tries to be helpful. “Tell you what, bring your chassis down to the works and I’ll give you a quick touch-up and a good service…”
I stop this stupid fantasising but the observations are correct. It’s gym’ll fix it for Sadie and I’ll sign up today.
But honestly, the nipples aren’t pointing downwards, the belly’s manageable and the thighs are ok – so it’s not all bad news. Actually I look fine nude, everything seems in proportion - it’s an odd fact that we often appear worse in clothes than we do naked. Squeezing into that tight fabric is a bad look.
I often muse on this when I’m on our famous nude beach. Whatever age or sex we all look quite cool (it’s probably the Brighton breezes)
Sure there’s the usual suspects, scraggy old men like used condoms, women with backsides you could park a Harley Davidson in and enough cellulite, beer guts and love handles to keep Hannibal Lector in snacks for a month – but there are also some really sexy tits and arses.
Unfortunately they’re mostly on men. Gay men make up the majority of the sunbathers. Of course, there are quite a few couples and, occasionally, women like me. But it’s definitely cocks on the rocks at Brighton.
But hot sun and hot bodies seems a world away on this cold April evening. So I stop the sag-survey and start to write this. I might be sitting on my fat arse but I feel optimistic.
The Volkswagen with the battered bodywork still got around a lot. And so will I!
Love & cuddliness. Sadie xxxxxx
Friday, March 11, 2005
Guess who’s in Sadie’s Pants tonight?
No, just for once I’m not talking about my social life (well not that precise part anyway). Sadie’s Pants is a short list of people, places and things that take my breath away. The idea came from a chat I was having with the usual suspects over a tsunami of Sea Breezes. We were talking about favourite things, most were pretty obvious - apart from one of Ms Rude’s which was a dream about Britney Spears, a lb of butter and a baseball bat, and just about everyone of mine. In fact, my choice was mostly greeted by much mirth and wet seats – so I’ve decided to spread the joy. In no particular order:
Café 22. Over the past couple of years this has been my bolthole to escape from the various arseholes that have threatened my natural state of harmony and love. At the top of St James Street, the invaluable website RealBrighton.com calls it “Brighton's answer to Central Perk!” Well perhaps, I think maybe Central Prick would be more accurate to reflect some of the less amusing characters that show up from time to time. But I ignore them, order a hot chocolate, and bury my face into Joanna Trollope. Or Monica Ali, or whomever I’m reading at the time. If I don’t have a book then the mags on display offer another view of Brighton. Generally this is at crutch level as bulging briefs (in the chap’s reads) and pussy pouting panties (in the girl’s mags) bear testimony to our city’s sexy reputation. And the hot chocolate? Oh baby yes, yes, yes! It’s a cliché that chocolate can be better than sex (but true when I think of how it stimulates my tastebuds compared with several bloke’s attempts to stimulate my sexbud). So there, Café 22, it’s absolutely one of my favourite dark (chocolate) places.
Penny Smith. I often wake up with Penny in my flat in Brighton. I love her naughty eyes, pert little nose, dirty mouth and tousled blonde locks. Ok, ok, she’s a presenter and newsreader on GMTV, the early morning news show. You may not know her in the Midlands and North or in the USA but frankly, on first appearances; she looks like most blonde TV news/weather tarts. What makes her different to me is her muff-moistening English full-bodied sexiness. That’s right, Penny is no typical TV beanpole with a wig, she’s a big titted, big-bummed Brit beauty. I looked her up on Google (I’m on there by the way) and apart from the sexless official GMTV website she’s inspired many more revealing picture galleries and forum chats. Many of these reflect the fact that she’s also big on yoga, and one of the pics takes me back to that unforgettable moment when I saw her demonstrating some gynaecological - inspired yoga positions in stretchy plum silk pants and top. Imagine it, Penny’s rear aspect, on her hands and knees, pussy proud, arse in the air…steady yourself Sadie. Look girls, forget your Britney, Christina or Beyonce what knots my knickers is the thought of Penny prowling up the length of my bed, bare, tanned and plumptuous - the naked newsreader, she can give me an exclusive anytime!
Morgans. You know how they call sports cars penis extensions? There are lots of jokes about the Ferrari Testosterone and the Meno-porsche. Well consider the Morgan. I wasn’t really aware of these 1930’s style sports cars until I met an old work acquaintance (from my advertising days) at a party before Christmas. We got on really well and agreed to see if we could write something together using our combined experience. So recently he (yes, it is a he, and he’s straight, well straight-ish) drove down to Brighton to begin our collaboration and he arrived in a green and cream two-toned Morgan. I considered the car’s name, I’m sure the tweedy-suited founders of the company who gave this stylish vehicle their name didn’t consider the 21st Century implications – it is so overt. Say My Organ quickly and you see what I mean. So, I interrogated my working colleague, is your organ an antique design that conks out when it overheats? He went all green and cream and countered that it was a classic shape and could see off many more modern examples. But, joking apart, I fell in love with the car. It’s a two seater, the canvas roof leaks, there’s just enough luggage room for a spare pair of knickers and a toothbrush but god it’s so cool. He let me drive it around Brighton and I really showed off at the lights on the promenade. Ok, it’s a bit hairy-chested but Brigitte Bardot and Mick Jagger have both owned one so I think most girls would learn to love it – just don’t try getting in gracefully in a short skirt. Naturally, being me, I asked if you could ‘do it’ in a Morgan. He assured me it was possible. Well, maybe if you’re Kate Moss shaped but it would be fun trying - the ‘Rabbit’ sized gear lever would give any girl a deep and satisfying ride.
And finally, a pair of small pants:
Coffee, Cake and Kink. There is a place in Covent Garden that gives whipping up a coffee an entirely new meaning – so much so that it’s received an ‘Erotic Award’. In the middle of Endell St this small coffee bar offers cake on the plate and ‘cake’ (in the slang sense) on the wall. You sit sipping hot stuff whilst surveying even hotter stuff displayed on the walls and bookshelves. Stunningly art photography of bums, cocks, tits and cunts often encased in gleaming latex or leather stimulate the eye and the libido. The fetish theme extends to things from mugs, postcards and coasters to cuffs and jewellery. Submit to their website, there’s a painting called ‘Sexie Sadie’ by Sheryl Lee that could almost be me – the arse is certainly huge enough! And my birthday’s coming up soon…nudge nudge.
Coco de Mer. Ok, I couldn’t mention pants without mentioning the pants I got from this fetishy lingerie and sex toys shop in Monmouth St (just around the corner from the above café). Would you pay £40 for a pair of red knickers? No, well then you’re probably not up to forking out £165 for a pink silk pair with a little frill down your arse crack. I have a friend who wouldn’t even spend a fiver for a M&S pack of six, she always goes commando with a small piece of folded loo paper between her and her jeans to mop up the basics. But then Coco de Mer’s knickers aren’t about real life or skidmarks they’re about treating yourself. They’re about pampering your pussy and giving your arse a silky squeeze – they’re sublime. And what pair did my girlfriend buy me? Huh, I’m not telling you – a lady need’s to preserve her mystery!
Love & “pant, pant” Sadie
Café 22. Over the past couple of years this has been my bolthole to escape from the various arseholes that have threatened my natural state of harmony and love. At the top of St James Street, the invaluable website RealBrighton.com calls it “Brighton's answer to Central Perk!” Well perhaps, I think maybe Central Prick would be more accurate to reflect some of the less amusing characters that show up from time to time. But I ignore them, order a hot chocolate, and bury my face into Joanna Trollope. Or Monica Ali, or whomever I’m reading at the time. If I don’t have a book then the mags on display offer another view of Brighton. Generally this is at crutch level as bulging briefs (in the chap’s reads) and pussy pouting panties (in the girl’s mags) bear testimony to our city’s sexy reputation. And the hot chocolate? Oh baby yes, yes, yes! It’s a cliché that chocolate can be better than sex (but true when I think of how it stimulates my tastebuds compared with several bloke’s attempts to stimulate my sexbud). So there, Café 22, it’s absolutely one of my favourite dark (chocolate) places.
Penny Smith. I often wake up with Penny in my flat in Brighton. I love her naughty eyes, pert little nose, dirty mouth and tousled blonde locks. Ok, ok, she’s a presenter and newsreader on GMTV, the early morning news show. You may not know her in the Midlands and North or in the USA but frankly, on first appearances; she looks like most blonde TV news/weather tarts. What makes her different to me is her muff-moistening English full-bodied sexiness. That’s right, Penny is no typical TV beanpole with a wig, she’s a big titted, big-bummed Brit beauty. I looked her up on Google (I’m on there by the way) and apart from the sexless official GMTV website she’s inspired many more revealing picture galleries and forum chats. Many of these reflect the fact that she’s also big on yoga, and one of the pics takes me back to that unforgettable moment when I saw her demonstrating some gynaecological - inspired yoga positions in stretchy plum silk pants and top. Imagine it, Penny’s rear aspect, on her hands and knees, pussy proud, arse in the air…steady yourself Sadie. Look girls, forget your Britney, Christina or Beyonce what knots my knickers is the thought of Penny prowling up the length of my bed, bare, tanned and plumptuous - the naked newsreader, she can give me an exclusive anytime!
Morgans. You know how they call sports cars penis extensions? There are lots of jokes about the Ferrari Testosterone and the Meno-porsche. Well consider the Morgan. I wasn’t really aware of these 1930’s style sports cars until I met an old work acquaintance (from my advertising days) at a party before Christmas. We got on really well and agreed to see if we could write something together using our combined experience. So recently he (yes, it is a he, and he’s straight, well straight-ish) drove down to Brighton to begin our collaboration and he arrived in a green and cream two-toned Morgan. I considered the car’s name, I’m sure the tweedy-suited founders of the company who gave this stylish vehicle their name didn’t consider the 21st Century implications – it is so overt. Say My Organ quickly and you see what I mean. So, I interrogated my working colleague, is your organ an antique design that conks out when it overheats? He went all green and cream and countered that it was a classic shape and could see off many more modern examples. But, joking apart, I fell in love with the car. It’s a two seater, the canvas roof leaks, there’s just enough luggage room for a spare pair of knickers and a toothbrush but god it’s so cool. He let me drive it around Brighton and I really showed off at the lights on the promenade. Ok, it’s a bit hairy-chested but Brigitte Bardot and Mick Jagger have both owned one so I think most girls would learn to love it – just don’t try getting in gracefully in a short skirt. Naturally, being me, I asked if you could ‘do it’ in a Morgan. He assured me it was possible. Well, maybe if you’re Kate Moss shaped but it would be fun trying - the ‘Rabbit’ sized gear lever would give any girl a deep and satisfying ride.
And finally, a pair of small pants:
Coffee, Cake and Kink. There is a place in Covent Garden that gives whipping up a coffee an entirely new meaning – so much so that it’s received an ‘Erotic Award’. In the middle of Endell St this small coffee bar offers cake on the plate and ‘cake’ (in the slang sense) on the wall. You sit sipping hot stuff whilst surveying even hotter stuff displayed on the walls and bookshelves. Stunningly art photography of bums, cocks, tits and cunts often encased in gleaming latex or leather stimulate the eye and the libido. The fetish theme extends to things from mugs, postcards and coasters to cuffs and jewellery. Submit to their website, there’s a painting called ‘Sexie Sadie’ by Sheryl Lee that could almost be me – the arse is certainly huge enough! And my birthday’s coming up soon…nudge nudge.
Coco de Mer. Ok, I couldn’t mention pants without mentioning the pants I got from this fetishy lingerie and sex toys shop in Monmouth St (just around the corner from the above café). Would you pay £40 for a pair of red knickers? No, well then you’re probably not up to forking out £165 for a pink silk pair with a little frill down your arse crack. I have a friend who wouldn’t even spend a fiver for a M&S pack of six, she always goes commando with a small piece of folded loo paper between her and her jeans to mop up the basics. But then Coco de Mer’s knickers aren’t about real life or skidmarks they’re about treating yourself. They’re about pampering your pussy and giving your arse a silky squeeze – they’re sublime. And what pair did my girlfriend buy me? Huh, I’m not telling you – a lady need’s to preserve her mystery!
Love & “pant, pant” Sadie
Friday, February 25, 2005
Dip me in chocolate and throw me to the lesbians
I read this on a T-shirt this week, nice tits too, but it was the only remotely funny thing that's happened to me.
People think my dark places are mostly inside knickers but actually I get almost as much pleasure from exploring emotions too. And wow, haven't I managed to supply myself with a wide range. However, let's be positive to start with. I've had lots of e-mails kindly offering cheerful thoughts and support. Thank you all - when you live a part of your life in public it's touching that people care.
I had several 'hugs' from nice people - and, of course, a couple where I was offered a big hug providing I took all my clothes off first! I've heard of the hand of friendship but this was ridiculous.
That's another emotional problem. Because I mostly write about sexy things, because that's what I mostly like, some readers think I'm a nymphomanic, latent, latex-clad lesbian licker. It's just not true. In the second act of my life, I've had two longish-term relationships (fingers and thighs crossed for my present one) a couple of 'affairs' and the odd gusset grabber. So based on my observations of Brighton promiscuity I'm practically pure.
This reputation hasn't helped my relationships much. Too much truth revealed I suppose, rather than retained in my mind.
My writing is my 'voice' it's not necessarily my total personality. It's how I think not necessarily how I act in day to day life. So my correspondants, who expect me to accept every invitation for a drink (and probably to turn up and ravish them roughly over the pub table) are puzzled when I appear shy and a bit reclusive. But that's the real me and probably, I'm like most of the other women in Brighton - apart from my friend Ms Rude who's 'wide open' for any invitation!
Perhaps I'll have to stop exposing sexy dark places and focus on others. Like revealing unknown lanes in Brighton or the wonderful array of stars in the dark sky over this scintillating city or previously missed corners of our more obscure museums. No more fantastical fucking, no more bondage, no more nudity, no more 'plastic vaginas'. Whatyathink?
Love (in a pure way) Sadie
People think my dark places are mostly inside knickers but actually I get almost as much pleasure from exploring emotions too. And wow, haven't I managed to supply myself with a wide range. However, let's be positive to start with. I've had lots of e-mails kindly offering cheerful thoughts and support. Thank you all - when you live a part of your life in public it's touching that people care.
I had several 'hugs' from nice people - and, of course, a couple where I was offered a big hug providing I took all my clothes off first! I've heard of the hand of friendship but this was ridiculous.
That's another emotional problem. Because I mostly write about sexy things, because that's what I mostly like, some readers think I'm a nymphomanic, latent, latex-clad lesbian licker. It's just not true. In the second act of my life, I've had two longish-term relationships (fingers and thighs crossed for my present one) a couple of 'affairs' and the odd gusset grabber. So based on my observations of Brighton promiscuity I'm practically pure.
This reputation hasn't helped my relationships much. Too much truth revealed I suppose, rather than retained in my mind.
My writing is my 'voice' it's not necessarily my total personality. It's how I think not necessarily how I act in day to day life. So my correspondants, who expect me to accept every invitation for a drink (and probably to turn up and ravish them roughly over the pub table) are puzzled when I appear shy and a bit reclusive. But that's the real me and probably, I'm like most of the other women in Brighton - apart from my friend Ms Rude who's 'wide open' for any invitation!
Perhaps I'll have to stop exposing sexy dark places and focus on others. Like revealing unknown lanes in Brighton or the wonderful array of stars in the dark sky over this scintillating city or previously missed corners of our more obscure museums. No more fantastical fucking, no more bondage, no more nudity, no more 'plastic vaginas'. Whatyathink?
Love (in a pure way) Sadie
Tuesday, February 15, 2005
There's a name for me and it begins with 'C'
Yes, it is that one. It certainly isn't caring or considerate. For once I don't feel like writing this but I actually believe that putting things into words can help. I certainly hope so!
I was sublimely happy yesterday. Cards, lunch, laughs and Valentine's night with my lover - what could go wrong?
Well, she arrived and did what she usually does when she gets back from London. This is to throw off her work clothes and then give me a good workover.
So what did I do? I produced my Valentine's surprise. A special pair of knickers (no, not the trashy pink ones) but something even trashier. It was something I'd spotted and ordered when I was amusing myself with the 'family-run sex shop'. It was a pair of 'three-dildo' latex panties, 'perfect for lesbians' the caption read. But then I've always been a sucker for great advertising.
Basically, there are two dildos inside and one big cock hanging outside. I'd imagined slipping these on and giving my girlfriend (and myself) a thrill,or two, or three.
However, my girlfriend was not amused and made it clear that it was she who wore the 'three-dildo' pants in this relationship.
I took acception to this. It was something that had been nagging at me since we met and now it was in the open so to speak. It was the giver/taker, dominant/submissive, top/bottom thing that's always present in gay love. Who does what to whom to be exact.
With men/women straight sex you sort of know the rules - you can change them but they exist. Men fuck, women are fuckees.
But woman/woman should be different. We should be equal but that's too simple, of course we aren't. Now I suppose if you looked at my girlfriend and me you'd come to certain conclusions. She's short-haired, natural make-up, flat chested, slim hipped and I'm girly, titty, red lippy, fleshy and big-bummed.
Easy isn't it. She's the 'bloke' and I'm the shag. But that's not the way I see it.
So I said some things. And then I said some worse things. Then she got angry with me. So I said some really, really bad things.
And now she's driving back to London. And I'm sobbing on the bed.
Fucking Valentine.
Sadie
I was sublimely happy yesterday. Cards, lunch, laughs and Valentine's night with my lover - what could go wrong?
Well, she arrived and did what she usually does when she gets back from London. This is to throw off her work clothes and then give me a good workover.
So what did I do? I produced my Valentine's surprise. A special pair of knickers (no, not the trashy pink ones) but something even trashier. It was something I'd spotted and ordered when I was amusing myself with the 'family-run sex shop'. It was a pair of 'three-dildo' latex panties, 'perfect for lesbians' the caption read. But then I've always been a sucker for great advertising.
Basically, there are two dildos inside and one big cock hanging outside. I'd imagined slipping these on and giving my girlfriend (and myself) a thrill,or two, or three.
However, my girlfriend was not amused and made it clear that it was she who wore the 'three-dildo' pants in this relationship.
I took acception to this. It was something that had been nagging at me since we met and now it was in the open so to speak. It was the giver/taker, dominant/submissive, top/bottom thing that's always present in gay love. Who does what to whom to be exact.
With men/women straight sex you sort of know the rules - you can change them but they exist. Men fuck, women are fuckees.
But woman/woman should be different. We should be equal but that's too simple, of course we aren't. Now I suppose if you looked at my girlfriend and me you'd come to certain conclusions. She's short-haired, natural make-up, flat chested, slim hipped and I'm girly, titty, red lippy, fleshy and big-bummed.
Easy isn't it. She's the 'bloke' and I'm the shag. But that's not the way I see it.
So I said some things. And then I said some worse things. Then she got angry with me. So I said some really, really bad things.
And now she's driving back to London. And I'm sobbing on the bed.
Fucking Valentine.
Sadie
Monday, February 14, 2005
I didn’t get a Valentine's Card today.
I got three…weeeeeeeee! How uncool, I know. How taken in I’ve been by crass, commercial, sexist, invented bullshit…totally pathetic! But fuck, I got three…how many did you get?
One of them sported trashy satin hearts and a little love poem that had unusual rhymes for ‘hunt’ and ‘glass’ and ‘luck’. Wonder who sent that? The nuns at my local convent?Perhaps not, in fact I recognise the hand of my good friend Ms Rude (as many, many, many dykes have in Brighton!)
As for the other two cards, I have no idea. Isn’t that wonderful, someone secretly admires me, I’m so thrilled. So there, under my hard-arsed, cynical veneer is a little fluffy pussy cat….purrrrrrr!
They weren’t from my g/f, I’m sure of that. She doesn’t do “this sort of crap”. But I’m still excited. Because I know she’ll be here tonight with her special present – that gift of making me howl like a horny hyena.
So I’m in great spirits when Tommy and Calvin arrive to take me to lunch. And they’ve brought great spirits too – a bottle of tequila. We toast each other's luck in being in lurve on this sunny 14th of Feb. They’ve also brought me a gift - a pair of horrid pink polyester knickers that even Ann Summers would reject as tasteless.
They’re basically big shiny pants with a heart-shape cut out in the rear. Really, what sort of cheap slut would actually wear them?
Well, a couple of shots later and I decide it would be a great idea to model them. I nip into the bathroom, slip off my cool ‘coco de mers’ and pull the polypants on…instantly I feel a rash spreading over my naughty bits. I look in the mirror, a pale arse crack is framed in cheap pink satin. Could this be the sight that turns two confirmed shirt-lifters onto girls?
I dance out. Franz Ferdinand are playing ‘Take me out’ on the hi-fi. Tommy and Calvin laugh out loud on first seeing me then watch with a bemused expression as I waggle my bum in their faces.
It’s the kind of look that vegetarians would give a Big Mac. They’re quite attracted to the bun and the lettice but the meat inside isn’t to their taste.
The track ends and so does my display. Smart knickers go back on as (to Tommy and Calvin’s relief) do my ‘Seven’ jeans. And off we go to ‘Havana’.
I’m back. Great hilarious lunch and I’m relatively sober, preparing myself and my flat for g/f’s arrival. Well sober-ish. Well, fuck I’m wrotin this blooog arnt I?
Lov & kishes Sadie
One of them sported trashy satin hearts and a little love poem that had unusual rhymes for ‘hunt’ and ‘glass’ and ‘luck’. Wonder who sent that? The nuns at my local convent?Perhaps not, in fact I recognise the hand of my good friend Ms Rude (as many, many, many dykes have in Brighton!)
As for the other two cards, I have no idea. Isn’t that wonderful, someone secretly admires me, I’m so thrilled. So there, under my hard-arsed, cynical veneer is a little fluffy pussy cat….purrrrrrr!
They weren’t from my g/f, I’m sure of that. She doesn’t do “this sort of crap”. But I’m still excited. Because I know she’ll be here tonight with her special present – that gift of making me howl like a horny hyena.
So I’m in great spirits when Tommy and Calvin arrive to take me to lunch. And they’ve brought great spirits too – a bottle of tequila. We toast each other's luck in being in lurve on this sunny 14th of Feb. They’ve also brought me a gift - a pair of horrid pink polyester knickers that even Ann Summers would reject as tasteless.
They’re basically big shiny pants with a heart-shape cut out in the rear. Really, what sort of cheap slut would actually wear them?
Well, a couple of shots later and I decide it would be a great idea to model them. I nip into the bathroom, slip off my cool ‘coco de mers’ and pull the polypants on…instantly I feel a rash spreading over my naughty bits. I look in the mirror, a pale arse crack is framed in cheap pink satin. Could this be the sight that turns two confirmed shirt-lifters onto girls?
I dance out. Franz Ferdinand are playing ‘Take me out’ on the hi-fi. Tommy and Calvin laugh out loud on first seeing me then watch with a bemused expression as I waggle my bum in their faces.
It’s the kind of look that vegetarians would give a Big Mac. They’re quite attracted to the bun and the lettice but the meat inside isn’t to their taste.
The track ends and so does my display. Smart knickers go back on as (to Tommy and Calvin’s relief) do my ‘Seven’ jeans. And off we go to ‘Havana’.
I’m back. Great hilarious lunch and I’m relatively sober, preparing myself and my flat for g/f’s arrival. Well sober-ish. Well, fuck I’m wrotin this blooog arnt I?
Lov & kishes Sadie
Monday, February 07, 2005
Friday, January 21, 2005
Oh bugger, I haven't written anything for almost a month!
There goes my first fucking New Year Resolution. I'm pissed, naked and alone on a Friday night in Brighton - so there goes my second. I'm going to keep this bit of writing short because (1) I'm legless and (2) I need to keep my fingers rested for later.
Sweet dreams Sadie
Sweet dreams Sadie
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