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!
Exploring the dark places of the body and mind.
Sunday, September 18, 2005
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
Thursday, December 23, 2004
Greetings from my yule blog.
Some kind people have noticed I haven't posted much for a month or two. It's an odd thing but when you aren't doing much that's worth writing about you've got loads of time to compose blogs and when you're up to all sorts of blogtastic stuff you are too busy to write them. I've recently been to New York, a trick I achieved through the generosity of Richard Branson in regard to his airline's fares, the 'two dollar pound' and being a dynamic marketing executive's fuck. She was in town to smooooze some clients and I was there to shoppppp! But retail excess is not this blog's territory so let me tell you about a trip we made to an up-market lesbian BSDM club instead.
You have to know a member then ring a number to get the location. A seductive voice also asks you to follow the dress code: fetish or naked. Now this was a problem, because unfortunately I hadn't packed the handcuffs, whip and leather thong that I always take on international trips. On the other hand did I want to flash everything including my cellulite to tanned, toned and cosmetically trimmed New York babes? Nooooo!
The answer was Brit ingenuity. My finger did the walking through the NY phone book, found the place, then we took a cab ride. So on the night two English ladies arrived at the club topless in black jodphurs, rubber riding boots and whips - the girls loved us.
The action was as cosmetically enhanced as the tits and arses on display. Still the other members were cunt-throbbers compared to my visit to a UK BSDM 'dungeon'. Here in chilly, faintly smelly surroundings fat white wobbly women bursting out of basques and thongs whipped fat white wobbly bald men with tattoos - you could believe a human being might have treble bum cheeks!
The NY dikes were so thin but really up for it. My girlfriend was diverted by the bondage whilst I dallied with a tattoed and pierced commodity broker from Soho. I looked in to see g/f bare-arsed naked and a bit 'tied up' so I let the broker handle my assets.
I realise this isn't especially Christmassy. Sorry but you've chosen my 'Dark Places'. Perhaps I could tie it all up by wishing you all a spankingly good Xmas, or mention whipped cream on your Christmas pud. Instead I wish you all a brilliant time and a sex-filled 2005.
Lashings of love Sadie
You have to know a member then ring a number to get the location. A seductive voice also asks you to follow the dress code: fetish or naked. Now this was a problem, because unfortunately I hadn't packed the handcuffs, whip and leather thong that I always take on international trips. On the other hand did I want to flash everything including my cellulite to tanned, toned and cosmetically trimmed New York babes? Nooooo!
The answer was Brit ingenuity. My finger did the walking through the NY phone book, found the place, then we took a cab ride. So on the night two English ladies arrived at the club topless in black jodphurs, rubber riding boots and whips - the girls loved us.
The action was as cosmetically enhanced as the tits and arses on display. Still the other members were cunt-throbbers compared to my visit to a UK BSDM 'dungeon'. Here in chilly, faintly smelly surroundings fat white wobbly women bursting out of basques and thongs whipped fat white wobbly bald men with tattoos - you could believe a human being might have treble bum cheeks!
The NY dikes were so thin but really up for it. My girlfriend was diverted by the bondage whilst I dallied with a tattoed and pierced commodity broker from Soho. I looked in to see g/f bare-arsed naked and a bit 'tied up' so I let the broker handle my assets.
I realise this isn't especially Christmassy. Sorry but you've chosen my 'Dark Places'. Perhaps I could tie it all up by wishing you all a spankingly good Xmas, or mention whipped cream on your Christmas pud. Instead I wish you all a brilliant time and a sex-filled 2005.
Lashings of love Sadie
Wednesday, December 22, 2004
Things got hot in Brighton last night.
They 'burnt the clocks' on Brighton beach. This is a recently revived ritual in which flaming torches are carried through the streets by flaming drunks and then a huge pile of paper clocks is set alight. It was all curiously sexy. It's apparently to do with druids and the shortest day but this gets all forgotten as the flames leap and the mob gets frenzied. The spirit of Saturnalia overpowers the spirit of Santa Claus and things get pagan. It certainly worked for my girlfriend and I. We rushed back to the flat and made love by candlelight. You may have noticed I wrote 'made love' when I could have used the more f-f-f-familiar expletive. But that's what we did, beginning with a sensual massage, thanks to some sensationally slippery massage oil and a little book we'd bought in New York. Then, we locked and unlocked, explored and experimented, the candlelight glinting off our naked twisting bodies - pure paganism. God it was good!
Merry Saturnalia Sadie
Merry Saturnalia Sadie
Thursday, November 18, 2004
Turned on by old guys.
The best party in Brighton last night was the Beach Boys gig at The Brighton Centre. It wasn't promising, a cold night with icy sea breezes hitting the hideous nuclear bunker that is our 'concert hall' and the people! my dear, the people. it looked like the local old folks home had been burnt down and they had all gathered here for shelter. It was grey hair and grey shoes as far as you could see.
I turned up in Hawaiian shirt and white pants with Tommy and Calvin, both in gaudy gay shirts, and ready to surf. Then, the lights went out, the MC shouted "...direct from Southern California" and the music started. For two and a half hours they filled the hall with sunshine and sound. I danced and shouted and sang along. It's such a happy sound, it slices into your brain, tingles down your spine and good vibrations cruise through your cunt. Amazing!
I, temporarily, left damp Sussex and arrived in Surferville USA. It was Fun Fun Fun, I danced away and, as usual, fell madly in love with Tommy and Calvin - I'd be the jam in their sandwich, all they had to do was ask. The young people surrounded the stage, 40 year old music sounded as fresh as the girls and guys dancing around me, tits shook, arses twitched and all the oldies rocked too, the disco lights flashing off their bald heads. Heaven!
Then they sang God only knows and the line "God only knows what I'd do without you" in that plaintive voice had tears welling in my eyes. A fucked-up marriage, a failed affair and all those men and, now, women who I doted on, gave my body and my mind to, and who I left or they left me. All these people plus the the amazing friends and lovers I have now came into my mind. So I cried for lost opportunites and the hope of a better future. My emotion fuelled by several Jack Daniels and a couple of spliffs really got the better of me.
And what did my dancing partners do? Did they give me a huge gay hug and girly sympathy? Did they fuck! Tommy reached out certainly but only to grab my arse and tell me to stop blubbing and start bopping. Then they played California Girls and the sun came out again.
I for one, wish they were all Brighton girls. Here's to a warm bed this winter.
Love & Mercy. Sadie
I turned up in Hawaiian shirt and white pants with Tommy and Calvin, both in gaudy gay shirts, and ready to surf. Then, the lights went out, the MC shouted "...direct from Southern California" and the music started. For two and a half hours they filled the hall with sunshine and sound. I danced and shouted and sang along. It's such a happy sound, it slices into your brain, tingles down your spine and good vibrations cruise through your cunt. Amazing!
I, temporarily, left damp Sussex and arrived in Surferville USA. It was Fun Fun Fun, I danced away and, as usual, fell madly in love with Tommy and Calvin - I'd be the jam in their sandwich, all they had to do was ask. The young people surrounded the stage, 40 year old music sounded as fresh as the girls and guys dancing around me, tits shook, arses twitched and all the oldies rocked too, the disco lights flashing off their bald heads. Heaven!
Then they sang God only knows and the line "God only knows what I'd do without you" in that plaintive voice had tears welling in my eyes. A fucked-up marriage, a failed affair and all those men and, now, women who I doted on, gave my body and my mind to, and who I left or they left me. All these people plus the the amazing friends and lovers I have now came into my mind. So I cried for lost opportunites and the hope of a better future. My emotion fuelled by several Jack Daniels and a couple of spliffs really got the better of me.
And what did my dancing partners do? Did they give me a huge gay hug and girly sympathy? Did they fuck! Tommy reached out certainly but only to grab my arse and tell me to stop blubbing and start bopping. Then they played California Girls and the sun came out again.
I for one, wish they were all Brighton girls. Here's to a warm bed this winter.
Love & Mercy. Sadie
Monday, November 15, 2004
Here are two lips from Amsterdam.
And they're hot and damp with pleasure. Yes, I've just spent a few days in Holland's horniest haunt so expect plenty of 'finger in the dyke' type comments. The centre of Amsterdam is as cool as people say. Great 'brown cafes' (there's a gay guy joke there somewhere), full of atmosphere and smoke - the dutch don't do no-smoking! Lots of them, in fact, broken up by interesting antiquey-type shops and restaurants. You can wander along the canals, have a few beers and watch life and little Dutch girls pass you by.
In fact they're not little at all. They tower over you, apparently the Dutch are, on average, the tallest people in the world - it must be all the milk and cheese. It's true, they actually drink a glass of milk at lunchtime - it's disgusting but I suppose v healthy. Then they go out in the evening and get v pissed.
The blokes are mostly very good looking and the older ones often have great style. And the Dutch dolls are mostly stunning, tall slim, plump milk-fed tits and tight bums - hate them! Not really, they're very friendly and have a great fashion-sense. There are hundreds of fashion shops in central Amersterdam and they make Brighton look like Bognor! But they are walllet-achingly expensive.
I tried on a pair of embroidered jeans (since I was ill I don't have to lie on the floor to get them over my arse) They looked fantastic and I posed a lot in front of the mirror and admired my bum - even the gay owner flashed a look. Unfortunately I could wear the pants but not the price tag and so they got left on the hanger.
I'm staying with old friends in Amsterdam and they've been here for years. It's spooky but the last time I was here I was married and straight (but leaning a bit, if you know what I mean). I was on a business trip attending a client's conference - a real business bunny. I was young, comparitavely innocent and optimistic. I was Susie Bright, rather than Sadie Dark.
Susie was married to Brian, a man who she quickly discovered was a complete arsehole but she coped. She wore smart black business suits, talked seriously about consumer profiles and media reports and laughed a lot at the client's boring jokes. She didn't complain when she was fondled by the pissed client Brand Director and she smiled sportingly as she accompanied her clients to a seedy live sex-show. But she found the lesbian act a bit more interesting than she had expected. Today I would like to kick her into one of the canals.
Speaking of sex shows, there's the 'banana bar' in Amsterdam where men pay to watch girls eat bananas.....yes, yes, I know you're ahead of me! The lips that grip and consume the banana are not the ones you normally whistle through. Although I expect those girls could do that too, and blow a trumpet and propel ping pong balls across the room. It's all to do with having powerful vaginal muscle control and you can get them strong by exercising them at any time of the day. I'm doing it as I write this.
Whoops, I think I've gone too far - I can't find the cat anywhere!
Love & get great grip Sadie
In fact they're not little at all. They tower over you, apparently the Dutch are, on average, the tallest people in the world - it must be all the milk and cheese. It's true, they actually drink a glass of milk at lunchtime - it's disgusting but I suppose v healthy. Then they go out in the evening and get v pissed.
The blokes are mostly very good looking and the older ones often have great style. And the Dutch dolls are mostly stunning, tall slim, plump milk-fed tits and tight bums - hate them! Not really, they're very friendly and have a great fashion-sense. There are hundreds of fashion shops in central Amersterdam and they make Brighton look like Bognor! But they are walllet-achingly expensive.
I tried on a pair of embroidered jeans (since I was ill I don't have to lie on the floor to get them over my arse) They looked fantastic and I posed a lot in front of the mirror and admired my bum - even the gay owner flashed a look. Unfortunately I could wear the pants but not the price tag and so they got left on the hanger.
I'm staying with old friends in Amsterdam and they've been here for years. It's spooky but the last time I was here I was married and straight (but leaning a bit, if you know what I mean). I was on a business trip attending a client's conference - a real business bunny. I was young, comparitavely innocent and optimistic. I was Susie Bright, rather than Sadie Dark.
Susie was married to Brian, a man who she quickly discovered was a complete arsehole but she coped. She wore smart black business suits, talked seriously about consumer profiles and media reports and laughed a lot at the client's boring jokes. She didn't complain when she was fondled by the pissed client Brand Director and she smiled sportingly as she accompanied her clients to a seedy live sex-show. But she found the lesbian act a bit more interesting than she had expected. Today I would like to kick her into one of the canals.
Speaking of sex shows, there's the 'banana bar' in Amsterdam where men pay to watch girls eat bananas.....yes, yes, I know you're ahead of me! The lips that grip and consume the banana are not the ones you normally whistle through. Although I expect those girls could do that too, and blow a trumpet and propel ping pong balls across the room. It's all to do with having powerful vaginal muscle control and you can get them strong by exercising them at any time of the day. I'm doing it as I write this.
Whoops, I think I've gone too far - I can't find the cat anywhere!
Love & get great grip Sadie
Sunday, October 31, 2004
I'm lying in bed and I'm hot and sweaty
Yea, and it's for all the wrong reasons. A virus travelled down to Brighton. got off at the station, made it's way down Queens Road, passed all the shops without buying anything, turned right at the clock tower , ambled along North St, then minced down St James St and finally decided to impregnate a curvy brunette in too-tight jeans.
So here I am, on my own, with 15 days lost out of my fascinating life. I've also lost weight (good) and writing time (bad). I sent my lover away because shivering, damp and infectious is a bad look.
Tommy and Calvin visited me because gay men understand pain and rejection. They brought lilies, champagne and dope to cheer me up. They wrinkled their elegant noses at my sweatiness and shabby creased T-shirt. They pretended not to notice my bare arse (they've known me too long) as I dashed from bed to loo.
Ms Rude, another occasional visitor, did comment on the arse. "Sadie" she said with an expert air, "Enjoy this moment, I think you're actually your jean size". So there you are, even in a crock of shit you can find a vein of gold!
I've been overdosing on ibuprofen and porn. My fav site Daily Nude Blog.com never lets me down. Even if my temperature wasn't at boiling point, these naughty bunnies would blow any thermometer. I've also become addicted to Watchersweb where ordinary women (ie. not models) strut their stuff for their boy/girlfriends camera. It's just like the brave babes on Gaydargirls.com who bare all - they are sooooo sexy. Boring women (even gays) tutt and criticise but they miss the point. To expose yourself is a real turn-on. OK, you won't be seeing my intimate bits on the internet (not yet anyway) but I hope I reveal myself in print.
I'm actually feeling a bit better now. I still look the same, imagine Tracy Emin painted by Francis Bacon! But, hey I've written this - so I must be improving.
So here I am, on my own, with 15 days lost out of my fascinating life. I've also lost weight (good) and writing time (bad). I sent my lover away because shivering, damp and infectious is a bad look.
Tommy and Calvin visited me because gay men understand pain and rejection. They brought lilies, champagne and dope to cheer me up. They wrinkled their elegant noses at my sweatiness and shabby creased T-shirt. They pretended not to notice my bare arse (they've known me too long) as I dashed from bed to loo.
Ms Rude, another occasional visitor, did comment on the arse. "Sadie" she said with an expert air, "Enjoy this moment, I think you're actually your jean size". So there you are, even in a crock of shit you can find a vein of gold!
I've been overdosing on ibuprofen and porn. My fav site Daily Nude Blog.com never lets me down. Even if my temperature wasn't at boiling point, these naughty bunnies would blow any thermometer. I've also become addicted to Watchersweb where ordinary women (ie. not models) strut their stuff for their boy/girlfriends camera. It's just like the brave babes on Gaydargirls.com who bare all - they are sooooo sexy. Boring women (even gays) tutt and criticise but they miss the point. To expose yourself is a real turn-on. OK, you won't be seeing my intimate bits on the internet (not yet anyway) but I hope I reveal myself in print.
I'm actually feeling a bit better now. I still look the same, imagine Tracy Emin painted by Francis Bacon! But, hey I've written this - so I must be improving.
Sunday, October 17, 2004
The difference between men and women.
There are lots of cliches about sex. One focuses on lesbianism and prescribes that 'only a woman knows what really gives pleasure to a woman'. And the reason this is a cliche is that cliches come about because everyone repeats them. And in this case it's been repeated because it's absolutely, totally fucking true.
Now, I can add my humble experience to the motion 'only a woman etc etc'. I'm bisexual so I've enjoyed and been enjoyed by both sexes.
So, take part one of my sexual life - men. Like most women, (particularly the ones reading this I'm a'guessing) I'm MAC-literate. That's Mouth, Arse and Cunt, yes I've had a cock in all the usual places. In fact, if only my nostrils had been more elastic the dear boys would have shoved it up there too.
Part two of my life cuts off the cocks for a while and replaces them with feminine ingenuity and skill. And, I must admit, I'm in horny heaven.
So, I appeal to all the women reading this (OK, perhaps not, but I do appeal to a few women in Brighton). I'll try again, I ask you all to consider sex with another woman. What's stopping you?
I can sort of understand why straight men are not so attracted to gay sex. They are used to 'hiding the sausage' not having it thrust into them. But for us women penetration is most of the deal. And if the fleshy item that's seeking out our secret places is attached to a female what's the problem?
Face it, women are just better bed buddies. We all know the three 'F's' in a straight relationship: your guy fucks,farts and falls asleep! Well, take my word for it, girls make the pleasure last soooooo much longer. For a start they know exactly what buttons to press, as opposed to many men for whom clitoris might be an inaccessible Greek island. And because they've had so much experience stimulating their own cunt they are experts at exciting yours.
Another fact is that female bodies are just so much more interesting, go on admit it, there are so many more bits to play with. Compare our squeezable tits, our big suckable nipples, our plump pubic mounds, our teasable clits, our gorgeous delicious cunts, our pinky girly arseholes, and our soft, cushiony bum cheeks. And I still haven't included our elegant necks, grabbable hips, strong thighs, and lickable toes. And then there's our skin, so much softer, pliable and silky. And our lips, so satisfying to kiss.
And we're so huggable. You can really cuddle up to another woman feeling all her soft sensual parts interlocking into yours (and, no, trust me, a fat guy just isn't the same)
Even our underwear is more sensual. Admit it, does your man's baggy boxers or crusty Calvins really turn you on. Men's parts spoil the look of pants but women's bits just make them more beautiful. Just the thought of tight white knickers skimming over a sexy mound and slipping up a tight arse crack is enough to get us all moist.
My name's Sadie Dark, and I'm a femanolic. Cocks just aren't enough to satisfy my thirst, I need a feminine fix. And I'm soooooooo satisfied. So, come on girls what's holding you back. They say I - in - 13 women are lesbians. You know 13 women I'll bet, so look out for that special one and connect.
You have nothing to lose, apart from your conservatism, your inhibitions, and (I can promise you) your total fucking mind.
Now, I can add my humble experience to the motion 'only a woman etc etc'. I'm bisexual so I've enjoyed and been enjoyed by both sexes.
So, take part one of my sexual life - men. Like most women, (particularly the ones reading this I'm a'guessing) I'm MAC-literate. That's Mouth, Arse and Cunt, yes I've had a cock in all the usual places. In fact, if only my nostrils had been more elastic the dear boys would have shoved it up there too.
Part two of my life cuts off the cocks for a while and replaces them with feminine ingenuity and skill. And, I must admit, I'm in horny heaven.
So, I appeal to all the women reading this (OK, perhaps not, but I do appeal to a few women in Brighton). I'll try again, I ask you all to consider sex with another woman. What's stopping you?
I can sort of understand why straight men are not so attracted to gay sex. They are used to 'hiding the sausage' not having it thrust into them. But for us women penetration is most of the deal. And if the fleshy item that's seeking out our secret places is attached to a female what's the problem?
Face it, women are just better bed buddies. We all know the three 'F's' in a straight relationship: your guy fucks,farts and falls asleep! Well, take my word for it, girls make the pleasure last soooooo much longer. For a start they know exactly what buttons to press, as opposed to many men for whom clitoris might be an inaccessible Greek island. And because they've had so much experience stimulating their own cunt they are experts at exciting yours.
Another fact is that female bodies are just so much more interesting, go on admit it, there are so many more bits to play with. Compare our squeezable tits, our big suckable nipples, our plump pubic mounds, our teasable clits, our gorgeous delicious cunts, our pinky girly arseholes, and our soft, cushiony bum cheeks. And I still haven't included our elegant necks, grabbable hips, strong thighs, and lickable toes. And then there's our skin, so much softer, pliable and silky. And our lips, so satisfying to kiss.
And we're so huggable. You can really cuddle up to another woman feeling all her soft sensual parts interlocking into yours (and, no, trust me, a fat guy just isn't the same)
Even our underwear is more sensual. Admit it, does your man's baggy boxers or crusty Calvins really turn you on. Men's parts spoil the look of pants but women's bits just make them more beautiful. Just the thought of tight white knickers skimming over a sexy mound and slipping up a tight arse crack is enough to get us all moist.
My name's Sadie Dark, and I'm a femanolic. Cocks just aren't enough to satisfy my thirst, I need a feminine fix. And I'm soooooooo satisfied. So, come on girls what's holding you back. They say I - in - 13 women are lesbians. You know 13 women I'll bet, so look out for that special one and connect.
You have nothing to lose, apart from your conservatism, your inhibitions, and (I can promise you) your total fucking mind.
Tuesday, October 12, 2004
A bit of french, greek and BDSM
I've just got back from France, the country where all women are 'femmes'. However I wasn't on the prowl, quite the reverse in fact. I was actually taking a short vacation from vaginas in the very straight world of two old friends and their stunning farmhouse. Having left the pace and pressures of Brighton far behind, I could drop any pretensions and indulge myself in baguettes, a drop or two of bordeaux and big pants - it was very relaxing. And I really felt I needed it because as I've mentioned before I'm finding femworld a bit fraught.
When I was into men (or, more correctly, they were in me) girlsex looked very attractive. Simple, uncomplicated and "no one understands a woman's body like a woman bla bla". I suppose it was a case of the arse on the other side of the fence looking keener.
And to be honest, since I nipped over the fence, the arses have been great - it's the other end I've been having trouble with. You can't believe the complicated mind games that I've been having with women I've met or been in contact with. Maybe it's me or maybe all the males I've known were pushovers. My emotional life is like a maze and I'm finding so many wrong turnings... Whoops, getting serious and this isn't one of those 'who am I, bollocks' blogs, I'll leave that to our American cousins!
So, on roughly the same subject I have to confess some recent queerish goings on with women. (Don't get too excited) In fact, I thought I was pretty well in touch but I'm constantly being astonished by what turns us on.
Thanks to this blog and my entry on Gaydar I get a few e-mails, most are cool but some are verrrrry strange! One of the saner ones was from Sue. She just moved to Bournemouth (of all places) and she's opening a wrestling club for women. It's true, she tells me it's a very popular activity and that she used to be a member of the North Manchester Ladies Wrestling Club. I'm not sure what's happened to it but she sent me some pics. And yes, there are several luscious lasses pulling some muscular moves which all seem to end up with them sitting on each other's faces. They're watched avidly by an audience of (entirely male) wrestling experts.
Sue hopes to recruit some local wrestling enthusiasts. In case, the noble and ancient sport doesn't quite grab you, she also proposes some special nude wrestling nights. She supports this by saying that it's an old Greek tradition, Olympics and all that. I hate to disillusion her but it was guys only in ancient Greece. Still who'd want to pay to see men wrestling nude when you can see it for free most Summer nights on Dukes Mound near the Brighton Marina.
Sue invites me over for a few rounds in her front room. She's very serious but she's also a bit of a gorgeous grappler, very curvy in her lycra leotard and displaying a generous 'toe.
I must admit as I sit alone in my flat on a dull rainy afternoon, stripping down to my trollies and going a few rounds with Sue seems rather appealing. It's my fixation with unaware sexuality, I know, but fortunately for my fragile bones sense reigns and I just wish her luck. Her website should be up soon, I think it's www.wowrestling.net if you're interested, but don't harrass me if I've got it wrong.
So, from one strapping girl to another. The weirdest (and most worrying) e-mails I've been getting are from a domme in Birmingham. Now, I've been in contact with another domme and she's rather sweet. She sends me pics of her in just a leather corset dancing on a grave and talks of 'getting me into her bed'. In these crude days that almost Jane Austen!
But the brummie broad is very different. She makes it clear that all she wants to do is take all my clothes off, hang me up in a leather harness and beat the shit out me. Not literally, of course, the butt plug would prevent that - nothing pervy like 'scat' for this masochistic miss.
Fortunately, I can erase her e-mails but I sometimes think it's a pity I don't have a 'delete' button on some other aspects of my life. Alarm! getting heavy again, why, oh why am I wrestling with my conscience when I could be putting a 'cross buttock' on Sue?
J'etaime Sadie
When I was into men (or, more correctly, they were in me) girlsex looked very attractive. Simple, uncomplicated and "no one understands a woman's body like a woman bla bla". I suppose it was a case of the arse on the other side of the fence looking keener.
And to be honest, since I nipped over the fence, the arses have been great - it's the other end I've been having trouble with. You can't believe the complicated mind games that I've been having with women I've met or been in contact with. Maybe it's me or maybe all the males I've known were pushovers. My emotional life is like a maze and I'm finding so many wrong turnings... Whoops, getting serious and this isn't one of those 'who am I, bollocks' blogs, I'll leave that to our American cousins!
So, on roughly the same subject I have to confess some recent queerish goings on with women. (Don't get too excited) In fact, I thought I was pretty well in touch but I'm constantly being astonished by what turns us on.
Thanks to this blog and my entry on Gaydar I get a few e-mails, most are cool but some are verrrrry strange! One of the saner ones was from Sue. She just moved to Bournemouth (of all places) and she's opening a wrestling club for women. It's true, she tells me it's a very popular activity and that she used to be a member of the North Manchester Ladies Wrestling Club. I'm not sure what's happened to it but she sent me some pics. And yes, there are several luscious lasses pulling some muscular moves which all seem to end up with them sitting on each other's faces. They're watched avidly by an audience of (entirely male) wrestling experts.
Sue hopes to recruit some local wrestling enthusiasts. In case, the noble and ancient sport doesn't quite grab you, she also proposes some special nude wrestling nights. She supports this by saying that it's an old Greek tradition, Olympics and all that. I hate to disillusion her but it was guys only in ancient Greece. Still who'd want to pay to see men wrestling nude when you can see it for free most Summer nights on Dukes Mound near the Brighton Marina.
Sue invites me over for a few rounds in her front room. She's very serious but she's also a bit of a gorgeous grappler, very curvy in her lycra leotard and displaying a generous 'toe.
I must admit as I sit alone in my flat on a dull rainy afternoon, stripping down to my trollies and going a few rounds with Sue seems rather appealing. It's my fixation with unaware sexuality, I know, but fortunately for my fragile bones sense reigns and I just wish her luck. Her website should be up soon, I think it's www.wowrestling.net if you're interested, but don't harrass me if I've got it wrong.
So, from one strapping girl to another. The weirdest (and most worrying) e-mails I've been getting are from a domme in Birmingham. Now, I've been in contact with another domme and she's rather sweet. She sends me pics of her in just a leather corset dancing on a grave and talks of 'getting me into her bed'. In these crude days that almost Jane Austen!
But the brummie broad is very different. She makes it clear that all she wants to do is take all my clothes off, hang me up in a leather harness and beat the shit out me. Not literally, of course, the butt plug would prevent that - nothing pervy like 'scat' for this masochistic miss.
Fortunately, I can erase her e-mails but I sometimes think it's a pity I don't have a 'delete' button on some other aspects of my life. Alarm! getting heavy again, why, oh why am I wrestling with my conscience when I could be putting a 'cross buttock' on Sue?
J'etaime Sadie
Sunday, October 03, 2004
Hello from a Brighton byke
Since joining the Brighton Cliterati, I've been called all sorts of names, from 'hey you' to some choice examples from my fellow sisters that I can't repeat on a Sunday. In fact, there's a whole new language you have to learn when you depart from the straight and narrow.
And, as many of my readers haven't yet tasted the delicious flavours of gay lurrrrve, I thought I might share some definitions with you.
The idea occured to me when I was looking at www.pinkuk.com. Now it's a great site but I haven't really been that tempted before as I've always thought it was a man thing. But I was told someone was slagging off a favourite bar of mine so I signed on to add my comment. Actually, it is mostly about Brighton manhole locations and see-through knickers (what about us girls eh?) but it had a fun item about gay slang. Here is my, very select, selection:
Bulldozer: An extremely butch lesbian
Drag King: A woman dressed like a man (just go to the Candy Bar, they even pencil a moustache under their nose)
Dyke: A lesbian - the term derives from the nineteenth-century slang word dike, which referred to male clothing, and when it was first used to refer to women, it carried a derogatory connotation of masculine appearance or behaviour (why male clothes though?)
Dyke Bite: Refers to a straight woman using lesbianism as a feminist argument or a way of insulting men
Dyke Dog: Refers to a male, straight or otherwise, who enjoys the company of lesbian women or a straight woman using lesbianism as a feminist argument or a way or insulting men
Femme: A lesbian who acts and dresses effeminately (that'll be me then)
Fluffy: Term used by lesbians to mean a woman who is turned on
French Embassy: Any location, especially a gym, where gay sex is readily available (love this)
Frig: Sex between two women, often involving one rubbing the genitals of the other with her fingers; probably derived from friction ( Ok, but why has frigging become the pc word for general fucking?)
Honeypot: A woman's genitals (buzzzzzz!)
Lemon: Another word for Lesbian (haven't heard this before but like it: Lemon squash (busy night at the Marlborough), Lemon aid (helping a girlfriend stagger home). Lemon juice (mmmmmmmmm tangy!)
Lesbro: The male equivalent of a fag-hag
Lilies of the Valley: Piles. (Brilliant,eh?)
Lipstick Lesbian: An effeminate lesbian (me again but sometimes I'm more of a Dipstick Dyke!)
Luppies: Lesbian urban professionals, or lesbian yuppies
Soft Butch: A butch lesbian with a soft side and gentle demeanour ( where are you, babes?)
I also checked Google, here are some American definitions that tickled me:
Byke: A contraction of bisexual dyke (yeaaaaa!!!! ride me baby)
chapstick lesbian: a lesbian who is very into sports, a sports dyke
Dykon: A lesbian icon, such as kd lang, Melissa Etheridge, Ellen Degeneres (what about Cherie Blair? Oh! you didn't know!)
Gold-star lesbian: A lesbian who never has had and never intends to have sex with a man. Sometimes they also get points for never sleeping with bisexuals. Entirely too many of them get terribly self-righteous about it and look down on bisexuals and lesbians who have had sex with men. (Don't I know it, fuck u all)
So endeth today's lesson in simple Sapphistry,(another definition)
Love from a lemon tart , Sadie
And, as many of my readers haven't yet tasted the delicious flavours of gay lurrrrve, I thought I might share some definitions with you.
The idea occured to me when I was looking at www.pinkuk.com. Now it's a great site but I haven't really been that tempted before as I've always thought it was a man thing. But I was told someone was slagging off a favourite bar of mine so I signed on to add my comment. Actually, it is mostly about Brighton manhole locations and see-through knickers (what about us girls eh?) but it had a fun item about gay slang. Here is my, very select, selection:
Bulldozer: An extremely butch lesbian
Drag King: A woman dressed like a man (just go to the Candy Bar, they even pencil a moustache under their nose)
Dyke: A lesbian - the term derives from the nineteenth-century slang word dike, which referred to male clothing, and when it was first used to refer to women, it carried a derogatory connotation of masculine appearance or behaviour (why male clothes though?)
Dyke Bite: Refers to a straight woman using lesbianism as a feminist argument or a way of insulting men
Dyke Dog: Refers to a male, straight or otherwise, who enjoys the company of lesbian women or a straight woman using lesbianism as a feminist argument or a way or insulting men
Femme: A lesbian who acts and dresses effeminately (that'll be me then)
Fluffy: Term used by lesbians to mean a woman who is turned on
French Embassy: Any location, especially a gym, where gay sex is readily available (love this)
Frig: Sex between two women, often involving one rubbing the genitals of the other with her fingers; probably derived from friction ( Ok, but why has frigging become the pc word for general fucking?)
Honeypot: A woman's genitals (buzzzzzz!)
Lemon: Another word for Lesbian (haven't heard this before but like it: Lemon squash (busy night at the Marlborough), Lemon aid (helping a girlfriend stagger home). Lemon juice (mmmmmmmmm tangy!)
Lesbro: The male equivalent of a fag-hag
Lilies of the Valley: Piles. (Brilliant,eh?)
Lipstick Lesbian: An effeminate lesbian (me again but sometimes I'm more of a Dipstick Dyke!)
Luppies: Lesbian urban professionals, or lesbian yuppies
Soft Butch: A butch lesbian with a soft side and gentle demeanour ( where are you, babes?)
I also checked Google, here are some American definitions that tickled me:
Byke: A contraction of bisexual dyke (yeaaaaa!!!! ride me baby)
chapstick lesbian: a lesbian who is very into sports, a sports dyke
Dykon: A lesbian icon, such as kd lang, Melissa Etheridge, Ellen Degeneres (what about Cherie Blair? Oh! you didn't know!)
Gold-star lesbian: A lesbian who never has had and never intends to have sex with a man. Sometimes they also get points for never sleeping with bisexuals. Entirely too many of them get terribly self-righteous about it and look down on bisexuals and lesbians who have had sex with men. (Don't I know it, fuck u all)
So endeth today's lesson in simple Sapphistry,(another definition)
Love from a lemon tart , Sadie
Tuesday, September 28, 2004
Women eh! I've had them up to here!
And it's true, I have. But then you can't see what part of my body I'm pointing at - clue, it's not the top of my head. But seriously, most of my troubles lately have come with a pair of tits. In my former life, women were my friends and it was blokes who messed my emotions about, but now it's often the reverse.
Take the weekend. A little burst of unexpected joy led to a lot of grief and I found myself seeking out my mates, Calvin and Tommy. Frankly, what they know about women could be tattooed on their cocks, and it would still leave room for the Brighton Telephone Directory. However they're great listeners and, as we're all a bit girly, we bond.
After much conversation and cosmopolitans we agreed that women were odd birds. Think about this, for instance. Imagine you were a gay bloke (easy, if you live in Brighton) and you were walking down the street. Amazingly, every man you see is dressing sexily - little lycra shorts, tight white T-shirts, leather pants, painted-on jeans - imagine that? You wouldn't believe your luck or that tent in your pants! But,sadly, it's a fantasy, because one guy in a 100 may be hunky, but the rest are in baggy jeans/slacks/shorts/shirts/football tops/suits and are decidedly un-sexy.
However, imagine you're a healthy, average, pert-buttocked woman, like me for instance. And you're walking down the street, any street in Brighton or any other town for that matter. What do you see? Well, if they are under 30 you see porn-stars. Almost every woman has a tiny top - nipples proud, a tanned belly, and low slung pussy-hugging jeans like denim knickers with legs. It's true isn't it? Almost every young woman (str8 or gay) this summer has been a dyke's dream.
But, and here's the twist, how many actually knew this. I'm sure every woman knows what she's showing but do they understand the effect? My Lord, I suggest not!
And then look at the women who are totally unaware of their sexual allure. First, our gallant girls in blue.
If you've noticed a sudden increase in your area of chaps in stripey pullovers with bags marked 'Swag' over their shoulders it's because every police officer in the UK is in Brighton this week.
It's the New Labour Party Confer...sorry I fell asleep at my Mac. Anyway the whole city is buzzing with bill. We were watching some female officers harressing the hunt supporters and someone suggested that although the boys have come out, with Dep Ass Com Paddick leading a Pride parade, the girls stay in the community closet.
But, it follows that gay girls would fascinated by the fuzz just as they make up a large proportion of our female armed services. And let's face it, a PC with a pussy is verrrry attractive,
First, they wear a uniform: bum-hugging skirt and a tight blouse and tight leather belts and black tights and shiny buttons. And how about the rough gaberdine trousers and big leather boots? They'd go down (and come down) rather well at the Candy Bar. Then, there's the new double-ended 'truncheons', wow! Anne Summers could really penetrate the gay market with them!
And what about the handcuffs? Or the strip-searches and the tight latex gloves? - "Bend over Ms Dark, we believe you're hiding an elicit bottle of Jack Daniels"!
No wonder they're called the filth! But cops aren't alone, have you clocked the traffic wardens? Or, on the subject of unaware sexiness - the business bunnies.
They are about when you're just getting back from the club and I'm out jogging to the newsagent. That's right, business women on their way to work.
But,look at their executive suits. They may be conservative and dressed for success but the jackets are cut short and the material's lycra so they display a cute bottom line.
Case proved.
Final cheap cop gag: Sexy PC: "OK, Ms Dark, may I warn you that anything you say will be taken down and used in evidence against you"
"Knickers"
Love & it's hard being lez Sadie
Take the weekend. A little burst of unexpected joy led to a lot of grief and I found myself seeking out my mates, Calvin and Tommy. Frankly, what they know about women could be tattooed on their cocks, and it would still leave room for the Brighton Telephone Directory. However they're great listeners and, as we're all a bit girly, we bond.
After much conversation and cosmopolitans we agreed that women were odd birds. Think about this, for instance. Imagine you were a gay bloke (easy, if you live in Brighton) and you were walking down the street. Amazingly, every man you see is dressing sexily - little lycra shorts, tight white T-shirts, leather pants, painted-on jeans - imagine that? You wouldn't believe your luck or that tent in your pants! But,sadly, it's a fantasy, because one guy in a 100 may be hunky, but the rest are in baggy jeans/slacks/shorts/shirts/football tops/suits and are decidedly un-sexy.
However, imagine you're a healthy, average, pert-buttocked woman, like me for instance. And you're walking down the street, any street in Brighton or any other town for that matter. What do you see? Well, if they are under 30 you see porn-stars. Almost every woman has a tiny top - nipples proud, a tanned belly, and low slung pussy-hugging jeans like denim knickers with legs. It's true isn't it? Almost every young woman (str8 or gay) this summer has been a dyke's dream.
But, and here's the twist, how many actually knew this. I'm sure every woman knows what she's showing but do they understand the effect? My Lord, I suggest not!
And then look at the women who are totally unaware of their sexual allure. First, our gallant girls in blue.
If you've noticed a sudden increase in your area of chaps in stripey pullovers with bags marked 'Swag' over their shoulders it's because every police officer in the UK is in Brighton this week.
It's the New Labour Party Confer...sorry I fell asleep at my Mac. Anyway the whole city is buzzing with bill. We were watching some female officers harressing the hunt supporters and someone suggested that although the boys have come out, with Dep Ass Com Paddick leading a Pride parade, the girls stay in the community closet.
But, it follows that gay girls would fascinated by the fuzz just as they make up a large proportion of our female armed services. And let's face it, a PC with a pussy is verrrry attractive,
First, they wear a uniform: bum-hugging skirt and a tight blouse and tight leather belts and black tights and shiny buttons. And how about the rough gaberdine trousers and big leather boots? They'd go down (and come down) rather well at the Candy Bar. Then, there's the new double-ended 'truncheons', wow! Anne Summers could really penetrate the gay market with them!
And what about the handcuffs? Or the strip-searches and the tight latex gloves? - "Bend over Ms Dark, we believe you're hiding an elicit bottle of Jack Daniels"!
No wonder they're called the filth! But cops aren't alone, have you clocked the traffic wardens? Or, on the subject of unaware sexiness - the business bunnies.
They are about when you're just getting back from the club and I'm out jogging to the newsagent. That's right, business women on their way to work.
But,look at their executive suits. They may be conservative and dressed for success but the jackets are cut short and the material's lycra so they display a cute bottom line.
Case proved.
Final cheap cop gag: Sexy PC: "OK, Ms Dark, may I warn you that anything you say will be taken down and used in evidence against you"
"Knickers"
Love & it's hard being lez Sadie
Friday, September 24, 2004
Have you got Cameltoe?
After a downer of a week it's the monthly dyke nite at the pub I work for and guess what's coming down? Well it wasn't my lycra sports shorts this time because on looking in the mirror I decided I looked too much like a crack sportswoman. Yes, I had serious case of cameltoe. This is a ladies' complaint that has had much coverage in the USA. TV shows and websites like Cameltoe.com and Cameltoeworld.com are devoted to it. I hadn't thought about it until I saw it mentioned in one of the men's mags we have at the health club where I also work. Frankly it's caused by tight fabric over your pubic mound with your labia creating a notch in your pants so forming a 'cameltoe' shape. Many of my readers are probably suffering from it at this moment and most of Britain's women innocently display it every day. I must be flashing my 'toe everytime I workout at my gym or go for a run. It's not a great look although I bet there many who think it's kinda sexy (I've met several women who are convinced men are turned on by VPL) But, considering the audience tonight, I dropped my shorts and wore sweat pants instead.
These would have been a safe choice except they carried the word 'juicy' written over my bum and this rather excited the muffia mob. However I received less attention than last time thanks to Deb, as usual, looking stunning in her naughty nurses outfit and the fact that my boss had hired a stripper.
She was great, waving her arse and tits in the customer's faces and sitting on their laps. She had the trick of handling the crowd without letting them handle her. I chatted to her in our breaks, sitting in the pub kitchen, with her wearing an open beachwrap, totally relaxed in her nudity. "Women are the worst" she testified, idly tweaking the hair on her tiny pubic strip, "blokes rarely cross the line but pissed women think anything goes".
I haven't had the chance to cross-examine a stripper before. So I asked lots of questions including the obvious one - does she even get turned on when exposing herself to an audience?
"Not at all" she said, but then she thought again "some nights maybe, when someone in the crowd looks fanciable". She admiitted however that interaction with women now gave her a bit of a thrill.
"You a lezzie?" she asked. "I am now I think" I replied. "Do you miss the pricks?" she inquired. "No I said, I'm still surrounded by them" Bitter I suppose, but then I'd just had my sweat pants pulled down while I was holding a trayful of drinks.
On a happier note two American readers have e-mailed me both puzzled by my reference to 'snogging'. This British term is unknown from them and I'm afraid I probably disappointed them with the correct definition. I think they expected something far more sordid. For a minute I imagined exciting their imagination in my fictional style:
...her eyes grew fearful and she gasped as I withdrew the Snogger from its rubber case. "Assume the position slut" I snarled as I carefully lubricated it. Her orgasmic screams echoed across Brighton as we snogged all night...
Love & watch out for that cameltoe. Sadie
These would have been a safe choice except they carried the word 'juicy' written over my bum and this rather excited the muffia mob. However I received less attention than last time thanks to Deb, as usual, looking stunning in her naughty nurses outfit and the fact that my boss had hired a stripper.
She was great, waving her arse and tits in the customer's faces and sitting on their laps. She had the trick of handling the crowd without letting them handle her. I chatted to her in our breaks, sitting in the pub kitchen, with her wearing an open beachwrap, totally relaxed in her nudity. "Women are the worst" she testified, idly tweaking the hair on her tiny pubic strip, "blokes rarely cross the line but pissed women think anything goes".
I haven't had the chance to cross-examine a stripper before. So I asked lots of questions including the obvious one - does she even get turned on when exposing herself to an audience?
"Not at all" she said, but then she thought again "some nights maybe, when someone in the crowd looks fanciable". She admiitted however that interaction with women now gave her a bit of a thrill.
"You a lezzie?" she asked. "I am now I think" I replied. "Do you miss the pricks?" she inquired. "No I said, I'm still surrounded by them" Bitter I suppose, but then I'd just had my sweat pants pulled down while I was holding a trayful of drinks.
On a happier note two American readers have e-mailed me both puzzled by my reference to 'snogging'. This British term is unknown from them and I'm afraid I probably disappointed them with the correct definition. I think they expected something far more sordid. For a minute I imagined exciting their imagination in my fictional style:
...her eyes grew fearful and she gasped as I withdrew the Snogger from its rubber case. "Assume the position slut" I snarled as I carefully lubricated it. Her orgasmic screams echoed across Brighton as we snogged all night...
Love & watch out for that cameltoe. Sadie
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