Whatya cock!

Over the past week several things have caused me to ponder the male member – homos erectus.

Well, hopefully erectus…but often, sorry-this-has-never-happened-beforus.

I mentioned ‘chix with dix’ in my last blog, an amusing set of photo-posting clubs I found on Yafro.com featuring really stunning bodies, sexy ‘girly’ faces,super hair, big tits, enviable waists, great bums…and a cock.

Yea, lady-boys! I wrote, tongue-in-cheek, (not in their cheeks I'll have you know) I wrote that I thought, that as a bi-sexual female, this appeared to be a very tempting package. And this was interpreted in several different ways.

Members of the Brighton Muffia, those shaven headed, tattooed, pierced cunts…

…sorry, Blogger.com, a very liberal and cool organisation would want me to make it clear I’m not suggesting these people are cunts…I just mean that their genitalia is pierced. Is that clear? Absolutely clear? Good, I’d hate you to think that I have problems with the sisterhood in my fair city.

Anyway, my lesbian co-conspirators in the “war against the cock dominated fascist world - Brighton Battalion” gave me a bit of a hard time.

I got rounded on over my morning hot chocolate and my evening cocktail…oh sorry, did I just say cock…oops, pardon!

So, let me answer you all.

(1) I didn’t mean I wanted to have a cock – I’m a woman thank you and very happy in my present state. I don’t want to add six inches to my body – in fact I’d rather lose it, especially around the hips and bum.

(2) I was just fantasising about a sexual partner. It was a joke.

(3) Although for the last three years I have enjoyed sex solely with women I still think of myself as bi-sexual. Because for the other 15 years I was fucked by men – and I loved it.

It was the fuckers that pissed me off in the end, not the fucking. Plus I met an amazing woman just when I needed a bit of TLC. Then another, and now my g/f. So I’m cool, ok.

So, next question. This time from friends (especially Ms Rude)…do I miss something warm inside me on a chilly Autumn night?

Right, well, a strap-on is never going to replace a slip-in.

It may be 10 inches and totally realistic but it’s fake not real flesh and blood. So, yes, in that respect I do miss cocks. It was the extension (if you were lucky) of a sexy and loving human being and that really matters.

Today, a woman’s fingers and tongue can cause the same response in me and that’s fucking fabulous. But I’d be a hypocrite if I didn’t admit that I’ve still got a soft spot for a hard-on – and you know where to find it boysJ

But does this make me lesbian-lite? Just sort of playing at it rather than living the lifestyle 24/7. I don’t think so. I know what I am and what I feel – and so does my girlfriend.

I actually hate titles. I never thought of myself as a “hetero” during the rest of my life. No one nudged their friend and whispered ‘cocksucker’ as I kissed my boyfriends in public. I was me – doing what came naturally.

And that's how I am now. Fuck the labels – please get over it girls. We may have been oppressed along with the guys in the bad old days. But now, certainly in Brighton and London it’s out in the open and we’re all cool.

So leave me alone. Giving me and other bi’s a bad time is merely repeating the disgusting behaviour of the old fashioned gay-bashers.

On the subject of gays and giving it a bashing I must mention my pals Dolce & Gabbana. I’m going to have to change their names because I called them after the logos on their pants that appeared above their jeans in the accepted style followed by shirtlifters everywhere.

Now fashion has moved on and upwards and men’s pants have disappeared from public view.

(As have girl's thongs – a rather sexy look I thought in the early days when just foxy ladies with cute tight arses (and me) showed the weekly wash in a provocative way. Then the lardbutts of Brighton and the world consciously (and worse unconsciously) offered us a view of their greying twisted arse-wipers – urrrrrggggg. Thankfully, new jean's styles mean that’s all an ugly memory.)

So with D&G under cover what can I call my lovely boy friends? How about Alcock and Brown?*

See, I’ve managed to end my piece on the same theme as I began – that’s writing skill.

Love from the cockles of my heart. Sadie

*for my US pals Alcock and Brown were 1920’s guys who flew the Atlantic and “Brown” is vulgar slang for….oh forget it.

The world according to Yafro

Often when I finish writing my blog I hit the next blog button at the top of the page. This reveals a fascinating world. Or not!

Sadly, more often than not you get a 14 year old girl writing at tedious length about her extremely dull life and even more boring friends (OK I was 14 once and just as ass-achingly irritating).

But occasionally you get a really thought provoking review of today’s world. My favourite pen-pal (if that is the appropriate term in this on-line environment) is Hip Liz. You’ll find him on hippolyte.blogspot.com and his blog is full of carefully considered writing and commonsense.

Inspired by him and the other brainy bloggers I was determined to ignore my usual mucky nonsense and write something important this time. The threat of bird-flu perhaps, or the gripping contest for the leadership of the Conservative Party, or the worrying escalation of the Iraq Crisis…but then I discovered Yafro!

Yea baby www.yafro.com. It’s a site where people (predominately Americans) can post pictures. If you hit the ‘no adult content’ button then you get a reassuring view of the US. Nice pics of beautiful landscapes, of which there are plenty, smiling family shots – a kind of sweet visual blog, and although I haven’t looked, I’m sure, lots of Mum and apple pie.

But can you imagine me hitting ‘no adult content’? Sooooooooo…you won’t imagine what I uncovered.

Sure, all the usual stuff. Boys proudly presenting their pork swords. Girls bending towards the camera giving us an intimate view of their flappy bits – Kingsley Amis described it like looking at a close up of a giraffe’s ear. And yes I can see what he meant.

Yea we’ve all seen that before. The really interesting stuff on Yafro tells us quite a bit about the USA today.

How about ‘young girls on the toilet’? Believe me, the barriers have come done on what you can see on the internet. And in this case, the barrier is the ‘engaged’ sign on the loo door.

There are several ‘clubs’ featuring the startled faces of attractive females caught ‘knickers down’ on the pan. As their arses are as tanned as their faces they must be Americans and as the photography is a bit haphazard they must be real.

I might be wrong, but the ‘oh my god’ rather than the “get out of here you fucking pervert’ expressions suggest that it is their snappers are female friends. I know girls have a fairly relaxed view about peeing together but to then post it on the internet. Dear reader, I’m shocked!

So, from pulchritudinous pissers to saucy swingers. “Women over 50 being fucked by black guys” tells it like it is and is just one site amongst many showing white middle-aged women with a taste for black cock in one set of lips or the other.

These rather sexy shanigans seem to happen with the permission and, often, assistance of their husbands. The pics suggest that these are organised parties and ladies you expect to see at the Shopping Mall or on the golf course are portrayed, naked, arse in the air being drilled by a dark dork.

Is this a common activity in suburban America? If so, at weekly coffee mornings, “I prefer mine black” must take on a completely different meaning.

Cocks, black, white and cappuccino - coloured feature prominently in another very popular set of clubs. Transexuals or TS’s are men who’ve had some impressive cosmetic surgery.

“Chix with Dix” and Slutz with Nutz” are just a couple of the names of these clubs and the ‘girls’ are stunning.

They all boast tits we’d all love. Nice big firm bouncers with perky nips. And arses to die for. Am I jealous?…oh nooo of course not!

However, they’ve hung on to one important thing and there it is, in pic after pic, hanging down in front of them. And some of them are extremely well hung! (sorry, that’s enough ‘hung’ puns)

“MMMMMMMMM!” I thought. A sexy ‘women’s’ face and hair, a beautiful woman’s body…a nice fat cock. What more could a bi-sexual beauty like me want?

And then I thought again. All this also comes with a man’s brain. Sadly the surgeons haven’t discovered the skill to feminise this important bit. So, on second thoughts…No!

Well, so much for seriousness although most of these pics are seriously arousing in one way or another. Once again my blog’s a bit blue. Sorry, I promise, next time not to talk about ‘tackle’ but to actually tackle vital issues…like the euro or global warming.

Promise!

Now back to Yafro. What’s this…My God, I don’t believe it…


Love from Sadie xxxxxx

Weighty thoughts (and the usual smut)

Well, the weather here in Brighton has been unsettled – and so have I.

Today was hot and I should have been happy but then you start thinking, is this the last hot day of the year? Is it all over? Is there any meaning to my life? Are Franz Ferdinand actually crap? Yes, the big questions.

Which gets me to yesterday morning’s big question. Will my bum slip into this season’s slim cut jeans? My g/f was quite vocal on this subject as she took a close look at the subject in question.

I heard the threatening tone in her voice as she paused in doing what good girls do to their chums on Saturday mornings (or bad girls if you’re a Daily Mail reader).

Her chilling words echoed from below. “ You know Sadie you’ve really put on some weiggggggggggg….urgggggggggggggggg!"

Funny what happens to the human voice when it gets sat on. But her pressing problem was also mine – something had to be done.

So if Brighton residents woke to a strange damp slapping noise this morning I can reassure them. It wasn't two sealions fighting on the beach it was just the sound of my thighs coming together as I jogged along the promenade.

As I swayed along frightening the seagulls I was troubled. I might get rid of some of my subcutaneous fat but I couldn’t get rid of my sodding misgivings.

I felt that changes were just around the corner.

Actually, what was just around the corner was a café where they do the most amazing bacon sandwiches. But still the thoughts weighed heavily on my mind.

I’ve actually enjoyed the most tranquil period of my recent life – and it feels strange. I’ve got a steady relationship (most of the time) and now a steady and respectable job. I left the gym ages ago and then I finally gave up my role as a pub slut, thank God!

I now work part-time in a bookshop and I’m just getting used to having the female (and male) customers more interested in probing my mind than my behind.

Normally this wouldn’t have been ‘dark’ enough news to feature in my blog. But actually I’m having dark thoughts about this blissful time.

“When everything’s settled, is when you get restless Susie!” my ex-husband used to yell at me years ago. He said things like that because he liked a steady life, always knowing what lay ahead, same food, same holidays, same three positions, absolutely no surprises and all that boring bollocks.

Oh, and he called me Susie …because, at the time, that was my name!

“I get restless because of our boring life together” I seem to recall replying snappily (I’m trying to write better dialogue in my book)

And then I stormed out of the room because that is what women do in these circumstances – and because, fuck it, he was right.

Given a dazzling mirror-like pond reflecting a perfect sunset most people would just gaze lovingly at its inspiring surface and perhaps compose a little poem - I have to chuck a stone into it.

I don’t know why, it’s just my nature.

In the past when I faced a placid future, I lobbed my stone. It could have been extra marital affairs, chucking in a great job, a particularly painful divorce or even leaping into lesbianism, but it did the job!

Now, I’m older and, I hope, wiser (otherwise these wrinkles would be even more fucking unwelcome). So you can see why I feeling a bit gloomy.

Tracy Emin looks like a bit of a stone thrower too. She came to mind because (1) I was reading about her in the Daily Telegraph Magazine (my g/f's I hasten to add, do I seeeeemmmm like a Telegraph reader???) and (2) people say I'm quite a bit like her.

Well, if us both having brown hair, three holes and a tanker-like capacity for booze is all that counts then we're identical twins - but truthfully I can't see any similiarity. However I rather admire her and the article plus some of her writing confirmed my positive feelings.

Other feelings were aroused by the photograph of Tracy on the rooftop of her loft. There she stood with that quirky but oh so sexy smile in a tight skirt, slinky shiny tights, tanned fit body and just an amazing bra-top. It was green with silver stars and cupped Tracy's Turner Prize-winning tits.

Well, I thought, I definitely would...given the chance. I bet Tracy would be up for a bit of going down too. In fact, I'd be surprised if she hasn't tried a bit of rug-munching along with all the other things she's dabbled in.

I got quite imaginative about what exhibitions Tracy and I might create. As a porn pedlar my imagination has had many good work-outs and so is very, very lively. And as my thoughts got more rude so I got more moist. However I still don't expect my knickers would fetch what Tracy's did (along with her bed) at the Saatchi Gallery.

Sad about the artistic world isn't it. You can labour starving in garrets for years perfecting your skills and then see skidmarks valued at a hundred grand.

Still Tracy has suffered for her art. From childhood she's been upsetting everything and every one with her occasionally well-aimed but mostly haphazard 'stones'.

However, I’m hoping my writing will be the ‘stone’ this time and, because of this, the bits of life that I cherish won’t have to change. It would be nice to achieve a bit of recognition, a little more money and maybe a Bentley Continental GT. I not sure what the last thing is but that’s what my co-writer Morgan dreams about.

Morgan and I are beavering away. That sounds rude I know, but our relationship is strictly professional. I even put some clothes on when he comes round to compare re-writes.

On the subject of writing, ‘Sadie Dark Places’ got two mentions in the outside world recently.

The extremely perceptive, talented and, no doubt, strikingly beautiful people at the Brighton Source, an essential ‘what’s – on in the sexy city’ magazine picked my blog out in the September issue.

In an article it selected ‘the finest local blogs’ described as ‘the gems in an ocean of turds’. Hardly a ‘Booker Prize’ style of recommendation but gratefully received by me – thank you very much guys!

The other mention is a total mystery to me. There’s some American website called ‘Blogshares’ and they appear to invest in blogs. When I found the site (it was mentioned on Google) it stated that Sadie Dark Places was number nine and valued at $1,982.00. What the fuck is all this about? (if anyone knows please, please leave a comment or email me)

Comments! Ah yes, please comment on my stuff, because it’s fun to have some intercourse (oohhhh Mrs). However, thanks to some boring bastards who are latching onto blogs through some automatic server (or something), you now have to type a number in – sorry. Apparently this prevents the automatic thing automatically placing ads for dull Russian sex sites into my comment folder.

So carry on with your provocative comments – they’re just the thing to snap me out of my mood.

Love and moody kisses from Sadie (gazing into the distance in a moody sort of way)

Whipping up a party in New York

To get some research for my book I recently visited a local-ish BSDM club – well that’s my excuse and I’m sticking to it. A bit like the latex bustier stuck to me!

It was fun but in a terribly British way. And it was sooooooo different to the fun I had on a trip to the USA last December. You’ll have to wait for my book launch (am I dreaming???) for the English stuff but here’s a brief report on the spanking good time I had in NY.

*******************

I don’t know how you would spend your time in pre-Christmas New York. Watching the skaters at Rockefeller Centre or in Central Park? Watching the animated windows at Lord & Taylor? Or watching a naked woman taking it up the arse? Especially as she’s being fucked by a muscular tattooed lesbian with a strap-on.

Yes, I did all the usual festive things but it was the fetish things that made the trip memorable. An old friend of my girlfriend mentioned that it was the December party at her “lesbian BSDM club” and would we like an invite.

Oh yes! Which is why we were in a cab on the way to the venue in Queens dressed (under our long coats) in just skintight black jodphurs, rubber boots and our skin. We obviously hadn’t packed any fetish gear for a Christmas business and shopping trip to New York so a visit to a sportswear store supplied us with a cheap alternative.

At the ‘club’ female bouncers (with great bouncers, as a matter of fact) checked our invitations, which were sexy masks, peeked under our coats to make sure we’d followed the dress code and let us through.

Having lost the coats we looked around. It was a dyke’s dreamland. The party was packed with trimmed, toned and tanned New York girls in the minimum of clothing possible. Their interpretation of ‘fetish wear’ was varied. Some were authentically kitted out in leather basques and thongs with studs and straps. Some were in sexily ripped ‘boys/boi’s’ clothes. Others just used it as an excuse to strut around in fantasy wear. Many were naked. But who cares when you can’t move without brushing against some truly awesome tits and arses.

The ‘dungeon’ was anything but. No bare walls, no grubby floor, no chilly damp smell, no fat white Brits – this was the Bergdorfs of BDSM. It was a nightclub some nights, a gay club on others, and a couples BDSM and Swingers Club on a monthly basis. Tonight was girls’ only and very popular it was too.

We mingled in the bar area. My girlfriend’s friend was there with a group of mates. She came over to greet us. The last time I’d seen her she’d been in a conservative black Donna Karan number. Now she was in a purple satin basque and her tits spilled over it. They were obviously enhanced but stunning none the less. Big and brown with very pert nipples framed in silver ‘jewellry’. She kissed me and our nipples clashed, she knew it and licked her lips suggestively, she then kissed my girlfriend and grabbing our hands led us over to her friends. Her purple satin knickers full at the front, were cut away at the back revealing her big brown arse cheeks swaying sexily as she walked. Was it etiquette, I wondered, to grope your girlfriend’s friend’s bum without a formal introduction.

Her friends were equally elegantly undressed. One wore a black rubber catsuit with holes cut out to reveal her nipples, cunt and buttocks. Another wore a severe white top, starting from her neck and covering her arms and small tits but it all changed at waist level. Below she was naked but for a pearlstring thong dividing her cunt lips. The other two were obviously a team. One wore a leather ‘domme’ outfit consisting of basque, thong and thigh boots and the other was naked but for a rubber face mask and also a leather collar and chain that was firmly in the grasp of the ‘domme’. We all wore our sexy masks.

As a group we must have looked like an illustration from one of those ‘60’s’ lesbian soft porn novels. Including us Brits because although when compared to our American friends my girlfriend and I were overdressed but we were certainly causing an effect.

I haven’t worn riding breeches since Pony Club so I’d never noticed how sexy they look and feel. Because ours were cheap and thin they appeared glued to every curve on our bodies. The American girls spun us around and stared. Their tightness acted like a sort of ‘bum bra’ so even my womanly cheeks were pulled tightly together whilst displaying a fine crack. My arse felt great and I noticed my girlfriend’s smaller butt looked pretty cool too. We also both displayed amazingly defined ‘cameltoe’ around our crotches - I could have held a book in my slit! The breeches gripped my thighs like lover’s hands, and the elastic material massaged my cunt as I moved. And then, to complete the look, above the waistband we were both completely naked. A coating of St Tropez made us blend in a bit with our tanned colleagues but we both severely lacked toning. My tits were natural I’d like to think (translation: droopy) and my girlfriends’ are virtually non-existent but we were obviously Brits so this was excused by our cosmetically assisted colleagues.

Our group’s sexy clothing and nudity was echoed throughout the bar. It was pervy by Prada, and the girls were hot and excited but the atmosphere was very unthreatening. I wondered how many authentic lesbians there were in the room and how many were just straight girls out to dress sexy and have a laugh.

It reminded me of ‘Cake’, a ‘straight’ club in London where posh girls show their panties and let lapdancers sit on their knees. I mentioned this to the woman in the catsuit and she just grinned, reached round, squeezed my arse and said ‘wait and see until we get into the playroom”

Our New York friend had cautioned us that “outside rules don’t apply in the club – anything goes, if you want it”. So rather than just be two sloppy Brits self-consciously slapping each other’s bums in public we agreed to separate and ‘play’ with other women. My girlfriend admits she’s a bit possessive so this was an early Christmas present from her.

In keeping with the spirit of the place we made our parting kiss extreme. What started as a bit of a piss-take became a bit passionate. Our tongues snaked into each others’ mouths, darting in and out dripping with spit. My fingers greedily prised her arse cheeks apart and she cruelly twisted and tugged my nipples. I was getting sweaty - it was certainly setting me up for the night ahead.

The girls nearest us were appreciative too. Unlike the English, Americans express their enthusiasm loudly “Hey” they yelled, “Go for it girl”, “fuck her ass babe”. Later, I thought, as we giggled, kissed and parted.

I walked through the bar and through a curtain into a corridor. It suddenly got dark. My eyes adjusted and I saw on the right a room marked ‘playroom’. I peeked in. A suggestive low red light gave the place a sexy atmosphere but there was no sex as unfortunately the beanbags and the huge bed were unoccupied. I’d cum too early I expect.

The next room had a door marked “dungeon’ and a notice said “Enter here and leave your inhibitions behind” But don’t forget your ibuprofen gel, I grimly thought. I don’t do ‘pain’. I’d rather do oral on Osama Bin Laden than be whipped or flogged and as for ‘nipple torture’ I’m a definite ‘no clamping zone’.

But I’ve occasionally got moist sensations from subbing and light bondage and I’m a voracious voyeur so I entered. It was a bit brighter in here and better attended.

A naked woman was tied to a ‘cross’. Another woman was lashing her with a ‘cat o’ nine tails. I walked over to watch. The whipper was a muscular latino. She just wore a black thong that disappeared between her amazing arsecheeks. They were luscious like tanned leather cushions you could bury your face in and doze off. She’d either built up a ferocious sweat or she’d been lightly oiled. She had long black hair that almost reached her waist and it whipped against her rippling golden back as she soundly lashed the offered arse. A huge ‘American Eagle’ tattoo across her shoulders gave her biker chic. But it was her cheeks that really caught my interest and I just stared.

She turned and noticed me. She had a completely ‘dirty’ smile and she swayed over. Along with her lips I noticed her nips. Her tits were smallish but she had huge round rippled aureolas with nipples like a baby’s thumb

She looked me up down teasingly. “Want some of this sexypants?’ she purred. “Mmmmm, sexy pants”, her conversation continued - not very witty but making her point. To emphasise her feelings she slid her hand into the waistband of my breeches. ‘Want me to whip your ass, sexy” she added as her hand slipped down. I guessed she was one of the club’s domatrixes, a ‘pro’ in punishment.

“Ah thank you but not really” I stammered, sounding like a silly schoolgirlish Brit. “British, are you hun?” she replied, unnecessarily. “You guys like the kinky shit”. At this she slid her hand down inside my breeches and fingered my cunt lips. It was over in a second, then she kissed me, grinned and spinned way.

“Hey, you fucking slut” she yelled at the tethered nude, “don’t think you can fucking relax” At this she skilfully and brutally lashed the woman down between her, already striped, arse cheeks. Oh my god, I bet that stung, my eyes almost watered in sympathy. The woman’s body shuddered with the pain and her scream would have been echoed round New York if a ball-gag hadn’t reduced it to a gasping moan.

I moved on. Another naked woman was doubled up in a cage, two women, not ‘pro’s’ I guessed were teasing her through the bars. One was sliding a large black cock into the trapped ones mouth. ‘Suck on it, babe’ she called enthusiastically “cause it’s going into your cunt”.

Ahh, I thought, how so different from those family Christmas parties I used to enjoy.

Lashings of love from Sadie xxxxxxx


P.S. A little glimpse of 'Sadie's pants' - things that take my breath away. The latest is a website called Bi-girlz. It's Britain's (and possibly the world's) only female bi-sexual dating site and itz zo zexy!

You can place a pic or two or three (clothing optional), leave some interesting stuff about your little fancies and wait for the girlz to call. You can read some naughty stories (mine included) and if you're feel like getting warmed up on these chilly September nights you can just check out other member's portfolios - I especially recommend the many views of Flirtibabe. But to see if her bum is all it's cracked up to be you have to visit www.bigirlz.co.uk. Go on - you're worth it!

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

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

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

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

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

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 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

Today, my theme is twats.

This summary is not available. Please click here to view the post.

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

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

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

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

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

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.

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.

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