Sunday, December 24, 2006

Santa's coming but Sadie isn't

I ate my Christmas pudding on Saturday…

…and she was lovely. Yes, my cuddly lover Ms Hastings and I had a fantastic day. We did a bit of festive shopping, then some festive swigging in Charles St then it was back to my place for a bit of festive fffffff- (ok I’ll call it frolicking as it’s Christmas)

But now she’s back with her husband for the next few big days and I’m on my xxxxing own for Xmas. Ok, ok, I know that’s what happens if you choose to get mixed up with the married but such smug lecturing doesn’t make me feel more guilty or less desolate.

Of course, I’m having Christmas lunch with friends, but most of them are couples (of all genders) and, at the finish of the day, they go home together and I end up watching the fucking Snowman or something on TV with just my imagination for company and my fingers, of course. But in a time of love and giving, that doesn’t feel very appropriate – you can’t imagine Bing singing, “I’m dreaming of a wanking Christmas’ can you?

Perhaps I’ll get on with my book, a bit of angst never did most great writers any harm I suppose. I bet Ibsen and Graham Greene and Saul Bellow got pretty pissed at Christmas time so I too will channel my pain into my pages.

Fuck, I shouldn’t have drunk so much red wine today it always makes me gloomy…

Shmmmerrry Christmurrrrrrrrrse

Sadie xx

Friday, December 22, 2006

Sadie's XXXmas appeal

I suppose I ought to do a Christmas message. Why not, because everyone else has a go? The lovely Liz does hers on Christmas Day TV and Channel 4 apparently has a Moslem lady in a veil as a cool but still rather spooky alternative.

I’ve even got another Queen’s message for you from my pals Dolce and Gabbana (named after their knickers that peep out from their jeans) Is that still fashionable or are they just turning into geriatric flashers?

Anyway their message is: Have a horny Christmas and a sexy new year. Not very original I’ll give you but at least a lot shorter and rather more desirable than the one from Windsor.

I’m hoping for a successful 2007 as we’re on the last laps of our book. Then we’ll show it to agents…and then??????????????????????????????????????????

In fact, it’ll need a final polish. Which I expect we’ll do in early January. I read of these authors who knock out 10,000 words before a long and liquid lunch. Can this be true or is it just literary bullshit. I personally find it hard work and so does Morgan (my co-writer) in spite of him being a professional writer.

Remembering everything about our characters is complicated and making sure they all keep their individual voices is almost impossible. So we’ll be going through the entire manuscript to sort these and other things out. Doesn’t manuscript sound posh for our naughty little volume?

I must admit, it is a bit rude, but then what else could it be with me involved? There’s lots of kinkiness and perversion and nudity, and people do absolutely eye-watering stuff to each other but true love wins through at the end. Sorry I lied about that last bit.

However, as we write we suffer, because both of us are rather penniless this Christmas. Let me be clear, we’re not down to selling the Big Issue, we respect these guys and always give them something although it’s a fucking boring read. No, we are both a bit lightweight in the £££££’s sense.

My job is now part-time because people in Brighton won’t part money for books and Morgan has hit hard times in the Advertising world, my God he’s now having trouble filling the tank of his Ferrari.

So we’re both rather relying on the book for a more secure next 12 months. In fact, having mentioned Hard Times, I’m sitting here like a Dickens’ heroine warming my icy hands over a candle and hoping that a kind literarrrrry gennulmun will take pity on a poor soul like me, gord bless you!!!!

Sorry for that, but it’s very Victorian in Brighton tonight. The fog is drifting through the streets and (just for my American friends) I can hear the Hanson cab drivers clip-clocking along. However to be serious for a second, we do have Jack the Ripper style killings in Ipswich – so some Dickensian stuff doesn’t change.

Second over, now, at last, for my Christmas message.

OK, hmmmmm, right, ahhhhhhhh, hey how about, noooooooo, well what about?

Ok something simple: Love and peace to all the truly witty and nice people who communicate with me – and pleasssssssse buy the book if it comes out.

Love & seasonal hugs and kisses all over Sadie xxxxxxxxxx

Thursday, October 19, 2006

Famous fanny fanciers (and other jokes)

A regular correspondent emailed me last week and chided me for not writing more about lesbian issues in this blog.

I'm not sure I'm aware of any to be honest. It seems to me that ladies-who-lunch-on-ladies are doing pretty well these days.

But I'd like to see some lesbian issues of Vogue or maybe Heat.

We’re quite fashionable actually. People like the stunning supermodel Kate Moss and/or actress Sienna Miller (allegedly) are reported in the red-tops as mutual rug-munchers. More seriously, Sarah Waters, the writer of Fingersmith etc was a hot favourite for the prestigious Booker Prize for her novel about lesbian and straight love in the Second World War.

In the USA, Christine Aguillera and Drew Barrymore have shown some enthusiasm for getting close and personal with women (late as always compared to the goddess Madonna who was apparently ‘Into the groove’ of Sandra Bernard years ago) and The L Word (which I despise) is very popular.

So, no obvious prejudice here. Plus lesbians are also getting ‘married’ in public ceremonies (like my gay friends a couple of weeks ago).

In fact, life is very laid-back for us lady lovers at the moment. Any fuss about females in the Daily Mail is currently aimed at rather sweet Muslims who choose to wear veils. Or Madonna’s adoption issues.

I’m putting some hot sweaty lesbian lurvvve into my book so no surprises there! But I’m not expecting an outcry – the stuff with the margarine and the goat will probably achieve that.

Just joking. Which gets me neatly to some supposedly witty lines that an American friend emailed me – who says we don’t have a cunny bone?

1. What do you call a cupboard full of lesbians?
...A licker cabinet.

2. What do you call an Eskimo lesbian?
...A Klondyke.

3. What do you call 100 lesbians with guns?
....Militia Etheridge.

4. Why can't lesbians diet and wear make-up at the same time?
…Because they can't eat Jenny Craig with Mary Kay on their face.

5. What do you call two lesbians in a canoe?
…Fur Traders.

6. What is a lesbian dinosaur called?
…A Lickalotapuss.

7. What do you call a lesbian with long fingers?
…Well Hung.

8. Did you hear that Ellen DeGeneres drowned?
...She was found face down in Ricki Lake.

9. How can you tell a tough lesbian bar?
...Even the pool table doesn't have balls.

10. What do you call lesbian twins?

11. What's the definition of confusion?
...Twenty blind lesbians in a fish market.

12. What's the difference between a Ritz cracker and a lesbian?
...One's a snack cracker,the other's a crack snacker

13. What do you call an open can of tuna on a lesbians coffee table??

Ha ha ha, gosh my sides are splitting!

Love Sadie xxxxxx

Saturday, October 14, 2006

Bizarre mating rituals

I’ve been to two weddings recently.

The first was rather unusual because there wasn’t a bride (well, not in the accepted sense) and the only thing white was the faces of some of the shocked passing Brighton shoppers as we posed for photographs on the pavement.

The second, however, was far more bizarre with strange rituals, weird clothing and a night of lustful and drunken celebration.

You’ve guessed it. The first was a cool and civilised gay getting together and the second was a family affair in East Grinstead.

The guys were a couple that my friends Dolce & Gabbana knew well (probably in the biblical sense too if I know my boys). They’d been sharing a flat for years and decided to formalise things – and why not I suppose?

Well I could list some reasons but I’d probably cause Blogger to crash.

My marriage was a dream. By which I mean a series of uncoordinated events and surreal happenings that might have been imagined by Hieronymus Bosch. So I’m a bit jaded about the overall cost of a diamond ring.

Mention of rings gets us back to the chap’s ceremony – well I can never resist an obvious joke. It was just like Elton and David’s, except we had the reception in someone’s flat and there were no talented millionaire celebrities attending. Although I had one woman pointed out to me whom I was told had been an extra in Eastenders.

The registrar managed to keep a straight face throughout. Which I suppose was impressive when you think of the sexual inclinations of the majority of the wedding guests. But to be serious for a second, it was all rather touching and I’m sure I detected a tear in Ms Hasting’s eye.

Right, a second’s passed.

The couple looked blissfully happy. They wore similar Oswald Boateng suits with little differently coloured carnations in their buttonholes – some gay code I imagine but sadly I forgot to ask.

At the reception we drank pink champagne and tucked into mini versions of junk food – little hamburgers and tiny fish and chips in teeny newspaper cones. All a bit twee I suppose but then this was a gay wedding. The guests, mostly happy homos and laughing lezzies behaved impeccably, we chatted and networked and finally left quietly into the Brighton night.

All in all totally different from my other event – which was a decidedly queer wedding.

For a start it was a family affair, and, as you might imagine, being a foul-mouthed, tartily dressed, pervy, enthusiastic lover of lady’s bits means I’m somewhat estranged from my church-going, Conservative voting relatives.

I invited Ms Hasting’s with some trepidation. She may have seen some terrifying things like the inside of a BDSM club, girl’s night at the Revenge club and my fanny – but nothing would prepare her for my family enjoying themselves en-mass.

A cousin of mine was getting hitched to some bloke. I watched his face steadily falling as my uncles and aunts filed into the church looking like they were attending a casting session for Texas Chainsaw Massacre 3.

I really get on well with my cousin. She was in virginal white which was sweet and faintly ironic because, I’m pleased to say, she has had a few intimate casting sessions herself before selecting her leading man. The dress was, in the great tradition of these things, totally hilarious. It billowed so she looked like a Victorian shepherdess caught in a hurricane. I asked her what was old, new, borrowed and blue. She proudly admitted that she’s combined three of these in one, by wearing an old blue thong that she’s borrowed from her sister.

The ceremony was old and ritualistic. The priest intoned, we called out in response and I was amazed we all didn’t dance in a circle around the sacrificial victims.

I stood at the back trying to be inconspicuous. However one or two of the women present would occasionally look in my direction and whisper something like “that’s her’ to their companion who’d then give me the once over. They seemed disappointed that I’d forgotten to bring my thigh boots and whip.

But, bizarrely, later at the reception in some big country hotel Ms Hastings and I were the best behaved. The married couple had left for their honeymoon and everyone else had left their senses. We’d sat through a heavy dinner and even more stodgy speeches that the gallons of warm white Chardonnay had failed to lighten.

But all this juice has certainly lightened the inhibitions of the guests. Old uncles danced too closely to young bridesmaids and lots of boozy blokes tried to prove they were the best man with the smashed female smashers.

Ms Hastings and I sat, like staid Brighton matrons, watching this bacchanalia. And then I thought, WHAT THE FUCK! I’m letting myself and my reputation down here.

I’d have preferred to have stripped her there and then and ravished her over the dining table but I didn’t want tiramisu stains on my Prada pants. So I grabbed my comely companion and led her to one of the many rooms off the ‘ballroom’.

She was the tastiest thing I’d enjoyed all night. I was really hoping an aunt would peer in and see me on the sofa with my arse in the air and my face between Ms Hastings thighs – but then I’m kinky that way.

When we left my cousin’s parents sniffily bid us goodbye. He gave me a peck on the cheek as if he’d catch something and she pointedly shook my hand. They always liked my ex-husband and, possibly correctly, blamed me for screwing it up. In that moment, they really made me feel a twat.

But I had the last laugh as our hands parted because I bet she never guessed where my fingers had just been.

Love and kisses from sticky Sadie xxxxx

Saturday, October 07, 2006

Wot I did this summer

Ok ok, I know what’s the use of a fucking blog if months pass without any news? It’s supposed to be a log – a daily sort of thing – you know Captain’s log Stardate whatever and all that. So I’m going to attempt to squash 120 days or so into a few paragraphs.

First, Brighton. Hot, v hot for most of June and July, no surprises there and none on the nude beach either. Ms Hastings finally stripped off on sands scattered with gaily-coloured beach balls.

That’s right, she dropped them in full view of 100 disinterested blokes in brightly hued speedos. It’s still a mystery to me why the majority of hunky homos keep their knickers on. Hey guys, its…a…nude…beach, and you are supposed to be free-thinking, convention-breaking exhibitionists. Otherwise you’d be up the other end of the promenade with your baggy shorts, complaining wife and screaming kids.

Second, concerts. I saw Madonna, I’ve always loved her music and rather admired her, but it felt like my duty to be there, considering my relatively recent change in sexual preferences.

In fact, on the night we were there, there must have only been about three straight couples in the entire Wembley Arena. The rest of us wore our trashy but hideously expensive T-shirts and stupid cowboy hats and low slung jeans and howled for our kinky goddess. It was her birthday too and several muscled guys celebrated this by wearing singlets bearing the slogan ‘Birthday Bitches’

But us real bitches weren’t disappointed either. Madonna in riding gear with totally revealing skin tight breeches pole dancing and ‘riding’ a mechanical saddle….mmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmoist or what?

I also saw the Stones. I like the rock but not the wrinkles, so I wasn’t that keen to go but Morgan (my writing partner) was going to see them with his advertising partner and he was very enthusiastic.

So we went to Twickenham Stadium. In my advertising days I accompanied clients to rugby matches there. It was fun to watch but what with the banter and the boozing it wasn’t long before they were trying it on with me and going for a tackle. But none of them scored, I’m pleased to say.

But it was different at the concer because Ihave to say the Stones were fucking fantastic. Jagger is extraordinary and thoughts of zimmer frames and bus passes immediately disappear when he appears. I was dancing around and punching the air and I really did ‘get some satisfaction and girl reaction’ from Ms Hastings later that night. So thank you boys.

Third, my book. We’re three-quarters of the way through and its still hard work. Of course, I’m not being ‘arty’ about this, you know…that ‘writing is like giving birth to a pineapple in a raging storm’ sort of shit. Farmers and firemen do hard work while we’re just press the keys of the mac but it’s still ‘hard’ to be satisfied with what we’re doing.

Other writers do an outline and a couple of chapters and try to sell this to agents and publishers. We, or rather Morgan, thinks that just an outline might suggest we’re writing pure porn and miss the point about the laughs and, of course, the high literature. So we’re putting the whole thing together and, by the way, I lied about that last bit.

Lastly, I’m still amazed about the number of Penny Smith posterior fans (or fanny fans for my US chums) who are constantly accessing my site because I’ve mentioned her. I wonder if the gamine GMTV presenter realises how many men out there are going berserk over her buttocks. Maybe she should do a special 2007 calendar with a different shot of her bum for each month. A furry thong for January and bare and tanned for July, for instance, and how about a bit of holly shoved up it for December. Great idea eh, but I’m sure all her admirers will still be checking in to my site whatever I say and imagine the increase in volume if I also mention the words ‘ Carol Vorderman’s bum’.

Bottoms up

Love and kisses Sadie xxxxxxx

Tuesday, July 18, 2006

My vagina monologue

Am I the only person with one who thinks ‘The Vagina Monologues’ is the pits?

I was sitting in the theatre last week and, as a night out, it was a special treat from Ms Hastings my amazingly, ‘still-around’ lurvver. So I was determined to enjoy myself – and show it, because normally I’m not a laugh-out loud sort of person.

But…please! All around me middle-class Brighton women, pumped up on a few Bacardi Breezers from the theatre bar, were pissing themselves laughing, hooting like an American sit-com audience and shouting “cunt” at the top of their voice whilst generally behaving like one.

On the stage, that old slapper from ‘Birds of a Feather, some vague kid’s show host and a reject from a ‘Sugarbabes’ tribute band were delivering this mawkish trash as if it were Ibsen or Stoppard.

‘Twat’ they said, and the audience almost stormed the stage. “Cunt’ they repeatedly exclaimed, as if they were breaking some extraordinary taboo and the Brighton police might close the show down.

To be fair, some the serious stuff was well written and quite touching.

But that, I felt, wasn’t why the majority of the women were there. They had come for some sort of intellectual ‘hen night’ party. A chance to lose their inhibitions, shock their friends and say ‘tee hee’ rude words…in public ‘tee-hee’.

It’s rather sad. I can imagine this stuff working in New York where almost everyone is sewn-up about sex and their bodies and some people are positively puritanical. Look, they actually think ‘Sex and the City’ is pushing back the boundaries but it’s really as staid as Joanna Trollope compared with the ‘Wednesday Plays’ on BBC in the far off 70’s that my parents didn’t want me to see (and we giggled about at school next day).

But this was Brighton in 2006 and well…harrrrummmphhhh!

Plus what is all this ‘liberation’ shit about saying ‘cunt’? It’s what I’ve called mine ever since I first connected the word with the place. I think I, blushingly, said ‘vagina’ to my male doctor when I was very young but now I’ve got a female GP, it’s the C-word for me at all times.

I mean, is you don’t say cunt what do you call yours?

I felt like yelling this at the gurning girls in the Theatre Royal. But I didn’t because I’d already upset Ms Hasting by sitting their obviously not enjoying myself, with a mouth set firm like an unstimulated vagina.

Still next day we went to see ‘Pirates of the Caribbean’ and that was great. I snorted and hooted like…like…well like a Hove lady at a well – known play. We both love Johnny Depp and (done up like a sailor) even Keira Knightley would swing our hammocks.

However, I wanted to end this piece like I began it, with a reference to a cunt. But that would be extremely unfair to Orlando Bloom’s performance.

Love & Kisses succulent Sadie

Wednesday, July 12, 2006

At last, something else from that lazy cow

The sultry, pouting editrix of Rocks Magazine (you must read it by the way, it’s great fun and very informative) recently described me as having a ’crazy sex life’.

I was shocked. Is having a relationship with one other person crazy? It used to be blokes now it’s babes, and that’s all that’s different.

Maybe it’s the ‘one’ person that’s crazy. Ask Bill Wyman, the ex-Rolling Stones guy, he slept with over two thousand women, sometimes several at one go (or so he says). Still something must account for those bags under his eyes. Julio Ingleses apparently bedded several thousand more and, today, Colin Farrell appears to be grinding away to get the record back for the British Isles.

As for the girls, Grace Kelly apparently slept with every leading man in her many movies (although she did the leading I expect). Then Catherine the Great, the Russian Queen, allegedly, had rumpy pumpy with every man and officer in one of her regiments but, I‘ve heard stories about Jordan that makes that sound like a one knight stand.

Still those are just numerical. I still don’t think they rank as very ‘crazy’, unless you count the health implecations.

No, if you want crazy how about a woman I met when I was doing research for my book in a BSDM club (and yes it was research, my bum remained totally unlined)

This woman slipped off her cloak to reveal that she was naked. Ok, you might think, that’s just being polite in a BDSM club – but she wasn’t completely naked.

Her tits were clamped between two pieces of wood and her areolas had needles threaded through in a pretty circular shape – arrrrrrrrrrggggggggggggghhhhhhhh!

That wasn’t all. She had needles inserted in the skin of her groin in a ‘feather’ pattern too.

Why the fuck did she do this you might be sensibly wondering? Well, it’s because she loved her man.

She let him do this to her as a demonstration of how much she adored him. What – was – she – thinking – of?

Answer – she was thinking of him and his funny little ways. Plus she told me proudly that recently she got her kicks from him kicking her - and punching her.

She had a secret, soppy but rather smug smile when she told me this.


But, like Ester Rantzen used to say on ‘That’s Life’…if you know better please get in touch with me?

Love & Kisses Safe and boring Sadie

Tuesday, June 06, 2006

Penny Smith's bum and other rounded topics

Oh dear, how fucking embarrassing, this time its more than 2 months since I wrote my blog. What a tardy tart I am.

And what have I been doing that has tempted me away from sharing my mind and body with you? Well…

I’ve actually been trying to complete my book with Morgan, my advertising copywriter co-author. I work on chapters and then he shows up and inserts his magic in the lines (well that’s what he says)

We’re making slow progress as it’s amazing how little you write in a day when you’re thinking about every word and trying to remember things about the various characters. I’m shit at this and although rich and successful authors say you should cover an A4 sheet with character notes, we don’t the time to do this as we’re trying to finish the fucking novel.

I’m often asked what’s it’s about. Well obviously, as I’m involved, it’s a delicate and rather poetic little piece about unrequited love between middle-class literary folk in 19th Century Finland…

Yea, like fucking fuck it is. Actually it’s rude and riotous and raunchy and raw and anything else sexy that begins with “r”. Frankly, if it makes me moist then it’s in…no doubt the working method of many distinguished lady writers from Austen to Bronte to Jordan.

All those r’s naturally lead me to the arse that’s kept me from my Dark Places – namely the one that belongs to the delectable Ms Hastings.

Yes, God be praised, I haven’t frightened her off and she’s been gracing my flat, my bed and my face many, many times since I last wrote about her.

She’s actually taken to this lesbian business with enormous enthusiasm. The sex bit most of all, because up until now she’s hasn’t shaved her head, got her flaps pieced, started reading me pieces condemning men in The Guardian or ordering pints in Charles St.

Oh god, that’s probably offended some humourless member of the Brighton muffia but I think I do my bit for the cunny cause. Lesbian is one of keywords in referrals to my site. I know this thanks to my sitemeter that lists everyone who visits Sadie Dark Places and often what they put into the search engine.

And, guess what, there are a lot of Penny Smith fans out there…hi if you’ve just joined me. In fact, just putting the blonde bosomy breakfast babe’s name here has probably guaranteed dozens more readers…add the words Penny’s bum or knickers and Blogger will crash under the rush.

Rather more disappointed searchers who came to my site recently included the ones looking for ‘well used male arses’ and for ‘naughty Nati to cover my face’. Sorry guys, (it had to be guys) I hope you found what you’d come for in other sites.

But now I’m distracted from my blog again. Ms H has just finished her bath and is standing all pink and naked and smelling of Jo Malone in front of me.

I’d love to tell you in detail about what’s been happening in Brighton recently but………mmmmmmmmmmmmm!

Love from slobbering Sadie

Monday, April 24, 2006

Sugasm #31

Sun 23rd Apr, 06

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Wednesday, April 12, 2006

Closings and openings.

Hey, it’s quite some time since I filed any news on my blog.

But then, the Chinese have a curse: “May you live in interesting times”. Well my life has been quite interesting lately which is why I haven’t written anything.

My health hasn’t been so good, what with my stomach and all, but it’s my love life that has gone completely down the toilet.

My girlfriend and I have completely, totally, absolutely parted. Our relationship was always give and take (yes, you guessed it, I gave and she took) but finally Jane really took off.

She’s now living permanently in London giving someone else a sore cunt…and a sore head. I admit it, she could do wonderful things with your body but she was also an expert at fucking up your mind.

So for the past month or so my brain cells have been totally shagged. This hasn’t been great for my writing or my other relationships.

My dear lovely gay guy friends have had their worst fears about women confirmed as I’ve snapped and snarled and snivelled.

A chap would have pulled himself together and then pulled another chap and a good fisting would have taken his mind off slushy things like lurve.

But weak complicated women sit around in three day old knickers saying things like “ Jane just wasn’t prepared to accept me for what I am” and other bollocks.

Oddly lesbians aren’t as good at the stupid girly stuff either. When my boyfriends left in the long distant past or my marriage broke up I remember my straight girlfriends not being straight at all but gathering around spouting stuff that even chick-lit writers would regard as sick-making.

Maybe gay girls, like gay blokes, have to live in the real world to survive. Whateve, I haven’t had a lot of sympathy from my lezzie mates just a lot of ‘get on with life you pathetic cow’ sort of advice,

Admittedly Ms Rude offered to fuck the arse off me to cheer me up but I didn’t want to spoil a perfect friendship for an hour or two or three of country matters.

So as Spring came to Brighton the dark clouds hung around my little flat.

Morgan, my co-writer of our postponed novel, would turn up with ideas, then have to listen to my re-runs of why my life was so fucked – up. But then he’s straight so he, unfortunately for him, was the next best thing to my past girly sympathisers.

However, if you’ve read this far, don’t despair, this isn’t going to be all emotional.

The hand wringing and making a clean breast of things stops here and the hands on breasts stuff starts now.

Because Ms Hastings who was a permanent feature in my life has become an occasional feature in my bed.

You may remember her. As a friend she’s appeared occasionally in my blog and then a couple of months ago we spent a (fairly) innocent night together.

I remember it well as I lay, dry of mouth and damp of thighs, admiring her cuddly and very sexy body.

We parted, slightly embarrassed in that middle-class English woman sort of way, and I worried that I’d screwed up our friendship even if we hadn’t screwed.

We chatted on the phone, making slight references to the night, but she got on with her married life in Hastings and I got on with my mucked-up life in Brighton.

She was very supportive about my break-up and then suggested that we had lunch on the next Friday.

I was a complete mess at the time and was desperate not to frighten her off in any way.

So I put any thoughts of a shag behind me. To prove it to myself I turned up at the restaurants in jacket, jeans and a pair of M&S ‘£6 for 5’ black briefs. Those pants wouldn’t have pulled Boris Johnson pumped full of Viagra so I felt Ms Hastings was safe.

Ms H was in jeans too, nicely stretched over her grabbable bum.

In seconds it was just like old times. I forgot my bad memories, she told me the horrors of her marriage and we just laughed. Then, after a bottle or two something completely unexpected happened.

Ms Hastings started coming on to me.

She said ‘that night’ had opened her eyes. But not her legs I thought at the time but then I was a bit pissed too.

She said she had always been fascinated with my life. After all, I had been just like her, an apparently straight married woman, but I’d discovered that there was more to enjoy in the world than a nightly kiss and a bonk on your birthday.

She said she was a deeply sensual person, and wanted to experiment in every aspect of sex.

She said she had always been jealous of my freedom to play and wanted to join in.

I said maybe she’d prefer to have coffee at my place so we paid the bill.

It was a slow walk from the restaurant and although we giggled and window-shopped I felt I knew what was going to happen and my mind was racing.

I’ve fallen out with just about everyone I’ve fucked. My husband obviously, but also former boyfriends and most of the women who’ve got into my pants.

Why is this? It’s a question that haunts me a bit everytime I meet someone new and fanciable. Perhaps it happens to most people but then many of my girlfriends are still mates with former lovers.

I really, really didn’t want this to happen to Ms H.

But then she pinched my arse as we turned in St James Street and I forgot about it all.

Fuck the coffee. In the flat the first priority was to get her stripped down to her underwear.

(As I wrote before, as long as I keep her anonymity, she doesn’t mind that I detail our ‘socializing’, in fact, she says she'd like to write about us too )

I really wanted to take things slowly and relish every second of our coupling (nice old fashioned word eh?)

Off came her T-shirt and down came her jeans. She just let me do it, smiling broadly.

Oh fuck, her bra and knickers were rather fancy, black and white spots with satin panels – real pulling pants. So she’d obviously been planning to get naked with me.

She’s seen me nude many times as I’d rushed about the flat getting dressed for a lunch or night out. But I haven't seen much of her body outside of changing rooms and that night in my bed.

I let her slide off my T-shirt. I wasn’t wearing a bra and she reached out and gently cupped my tits.

“You’re stunning” she said ( the old bollocks that we all say at these times!). Then smiling she undid the belt on my jeans.

“Sorry about the pants” I said, “if I’d been more certain of this I’d have worn something sexier”

She giggled at my sensible black M&S’s - the kind that Ruth Kelly probably wears.

“Then they better come off” she said in a schoolmistress - like voice. And she yanked them down.

It was like some silly game you played as kids, pulling each other’s knickers down. The pants hung around my knees and I looked foolish. But we both giggled and she reached around and slapped my bum.

I slapped hers too and chased her into the bedroom yanking my pants off as I ran.

She certainly wasn’t shy. Not at all like me on my first girl-on-girl session in a tiny child’s bedroom in some house during a party.

I caught up with her and we embraced, deeply kissing each other and loving the intimacy.

My hands reached down and gripped her generous arse cheeks. I loved the feeling of her soft bum through her shiny sexy knickers.

Then my hand slipped under the pants and I stroked her velvety skin.

It was time to get her naked. I undid her bra and it fell away from her lovely big brown nippled tits. I kissed each one tenderly.

Ms H has the classic Englishwoman’s body – pear-shaped. But she’s fortunate in having a nice pair on top too.

I got my fingers under the elastic of her knickers and slid them down. As they descended I followed them down until I was on my knees.

My face was level with her pubes so I reached round, grabbed her bare arse and pulled her shaven mound into my face.

“Oh Sadie” I heard her gasp.

I was intoxicated with her amazing scent – a wonderful mixture of Obsession and fresh cunt juice – the perfect aphrodisiac.

I kissed and sucked on her as she groaned and grabbed my hair. After all I’m the expert and she’s the novice so I had to investigate any problems she might have with our intimacy.

We were near the bed so I gently pushed her back until she sat on it. Then I, just as gently, eased her legs apart until I had a perfect view of the centre of her femininity.

Ms H’s cunt was beautiful.

I personally think they all are, apart from mine which looks like an ordnance survey map of Mount Vesuvius.

Her labia was fresh and glossy and pink with purplish highlights and the skin around it was smooth and tanned (expensive work at the beauty spa no doubt)

I stroked my tongue around it and into it, teasing and tickling, and I could feel her body moving in response.

I looked up and she was in ecstasy, looking down at me in wonderment of how she was feeling.

It was her first taste of the powerful pleasure of lesbian love and my first taste of her delectable cunt – so we were both overjoyed.

She lay back on the bed and her cute little bumhole popped into view. I gently skimmed the edge with the tip of my tongue and she shuddered. But I didn’t go any further because, as I said, I was unsure of her limits.

Then I climbed up on the bed with her and we spent the rest of the afternoon exploring and celebrating each other’s bodies. Sucking on each other’s tits, running our tongues up and down each other’s bellies, biting each other’s bum cheeks and kissing, always kissing – because we weren’t just fucking each other, we were lovers.

Later in the afternoon, after I'd given her a couple of orgasms, she built up the courage to go down on me. I lay back watching her curly brown hair bobbing up and down as she kissed and licked my cunt.

But she knew what to do, it is intuitive, and minutes later I could feel a small orgasm coming on. Her tongue found my clit and I bled pure 100% Sadie Juice.

Ms H lapped it all up. It’s even better than Jack Daniels and that’s saying something.

Then, at about six o'clock, she got up, pulled her sexy knickers up, and said "Bye Bye". She hugged me, naked and vulnerable, and then walked out of my flat to continue her straight, looking after hubby, 4X4, school run, dinner party, shopping at Tesco's life.

And I lay there, my face and fingers full of her special scent. And, oh fuck, I'm so girly, I cried. Out of happiness that I had a new person who wanted me. And out of sadness, that once again she wouldn't be an everyday and night feature in my life.

That afternoon was the first time and there have been others. Not many because Ms H is married and has a job and can only come to Brighton occasionally.

However, although we’ve fucked, I haven’t fucked her off yet, which is good I suppose.

So one door closes and another opens (that isn’t a Chinese quotation, I'm sure). I have a sexy lover, I’m getting back to writing with Morgan and the flowers are out in the Brighton squares.

Life’s interesting – but then it always will be for me.

Love from satisfied Sadie

Monday, February 20, 2006

It’s been a shit time for Sadie

I have a rather unsociable habit of ‘disappearing’ when times are bad. My friends have now either understood this or learnt to cope with it. And everyone else must think I’m just rude (who me?). Sorry, but that’s why there’s been no blog, stories or replies to your kind e-mails.

The last week or two has been a crap time for me as I’ve been producing so much of it. In fact, it’s been a copraphiliac’s dream.

I’ve had some fluey, feverish, stomach-loosening, generally sweaty and very unattractive sort of bug – but I’ve lost a bit of flab around the belly and bum so it’s not bad.

However, I’ve taken to my bed and shut the curtains and moaned quietly and generally shunned contact with human beings. Fortunately Jane my girlfriend has been a perfect little Florence Nightingale (she was gay too according to some recent book, but then that hairstyle gives it away really)

Jane has always been a good nurse – she’s so expert at taking my temperature with just her finger! But it must have been hellish dealing with this moaning lump under the duvet or on the loo. But hey, that’s love.

I’m not that much better so that’s why this is so short. When I’ve finished it I’ll be back in bed snuggled up with my favourite guy – Jack Daniels.

Love and groans. Sadie xxx

Tuesday, January 31, 2006

Women pleasuring themselves

A woman’s position in the sexual world used to be pretty straightforward - under a man and deciding the ceiling needed a new coat of paint.

But in two thousand and sex that’s all changed. Sisters are doing it for themselves, doing it for other sisters (and brothers), and, as I recently discovered, doing it for massed audiences.

Just type ‘doggers’ into google. There are so many sites with so many women displaying themselves as candidates for a good lay in some suburban lay-by.

Now to be honest, most of them look like Bob Hoskins with bigger tits and rather more body hair, but you’ve got to admire their guts. Actually you can’t avoid them in their legs-wide-open poses.

But relax, my choice of liberated ladies is much cooler.

Which explains the cross looking lady with the whip, I don’t often post a pic (as I’m a technical twat, can anyone explain to me in simple English how to post a pic on my profile – what’s all this URL shit?)

Back to Mistress Moody, I bet that zip is chafing her arse, no wonder she looks so petulant. But seriously she’s here because I’ve been popping into some pervy clubs for some background for my book.

Here I’ve seen things you wouldn’t believe. But that’s for another time perhaps and make sure you haven’t eaten anything before you read it.

So here’s Sadie’s Short Study of Modern Female Sexuality:

September. 2005. South London.

She looks like that rather quiet girl in Accounts. She’s got neat shortish hair, light make-up, and a faintly demure expression. She’s wearing a duck egg blue cropped top and a mini-skirt. Just the sort of thing a 20 year old might wear for clubbling except…except…

…except it’s vinyl. Ok, the more fashionable amongst you will say that this is exactly what the young folk are wearing these days but wait and see why this is important.

She’s got two men friends. And frankly, I’m not sure her mum would think they are suitable company for a nice young girl.

One is an old bloke, easily in his 50’s. His head is shaved, he’s in a well-used white t-shirt (which comes off later), but he’s lean and muscled and he’s wearing a battered pair of leather trousers.

Nothing surprising here, I suppose, especially as that description would fit just about everyone in the “Bulldog” pub in Brighton on a Saturday night.

But, actually, it’s the other chap who hints at abnormal behaviour.

He looks like one of Def Leopard’s more indulgent roadies. In fact, the guys would have probably fired him for giving the band a bad name. He’s wearing a cowboy hat, several bone necklaces, he’s stripped to waist and has bigger tits than most of the women there each adorned with nipple rings and he’s unpleasantly hairy. He’s also lavishly tattooed, and wearing leather ‘cowboy chaps’ but what singles him out comes in pairs – namely his balls.

These are huge (and I’ve seen some big un’s in my time!). They are barely contained in a rather disgusting pair of black underpants. There’s probably a grotesque cock in there somewhere but fortunately tender souls (like myself) are spared this nightmarish vision.

So you suddenly worry for the morals of Ms Accounts.

Particularly as Baldy starts tying serious looking ropes around her waist. Ingenious knots are produced and the whole thing is strung from the ceiling.

Oh yes, I forgot to mention that this is happening at a new BSDM club – so maybe she isn’t as innocent as she looks!

The two guys pull on the ropes and our lady swings into the air.

A quite large audience has gathered to see the fun and we are all shocked to see that on dressing to come out tonight Ms Accounts seems to have forgotten to put her knickers on.

Her undercarriage swings before us and we are all given a gynaecologist’s and then a proctologist’s view.

I look around and see that the majority of the gawpers are female. Thinking about this later I decide it’s probably because most women (particularly straight ones) don’t see many vaginas (apart from their own) and are keen to compare.

Let’s face it, you don’t see any in photos, apart from men’s magazines, and they have been retouched to look like pink candy swirls. What women really want to know is: is mine abnormal or does everyone’s untrimmed minge look like Bill Oddie sucking a lemon?

So we look at Ms Account’s Accunt, which by now is facing upwards as she’s hanging upside down.

Baldy is tightening the ropes but Ballsy pulls her legs apart, looks down and licks his lips in an unseemly manner.

He then produces a plastic funnel and plants it in her pussy. She squirms a bit as this is done, as you would! He twists it roughly and, in the audience, dozens of cunnies contract in sympathy.

Then, Baldy produces a jug of cream and pours it into the funnel. It overflows and cream trickles down her arse crack and onto her skirt – so now you see why it’s vinyl.

They then haul on the ropes and she’s twirled back onto her feet. She then ‘pees’ the cream back into the jug. And we all applaud.

So who says variety is dead on the London stage?

I don’t get a chance to talk to her but a colleague at the club who knows her reports that Ms Accounts does this and other ‘acts’ because she loves the attention, the buzz of exposing herself (literally and theatrically) and the thrills not found in ‘normal’ like. And who can blame her?

Later, Baldy and Ballsy bang nails into their flesh. Baldy attaches himself to a plank via the skin in his arm and Ballsy secures his scrotum to the same piece of wood.

I’m not there to see this (do you think I’m fucking mad!) but I bet in Ballsy’s case the nails were at least six inches long.

August 2005. Kent

I’m having a chat about Marrakech with Amanda. She’s got a quite posh accent and looks like she could be in PR. Her yellow jacket and skirt look the business and you can imagine her talking complete bollocks at some sales conference.

We’re just on to favourite ‘riads’ when a man in a black shirt and trousers taps her on the arm. She looks apologetically at me and says, “Sorry, must go, see you later”

They go off together as if they are about to dance.

But instead Amanda walks up to a huge wooden frame and leans over it. The man then shuts her head and hands in a set of stocks.

He pauses as she shifts herself to get comfortable then he flips up her yellow skirt to reveal her big bare bum.

Not totally bare actually, Amanda’s wearing a black thong that’s stretched along her crack.

The man, obviously a perfectionist, reaches over and hooks his thumb under the T-bit of the thong and pulls it upwards to ensure that all of her cheeks are exposed.

Amanda’s arse is jutting out and the shape that her body makes at this angle is rather pleasing. From her high-heeled shoes up her toned legs with glossy black stockings to her two expensively tanned bum cheeks the overall effect is extremely sensual and I bet I’m not the only voyeur who’s affected.

The man then picks up something that looks like one of those fly swats that African Leaders carry.

He teases Amanda’s tushie with it and then lets fly. The lashes hit her skin with a dull ‘thrwack” but Amanda doesn’t move.

He gives her six on each cheek and then brushes his hand over her arse to massage it and relieve the pain.

Still not apparently satisfied he produces something that looks it is left over from the Spanish Inquisition – a flogger.

This, like some super-size 'cat o' nine tails' has very long lashes and he swings back with a vengeance then brings it brutally down on Amanda’s botty. The ‘crack’ echoes around the club and I flinch instinctively.

“It sounds much worse than it feels”, says a large 30 year old man next to me who’s naked but for a tiny black backless pouch.

But he’s nothing special because I’m in a BSDM club and just about everyone, especially the women, is semi-nude.

Amanda isn’t an ‘act’ she’s just one of the many singles and couples being attended to by the Doms and Dommes. Arses are being spanked and whipped, nipples are being nipped, cocks and balls are being tortured and bodies are being bound with ropes.

I tear myself away from Amanda’s back view and wander round to watch her face. Her eyes are closed but she doesn’t react violently to the violence that’s being administered. In fact, she has a blissful look, fuck she’s really enjoying this.

Now I’m as partial to a playful spanking as anyone but this is Mutiny on the Bounty stuff – it must hurt like hell!

But later, Amanda cool and calm with skirt re-arranged talks fondly of, yes, the pleasure of exposing herself (literally and theatrically) and the ‘thrills’ not found in normal life. In fact, she's a regular here.

She also confesses that although her partner doesn’t share her taste for BDSM he certainly likes it when she returns from a night like this hot bottomed and as horny as fuck.

Oh my dear, such larks!

Summer 2005 Kent

I’m with a couple of friends at a nudist club on one of the last warm days of the year.

We’re relaxing around the pool on a lazy Wednesday. My friends, two gay blokes, are members and they’re telling me that the club, which used to be rather famous for rather naughty parties, is now trying to attract the local ‘swingers’.

Nudists are, perversely, rather conservative about sex, (perhaps it’s all those ‘carry-on’ films and seaside postcards that, in the UK at least, make naturalism a bit of a dirty joke) and many members are rather upset.

I always think that being called a ‘member’ in a nudist club is rather funny – but then I have a rather childish sense of humour.

Our dozy conversation is interrupted by the loud voice of a woman. I look over and see a blonde girl in her 20’s standing on the edge of the pool taunting some guy in the water. I give her the lookover.

Slim toned body, smallish tits, tiny nipples, nice pert bum, couple of tattoos and shaved. OK, but nothing to ruffle my flaps.

She goes back to the seat and gives us a flask of pink as she leans over and kisses another man.

The guy in the water gets out and joins the two. They all bicker and joke and the Blonde screeches with laughter. But my friends and I forget them and get back to snorting about the swingers.

Some time later, one of my friends looks up. “Hey we ought to go and see this” he suddenly says.

I look and see that the threesome have gone and one or two of the single ‘gentlemen’ that nudist clubs attract are leaving too.

I follow my friends over to the woods that surround the Club’s open tanning acres.

I then see a circle of scrawny male arses around a little clearing in the trees.

Feeling a bit ‘out of it’ I dawdle on the perimeter but then my natural voyeuristic tendencies take over and I move closer.

There in the centre of the circle is the blonde girl. She looks around at the audience and with a rather bored expression on her face rests her hands on a log so that she is bent towards us.

The two men stand next to her visibly aroused. One, who seems to be her boyfriend, then moves forwards, grabs her arse cheeks and spreads them.

He then places his face on her front bottom and licks her like an eager spaniel.

She wriggles and moans quietly. He then stands up and thrusts his cock into her.
At this she starts to talk:

“Oh shit, oh shit, shit, shit shit” she says, her voice rising along with his increasingly rapid movements.

Disappointingly, there’s no satisfying crescendo of orgasm (as you always get in a Literotica story), instead he just pulls out.

Then he indicates to the other bloke who now takes over, cock in slot.

He rams a bit faster causing her voice to rise.

“OH SHIT, OH SHIT, SHIT, SHIT” she rasps. It’s not exactly love poetry but she seems to be getting stuck in – or rather the bloke does.

As all this is happening, the male chorus around them are busy themselves. Hands cup cocks and move up and down in what appears to be synchronised wanking – it could all be set to music.

Suddenly, the man stops and pulls out. The boyfriend then steps across and spreads her cheeks again. He manipulates her cunt lips back and forth and I wonder if he’s going to do a ventriloquist’s act.

But sadly, he’s just offering her to any of the assembled throng. There are no takers surprisingly and then he spots me.

He yanks her apart and nods his head at me then back to his girlfriend’s bits. I’m sure he’s hoping for a variety act to finish the show. But I disappoint him.

Like a good “News of the World” reporter I make my excuses and leave.

But, as I go, the girl looks up and sees me. She then gives me a really empowered woman to woman smile. And I get the full meaning.

I’m sure if instead of showing her my retreating bum I stopped and asked her why she did it, she would have had a familiar explanation.

Something like, the pleasure of exposing herself (literally and theatrically) and the ‘thrills’ not found in normal life.

And all this is happening in rural Kent, not a mile from home-going commuters, mums picking kids up from school and conventionality.

Cool Britain, anyone?

Love to all my stunning sisters

Sadie xxxxx

Tuesday, January 10, 2006

Happy Nude Year

I don’t know how you spent New Year’s Eve but I was in Malaga in Spain celebrating in a Chinese restaurant with some English friends and the waiter presented us with a carving of the Eiffel Tower – now that’s weird!

The rest of the time I bared my soul (and everything else) on the roof whilst trying to move my book along. It was amazing weather for January and I got a decent tan.

My skin looks so smooth and is such a great colour that I reckon you could skin me and upholster a Ferrari.

Hey, my arse would easily cover the two front seats.

But, of course, I’m exaggerating. Along with my Mediterranean tan I indulged in a Mediterranean diet so my bum would hardly cover the gearstick sheath.

But, of course, I’m exaggerating – well you get the picture. My friends did and they’re now threatening to blackmail me with their photographs.

They could always post me on those BBW sites. That would stand for Big Boozy Writer in my case.

I’m waffling now because the weeks before and after New Year had me naked in another sense. My emotions were definitely exposed as my (ex) g/f and I tried to work out our problems.

It was simple from her point of view – I was the problem. My personality combined with my commitment, my writing, this blog and my bizarre friends.

I had to strongly disagree with her about everything – apart from my friends. Fuck, they really are bizarre.

I went with Dolce & Gabbana to see Bareback Mountain.

Sorry, I think that should read Brokenback, but as it’s about two gay cowboys who knows?

My two friendly cowpokes were really affected by the movie. Later they wore high heels and slipped into a pair of chaps.

Boom Boom! Or should that be Bum Bum! Sorry for the cheap jokes, I’m saving the expensive ones for my book.

Anyway back to the movie. It’s very beautiful and very sad. Afterwards they had manly tears in their eyes but all the shit in my life meant I just blubbed and blubbed.

John Wayne would have given me a slap but they tried a more modern approach. They took me to bed.

We lay naked together. Nothing sexual happened but it was so sensual. I was the meat in the sandwich, in crude terms, but this wasn’t crude in any way.

Once again it proves we can do more than just fuck with our bodies, our skin is an organ for love and affection too.

Hey, I’m getting a bit Californian but it worked for me.

I felt a bit more confident. And well, this weekend my g/f and I did a lot of making up and making out.

My fingers are crossed for the future. But, at least, my thighs aren’t crossed as well.

Love from The Naked Novelist

Sadie xxxx