Thursday, 18 December 2008

Close Your Eyes...

Santa is c├╝mming.

(I have just deleted a whole series of revoltingly lewd double entendres at this point, you'll be pleased to know. I feel rather proud of myself.)

Here's wishing you all a creamy white Christmas. (Yes, I left that one in. Believe me, it was the most innocuous. Anyway, this beard is a little more slimming than the other one, don't you think?)

Ahem. I digress. I shall be away on Christmas travels until next year and will not be blogging again until January. So have a lovely time. And remember: be good, or be bad and write about it.

Zanta Claus, Terror of the Skies

Monday, 1 December 2008

To John Thomas From Lady Jane

You may think it a joke but it's true: my first love, John, was a ditch digger. That was his job. He lived on a farm outside the hamlet where I grew up. The day he asked me out at the village show, he was an exotically grown-up 21 and I had just turned a demure 17. I say demure, but if truth be told, I was only outwardly so, and if you'd ever seen the glint in my eye, you'd have known that for all my coyness, underneath I was as rampant a vixen as ever ruined a country lad. At my school, I was the only 'A' level student from “up the valley” and I still remember the shrieks and giggles of outrage when I announced the liaison to my fellow sixth-formers in town. To them, he was "a simple country lad" and hence an object of titillated amusement. He could hardly read or write, he signed his name in block capitals and dirt was ingrained in his hands like the markings on the skin of a panther. Inevitably, the entire school proceeded to rechristen me "Lady Chatterley" and as I walked through the gates each morning, I would be hailed with cries of "Thou looks right rosy this mornin'! Appen Milady paid a visit to John Thomas last night?" As I made my way to lessons, I was often greeted by rounds of inexpertly choreographed groin thrusting accompanied by an intermittent touching of forelocks and the odd obsequious bow.

"Have you even read the book?" I would demand, "Or did you just jizz off to your dad's porn version?"

"Aye Milady."

I, for my part, quickly shrugged off my demure image, instead adopting the charming custom of cursing my fellow students as "a bunch of childish fuckers" and sticking my fingers up at them in a manner that owed precious little to my well-bred literary namesake. In the canteen, one girl made it a popular tradition to relate fantastically lyrical tales of Milady’s imagined adventures in a breathless, throaty voice, lingering on the rough feel of those filthy workman's hands upon her soft, quivering ladyflesh and unfolding tales of passionate romps in cowsheds, hencoops, silage pits and other such deeply romantic settings. But I didn't really mind the teasing; the truth was, I took a secret pleasure in it. The eroticised deference my presence now commanded was far from unpleasant and the sight of fine young men spontaneously thrusting, caressing their groins and genuflecting as I passed through the corridors was not without its appeal. And, apart from anything else, I was amused; they were so very close to the truth.

Sometimes, after a night out, John and I would take a detour over the fields in his old Land Rover. He used to let me drive, although I was nowhere near getting a licence. I remember there was a collection of tweedy caps in the back, and I used to like putting one on and imitating a selection of toothless old codgers from our village as I drove along. I loved the almost helpless way he laughed and I think he loved the playful way I provoked him. Then we'd find a dark, deserted spot next to a dry stone wall or a little wood, spread out a blanket and fuck with the wordless concentration of wild animals. It was always damp and freezing cold at nights and the air was swarming with bloodthirsty insects, so we never fully undressed. Our eager hands would rove over the goose-pimpled landscapes of our bodies, searching out secret folds of flesh beneath each other's clothes, panting and fondling, teasing and grasping in the throbbing blackness of the chill, grass-scented night.

Unfortunately, there was one major drawback to our night-time al fresco trysts. It was the sheep – those ubiquitous, dumb observers of our outdoor lives. So lumbering and stupid by day, they seemed to take on a new, surprisingly unsettling guise by night. There we would be, quite happily rolling about in a state of frothing carnal ecstasy on an old green blanket in the dark, contracting a perplexing profusion of cuts, bruises and severe grass burns in the process, when one of us would look up and discover, quite by chance, that at some unspecified point we had become enclosed within a tight ring of luminous greenish eyeballs, all gazing blankly down at us like pairs of weirdly floating peeled eggs that had - for reasons yet to be explained - been vigorously boiled in phosphor and then festooned about us in the manner of fairylights. Straining to focus in the blackness, we would eventually realise that motionless sheep must have somehow materialised noiselessly around us from every corner of the field with the precise objective of staring impassively at our writhing entwined figures. This was slightly off-putting, to say the least. The suspicion flitted through my mind that they could well be in the employ of my father; woolly white chastity guardians – his own personal army of sheepbots. I wouldn’t put it past him, even now.

The first time it happened, I believe I may have emitted the very, very briefest imaginable of bloodcurdling screams; not that I’m generally the screaming type, but when an erect male is present, one so often finds oneself obeying the traditional niceties of courtship. And yet, I cannot stress how deeply scary the phenomenon was, the first time it occurred. It was all just a teensy bit too reminiscent of a scene from a zombie film – but with sheep. The strange thing was, as we soon discovered, if you made the tiniest movement by day the sheep would bolt away bleating, but at night nothing we did seemed to faze them. We could clap, flap our arms around, run at them shouting "Shoo!" and "Mint sauce!" and "Oh God, just fuck off, you fluffy perverts!", fling hand grenades, turn fire hoses on them, pump lead into them with machine guns whilst cackling like maniacs and screaming “Die, die, you woolly bastards, die!”; never once did I see one of those buggers flinch. They just stood there obdurately, like stiff palace guards, frozen into position while tourists waft leaflets and burgers and Union Jacks in their faces.

But youthful ardour must needs prevail and, in the end, we learned to ignore the soundless apparition of their bulky forms and the horrible unblinking eyes that hovered in the air around us. Yet, try as I might, I could never rid myself of the continual sense that they were watching and waiting. As soon as our backs were turned, I feared they might leap on us from behind, wrestle us to the ground and suck out our soft, liquefied brains. It must be said, much as I adored country life, teenage sex could be a rather grisly business.

Daytime al fresco couplings didn't present the same disadvantages. The sheep remained picturesque, docile and were mostly quite well-behaved. We would seek out a wild, beautiful spot right up the valley, next to a tiny bubbling stream, with the hills rising up around us and buzzards whirling in the sky above. The only hitch with these rendezvous was that I always had to take the dogs with me as an alibi for my father, who seemed to be labouring under a totally unfounded impression that I was incapable of performing lewd acts in front of animals. Regrettably, though, despite my carefully laid plans, the dogs proved more troublesome in their way than the sheep. They used to go splashing around in the stream as we were getting down to the business of hyperventilating and roughly tearing each other's clothes off. But just as things were getting interesting, they'd come bounding back up to us and one would start shaking itself, showering our naked bodies in icy, dog-flavoured stream water, meanwhile the other would absolutely insist on joyously ramming a cold wet nose up the most conveniently located unprotected arsehole with the unerring accuracy of a guided missile.

More often than not, we'd be hurtling towards a glorious crescendo when both dogs would come scampering up and collapse onto us, pressing their clammy, stinking fur onto our exposed skin and bestowing a well-intentioned but toe-curling lick on the nearest crevice. Many was the time I'd be lying on my back, tentatively approaching what promised to be an exquisite climax and the happy muzzle of one of the dogs would loom into view as it playfully attempted to drop a truncated sheep's head or a decomposing squirrel onto my face. If I ever tried to push them off, they'd look so sad and hurt that my annoyance would melt into guilt and pity. All in all, I probably used to have more laughing fits about the dogs than orgasms. But we still loved it. It was an intoxicating feeling, fornicating completely naked in broad daylight, totally exposed within the vast expanse of a breathtaking landscape, with nothing – no walls, ceilings or barriers of any kind – to hem you in or protect you. Only sky and land. And rotting sheep cadavers. And dead squirrels – let’s not forget them.

But in spite of the danger of putrefying animal remains descending onto my face, the sensation felt primal and somehow timeless, and I remember that it made me feel very small and vulnerable, too. Sometimes I lost all sense of orientation. Like when you stand on your head for too long and you begin to feel as if you might drop off the floor and plummet towards the ceiling at any moment; I would feel as if I was clinging to some remote, topsy-turvy tangent of the planet, and I could see nothing at all that was preventing me from falling off the side and spiralling away into space.

I left John when I left the village to go to university. It was a terrible wrench for us both and he did all he could to persuade me to stay: he tried to give me the little Austin Morris he'd been restoring ever since I knew him; he proposed marriage; he offered me a life in the prettiest little cottage on his farm. But I had to go. He had to stay. I had paused for one summer on the brink of adulthood, but now the time of parting had arrived. Like a hothouse flower and a bramble, we could not have shared the same soil for long.

John stayed single for what seemed like years and years and then eventually married my childhood foe, Michelle – one of the most evil freckle-faced bitches who ever commandeered a public toilet, but that’s just my opinion. All I know is, she never let him have any fun and she wouldn't let him speak to me anymore. But if ever he was out on his own and he saw me, back on a visit, we'd sneak away to the village pub, get wrecked together, talk nonsense and fall off our stools laughing, as if no time had passed at all. Sometimes it took all my willpower not to reach out and hug him, but I knew that I couldn't, because I was the one who broke his heart and it was wrong to think I could mend it with a hug.

I last saw him two years ago, just before my parents moved away. It was to be my last night in the village, and, feeling lost and fiercely fragile, I made my way to the pub. I needed to feel that sense of belonging one final time, before I could say goodbye. He arrived, as if by arrangement, and I took the chance to steal another evening from his life. When the pub closed, we staggered out, arm-in-arm, crooning some ancient jukebox melody, pretending to be drunker than we were. Then we stood for a moment on the dirt track that led through the village, joining it, to the right with distant civilised worlds, to the left with the wind-lashed hills of our home. As our merriment died, the air seemed to resonate with the memory of our voices, like the vibrant hush that follows the lullaby. I could hear the trees and the bats chirping. The air was damp with drizzle and wild winds whipped my hair so that I could hardly see him in the darkness. He turned to me, pushed me gently back onto the gritty wet sandstone of the wall and, pulling the dripping hair from my face, he pressed himself against me and gave me a sad, slow kiss. It had been so long. I'd forgotten how soft his lips were and the clean smell of dirt and tractor oil. But now I can remember it. Then he took one road and I the other. I have never seen him since.

Friday, 14 November 2008

A Trip to the Vagina Doctor

I finally had the guts to go to the gynaecologist's yesterday. The whole scenario just reminded me of why I don't enjoy going there in the first place. I mean, they don't exactly go out of their way to make it a special experience, do they? First she inserted a clearly over-lubricated ultrasonic dildo into me without ANY foreplay WHATSOEVER. Then she proceeded to shift it around inside me as if it was some manner of playstation joystick. No rhythm to speak of. I tried my best to concentrate, as one does, but it was no use. It was going nowhere.

'Well,' I finally spluttered, 'that's hardly going to bring me to orgasm now, is it?'

At this, she gave me a deeply forbidding look.

'Ah now that's a bit more like it!' I said encouragingly.

Then, a little later on, the woman began to manipulate my breasts. Completely ineptly, I might add, but I suppose she was doing her best.

'If I may make a tiny suggestion,' I began, 'it would be a lot more pleasant if you did this kind of thing BEFORE inserting the dildo. Just a hint... you might like to think about it.'

(Chuh! Sometimes I wonder what exactly they teach these people in medical school.)

Tuesday, 4 November 2008

The Diary of a Lady Pornographer

True extracts from my diary during the production of TicKL #2

Day 5

Well, dear Diary, the life of a lady pornographer is a curious one indeed! I had no idea there would be so many emergencies to deal with. It's all rather urgent and exciting. Last-minute nude photo shoots must be squeezed in between loading the dishwasher and brushing one's teeth. I feel as though I am turning into a manner of super-heroine. By day, mild-mannered Ms S leads a quiet and unassuming life. By night, she is Girl Grumble and flits about saving the sinful and allaying porn emergencies. She doesn't need a costume.

'Help! Quick! I need pictures of an orgy – TOMORROW!' says Editor-in-Chief at 8 pm, 'Help, help, help! They are all letting me down.'

'Okie-doke,' says I, 'Give me one hour.'

Girl Grumble to the rescue!

I transform myself into my alter ego by striping off every scrap of clothing except my high heels – at lightning speed. I zoom into the living room, faster than the human eye – vroooom – my trusty porn camera galloping along behind me on its trusty tripod legs. 'Joey! Porn emergency! Not a moment to lose!'

'I'm a bit tired,' he protests.

I wrench the guitar off him, drag him into the bedroom and exploit his body for filthy purposes – at lightening speed. While I'm at it, I also take some pictures for that accursed art pamphlet. Wham! Zok! Kapow! I also freeze frame myself mid thrust and imagine a lot of nonsense words appearing in zig-zag borders around me. Nfrup! Xnoing! Fshrump!


Day 6

Yesterday's orgy disaster having been successfully averted, Mme Chief calls me up on The Red Phone, catching me at work in the middle of a full office. I am surrounded by people who know nothing of my other identity. She gabbles urgently – almost tearfully. It seems that unless I can use my super-powers to conjure a filthy story about a picnic within the week, she will be forced to coat her naked body in cheese and photograph herself in it. I am aghast! I must save her from this gruesome fate. Let me explain: it appears that the music-and-sex text originally planned has fallen through and all she can find to replace it is something written by a 'famous' Belgian woman about cheese-and-sex (yes, Diary, you heard me – cheese! Belgians. Low, filthy creatures. Need I say more?). But she has no visuals to go with it. I can't talk openly. Speaking in an ingenious code, indecipherable to my colleagues, I say, 'I shall arrange a PICNIC. There is NO NEED for you to buy CHEESE. Do you read me Pink Falcon – over?' Then off I go, pretending to be translating an accounting handbook, but in reality I am rattling out some naughty fantasy about people being rude with each other in a field.


Day 7

I am sent visual material. Someone commissioned to take pictures (another evil Belgian) has sent in shots of himself weeing into what appears to be a muffin tray. All horribly sordid and dribbly and the bollocks look podgy and disgracefully unkempt. I choke on my coffee.

'Do you think this is too edgy for the main section?' asks Um Chief.

'No,' I type, still choking 'I do not think it is too edgy for the main section at all. I think it is TOO VILE AND REPELLANT FOR WORDS!'

Diary, even the muffin tray is nasty. He has clearly taken an old crusty one from the back of his gran's cupboard. And I bet his gran still uses it, too. I bet he just swishes it under the tap when he's finished and shoves it right back in. I am disgusted.


Day 8

Great news, great news! I have been awarded the title 'Editor-in-Mischief' for outstanding services to scud!

Oh, oh, oh, I am so happy! I am living my ideal life!

Saturday, 25 October 2008

More Girl Talk

Lisa: Phwoar, I fancy him

Zora: Ah, it's hopeless though.

Lisa: Too good-looking?

Zora: No, I mean just look what he's shoving into his face. He'll be crap in bed.

Lisa: Oh! Do I sense a theory coming on? Will it make me feel better about the fact that I can't have him?

Zora: Definitely.

Lisa: Come on then. Out with it.

Zora: You remember the theory about dancing and sexual prowess?

Lisa: How people dance is how they are in bed?

Zora: Yes. I've revised that. Particularly in view of the fact that we are both really crap dancers. And I think you'll agree that we can't possibly be crap in bed.

Lisa: Right. We're both complete bombshells, naturally.

Zora: Naturally. So I have now formed the theory that how people dance is how they want you to THINK they are in bed. It's all just show though. You must never let them fool you. Observing people's eating habits will tell you everything you need to know about their sexual habits.

Lisa: I like this one! Let's analyse somebody and see if it works. What's Charlotte like in bed?

Zora: Let's see. Charlotte eats a lot of oven chips and ready-made quiches when she's on her own. As soon as there's a man on the scene, she suddenly starts babbling on about how much she loves all those traditional "meat 'n' two veg" type meals. She doesn't seem to actually produce many of them though.

Lisa: So... she's basically not really all that into sex. She just pretends to be when men are around because she wants all the attention.

Zora: Fits, doesn't it? She pretends to be into sex in order to get the thing she's really addicted to: attention and adulation. Also, the meat 'n' two veg thing suggests a firm rejection of all the more "exotic" practices.

Lisa: Missionary position and a lacey pair of Marks & Spencer's knickers in some kind of floral design. I like it! Let's do me!

Zora: Are you sure?

Lisa: You've already done me secretly anyway, so I may as well hear it.

Zora: True. OK. You are one of the few people I know who never shops for food. Your cupboards are completely empty. You never plan a meal, buy ingredients and then cook. You go through life like a kind of foraging animal. You live off the chocolate croissants and bits of baguette and cheese that fall across your path as you make your way across your territory.

Lisa: Oh God! And I was so impressed with the effort I make when you're here! I really thought you hadn't noticed how hopeless I am with food. This is going to be damning isn't it?

Zora: Not at all. Your attitude to sex is the same. It never crosses your mind to keep a supply of sex - in the form of a steady boyfriend - in stock. You don't want to spend hours planning everything around the act itself. No peeling vegetables for you. You forage around through your territory waiting for a stray man to take your fancy. He doesn't have to be 'good for you', he just has to satisfy any spontaneous urges you may be experiencing.

Lisa: That's so true, it's almost uncanny! Shall we do you?

Zora: Oh, I'm not sure it really works all that well on me.

Lisa: But... oh... ah! Aaaaah! Aaaah! Now I understaaaand! Now I seeee what this is all about! Why, yoooou sneaky cunning underhanded little...

Zora (innocently): What? What have I said?

Lisa: God, you almost had me with that one! I can't believe the effrontery of it!

Zora: What? What one?

Lisa (through gritted teeth): Rrrrrr! You and your kinky kitchen appliances and your shelves full of recipe books and that gigantic cupboard full of exotic spices, and all those nifty little dishes you whip up. Come on admit it, bitch: you engineered this whole conversation just so that you'd end up being the one who's completely ace between the sheets while I'm just some pathetic drifting croissant-forager!

Zora (examining her nails absently): Mm, I suppose I am a bit of a whiz in the kitchen.

Lisa: Aaaaarrrrrgh! I hate you!

Zora (now laughing openly): The beauty of it is, you believe it now, too, don't you? The food and sex theory? You've caught me out, but it's too late. You're already completely convinced!

Lisa: Hey, actually, do you fancy a shag?

Zora: I am a Michelin-starred chef, I'll have you know! Don't you DARE try to forage me!

Monday, 13 October 2008

Thought of the Day


It's a strange thing and, as far as I can see, it has nothing to do with size, beauty, perfection or performance; nor even with the length or frequency of contact or temporal distance: some cocks linger vividly in the mind for the rest of your life, while others seem to morph into a generic sausage almost as soon as they put their pants back on.

Monday, 15 September 2008

The Inner Monkey

Dear Blog, dear dear lovely Blog,

Can you tell by the tone of my voice that I have something terrible to confess? You're right. I have. I have been a bad girl again. I am thoroughly ashamed of myself. I have sat here all morning whacking myself on the nose with the rolled-up newspaper I keep for such occasions, saying, 'Baaaaad Zora, baaaaad Zora. No!' in a deep growly voice. I feel awful.

I don't know what it is, but sometimes I feel like a kind of combination of a ringleader and a performing circus animal. Ringleader Mme Zora has high hopes of Zou-Zou the Tightrope-Walking Monkey. She makes such efforts to guide her, train her and keep her in check. Zou-Zou is a dear little thing. So promising and eager to learn. She absorbs so much and listens so attentively. She rides her unicycle up and down the tightrope in her little pink tutu, twirling her frilly sunshade. A perfect angel. And so clever, how she keeps her balance and makes it look quite easy. But sometimes Mme Zora drops off to sleep in her leather armchair and her whip drops from her hand and clatters to the floor. And that is when the monkey leaps up in a flash and rampages through the circus grounds. She throws her pretty sunshade into a puddle and ransacks the place, throwing bucketloads of confetti over the tigers in their cages, writing rude messages in lipstick on all the mirrors, filling the sword-swallower's trousers with green jelly and catapulting cream cakes at the passers-by from a big shiny spoon. Oh she's a terror.

As soon as she has done it, she begins to feel ashamed. She knows Mme Zora will be disappointed in her. But at the same time, even through her shame, the feels the impish urge to roll on her back and laugh triumphantly.

I am a BAD PERSON. Not actually evil, or unfeeling or truly vicious, but uncontrollably subversive. It requires an immense continual effort for me to function within the bounds of acceptable behaviour. I can feel myself consciously exerting my willpower over myself pretty much every hour of the day. I only say about one hundredth of the bad things I think of saying. I only do about one thousandth of the bad things I think of doing. I think I do a good job of keeping my nose reasonably clean, all things considered. But there will always be brief lapses in concentration. Nobody can watch a mischievous monkey 24 hours a day every day of their lives. Not one like this, anyway. Because my inner monkey never sleeps. It is always there, always on the watch, waiting for the tiniest momentary lapse in security to wreak its chaos. That's all it needs.

Anyway, this is what the monkey did yesterday. It wrote an e-mail to a man I had sworn – for many very excellent and important reasons – not to lead into temptation and the e-mail read as follows:

'I'm just about to leave the house, only I'm having this huge dilemma about my outfit. Could you please, please, just take a quick look at this picture, X, and tell me the truth because I don't know who else to ask: do you think this beard makes me look fat?'

And then that naughty, naughty, horrid little beast attached the following picture: