Where now?

Revisiting the basics, cos I am doing a metric fuckton of processing right now.

Monogamy doesn’t prevent you from falling for someone else, or stop your partner from falling for someone else.

We’re in situations where we meet new people all the time. Monogamy may mean those situations aren’t acted upon, but it certainly doesn’t switch off the feelings they cause.

Meeting someone new often has nothing to do with the state of the current relationship.

Rather than deliberately looking to fall in love because things are bad at home, the universe throws amazing people into our lives when we least expect them. People in relationships don’t choose when to fall in love anymore than single people do.

If I were monogamous and my partner met someone else he chose to pursue, his options would be pretty bleak.

Do the ‘honourable’ thing and leave me, so he could explore the new relationship without lying or cheating – breaking up our family.

Do the commonplace thing and explore the new relationship in secret – in which case I could be going insane wondering where he was until 3.30am every other night and who he was spending so much time texting.

Makes me wonder how we got to a point where having an affair in more socially acceptable than having two partners with everyone’s informed consent?


A Nursing Tale, or How I Weaned My Toddler

When I first thought about weaning a toddler I cast about to see what others had written and not much of it was helpful. Hence, despite the embarrassment of breastfeeding posts already out there, there’s about to be one more.

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“I thought it was a game”

Subspace – the place a bottom’s head goes to when a top pushes their buttons, or rather their limits, in the right way. I suspect it feels different for each person each time, like an acid trip or a live song. Some people fall down a bottomless rabbit hole, others report out-of-body experiences or hyper-real hallucinations.

My trips into subspace take the form of a meditative absence. I simply stop thinking, stop being, beyond the sensations I’m experiencing. It takes a while afterwards to come back to Earth, to reconnect with myself as the woman in the scene.

The headspace, coupled with all the gorgeous neurotransmitters that flood the brain in response to pain, is incredibly cathartic and energizing. Trite I know, but leaving the world for a while is a wonderful way to appreciate living upon it.

* * * * *

Full disclosure: I had an out-of-body experience once, when someone fisted me while I was high on a cocktail of recreational drugs. I rose straight up from the bed along a matrixey Tron-like tunnel, and at the top there was the huge disembodied head of an old Chinese guy, smiling beatifically at me. I think the moral of this story is, for safety and sanity, stick to vanilla sex when you’re high.

I need feminism because…

I warned you I might start blogging about my burgeoning social conscience. A list for you:

At 12 a man called me over to his car, as if to ask for directions. When I leant towards the window I saw he was naked from the waist down, masturbating.

At 13 a boy who was 16 put my hand on his cock even though I didn’t want to touch it. I went home feeling confused, uncomfortable and scared about telling my mum what had happened.

At 14 my boyfriend had sex with me after I told him no, I wasn’t ready.

At 18 my new boss told me I’d got the job before I’d even opened my mouth. It was intended, and taken, as a compliment.

At 20 I was walking home from a supermarket in broad daylight and a man opened his coat and flashed me.

At 22 a man I was about to rent a flat from told me the contract couldn’t go through unless I increased the bond payment. When J phoned to find out what the problem was he was told the initial payment was fine.

At 24 a man in a Ford Cortina slowed to a crawl beside me as I was walking home and started shouting as if he knew me. “Just get in the car. We can talk. Don’t be so stubborn.” It terrified me because I knew no one would intervene in something that looked like a lovers’ tiff, and because he followed me all the way to my flat. I shut the door behind me suffused with white terror, convinced he’d try to get into the building.

At 25 I bought a flat with J, and made all the initial arrangements with the estate agents and mortgage brokers. Every single one of them, independently of each other, reverted to calling J once they met him.

At 26 a man yelled “Keep it up, fat bitch,” while I was out jogging.

At 27 while I was walking home from a nightclub a man shouted “Alright, how’s ya night?” I ignored him, which is what you do when you’re alone at 1am on the streets of London. He retaliated by shouting “Too fucking good for me are ya, you white cunt.”

At 28 my boss kissed me on the back of the neck in the staff canteen then murmured “You didn’t even jump, you must have liked it,” into my ear. He later claimed it was a joke.

I need feminism because I’ve spent my life making excuses for these stories. It’s normal, it happens to everyone, I shouldn’t make a fuss, I should take a joke.

I need feminism because I’m not an overly unlucky woman who’s had more than her fair share of run-ins with sexist men. I am one voice among tens of thousands who live this every day. Making excuses, laughing awkwardly, worrying if their skirts are too short or whether they were asking for it.

I’ve been following https://twitter.com/EverydaySexism with my heart in my mouth, appalled by the casual familiarity of the stories shared. It is vital these voices are heard, but it’s hard to feel uplifted by the movement when I think about the size and scope of what’s being said.

I don’t feel like a glass ceiling is the right metaphor anymore. Glass is optimistic, hopeful. You can see through it to what’s beyond. It can be shattered by a well-aimed blow from a stiletto or steel-toed boot (depending on your brand of feminism).

I’m not looking at glass right now. I feel desolate and defeated, staring up at a breeze block wall as high and wide as the entire fucking world. I don’t have a clue where to start to make even the smallest dent.

Be careful what you wish for

I complained last week that my life was no longer eventful enough to be blog-worthy.

This week I had a miscarriage.

I’m actually pretty sanguine about it though (heh, sorry). I didn’t know I was pregnant, and as I’ve posted here before, there isn’t a whole heap of difference between a ball of cells a few days before fertilization and one a few days after (or four weeks, in this case).

I’d suspected I was pregnant but the test came up negative so I guess the embryo was never viable. Then when I was two weeks late I haemorrhaged all these big clots, and that was it. No physical pain, and not really any sadness. The only sucky bit was having to go for an ultrasound to make sure there was no ectopic pregnancy or bits left behind.

Up to that point I’d felt like my body was doing its thing and following the best course of action at that time. But being poked and prodded by a technician made it seem more serious, made me feel broken rather than functioning normally.

I’m supposed to take it easy for a while, which is just what doctors say about anything involving female reproductive health, and I’m not supposed to try to conceive again for three months, which is roughly how often I manage to get laid anyway. So all in all not much to report.

Oh, except the GP got her words muddled and kept calling it a missed abortion instead of an early-stage abortion and it took all my energy to keep from saying “You keep using that word. I do not think it means what you think it means.” Doctors hate when you say that 😀

This post is intentionally meta

I want to write more, and the only way to do that is to start typing. I’ve been reading old posts, rediscovering happy memories and half-way decent writing. It’s nice to have this archive to look back on, and I think so far I’ve painted a fair picture of the good and bad bits.

I’d like to carry on with the documentation, but the impetus has gone. I used to have ideas queuing up in my head, waiting for me to give them words. Now I have to trawl my brain for suitable topics. There are two things that have probably contributed to this change.

One is facebook. When I write stuff now it goes up there and I don’t tend to cross-post (maybe I should?). But I wonder whether sticking to a forum that includes captive family members (many of them minors) means I pull my punches and put edgier topics aside. Maybe, but at quite a subconscious level if so, because it’s not even like there are dark and stormy things I mean to write about but don’t find the time to address.

Hence the other reason; I think my life is just pretty boring these days. Our poly relationship functions smoothly, I’m not scared of getting married, or moving to a new country. I’m not depressed, and I’m no longer terrified of being a mother. I just am. I do lots of things that make me happy without challenging me – yoga, work, bike rides with Isaac. None of it warrants much examination.

That said, I think motherhood had wrought some changes, and I’m struggling to put my finger on how and why. Maybe there’s some meat there. Why did it take 32 years and a son to call myself a feminist? How can I have so much money compared to most of the world and still sometimes feel poor?  The emergence of my social conscious probably does warrant examination, but even that doesn’t feel like it would be interesting to write about.

Maybe I should stick to porn.


I wrote this three years ago with a recipient in mind. This is the first time I’ve read it since and I was a bit shocked by how graphic and unapologetic the description is, but I still like the piece.

Needless to say, there is content of an adult nature behind the cut.

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