How do you like it? A question of erotica.

Back when 50 Shades of Grey was all the rage, I pondered the idea of having a go at writing erotica (or porn, or whatever tag you like). I came up with a setting, some characters and the beginning of a plot outline, and a number of potential sex scenes. But I realised, I’m not into BDSM and thus wouldn’t enjoy writing it, and my own personal history has been, shall we say, less than adventurous. That’s just how I am. 

I’ve read a few bits and pieces here and there, and know enough about myself to know what sort of scenes get me hot under the collar. But can I write something that will excite anyone else?

What are some common fantasies I can refer to that might work, and that aren’t BDSM? Outdoors or anywhere there’s a chance of being caught? A threesome? Plain ol’ spontaneity..?

And so, to the purpose of this post: can I run by you a few general scene ideas to see if anyone thinks they could have merit, or would most likely be a snooze-fest?

To give a basic outline, the lead female (mid-late 20s, but not a naive ingenue) goes on a working holiday with her married friends, during the Venice Carnival. She works alongside a handsome local guy who is acquainted with her friends, and they start a flirtation…

1) Before she leaves, an ex re-enters her life and takes her to a club. He sweet-talks her then fingers her in a dark corner, and expects the same – but reveals he’s currently seeing someone. So she leaves him there all hot and bothered. 

2) Now with her foreign crush, they’re outside at night after a masquerade party, and think they’re alone. He begins giving her oral, then she notices another couple not too far away, the guy being given a blowjob, and watching her – she comes to enjoy being watched. 

3) She’s only ever seen her crush’s face in mask, and they’re about to have sex for the first time. He wants to keep their masks on to maintain the mystery. 

4) A threesome, but with another guy. She refuses to be tied up but agrees to loose restraints and a blindfold, and doesn’t know there’s another guy until she realises two people are touching her. The scene would contain guy-on-guy action as well. 

– – –

That’s all I have in a relatively well-formed state at the moment (although obviously heavily summarised for use here), but any feedback anyone has would be gratefully received!

    

~ L. Q. ~

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New Facebook page!

Hello dear readers!

I have created a Facebook page to partner this blog, where I aim to focus on my travel stories (of which I really want to write more!), and hopefully communicate with people, too. Maybe I can do a follower-requested daytrip!

Thanks to my lack of tech skills, and old machines, it’s easier for me to share lots of photos on Facebook than here, so when I’ve added content, I’ll be inviting you to have a look! My blog posts will still be written here, but I’m just trying out another way of sharing content. We’ll see how we go!

https://m.facebook.com/quillmark/

~ L.Q. ~

suffice for life

Ah! So true. There’s someone I know who fits this to a tee. His heart isn’t mine, but when I met him his smile brought warmth and light to all the corners of my being. So I worked on letting go of wanting his heart, and I try to focus on smiling because of his smile. And in those moments when I can let go, it is enough.:-)

Words on Empty Ears

even if their heart isn’t yours.
you can continue to smile because of their smile.
and that should be enough.

© Duc Nguyen WordsOnEmptyEars, 2016

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Ode to a tree

“Give me a tree
Or three,”
Said she,P1210172
“And ever shall
My heart be free.”

“Give me a view
Of blue,”
She’d coo,
“To help my mind
Run calm and true.”

“Show me a hill
So still,”
She’d trill,
“To let me wander
Where I will.”

“But give me a tree
Or three,”
Said she,
“And I’ll show thee
A happy me.”

 

It came to me while wandering in my favourite park (Kensington Gardens) this evening. Hope you’re able to enjoy spring or autumn, wherever you are!

P1210286

~ L.Q. ~
P.S. I take a lot of photos of trees…

Down The Ink Road – My First Tattoo

On Sunday afternoon, it finally happened. After three previous failed attempts (including a long weekend in Cagliari, Sardinia, planned exclusively for that purpose but which I filled with sightseeing instead) my decision to get a tattoo was finally realised. 

I’m writing this as a diary of my experiences. Who knows, maybe someone else thinking about getting their first ink will find this in a search engine and learn a bit more about what they can expect. 

I’ve come up with a number of different designs over the last few years, to suit different parts of my body, all mulled over and tweaked until they seemed just right. Curiously, the design that’s now imbedded in my torso was a fairly quick decision – a quote from Hamlet with some little watercolour splashes around it. It’s placed vertically, stretching from near my hip bone to just about my bra line. 

The artist prints the design onto special paper that transfers purple ink onto your skin, for them to tattoo over. After some time spent carefully aligning it where I wanted, I lay down on the bed and she prepared the inks. 

She began at the bottom, near my hip bone. It definitely feels like needle pricks! A bit like laser hair removal, I thought. While the needle was pressing on me (only a few seconds at a time) it hurt, but the pain stopped each time she moved on, so it was bearable. But I’ve read that the ribs are painful, and I definitely agreed! As she neared the top of the design, over my ribs, the pain was considerably more. I tried to align my breathing to her actions to restrict movement of my torso, and holding my breath for each bit seemed to help a little. Then she went back and put in the coloured sections – in the same general area as skin that had already been inked. As a tattoo is an open wound, it made my surrounding skin sensitive, so – I won’t lie – it was really hurting by the end. They will also put antiseptic on, which stings. 

By the time it was finished, about 2 hours later, I felt pretty battered. After she’d dressed it and stuck cling-film over it, I felt fragile, but the pain had largely receded. I also got an ear piercing straight after it, which hurt rather a lot and really added to my just-beaten-up feeling!

I’d read the studio’s aftercare advice, as well as other opinions online. My tube of Bepanthen is old, and I couldn’t find any of the regular antiseptic cream in shops, just their nappy rash cream (which has lanolin, that many people advise against as it can prevent a tat from breathing). So I bought coconut oil. Now, I’m not a fan of using oils on my skin, because, well, they’re oily, make a mess, and don’t seem to be absorbed very quickly (hence getting on my clothes and making a mess). 

My skin really, really stung after this. Not from the oil, just from – very gently – touching it to wash it and dab on some oil. I’ve read a number of comments comparing the pain to sunburn, and I’d agree. As I was told, I didn’t put any more cling-film on, and tried not to sleep fully on it.

Day 1: The next morning (Monday) it was starting to look bad. The colour seemed faded and it was all a bit raised, as if it was done with 3D ink. Now, from various things I’ve read, and heard from a friend with a tat, it seems a normal part of the healing process. I didn’t realise it would start so quickly, but healing anecdotes tend to include words like ‘scabbing’ and ‘flaking’. There were little black dots on my surrounding skin. 

So, I dabbed on some coconut oil, and went to school (I teach). I decided not to take the oil with me (too messy!) and by the end of the day it felt really tight and getting sore. Also, my artist, and plenty of others, only recommend treating tattoos twice a day to ensure they can breathe properly. 

More coconut oil when I got home, and this time it was REALLY FECKING STINGING afterwards. Yee gods! it was bad. And I was as gentle as I could be. Please note I am NOT suggesting that the oil made it sting. My skin was dry and ultra-sensitive. Fairy kisses would have hurt. It took ages to calm down. I ended up lying on my bed with a book for a while. (Then later, I somehow upset my new piercing while cleaning it, so it too hurt like blazes for a while! It was all just too much.)

Day 2: This wouldn’t do! I had to have something with me at school to use during the day. Although I’m not touching it in between treatment, my torso moves so often that I can easily tell when it’s getting tight. I’d bought some of the Bepanthen nappy rash cream in the end (you’re always told to get new tubes, but can you even get their antiseptic cream in the UK..?), but thought better of using it after agonising over online comments advising against lanolin on tats. This makes me anxious because I adore lanolin in regular moisturisers. 

So…after some more um-ing and ah-ing I decided to take a punt with my old Bepanthen antiseptic cream. On inspection this morning, the ink had looked even more 3D, and starting to look very scabby and faded. Quite awful, actually! I know not to pick at it, but there are plenty of little flakes falling off. I’m so glad I’d already read about the scabbing and flaking, otherwise I think I’d be horrified! I’m just consciously trying not to judge it artistically yet. I liked it when it was finished, so I need to just remember that!

A second night had obviously done some good. Gently smoothing a little cream over it didn’t make me wince, and the skin felt loose enough afterwards when I moved. 

I used more when I got to school (washing my hands first of course) at about 8am, then more before I left at 4pm. It’s now 10.30pm, and I’m about to have my first post-tat shower (couldn’t face it last night, it was so painful). I wore a loose top today, and although it’s been sensitive, it wasn’t as painful or tight as yesterday. 

Day 3: Wednesday. So much more manageable today! It wasn’t particularly sensitive when I put Bepanthen on this morning, and it didn’t look too flaky and awful, either. I forgot to take the cream out with me though, so I had to make do with a tube of Savlon from the Boots near the station. 

I only used the Savlon once, this afternoon, but my skin didn’t feel too tight today. I’ve read a number of warnings against over-treating tattoos, as well as my artist only recommending twice a day for that reason. But I’m also trying to listen to my body. If the area where the tat is feels tight, I assume it needs a little more cream. 

The black script is still a bit raised and rough, and the coloured bits are still dull, but I’m trying to ignore it and not be disheartened. The waiting continues…

Children’s Story: ‘Laurence and Big Dog’

A while ago I wrote a little story for my two young nephews. I made it into a brightly-coloured storybook, and coloured in some pictures I found on Google Images. My brother read it to them, then filmed their response the next morning. Now, considering they’d been asleep since they heard it (and are only little), I was amused rather than dismayed to hear the elder one answer the question “Was it a good story?” with a disinterested “No…” Don’t worry, he got the right answer when asked a second time!

But I thought I’d share it here. If anyone does fancy reading it to their own kids, I’d love to know if any of them respond well to it. Otherwise I’ll assume I failed, and try harder next time!

A few words and phrases may seem a little odd, but certain things are aimed specifically at my nephews. 😉

Falling For The Angel

Have you ever met someone who seemed to be in your life for a reason? Perhaps to show you something, or teach you? And there came a moment where you realised that your life, or beliefs, or thoughts, were altered or improved because of their influence? I’ve come across a couple of these people, and I’ve dubbed them ‘angels’. Not because of any religious belief, and not because they seemed perfect (because they didn’t). Just because it somehow seemed that I met them for a reason.

Last spring, I was desperately looking for a summer job. My work as a supply teacher was soon to end for the school holidays, and I didn’t have enough savings to pay my rent and expenses during that time.

I despaired. I searched and searched, and wondered a) what I could bear to do, and b) what jobs my teaching qualification, yet lack of other experience, might actually be suited to…apart from teaching. I even signed up for survey sites! (I created a new email address for the purpose. No doubt it’s imploded by now…)

Just before the one-week school break in May I’d seen an ad for staff recruitment at a museum. Just general visitor guides, it seemed. Great! I could do that.

I applied. Heard nothing.

Until June, when I received a phone call inviting me to a group interview day. I’d completely forgotten about my application, and assumed it was for another position I’d recently applied for. So I was confused, at first, to see the email containing all the details for the interview, including the museum’s address!

It went well, and I became a member of the museum’s new summer team, hired to increase staff numbers during a very busy time of year. Our original contract was six weeks, but most of us were offered the chance to stay on as casuals, which I chose to do.

Here are some important details about my state of mind, and character, at that point. Firstly, I was feeling pretty depressed by my lack of money, but relieved to have found a job I thought I could survive turning up at for six weeks. But I was also in a fairly low place emotionally, because of the stressful and often unpleasant nature of supply teaching. Too many angry teenagers who clearly had a host of problems that schooling could not fix, and too many schools not addressing the culture of disrespecting supply teachers. And I was gradually coming to the conscious realisation that the classroom really was not the place for me. My life felt aimless and somewhat hopeless.

I’m also not a very sociable person. ‘I hate people’ is a phrase I often say, because people tend to bother me. (‘And you took a job where you’d come into contact with the public?’, I hear you say. Yeah, well…) I have a tiny number of real friends. Unfortunately, there aren’t a great number of people I really, truly care about – and not too many who really, truly care about me in return. I’m not good at small-talk, and I’m not good at making new friends. It was about six months after I moved here that I met someone who became a friend rather than stayed an acquaintance.

I’m okay with all of that, for the most part. And so when I looked ahead to my summer, I just hoped to get along with my colleagues well enough, and that it would be a pleasant working environment. I had no real hopes of making friends (especially since I originally thought I’d be leaving in six weeks).

I wasn’t prepared for the shock the place would give me.

Over time, I found myself really growing to like my fellow newbies. Despite our different circumstances and ages, we got on well and I generally enjoyed chatting with them. I felt an air of mutual respect and acceptance, but most of all, niceness. How rare a quality that seems to be. How many people do you know, dear reader, who could truly be described as nice?

And my discoveries continued. After the calibre of men I found in every secondary school – authoritarian and often appearing quite unsympathetic – I was floored to discover the gentle friendliness of the men at the museum. Most of the men in my team were in their 20s, but all were nice. The men in the security team, too. Always ready for a friendly chat or word of advice (free of bursts of misogyny or innuendo, I might add), and always prepared to hold open one of the many doors in the staff hallways. I actually discussed this with an older woman on my team, who had worked there for some time. Her theory was that it’s the sort of place that attracts – and keeps – ‘nice boys’, and that those with a different temperament just wouldn’t last. (I’m choosing to leave out the fact that there is one man I actively try to avoid because he’s a smooth-talking flirt who makes me feel awkward, but he’s the only one, and further mention of him will grossly sully otherwise lovely thoughts.)

Not to say that the women weren’t friendly too. It just happened that working in secondary schools was apparently not the place to find many lovely, gentle, men (at least not their at-school personas), and so I noticed the difference.

And in particular, James.

We had three days of training with our managers, then a day partnered with an experienced member of our team. On the fifth day, we were on our own. I can’t remember when exactly was the first time I met him (so many new faces and names to struggle to remember!), but I know I thought he had a friendly face right from the beginning. Moderately attractive in that general well-put-together sort of way, but I remember mostly thinking that he seemed nice.

He was one of the first people to remember my name. I think he probably learnt all the newbies’ names quickly. He has a quiet and gentle manner, mostly, and although young, he looks trustworthy and experienced. He can be playful, and at times gently teasing, but would answer any of my inexperienced questions with patience and understanding.

I don’t know if it’s just coincidence, or if any of my colleagues find the same, but I tend to see a lot of the same staff regularly, and some only rarely. And unfortunately, James is one of the lovely people in the latter category.

So I began to arrive at work hopeful of seeing him each day, wondering if I’d be lucky enough to cross paths with him. And in my bland and emotionally empty state of melancholia, James became a beam of sunlight in my days. I know that’s a terrible cliché, but even months later, I still can’t think of a better metaphor. He’s nice. It’s easy to think the word implies someone simple and boring, but in its truest definition, it’s a great compliment. He is nice. He’s good. He’s a gentleman. He displays no arrogance or entitlement, nor any domineering behaviours. Yet he is by no means weak. He has firm ideas and is well-read – actually, he’s one of those people you can debate with quite enjoyably. I wish I could show him off to some of the teenage boys I’ve taught as a top-notch example of adult masculinity.

It’s the gentle warmth that emanates from his face when he smiles and says hello. The effortlessly helpful way he offers to help parents lift their baby push-chairs up the stairs at the main entrance. The manner in which he blends professionalism with good humour. It’s his slightly uneven loping gait, in trousers a bit too short for his long and slender frame, that looks both purposeful and unhurried. His easy-going nature and affability, but with a certain something in his countenance that suggests he knows what sadness, and perhaps pain, feels like.

And the way he’s looked at me during our few proper conversations – as a friend, as someone he’s choosing to talk to rather than because we happen to be in the same spot. The way he’s made me laugh by telling anecdotes about the public and other staff, and the odd things he’s said that have amused me but that other staff have apparently thought peculiar. And the conversation we had right before I went on holiday for three weeks, where he answered my innocent inquiry into his Christmas with a less-than-happy tale about his family, and then allowed a couple of further gentle questions, before the conversation turned to his favourite band, which he thought I might like, and blushed a little while saying so.

It wasn’t long before I began to think that James had entered my life to remind me that there are still lovely people – lovely men – left to find in the world. That there are still people who can actually leave their surroundings brighter, and bring out the happiness in those around them. Because he brightened my days so much, and managed to revive the parts of me that still wanted to smile contentedly, and laugh easily.

And so, many days have made me think I was falling for him.

I have a long history of bad luck with men, and so the thought that I might be attracted to someone isn’t exactly an exciting one. And although he has always been friendly, I’ve rarely thought he displayed any particular preference for my company over anyone else’s. I do get the sense that he can be a little shy, as some of our conversations have begun in rather a stilted way before something happens to magically kick them into gear. I can be shy as well, and am so used to rejection that I can never assume a man I’m attracted to might feel the same. Because of this uncertainty and awkwardness I sometimes deliberately avoid seeking their company because it’s just easier – I know, that’s a bit messed up – which leads me to ponder if another possibly-shy person might do the same. But he’s also about nine years my junior…which has caused me alternating bouts of concerned discomfort, and preferring to throw caution to the wind…

I don’t know where this will go. I don’t know how long either of us will work there. Thus far, we haven’t socialised outside of work. He hasn’t asked me, and the time I asked him, he was unavailable.

But maybe we’re not supposed to fall for the angels in our lives. Maybe they arrive with the purpose of teaching us something. Or in my case, reminding me of something that my circumstances made me think was lost.

Perhaps we’re just supposed to glory in their presence, and bask in the glow of whatever they are giving us. And then, when the time is right, they will leave, and send us onward: smarter, happier, or healthier that we were before.

~ L.Q. ~

NB: ‘James’ is not his real name. Because if I’m going to gush about someone in an anonyblog, then I’m going to hide their name!