Strictly Come Spanking

One of the first things I did when I got back home, of course, was download all the latest material from Northern Spanking. This has provided me with:

1. Enough delightful porn to cheer me up at the end of a long day - and rekindle my somewhat-neglected kink;

2. Blog material for at least a week - because of course, I have to review it for you and let you know what I think, don't I?

Now, I don't normally write about films before they've been fully released - when something is published in sequential clips, I'd rather wait and see the whole thing before expressing an opinion. But this evening I'm going to have to make an exception. You see, I have just watched the first two parts of reality TV extravaganza Strictly Come Spanking - a production so stimulating that I couldn't help make over-excited notes as I watched.

So, for your delectation and delight, here is my unedited, real-time live-blogged commentary on Strictly Come Spanking - parts 1 and 2:

- Strictly Come Spanking: ONLY NORTHERN COULD DO THIS



- Hilarious intro sequence! Is that Paul Kennedy I see sporting a rather camp quiff?
- Fantastic intro by Amy Hunter. I sense a presenter career in the making! Bit heavy on the artificial smoke...
- OMG THE JUDGES - LOVE IT! Actually crying with laughter!
- Stephen and Leia. I hadn't realised before how tall Stephen is - he dominates Leia even in heels. Very debonair! Love the ballet poses, and the slightly mincing motions as he starts to spank.



- Actually I think all spankings should take place to cheery big band music, judges watching with pursed lips.
- "We've practiced ... ALL WEEK." Hee!
- Love everything about Tess - the hammy faces, the interrupting, the standing in front of Leia ...
- LOVE the score card paddles!
- OMG BELLA RIGATONI'S ACCENT!!!!! The animosity between her and Aileen Philpotts!
- "SERMOULDERING. YOU EENGLEESH ARLOT." Hang on, is she Italian or German? Or French?
- "HAND MET BOTTOM FLESH LIKE BOTTOM MEETING HOT TOAST." Eileen can't actually keep a straight face. Or - hang on - is that a flirtation I'm sensing between her and Bella?



- Okay, Amelia-Jane and Hwyel. Oooh. Figureskating spanking, without skates! Punctuated by breathy gasps and tossed hair. Slightly uncontrolled, but definitely SERMOULDERING. The flamenco music suits well.
- Like me, Amelia has to go slightly onto her knees to be passionately kissed by her Dom. I can attest that this has its advantages.



- Goodness me, a slight wardrobe malfunction! Was that deliberate?
- Hrm, judge catfight. Is Craig Breakfast-Cereal going to end up with one or both of the female judges over his knee?



- Oh, Amelia is entirely delectable. I don't know how she does it. Mmmmmm.
- Haha, love that Eileen is the first judge to applaud!
- "Panting away, like something just off the Serengeti there, aren't we!" I think Amy was born to play Tess. Ahahaha - she agrees with me about the deliberate wardrobe malfunction!
- Amelia hiding her laughter by pretending to cry. Smooth. In the inset she looks entirely innocent, like someone off a BBC period drama.
- Craig to Bella: "What is this that comes out of your MOUTH?" Bella: "ALL I WANTED TO BE WERE HER THROBBING BUTTOCKS. THEY WERE LIKE A COUPLE OF FERRETS IN A LEETLE BAG."



- Aileen: "like an eager schoolboy sucking up his first banana milkshake through a straw." WHAT DOES THAT EVEN MEAN. I DON'T EVEN KNOW WHAT THAT MEANS. Impressive ability on the part of all three judges to keep a straight face, though.

End of part one! THIS IS OFFICIALLY MY FAVOURITE SPANKING FILM IN THE ENTIRE WORLD AS OF THIS DAY.

- Part 2! Syra Garcia and Paul Kennedy. Ooh, and some rather cheeky jazz. Smiles all round! Nice little bottom wiggle there from Syra. Not sure about the hand-wavy dance moves though.



- Oh, I get it! It's a reference to the golden age of magic shows!
- Or possibly silent films.
- Or ... pinups?
- Aw, missed opportunity there to get the bottom in the spotlight.
- Cute wave from Paul at the end there!
- Tess: "That really ... went, didn't it? Didn't it just ... go, ladies and gentleman?" *snort*
- Aileen: "Like clover honey dripping slowly from a Swedish pine." WHAT.



- I cannot get enough of the way that Tess is compelled to spank herself every time she pronounces "Strictly Come Spanking", however serious the context.
- Ooooh, adverts! The Restrained Elegance one for the Medieval Epic is rather fantastic.
- Irelynn: I have no words. No words. <3
- Michael Stamp in - a HAIR ADVERT! Why does he sound slightly Australian? He suits the white boy fro though...
- Back to the final! How I can stand the suspense??



Parts 3-5 will be released on NSI soon. Lucy McLean informs me that "there's even funnier stuff to come." Can you wait? I know I can't.

the unbelievable truth

I'm a little late to this one, but it seemed like a fun way to get back into blogging after a bit of a break. I've been away doing a kind of artist residency - crazy intense, very rewarding, but very little internet for over a week. I'm back home now, but there's not been much space in my head or my life for spanking lately, so it'll take me a few days to get back into the swing of blogging.

Anyway, Prefectdt invited me to join in this meme. It's sort of a truth/false game. I write five statements about myself and you have to guess which one is true. Then in a couple of days I tell you all if you guessed right. Got it? Okay!

1. The most outrageous place I've ever been spanked was in a church as a teenager - I was dating a vicar's son at the time.

2. I was once given a timed, rapid punishment spanking consisting of one spank per second for two minutes with a wooden hairbrush.

3. My brother and I played spanking games a couple of times when we were little kids. I always wondered whether he felt the same way about it as I did.

4. The first time I met Tom was on my first ever nude shoot, when I was just turned 19, and the first part of me he saw was my bottom - before we were even introduced.

5. During my degree D. and I had a deal which resulted in me getting spanked either way. If I did my work on time, I got to choose the implement and scene: if I didn't, he did.

Whew, that was harder than I thought! I think I might find a game where you have to post four truths and one lie easier. Anyway, there you are. All of those are based in truth, just to make it nice and difficult for you, but only one of them is actually true. I'm pretty sure I've told various people it, though, so some of you at least should be able to get it! (Boyfriends' answers don't count.)

Here are the other people who have taken part in the game so far:

Spankedhortic (answer here - I guessed right!)
Just My Random Perverted Thoughts
Hermione's Heart (answer here)
On The Way of Exploration
Spanking Pixie

Given how much easier I found it to think of true unbelievable statements than untrue ones, I'm tempted to start an online game of spanko "I have never" ... would any of you other bloggers be interested in playing? ;)

provocative protest

As various kinky expats will know, the Ukraine is a long way behind the UK on gender equality and women's rights. Sex tourism is a real problem, exacerbated by the country's depressed economic situation. Most sex workers are under the age of 18 or living in fear. "We can't turn any [client] away now with the crisis," said Iryna, an escort in Kiev. "Foreigners pay better. Plus you don't have to worry about losing your life. I don't know whether we should close down the sex industry. But I do know that I haven't seen any happy prostitute."

Relatedly, sexual harassment is also a problem - 70% of female students surveyed said that they had been solicited for paid sex by foreigners. In this sort of chauvinist social environment it's perhaps not surprising that a book entitled "Ladies, Back to the Harems", which asserts that women belong to the herd and should be prepared to have sex at any time, has sold over 10,000 copies.

However, some Ukrainian women are willing to fight back. The author of this offensive book got a cream pie in the face at a book reading, from a member of controversial protest group Femen. The group is politically independent, mostly consisting of female university students, with some men and high school students. They plan their campaigns online and meet in cafes to discuss their strategies. Past actions have included dressing up as syringe-wielding sexy nurses to "cure foreigners of addiction to sex-tourism", and taking to the street wearing surgical masks and bikinis to raise awareness about the Ukrainian government's exploitation of the swine flu scare in the run up to the presidential elections.

Their latest stunt is even more eye-catching.



"Activists of FEMEN, a Ukrainian women movement defending women's conditions in the society, perform during their protest action in front of Ukraine's Education Ministry in Kiev to denounce sexual harassment of students by some university professors in the country."

My feelings about this are mixed. On the one hand, I completely admire the creativity and guts of these women. They are successfully raising awareness about important social issues, and they are aware that they wouldn't get so much publicity without the sex appeal. On the other hand, is letting yourself be objectified to raise awareness about objectification really helpful? How many people walking past these protests will think "oh wow, I didn't know about that issue - that's really shocking" and how many will just think "hurr hurr, I'd do that"?

Anna Hutsol, who founded the group in 2008, is aware that their tactics are controversial. "I set up FEMEN because I realised that there was a lack of women activists in our society, Ukraine is male-oriented and women take a passive role," she says. "Here at FEMEN we have developed our own unique way of civil self-expression based on creativity, courage, humour, efficiency and shock. People wouldn't pay attention to the serious problems we tackle if it weren't for the way we dress. We are not afraid to go topless or wear bikinis if it serves a purpose." According to another activist, Femen is not a feminist organization. "I like it when a man holds the door open for me," she says, "or takes me out to dinner."

Feminist or not, they are certainly getting noticed. Their actions have a strong visual appeal and intelligent symbolism which communicates across language barriers. Even if you just take them as spanking photos, their most recent performance is unusually daring, funny and erotic. But there is undeniably more to it than that.









However pretty these images may be, I think it's a sad comment on society that the best way for women to make political points is to take their clothes off. But I cannot help but admire these young women for working the system to their advantage, on their own terms, for causes they care about - and clearly having fun while doing it. They choose their own subject matter and, presumably, only do things they're comfortable doing. I wish them all the best - and I hope this campaign is as successful as the photos are hot.



(Huge thanks to Chross for collecting these fabulous images.)

chilly girl in snow

Brrrr, it's got wintry, hasn't it? Even with the famous London microclimate, it's all suddenly got into gloves and scarves territory. Not good when my shoddily-built flat has no central heating and only two inefficient electric heaters, and the downstairs one is right at the bottom of the stairs, halfway up which is an ill-fitting Victorian sash window. You can imagine how well that works. Thankfully, my crap landlord had a brief moment of uncrapness last week, and delivered two beautiful new freestanding oil-filled radiators. I've got one plugged in beside my desk, and have spent the day basically hugging it with my feet. Mmm.

I was particularly glad of the warmth while going through the shots from a snow photoshoot I did in February. Those of you reading back then may remember how unexpectedly difficult I found the experience. I knew I was sensitive to cold, but I'm normally willing to suppress my discomfort for the sake of getting some good shots. But not so this time.

So I'm glad, despite everything, that we got some good shots after all. Credit goes entirely to the photographer, Clive M.







The whole thing is a bit "sad girl in snow", only I don't look sad. Just cold. Still, that's somebody's kink.



Me looking slightly vulnerable and uncomfortable with goosebumps, chapped lips, pale skin and wet hair - I mean come on, who could resist? :p

worth the wait

Later that evening we were lying in bed, noses in our respective books. I still couldn't work out if he'd been serious with his comment earlier about the moment being lost. I didn't want to pressure him, but I did want to know.

Eventually I plucked up my courage. "Unless I'm likely to be molested any time soon, I'm going to duck out for a smoke." (I don't smoke much, except at bedtime. D. doesn't smoke at all.)

"Go ahead," he replied, without looking up from his book. I swallowed my disappointment and pulled some warm clothes on to step outside. By the time I'd come back in, removed my warm layers, washed my face, brushed my teeth and come back upstairs, I was ready for sleep. I got undressed and slipped into bed beside D, who was still reading.

Before I could get comfortable he patted the bed by his hip. "Arse here," he said lightly. I looked at him. He was still avoiding my gaze, but there was a teasing warmth in his expression. He patted the bed again. "And face that way."

I was bewildered. I honestly hadn't expected this. My heart was drumming as I obeyed, kneeling where he indicated and stretching my arms out in front of me in the position I knew he liked. "A little further forward," he suggested, cupping my hips in his warm hands and shifting me forward a few inches.



I knelt, head lifted slightly but completely unable to see what he was doing. My arse was tilted back at a steep angle, back arched, hips pointed so that my bum was more or less in line with my feet. I felt crazily vulnerable. In this position the skin on my bottom felt stretched taut. I heard the tiny, soft sounds of the belt being drawn from the loops of his jeans, the wide, polished leather belt I'd noticed him wearing earlier, too new to have curled yet at the edges. I was breathing fast, shallowly. I could feel my pulse in my throat.

He took his time, making me wait. I could feel him toying with the belt and I kept involuntarily flinching in anticipation of the stroke. My head was spinning - it would be cold when it came, and I was so exposed, bottom lifted like that, pushed out for him ... I must have twitched and caught my breath half a dozen times before the whipping even started. I was whimpering with fear, my self-control completely undone.

The first stroke made me yelp, but it wasn't hard, not as hard as I'd feared. Hard enough to bite, soft enough that I kept my bottom raised for the next stroke, and the next. The belt lashed the tight curve of my arse again. The strokes were harder now, and taking them without a warm up was tough. I was moving and making little sounds in the back of my throat, my hair falling in my face, but I was staying in position, grabbing handfuls of duvet and biting my lip. Nothing else existed in that moment. The belt snapped down first on one cheek and then the other; hard enough to make me buck away so that the next stroke fell as I was flat on the bed, not so hard that I couldn't force myself to push my hips back up again for the next.

D. moved closer so his thigh was pressing into my hip, holding me around the waist and pinning me against his body. I was almost over his knee, but not quite; my weight was still on my hands and knees. My shoulders twisted as he dealt me several stinging strokes, and then I felt his hands running over my blazing flesh, soothing it. Then a succession of hard spanks, but now I was sobbing with pleasure rather than fear, and I arced back to meet his hand without even thinking about it.

I felt dizzy, as if I were in freefall. I was anchored to him by the touch of our bodies, his hands on me, but we hadn't yet looked into each other's eyes, or kissed. I felt the end of the belt drawn lightly across my skin, felt his fingers pulling my cheeks apart so the leather tip could explore between them. He alternated between hard spanks and caressing me more intimately until I didn't know which I wanted more.

Later he doubled the belt in one hand as I knelt before him, shortening the length so he could whip my breasts as I took him in my mouth. The little snapping strokes on my hardened nipples sent jolts of pain and pleasure quivering through my body; I moaned around his cock.

The belt was slipped around my neck, warm leather smooth against my throat. He gathered it behind my head in one hand and pulled gently, the pressure making my heart flutter as he kissed my mouth and my breasts. Hot penny feeling pressing against my trachea, sending a pulse throbbing to all the tips of my body. He kept the belt there as he moved behind me, holding onto the ends as if they were reins, keeping my breath shortened and my head lifted as he fucked me. The tightness around my throat was enough to make me melt with lust, but not enough to stop me screaming with pleasure.

I think, although I can't remember very clearly, that I laughed as we came together, with a bubbling mixture of delight, relief, release. D has always been good at surprising me. And, although the kinky boots and lacy dress lay abandoned at the foot of my bed, that had definitely been worth the wait.

scene, interrupted

D and I had finished work last night and just ordered pizza to reward ourselves. I headed upstairs to fetch my fantasy novel so I had something to read while we waited for it to arrive. I exclaimed as I entered my bedroom: D had picked up all my kinky shoes from their heap on the floor, and arranged them in a neat row on top of my wardrobe. He called back up to me: "while you're up there, you can choose a pair for later."

Well, I knew what that meant.

Grinning all over my face, I skipped back down the stairs a couple of steps. "Or ... I could put them on now? We probably have time to kill while we wait for food to turn up."

He raised an eyebrow at my impatience, then remembered that I prefer not to play immediately after eating, and gestured I should go ahead. "Why don't you put your leather thigh-high boots on? I've laid them out with the others."

I didn't need asking twice. I dashed back upstairs, had a sudden thought, and started scrabbling around in my wardrobe for the lacy fetish dress I bought at BoundCon. I wanted to surprise him, but it took me a while to find it: I was only just reaching for the boots when I heard his tread on the stairs. He flicked his eyes over me, taking in the black scraps of lace barely covering my breasts and hips. "Pretty." I looked up at him, cheeks already slightly flushed with anticipation. He was topless - my heaters were working for once and the flat was warm. But he'd pulled on the black Italian leather gloves I bought him a couple of Christmasses ago.

My heart started beating faster at the sight. I love, love, love being topped by someone wearing leather gloves: the warm sleekness of the leather on my skin contrasts with the sense of authority and distance commanded by someone covering their hands. Black leather gloves carry associations of booted officers undertaking secret interrogations: svelte European men wearing them to drive beautiful vintage cars. Soft leather gloves on a man can be like heeled shoes: sharp, fashionable, sexy, and ever-so-slightly androgynous. At a party last Saturday I found myself flirting outrageously with an old friend who'd accessorised his dapper suit with a pair of leather gloves, even though our friendship is definitely platonic. I look at them and imagine cool, smooth hands closing around my throat, idly caressing my skin. I shivered.

He reached out and stroked my neck as he slipped past me, and lounged against the wall by the bed, watching me zip the leather boots snugly over my thighs. I couldn't take my eyes off him; I felt giddy with excitement. "That looks kind of strange," I laughed, "the gloves and no sleeves. Like wearing socks and nothing else." I meant to be affectionate rather than insolent, but his expression of detached amusement didn't alter.

I was still trembling with anticipation when we heard a knock on the door. We hadn't even touched yet. "I think that's our dinner," D said.

"Oh, man!" I couldn't believe it. I was laughing even through my disappointment as he sprinted downstairs and pulled his shoes on. I stayed where I was while he hunted for keys and opened the door, aware of the slipperiness in my cunt, aware I was wearing only thigh-high boots and a few scraps of black lace. I shook my head and started getting changed into something more comfortable.

I joined him downstairs. "I can't believe that timing."

"Yup," he said, piling pizza boxes in front of me, "that's it. Chance gone. The moment is lost forever."

I couldn't quite tell if he was joking or not.

(to be continued...)

Pretty Distraction

Things I love about being a spanking model number #20581: browsing porn websites and stumbling across a photoset starring two of my play partners which I didn't even know existed. Yay!



Thomas is making an important business call, but Zoe can't seem to leave him alone, teasing him mercilessly in her deliciously sexy underwear. Having probably lost the contract, as well as his temper, Thomas exacts his revenge on poor Zoe's tender bottom.

It seems that Zoe has not quite grasped the seriousness of what she's caused, so Thomas grasps first his trusty strap and then his cane. Zoe certainly grasps the stinging punishment applied to her bared bottom by the furious Thomas.

But she knows his temper will abate, as will the pain in her bottom ... and now he's off the damned phone, there are much more interesting things to do with the afternoon!



This must have happened at the only NSI shoot Tom and I have gone to together, the same day The Australian Governess was filmed. Tom wasn't very well that day, so we didn't do much together - and now I look back, I seem to remember hearing something about a photoset while I was filming Hide and Seek with Faith Andrews - but I'd forgotten all about it until I saw the photos. Which is kind of lucky, because I generally find it much easier to get turned on by porn if I wasn't present during shooting, and this set is awesome. If you like sexy sort-of-consensual adult D/s and think Tom and Zoe are both really hot. Which I obviously do.



In this set I love Zoe's curves, stockinged feet and white neck ribbon; I love Tom's hands and the muscles in his neck. I love being able to look at familiar bodies in a new light. I love the unusual compositions and the beautiful lighting of the mirror shots. I love their facial expressions and the dynamic energy between the two of them. In fact I love everything about it except the fact that I'd be able to tell Tom was ill even if I hadn't known it, which is a shame. But I know full well that he's perfectly capable of being deliciously scary and authoritative even when he feels rubbish, so that doesn't stop it being hot.



Also, and this is probably kind of pathetic but anyway, Tom and I wear matching commitment rings, and while I'm used to seeing mine in shoots (when I can keep it on) I'm less used to seeing Tom's, and when I first noticed it in these pics I got a little exciting feeling. It's hard to describe, but some of you will know what I mean: that delight in watching your partner play with someone else which is half unselfish pleasure in their pleasure, and half pride that they're yours. Or in this case, that I'm his.

cornertime

I had an intense experience while Tom and I were on holiday. It was the first night, and the mood was celebratory: I made lasagne, we got out the musical instruments and had a bit of a jam, drank some wine. The whole holiday stretched gloriously ahead of us. After the stress of getting there, we were just starting to relax.

I'd been keen to play for days, so I didn't take much encouragement when Tom pulled a chair into the centre of the lounge and drew me over his lap. You may be surprised to learn how rarely I get to do this in our personal play. Chairs, you see, are a ubiquitous feature of spanking films: but at home, we play in crammed London bedrooms or nowhere at all. My flat is too small for chairs, and all the chairs in his house are shared with housemates. I'm far more used to playing on and around a bed than in a living room with proper chairs.

But there's something lovely about going over the knee when they're sitting on a proper hard straightbacked chair. Being slightly further away from the floor, being able to stretch out your legs properly, the infantilising feeling of not being able to see what's happening, your weight pressing your palms into the carpet. The headrush of keeping your head down, combining with the pain.

The spanking was slow and extended and lovely. I'm afraid I can't remember any of the details: he started with his hands, my bottom was swiftly bared and despite the sharpness of the smacks I was delighted, compliant, his willing accomplice in turning my bottom a bright shade of red. I think he used a hairbrush on me, and maybe a tawse, but I'm not sure. I yelped and whimpered, of course, because I like yelping and whimpering, but I wasn't really complaining. I remember feeling giddy, turned on, and utterly safe in his hands.

The best moment by far, though, was afterwards. I got to my feet, flushed and off-balance. I was led over to the corner by the door, shuffling with my jeans and knickers around my ankles. Tom told me to put my hands on my head, and wait there for him.



As he closed the door behind him I was immediately suffused with a sensation of peace and wellbeing. I focussed meditatively on the wall in front of me, aware of my breath, mind deliciously empty. As my thoughts started to return the first one was how awesome it was to carve out space in the day to just be. To not be rushing from one thing to the next, not be driving myself to achieve more, not be worrying or planning or analysing. Just being. I know how to meditate but I only do it just before sleep, or sometimes when I'm doing some kind of private ritual. I should do it every day, really, but it's so much less interesting than all the creative crazy stuff I fill my live with.

Tom came back in and snapped a couple of photos, then settled in with a book. My arms were aching but I knew he'd leave it just longer than was comfortable, then check in on me.

Normally the waiting elements of service and submission drive me nuts. Waiting to be called, waiting in the kitchen after you've served the guests. I'm not very patient and I hate feeling like time is being wasted. But after I've been spanked, it's easier to find that zen space where the stillness itself seems valuable. Rather than trying to carve out a time on my own to meditate, maybe it would work better for me to get soundly spanked and put in the corner on a regular basis. Tom would certainly enjoy it :)

Of course, shortly after this all my physical fatigue caught up with me. All of a sudden my chronic back pain started yelling at me for keeping my shoulders in the unnatural position, and I started to shake. I endured it for another minute or so before admitting that I was struggling, and asking for a break.

Tom came over and gave me a hug and I squeezed my face against his chest, overwhelmed with emotion. Suddenly a part of me resented having to carry on standing there while I was in pain. It was mixed up: I was simultaneously upset that he hadn't been telepathic, and with myself for not being able to put up with it longer. But I had a little cry and a long cuddle, and after the brief feelings of disappointment faded, the peacefulness I'd enjoyed beforehand was still there.

The Captain

Jacqueline Applebee just pointed me at this filthy, kinky, hot-as-hell music video to Biffy Clyro's song 'The Captain':



(I've always liked "my Captain" as a mode of address to a Dom. But then, I'm a little bit obsessed with a model of D/s based on the relationship of an officer to their squire or batman.)

This presses SO many of my buttons. Floggings, fencing, military uniforms, cannon, cages, blood, sweat, tears, tied-up topless men with tattoos and eyeliner. Mmmmm. Now I just need to find a suitable location, and persuade Jimmy Holloway to star in an uncensored, welts-and-all version ...

magic padded pants!

Thanks to a friend this morning for calling my attention to this amazing fashion product:

Edit: The link I originally posted is no longer active, but these pants are still for sale from a variety of online stores. The original text from the website I linked to first is worth preserving, though:

PADDED PANTS

Now you can look sexy by wearing the MAGIC PADDED PANTS! These Push Up Pants gives your bottom a big lift. Foam padding in the pants gives a firm and beautifully rounded bottom.

Try...and feel your buts!

Attention! The Padded Pants have a small fitting.

Of course, if you were trying to get away with wearing a pair under your clothes to lessen the impact of a punishment, you'd have to be careful. You'd probably be caught out during a hand spanking, for example. You might get away with it during a strapping or caning, but only if you were absolutely, 100% certain that you wouldn't have to remove your underwear at any stage during the punishment.

Imagine the consequences of a disciplinarian discovering that they had just administered a punishment over sneakily-padded underwear. Especially if they only found out because the miscreant in question earned themselves extra strokes on the bare by being rude or disobedient during the alloted strokes over underwear...

newsflash: disabled people have sexualities too

I recently discovered the Feminists with Disabilities blog, who have a lot of good stuff to say on body politics, accessibility and identity issues, class politics, mental health and suchlike. Ophelia and a few other queer, kinky, disabled friends and I have long talked about a website project about kink and disability, with tips for sex activities that suit limited mobility or low energy, articles about managing chronic pain, fantasies that include disabled and ill people, book recommendations and general solidarity about having a body that doesn't work properly. I'm able-bodied, but neither of my partners are, so this is close to my heart, and I think I'd be able to contribute usefully. It's still something I'm keen to do if I ever find time.

Feminists with Disabilities definitely have their heads screwed on right. I was nodding all the way through their recent introductory post on disability and sexuality:

Disabled people, like non-disabled people, have all sorts of sexualities that can change throughout life. We can be queer and straight, poly and mono, kinky and vanilla (which is not to say that all of those are exclusively sexual identities, either). Not everyone is into or can have PIV intercourse, and all kinds of sexual activity are as legitimate as the participants consider them to be.

Most of the comments on the post were pleasingly kink-aware as well, and raised some important issues:

As a kinky queer person with disabilities, I have to say that one of the big challenges I face is playing with able bodied people who are afraid of “breaking” me or who think that I don’t know my limits. And I definitely understand that fear, but it kind of plays into the whole “people with disabilities are fragile” trope which can sometimes be a huge barrier to sexuality, especially alternative sexuality. And it can be really disempowering to be told that someone else knows my body and my limits better than I do.

I have a fairly visible disability in that I’m totally blind (I prefer visually impaired but no TABs [Temporarily Able Bodied people] seem to know what it means so I’m forced to only use it in PWD friendly spaces to avoid having to explain all the time) anyway, this combined with the fact that I’m quite petite used to mean I got harrassed all the time at college by guys who seemed to be turned on by my apparent ‘vulnerability’, this was very creepy and also incredibly frustrating as they’d pretty much reduced me to my disability. I’m not ’special’ and I don’t need ‘rescuing’ and I’m definitely not playing the damsel in distress to fulfil anyone’s fantasy. The problem seems to be that if you’re blind then you’re allowed to have a sexuality as long as its passive so you just become an object for somebody else’s fantasies. Well, I’m sexually dominant and bi (predominantly interested in women) so where does my sexuality fit in this?

The kink community, of course, has its pros and cons:

I don’t like the BDSM community trope that leather sex is better and I’m part of the BDSM community. I’m less active in it these days and don’t volunteer for stuff or go to meetings and events, but I’m definitely oriented that way and have been since I can remember having sexual thoughts (like when I was six or seven). So I’m cranky about the attitude because I run across it all the time.

That said, I very much like the BDSM community’s inclusion of people with disabilities[1], fat people, older folks. The sort of people who ’shouldn’t’ be running around naked do and it’s excellent. Most events I’ve been to recently have at least one workshop on disability sexuality issues and there are lots of folks with assistive technologies; sign interpretation is provided to make events accessible to Deaf people.

[1] Though one of the few Dallas hotels that’s willing to host our events and is big enough is not accessible; the only elevator that goes to the meeting space floors (there are four levels of them) is a service elevator in the kitchen. Seethe.

I remember my own rage at the lack of disabled access at the venue chosen for Night of the Senses last year - appalling given it was a fundraiser for a charity promoting inclusivity and access!

I think the kink community is more inclusive of imperfect bodies than is normal in our society. And I love the way it's so normal for us to talk about boundaries and limits that it's easy to extend that conversation to people with disabilities. But the kinky porn industry is far from perfect. Not only are disabled models never featured (unless it's a special-interest fetishising a particular disability, and that sort of niche is not only objectifying and offensive, it's also not really part of spanking/BDSM), but the websites tend to fail at accessibility for the hearing and vision impaired. And there are the ongoing problems with access at meetups and events. There's still work to do.

If you're interested in this topic, keep an eye on the FWD blog: it's got some good stuff on it. You might also enjoy The Deal with Disability. The author is Eva, a queer twenty-something who channels her frustration at being treated as if she wasn't an adult woman into a funny, smart, informative blog. Reading it, I feel as if I would be far less good-natured about the ways people mess up, if I were in her position. But it's a great way of learning how to mess up less when interacting with people with severe mobility or communication issues.

Eva talked about her sexuality in an interview with Lesbilicious this summer:

Many of your videos show people treating you like you’re invisible because you have a disability. Do you feel invisible as a queer person too? If so do you think the two are connected?

“Well I think people don’t believe that disabled people can have sexual identities. So I guarantee not many people realise I’m queer (even though I have a button on my backpack that says ‘I heart vaginas’).

And its not like when you go out to do errands you announce to the world ‘I’m queer!’ I am on the butch side, so the main encounter I run into is that people often mistake me for an 8 year old boy.”

How do people react when you tell them you’re queer? Do you think you get a different reaction to non-disabled queer people? If so why?

“Again, I don’t tell random people that I’m queer, but in general I believe most people don’t think about disabled people as having sexual identities. Its like we’re made to be asexual.

So when I do tell people I get a lot of TMI questions. For example, strangers have asked how I have sex. Often, I ask them the same question. That usually shuts them up.”

(read more here)

learning to let go

I was recently sent this true story by a reader. We were chatting about my first experience of a session with Zoe Montana and a male submissive. He mentioned his own difficulty learning to let go of control during a scene - to stop "topping from the bottom" - and how Zoe helped him overcome it. His story resonated with me, and he very kindly granted permission to repost it. If you enjoy reading it, please take the time to leave the writer a comment and make him feel welcome.

---

I’m male, over 60, and I’ve been having spanking sessions for nearly twenty years - my name, however, is not for release, as I would prefer the freedom to be frank that only anonymity can bring.

Over the years, I have enjoyed many sessions in which I have been spanked. Indeed, until about a year ago, that was all that ever did happen. There was a lovely tall blonde who would put me over her knee and proceed to warm my backside for as long as she deemed necessary. It was good, we got on well, and we both enjoyed meeting up and chatting afterwards.

Eighteen months ago she retired from the scene, and I looked elsewhere for the first time in many years. All of a sudden I found adverts for spankees and for switch sessions. I’ve always been a switch, but I’d never previously spanked a pro girl at all, and to be able to combine that with being spanked myself - wow!

So I answered an advert, and a few weeks later I met Zoe Montana, one of the many real enthusiasts on the London scene. I’d written a very “tongue-in-cheek” letter to explain why I needed to be spanked - she found it amusing, and responded in kind. There followed one of the best couple of hours I have ever had. Fun, laughter, wine and chocolate, and both of us ending up with very warm bottoms!

I liked this formula, and used a similar one in several subsequent sessions, both with Zoe and with some other super girls, always enjoying myself a lot.

But after a recent session with Zoe, I e-mailed her to thank her, and, as an aside, I mentioned that I had never “gone into subspace”, as I have seen it described by Niki Flynn and others. I wondered if she thought that might be because I tended to brat and fool around in the sessions - they'd always been very light-hearted in tone. I was also aware that I tended to take control. What can I say - I know what I like, and these sessions are not cheap, so it was easy to let myself get into the habit of guiding things in the direction I wanted to go. Of course the bottom is always ultimately in control, but I always had a firm idea of what I wanted to happen during a scene - what would work for me - and tended to resent any attempt on the part of my top to steer me away from my intended course.

Zoe's reply to my e-mail was revealing, to say the least! In the kindest of ways, I was told all the things that I was doing that made it hard for me to really benefit in a deeper way from the session - and that made it almost impossible for her to help me.

Such is the generosity to be found in this scene that she offered to meet me in advance of our next session to talk things through with me. So we met and chatted, and she explained how I needed to let go of my control, to trust her. And I realised I did trust her - I know that she will create a great experience for me whenever we get together, and that if I relinquished control to her I would be completely safe in her hands.

So I did. I let her act out the scenario I had planned without any interruption, or discussion, or asking for it harder, or differently or any of the things I usually do. And it was fantastic.

There was nothing particularly original about the roleplay scenario. I came into my office and found her there searching through my belongings: Assuming her to be a new employee who I hadn’t met before, I decided to teach her a lesson. I spanked her hard, on her bare bottom, then strapped her.

Only after punishing her did I stop to ask who she was. At this point I discovered that she had been sent by the head of HR to investigate a series of complaints made about me by the female employees in my firm. She was a specialist at dealing with male bosses like me - too valuable for the firm to let go, but whose behaviour needed to be changed. She explained that she had only permitted me to spank her as it gave her first-hand proof of exactly what I had been doing: now, there was no point in me trying to deny it.

We had discussed before the scene what approach she should adopt. I had said that hugs and re-assurance meant a lot to me, but I would also like her to be firm and strict. So I agreed to be punished by her.

She put me over her knee, and for the first time ever, I didn’t interfere, interrupt, complain, or try to change anything about what she was doing. I just accepted what was to come. A very hard hand-spanking was followed by a small but severe leather paddle. I submitted to everything without question. It hurt, but no more than I expected. What I wasn’t expecting, was something that had never happened before in in nearly 20 years: I started to cry. And once I started, it was hard to stop. In another session with another partner I might have felt silly, childish, embarrassed - but not this time. Her friendship and her expertise, together with my trust in her, combined to create a new kind of experience.

She was loving, kind, caring, and yet she gave me a real punishment. And she was skilful, too: not once did she leave her character. So how did she manage to hug me, whilst punishing me? Easy. She said, “And these girls you spanked - did you hug them? like this?” In character, she made me feel it was wrong and creepy that I should do so - but at the same time, the real me benefited from the hugs.

About half-way through, we took a break, and I was so emotional I just sat and held her, and she knew that was what I needed. Then she asked if we should continue, and I said yes. She had said at the start that I would be caned, and as she had not yet done that, I knew that my punishment was far from over. I also knew I needed to accept everything that she felt I deserved.

She tawsed me, and paddled me, and caned me. Now, usually I get well warmed up during the course of a session, and find I can take a lot more by the end. But this time that didn't happen. I felt every stroke, and they hurt. There was some significant “ouching” from me, and times when I wasn’t sure I could take the rest of the punishment. But I was in her hands, and at no point did I ask her to stop. I’d handed over to her completely, and it actually felt good to know there was nothing I could do. It turned out that there was nothing I wanted to do but accept what was to come.

It was a wonderful sensation to let go, to give myself completely to her control. To allow myself to release all the pent-up emotion that I didn’t even know was there. She had said in one e-mail to me that she could help me discover what it was I really wanted out of the session, even if I didn’t know what that was when I started. She was so right.

Once the session was over, she said to me - “Now don’t say you didn’t go to another place there!” It was certainly cathartic. I don't know if it was the place which others have described as “flying”, but it was certainly a very different place from the one I usually inhabit, a place I had never been to before, and one I hope to return to as soon as I can. And amazingly enough, I've been having very little sub-drop since, much less than usual - so I think I really did need to let go more.

So to conclude, I’d just like to say two things:

Firstly, if you’re a bottom who tends to take control (particularly if you usually need to pay for your play sessions), try giving yourself completely to a partner you trust, and you may well discover a whole new and wonderful type of experience.

Secondly, I do want to thank Zoe for all she has done for me. The e-mail reply that started me on this path, the wonderful intense session, and the long time she spent with me - both beforehand to help prepare me, and afterwards to help me return gently to reality. Thankyou so very much!

--

Many thanks to Clare Spanks Men, Northern Spanking and Over Her Knee for the amazing images.

7am in 1911

I learned on my first ever adult shoot that modelling is not particularly glamorous. After a day spent retouching my makeup between every set until my face felt coated in plaster, climbing up on tables and kitchen counters in four-inch heels and pretending my head wasn't being squashed into the ceiling, and generally discovering all the other unanticipated delights involved in posing for photos, I felt far more glamorous after the shoot, being met by my pretty new boyfriend and driven home in his shiny sports car. (This being D - my first paid shoot was nearly four years ago now, scary thought.)

My first shoot as an extra for TV was a similar experience. 7am starts, never quite knowing what's going on, hours and hours of sitting around freezing in a draughty warehouse, learning to save up your energy so when you're finally needed you look like you only just arrived. Most spanking shoots avoid this level of faff, thanks to being such small, informal outfits. But sometimes the smallness and informality can cause problems of their own.

The final shoot for Lost Causes, my forthcoming Roué film with Adele Haze and Thomas Cameron, was a location shoot in London. We'd found some beautiful old mill buildings, but we needed to get there before cyclists and dog walkers started appearing along the canal. So there was no way around the 6am start: that's just the way it goes when you're filming.

However, for the main two-day shoot, I'd had the advantage (relatively unusual in the spanking industry) of professional hair and makeup - an absolute blessing for which we had Roué to thank, allowing us to concentrate on our acting. I realised the downside the day before the final location shoot, which was a tiny affair just involving me and the camera crew. Not only would I have to exactly recreate the look achieved by the makeup artist, for the sake of continuity, but I'd have to do it by myself at 6am...



This photo was taken before I did my hair, because the light in the bathroom was pretty. Then the crew arrived early and I had to do my hair in the car without a mirror. So much for continuity!

The shoot itself involved such exciting, glamorous, sexy events as:

• waiting in the car for 45 minutes while the crew made sure we had the all clear
• walking up and down on cobble in high heels for an hour (not easy when you can't even see your feet underneath all the skirt)
• more waiting while they filmed lots of background sound from the canal
• at least a million takes of the bit where I walk up to the front door and knock
• convincing a security guard we were only filming the cobblestones, not the listed buildings (of course)
• more takes of walking up and down in high heels to get the audio - I managed to convince them to let me do it on the flat pavement, so the footsteps would be less erratic. Heels and cobbles tend to incur uncontrolled skidding.

But it was all worth it in the end. We got it all wrapped, which is a wonderful feeling, and meant we could press on with finishing editing. And we got some lovely shots of my character approaching her doom new school, and wondering what awaits her:





It was a moody, blustery morning, well suited to character's state of mind. And my hair wasn't a problem in the end: the wind messed it up anyway as soon as I got out of the car, so it would have turned out looking slightly tousled however perfectly dressed it had been to start with :)

all the men and women merely players

One rant I've never understood, although I've heard it several times, is about the word "play". Some people have a problem with it. Sometimes these people are Very Important and Serious Lifestyle Players Perverts - often with names like Lord Sir Master Domly McDomlyson. More often the people having this rant are dedicated political activists who want kink to be accepted and taken seriously by the wider world. "Play", they argue, makes it sound like we're play-acting, messing around, experimenting. It's as offensive as telling a gay or bisexual person that their sexuality is more about "playing around" than an intrinsic part of their identity.

I can see the reasoning behind this point of view. But it's never really influenced me, because I personally embrace and love the term "play", with all its ambiguity. Adults in our society make far too little time for play. The grownups I know who regularly play games for fun - board games, roleplaying games, wide games - tend to be much better company (and far happier) than those who consider themselves too old for that sort of thing. What's wrong with playing, anyway? My boyfriends and I are enormously silly in private. If the intimacy of a spanking scene is to be compared to the intimacy of a tickling war or pillow fight, is that such a bad thing?

When Tom and I had a more formal D/s framework, he would sometimes differentiate between scenes that were "play" - undertaken for pleasure, his or mine (usually his) - and scenes that were "work". The latter included discipline, which wasn't meant to be fun for either of us, and which had to happen even if neither of us felt like it (consistency and predictability are very important for me when it comes to real discipline - if a punishment is deserved, I react very badly if it doesn't happen when promised). Scenes designed to train me in scene manners, etiquette, positions - what you might call slave training, although I've never been what I would call a slave - were also sometimes considered work. (On the other hand, we could possibly have been described as Serious Lifestyle Perverts in those days, with all the impassioned enthusiasm of people embarking on something new. We've both mellowed a touch since then.)

The distinction is meaningless these days; we don't have the same formal framework, and most of what I do with D. and Tom pretty much falls into the above category of "play".

Recently, though I thought of a third way of interpreting the word "play" - one which even the activists and Serious Perverts might well be happy with. A scene is not just a fun interaction between partners: it's a performance. Roleplaying and acting are not so very different. A play is a narrative physically enacted, a dialogue, a scenario. Things that are played, as well as games and sports, include parts, plays, scenes, musical instruments, concertos, symphonies. Playing can be theatrical, immersive, expressive - as well as fun. There's nothing uncertain or experimental about that.

introducing the Temporary Inquisition Squad

I spent most of last night giggling at this video. The gorgeous Queen Irelynn of Freshly Spanked releases a decree to control wayward minions, granting powers of punishment to the Temporary Inquisition Squad. After her edict, Professor Lewis demonstrates how to effectively punish uproar-inducing miscreants with the aid of an unfortunate bearing a remarkable resemblence to Queen Irelynn. Sort of like a spanking version of the Princess and the Pauper.

It is HILARIOUS. Massive props to Irelynn and Stephen Lewis for making me hoot with laughter. Also, it's kind of hot.

morning and night

Real life has a tendency to not live up to fantasy. Health problems, work, domestic matters and mundane crises often stand in the way of enacting the kink of my imaginings. Even pleasant distractions such as creative projects or seeing friends and family take time and energy away from spanking.

When I was in two long-term relationships, I used to daydream of the fun we'd have when I moved to London and could see my partners during the week. But now I'm here, this year I've been surprised by how little we've played. Even with desire and opportunity, finding time for play can be unexpectedly difficult. I know I've been working hard, I know you can't argue with someone's health. But there was one hurdle I didn't seem coming.

I've never lived with a partner: time with my men has always been snatched in evenings and weekends, and I'm constantly struggling to feel I have enough time for boyfriends, girlfriends, myself and everything else. My holiday with Tom the other week was the longest we'd ever spent alone together, and it was incredibly lovely. But I didn't quite anticipate how dramatic the difference is between our diurnal cycles.

Tom is in the habit of waking early. Like me, he suffers from insomnia (a cruel irony when combined with his chronic fatigue), but for him it takes the form of dawn waking - he has been in the habit of waking with the sun since childhood, and once awake, finds it very hard to get back to sleep. I, on the other hand, take hours to drop off and wake frequently throughout the night, but can usually doze off again.

On holiday, we both hoped to catch up on our sleep, and promised each other a series of lazy days. I slept until late morning or noon every day: it was wonderful to finally allow my body some extended rest. Tom, however, woke hours before me, and because he's lovely, rather than wake me he crept downstairs to read and drink tea without disturbing me. (Apparently I often drowsily asked for cups of tea, which he kindly made and left by the bed, where they invariably went cold as I drifted off again.) By the time I woke up, he would have been awake for hours. So he'd be awake while I was waking up, but by the time I was fully alert, he'd be ready for his siesta - another product of his childhood, and his favourite way of recovering from an interrupted night. He'd then nap through my most active period of the day, which would enable him to feel refreshed for the evening ... but he'd often feel playful late at night when I was falling over with exhaustion. (With the exception of the very hot scene we played the first evening, which I will tell you about another time.)



Our differing sleep patterns don't affect our companionship, but (not surprisingly) they do affect our sex drives. We both feel a bit shit when we first wake up, but horny soon afterwards. Tom's libido fades after an hour or so, but I stay interested throughout the afternoon; when he prefers to nap - and normally, of course, when we are both at work. He seems to feel most amorous late at night, when my physical energy is at a low ebb and I just want to curl up and snuggle.

So we're patient with each other, and we talk about it, and we work to fit in with the other person's energy curve as much as possible. I have a tendency to fret about it, though. I'm at my happiest when I'm getting regular sex and regular spankings, and am more demanding in that respect than either of my boyfriends (even including how tired I've been this year!) If I know one of them is planning something nefarious, I can watch my own energy curve and make sure I'm ready, willing and able when the time comes. It's weird: when they say they're tired or unwell, I'm all understanding and sympathy; but when I'm the one crying off, I beat myself up over it for not being a Perfect Sub.

All this is leading up to a spanking, I promise. Bear with me :)

We spent Saturday night with some friends, including someone I don't see often. Tom went to bed earlier than me; by the time I staggered upstairs I was wiped out and feeling a bit over-peopled, having been working all day and being sociable all evening. I just wanted to curl up with my book. I thought Tom would have been asleep already, but when I got into bed it turned out he was in the mood to play. I explained, sleepily and with regret, that I just wanted to crash, and he was lovely about it. We worked out we had time to get up and perhaps play in the morning before he went to work.

After this conversation I lay there, not-quite awake, heart thudding with anxiety from turning him down - normally I'm the one that's desperate for play and he's the one that's too tired, what's wrong with me? Surely I could muster the energy? I closed my eyes and watched, with wry amusement, as my brain played out a spanking fantasy in the darkness. I fell half-asleep, dreaming of his knee pressing into my tummy, my legs dangling, a leather paddle painting my upturned bottom shades of red and purple. When he shifted position I woke up, heart pounding - from desire now, not unnecessary guilt. I whispered to him that I had had a dream of being spanked by him. Despite the languor in my limbs and slowness of my head, I felt a hot wetness between my legs. I wanted him to take me in hand, kiss me into the pillow, tumble me over his lap.

But since I'd said no, he'd been schooling himself for sleep. He didn't want to push me. He told me to go to sleep, that we'd have the morning.

I fell asleep wondering if the morning would happen as he hoped, or if one of us would wake first, or with a headache, or if his illness would interrupt things. It was impossible to tell. This wasn't the first time we'd postponed a scene until we felt more up to it, and it wouldn't be the first time our plans had fallen through.

So it was with surprise and delight that I woke to discover my desire still in place, curled tight within me, and opened my eyes to see his sleep-crumbled, beloved face looking back at me, a promise in his eyes. My body was, as usual, slower to wake than my head, but a spanking is the best way of sorting that out. "Be nice," I whispered, suddenly terrified, as he scooped me up and helped me get comfortable over his knee. The morning air was cold and bright, and the sound of the smacks seemed to echo through the house. Worried about waking his housemates, I gripped the duvet in my fists and tried to restrain my yelps. He was gentle with me: partly because I'd asked him to be (although by the time he stopped I could have taken much, much more) and partly because he feels worse in the mornings than I do. But I was so glad it had happened at all, that we'd managed to snatch a half-hour where we were in sync.

I wish we didn't so often work different shifts; I wish he wasn't ill; I wish finding time to play was as easy as I imagined it would be when I was a student. But when time, opportunity, energy and good health so rarely converge, it's all the more precious when they finally do.

body confidence

This is a more personal post than usual, and triggering for body/eating issues. I probably wouldn't be writing it if I wasn't slightly tipsy, so apologies in advance if it's TMI. It also got kind of long, but I've found this unexpectedly hard to write, and I've already spent hours fussing with it, so I'm just going to go ahead and post or I'll never get to bed on time.

--

Last year, for various reasons, I changed my contraceptive pill. Most women do this a few times before their hormones settle down and they find one that suits them. It sucks, but you get used to it. I'd been on the same kind of pill since I was 14 - I'd originally been prescribed it to treat acne (I told you I was an awkward kid) but I'll admit the excuse came in handy when I started having sex.

To cut a long story short, the new pill had many exciting side-effects, one of which was to make me lose weight.

Some of you have commented on how good I looked last year. I'm 5'8", broad-shouldered, naturally muscular and my healthy weight is between 10 and 11 stone (that's about 140 - 154lbs). Between June 2008 and Jan 2009 I went below 9 stone (126 lbs) for the first time since I reached adulthood. Even during my eating disordered period while I was at university (which, for those of you who have noticed my scars, was almost entirely a replacement for self-harming when I made myself stop doing that) I never lost that much weight: every period of starvation was followed by a binge, I was on this other contraceptive which kept a layer of healthy fat on me, and my weight just didn't go that low. So, now I'm recovered and eating more or less healthily, suddenly having my weight - against my wishes, against all the work I'd done to learn to love myself at 10 and a half stone - spiral to the lowest it had ever been .... well, suffice to say it messed with my head.

People liked it though. People said I looked good. I got cross when friends said it - they should know better - but when strangers on the internet said it? Well, it reinforced my impression that however sexy you're perceived to be, you'll always be even sexier if you're thinner. Every time someone compliments a photo of me at my thinnest, part of me cringes at the thought that they'd prefer it to a photo of me at my fattest.

I'm not talking about a big difference here. Let's put this in perspective:



At the moment I'd say I'm bit bigger than the second picture (which isn't recent - it was taken a couple of years ago)¹. But not much. No big deal, really. Only a few pounds in it. Big fuss about nothing, yeah? Yeah. I know.

Anyway, the various other side-effects of the new pill proved to be unliveable with, so early this year I switched again. As predicted, I put on weight. I schooled myself carefully: as a feminist I understand that being normal-sized is fine, that it makes no bloody difference to my attractiveness, that it shouldn't be a problem. I'm quite good at controlling my emotional response to things, so I've managed to successfully persuade, bully, and make-believe myself into being fairly body-confident since the weight gain. But despite all those good thoughts, there's a persistent twinge of regret that I didn't make more films during my accidentally-skinny phase last year.

I came back from holiday on Monday better slept than I've been in months. The permanent bags under my eyes have lightened. My skin's clearer than it's been in ages. I feel buoyant. And I've put on more weight.

These days I make a point of not having scales at home, but I used to weigh myself obsessively, and can make a good guess. I reckon I'm currently pushing the 11 stone mark. Which is fine. It's not fat. I'm a size 12. I have at most a 28" waist and 42" hips. That's fine, you know? Not supermodel skinny, but still on the slender side. My body naturally waxes and wanes. That's cool, and these days I refuse to diet or try to affect my shape in any way other than staying generally fit and healthy. But despite knowing all this, I'm struggling with it emotionally. I have a run of shoots lined up for my new site this autumn, and - believe it or not - strong-willed, body-positive, feminist me is feeling insecure about making sexy spanking videos at my current size.

I know, right? It's ridiculous. I know it's ridiculous. I would tell any friend saying the same thing, with love, that they were being ridiculous. Half the women I fancy are bigger than me. I would never, ever, tell anyone else that the size I am now was too big - sometimes sticks in my throat at the very idea. It's wrong. But ... part of me, the insecure, hypocritical part of my brain with the double standard, still, knowing it's wrong, feels fat. I can talk about social conditioning until I'm blue in the face, but I can't quite seem to eradicate that feeling. Not completely. I find myself staring at photos of the thinner spanking models in the industry - including dear friends - and feeling inadequate in comparison.

Augh, guilt, I shouldn't feel this way, more angst. Etc. It's embarrassing, honestly. And I know it's irrational and silly: not only, objectively speaking, am I not fat, but if I was, that would be fine too! My feelings aren't irrational because actually I'm not fat (with the implication that if I was fat I'd have a point): they're irrational because size has - should have - nothing to do with sex appeal. If I put on loads of weight suddenly, will it - should it - make any difference to my spanking career? I'll still be my usual dorky, over-thinky, kinky self, my boyfriends will still find me hot, I'll still get off on being spanked and making spanking porn, and hopefully you'd still get off on watching me be spanked.

But I know I'm not alone in having this residual, deep-down self-doubt underneath the confidence, and I think it's important to talk about this stuff publically. If I'm going to make body-positive spanking porn I think these issues need to be acknowledged. I suspect that many of you reading this know how I feel, and I think that's indicative of something deeply wrong with our society.

--

You'll be pleased to hear there's a happy ending to this story. Someone anonymously commented on my recent Bodies and Politics post with a link to The Judgment of Paris, a site celebrating the beautiful plus-size models which are so often ignored by the fashion industry. It's a celebration of femininity, sexiness and style: and all of the women are gorgeously, glamourously bigger than me.



I only had to look at these pictures for ten minutes before I felt better about my current shape, empowered to make spanking porn at size 12, size 16 or whatever size I happen to be, my positivity about the range of human beauty wholly renewed. I guess that proves how susceptible I am, stompy politics notwithstanding. But it makes me wonder: if other people are half as easily influenced as me, what effect must the skinny-focussed ethos of fashion, advertising and porn have on our culture as a whole?

I seek out body-positive representation in the media anyway, but this week I'm particularly delighted by public celebrations of normal-sized beauty. Such as this photo of Lizzie Miller (which I'm sure I saw attached to an article about Karl Lagerfeld's offensively off-the-mark statement about curvy models, but I can't seem to find the page now):


(Originally posted in Glamour magazine.)

See, I know in theory that being true to myself, being comfortable in my skin, being happy and confident and feeling sexy and relaxed, is far more important than a few pounds here or there. Right now, I'm trying to put that theory into practice.

I was telling a friend about this today, and she started telling me about a TV show called Mad Men. Set in the 50s, many of the female characters are cast according to the body shape that was considered beautiful in that era, which makes them far curvier than most actresses these days. Normal-sized women are shown as normal - not one "big girl" as a quirky character in a group of skinny women, but sexy characters with beautiful curves.

I haven't seen the show, but as a Firefly fan I was delighted to discover that one of the sex icons in Mad Men is played by Christina Hendricks. She slimmed down to play Saffron, the petite seductress and con-artist in Joss Whedon's show. But she's completely gorgeous as voluptuous 50s flirt Joan Holloway:





The upshot of all this is:

a) Next time I catch myself feeling bad about my figure, I should just look at eye candy of beautiful non-skinny women until I get over myself, and;

b) I'm going to go ahead and make lots of spanking porn without worrying about my shape.

The latter is still a work in progress. I'm still feeling irrationally nervous about posting new pics. I'm combatting these nerves in my usual way - by writing about it (at length, apparently - sorry about that), and by booking lots of shoots, so take that, self-doubt! Most people won't be able to tell the difference anyway, or won't care if I have a flabby tummy - you'll mostly be looking at my bottom anyway, right? But if you do find my fuller figure less appealing, please be kind enough to keep your opinion to yourself.

In the meantime, I'll keep working on that confidence thing, because I'd far rather post hot spanking photos than angst about boring body issues.

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1. I had to hunt quite hard for a picture showing me at my biggest, and part of the difference in this shot is posture anyway. It's disappointing to discover that despite my political stance, I have very few pictures that show off my current shape. I'm cool with my big hips and bum and thighs, but I strongly prefer photos which accentuate the narrowness of my waist. And when I'm shooting I always hold my tummy in, so there are very few pictures of me where, for instance, my belly looks as rounded as it does in the mirror. Partly that's good posture, but partly it's unnecessary shame at having a round belly. I think it's sad that I don't have any nice photos of me celebrating the fuller phases of my natural body shape. I hope that the shoots I do this autumn will change that.

Love our Lurkers IV

I've only just realised today is the fourth annual Love Our Lurkers day. I missed Bonnie's email while I was away, and have only just seen it. Close call!

Love Our Lurkers is a concept Bonnie (of the justly famous My Bottom Smarts) came up with three years ago. Today is the day when you - all you out there reading this - are invited to step up and say hello.

Maybe you don't comment because the little spanking-blog-universe seems very cliquey, full of people who know each other. This is in one sense true. But most - if not all - of those people were, at one point, like you: reading, wondering, thinking, too shy or busy or unsure what to say to participate in the conversation. The wonderful thing about this little universe is that while it's a community, it's not an exclusive one. It's not elitist. You don't have to be pretty to take part, or have a model body, or be young, or have loads of play experience. As long as you're interested in That Thing We Do, and have your own thoughts and ideas and fantasies, there's a place for you here, and there's a place for your opinions.

This started out as a professional, spanking-model industry blog. It's turned into as personal a blog as my private diary. Some of my dearest friends have been made through this little universe. So don't be shy. Don't feel you have nothing of worth to say. Don't feel that you aren't one of the cool kids (I've always been an awkward geeky kid, at any rate).

Bloggers are often an insecure, shy bunch, you know. It's much easier spilling your heart to a computer screen than to a crowd of real people. Getting feedback from readers - making real connections - is what motivates every blogger, and many of the people who started out making the odd comment on one blog or other are now fully-fledged, popular bloggers in their own right. And when you're talking spanking, posting that first comment can be more than a simple de-lurk: it can be the first step in coming out to other people, to starting to seek out what you've always wanted. Reading is great, but it's even better to talk.

So hey there. Good to meet you. How was your day?