Sunday, Kensington Gardens, sunshine. We had enjoyed a late brunch at Patisserie Valerie on Brompton Road and were walking over to Paddington. T hates the Tube.

(Yes, I said I wouldn't write about him, and I'm not, he was just there, you see...)

The Albert memorial was glorious in that light - all gold leaf and retrograde depictions of native peoples. We stopped for a bit, sprawled on the ground, people-watching. Girls in short flippy skirts on their bellies, reading books, each one with one leg up in the air in that 'yes you're checking me out but am pretending this is entirely casual' way. I love that. A man under a tree watching one of them at closer range than she likely would have been comfortable with had she noticed. One Sloaney mummy yelling 'Rufus' over and over, loudly - not certain if that was meant for the dog or the child.

'No, the child is named Hugo,' T said. We put our faces close to the grass and laughed.

That was when we saw the arguing couple. She, white vest and white capris, slender, blonde, gesticulating. We were too far away to hear anything. He: checked shirt, jeans, dark look on his face. He walked away, arms folded; she chased him down, brought him back. He stood with his hands on his hips as she sat on their blanket and talked more, talked him down. She needs to shut up, I thought. He's not listening any more. 'No matter how hot a woman is, someone somewhere is sick of her shit,' I said. Of course it could just as easily have been his shit, but the endless explaining and setting the record straight that was no doubt going on could not have been helping. I thought for a moment we weren't spying on an argument at all: they must be acting. Surely. In a crowded park, this sunshine, the middle of a glorious day. Can't be real. Then he stormed off again. They weren't acting. She gave chase, was gone for ages, then returned, packed the blanket away in her bag, and ran off phone in hand.

Oh god, the knots in my own stomach - the memory of having been there. Not once, not twice, every other day practically, for years. Then T looked at me, we kissed, and I remembered it was someone else's indian summer Sunday being ruined, not mine, and that I need never be there again.

We had ice cream, laughed at the runners loping around the park too slowly in too many clothes. Then his train. And happiness is the accumulation of small things.

 

 

(In other news, I was interviewed by the not-at-all bitter about my previous letter Mark Lawson for Front Row, it should air on Radio 4 tonight.)

Hey kids.

Apologies for the lack of updates, but I did promise not to write about certain things... well. However there is no end to the self-important preachy shite regarding sexuality in general I can churn out, so why not enjoy this piece originally written for something else some time ago?

Sex, Lies and the Ghettoisation of Kink

I don't do kink.

Or rather, I do do kink, but only in the privacy of my sexual life. Where I don't do kink is in a community, whether in real life or online. To me, the very thought brings to mind unfortunate comparisons with 'care in the community', which is also of niche interest and largely ridiculed by the majority.

However, it would seem the kink community very much does me. Not a week passes without some armchair Master-or-other opining en blog what a shame it is that Belle de Jour was so scandalously lucky to have written a book, because He knows An Actual Prostitute, and can vouch personally that she is wittier, smarter, and better-read than me.

Usually, these opinions come from individuals called Balthasar, Master of the Dark or Bitchy McSlutress of the Universe and contain enough fifty-pence words to drown your average spelling bee (in blogworld, demonstrable ownership of a thesaurus is shorthand for 'good writing style'). You can also identify your bitter neighbourhood kinkster because they tend not to be au fait with the correct and grammatic use of 'whom' and can be counted on to insert it especially where its use is inappropriate. You can tell I love these people, can't you?

I mean, it's so joyless, so predictable, so let's-play-master-and-servant, so... everything the rest of the world imagines kink to be. Why are there not more Mistresses Matisse in kinky world, people who clearly have fun with their sexuality rather than beating the world over the head with the (self-published, natch) Balthasar Master of the Dark's Essential And Unchallenged Assertion Of What Is True, Always? In an orientation you might expect rewards - no, demands - imagination, why are so many kinky people utterly lacking in lateral thinking ability?

The sad truth is, it's because they don't actually think for themselves, at least in no greater proportion than the rest of the general population. There are bright sparks and even geniuses but they shine like diamonds in a drain. It's a very simple trajectory the rest of them travel. Having rejected the cruel and incomprehensible world that rejected them first circa age 12, rather than forge a new reality they simply learned a new concrete paradigm - one typically rife with sci-fi and unironic consideration of the oeuvre of Sisters of Mercy (and I say this as a fan of both).

Hokay. Having now well and truly insulted half the readership, I'll tell you a little about what I write and what I don't write. My books are mass-market. Which means they're published by a Real Publisher, not an online one, and distributed via bookshops and supermarkets, not a sidebar on a blog. Which means, in a nutshell, they're edited. I have an editor (formerly the Fabulous Helen, now the Fabulous Genevieve) and a copy editor whose jobs are to make certain not only that each i is dotted and each t crossed, but also that the content is comprehensible to my audience - which, judging from the feedback, is a very general one.

Therefore my writing must pass the average reader test - if I use jargon, is it something Average Reader would understand? If not, it must be described more fully. So, the word 'flogger', while commonly used by many people, does not pass the test. In fact many commonly used kink terms don't. As an example, I recently made reference in my Facebook status to needle play and mentioned my nipples hurt, and loads of people posted on the Wall to ask why. And these are fans! If you scoff at that, imagine what the editors think about words like 'djambok' and 'cauterise'.

On a larger scale, it also means I self-censor the sex. Why? Because in the mass market, a description of a sex worker fisting herself passes muster... just about. However, a sex scene involving less prosaic uses of breast milk probably wouldn't. I can't explain why, say, bondage and large objects entering small holes are acceptably mainstream images of kink and unusual bodily fluids expressed by force are not, but that's the way it is, and such concerns are always in the back of my mind. I might write about it someday, but again - a lot of people don't know what needle play is, so it may take some time to get to, oh I don't know, vomit enemas.

Which could lead you to wonder why I am writing for the mainstream at all when they don't really understand me. The answer is because of the readers. If I wanted to sit in a room of other sex workers and bitch about sex work, I could have done that. But I didn't. I didn't because I thought my story was more generally relevant, even to people for whom woman on top is a big deal. Write about kink in a strictly kink-approved fashion, and you just bought yourself a ticket to Kinky Ghetto. Fact.

So why not be involved in the kink community and 'change it from the inside'? Because that's what people say about marriage... and you see how well that has worked. I have neither the stamina nor the interest. I want to live my life, not analyse the X-rated parts of it at a munch in the local Starbucks.

Next week: Sex and the tyrrany of the orgasm.

Last week the PR at Orion forwarded a note from the Grauniad to publish a photo of where I write as part of their 'Writers' Rooms' series. Under normal circumstances, I usually refuse requests from the Graun because of their (what I consider to be) extraordinarily retrograde views regarding sex workers and people who write about sex work from an actual informed perspective. However, I was willing to overlook this because I'm just a girl who likes saying yes. So I let it be known that I might consider it; of course, I would provide the photo.

Was not to be. Word came back today that the Graun could only do it if one of their own photographers took the shot.

Um, what part of 'anonymous' do they still not understand?!?

(Pity, really, as this Saturday's was of Grayson Perry's studio, and while I would have been far more interested in his dressing table, it did thrill me to think of sharing the same column space at some point in future. Ah well.)

What Happened Thursday, Part 3 of 3

'How many people have you had sex with then? It doesn't bother me, I'm only curious.'

'I don't know.'

'Really?'

'I stopped counting after number 22, when I was nineteen.' That was a bisexual goth chap with enviably long legs and remarkable stamina. 'I can make an educated guess to within the nearest fifty?'

'Go on.'

'About 150, 200?'

'That's not bad,' he said. 'Not too bad. It's not in the thousands.'

'No. And you?' There are at least four that I know of - me, his ex, the two other girls he's been with since we met. He held up his hand, like to tick them off his fingers. 'Oh fuck, you're going to say four aren't you?'

'No, but not a lot.' And he named them. Nine. Nine in total. Shitting hell. There have been weeks when I've slept with more people than that. 'I've gone for quality over quantity,' he said.

Hmm. Well to quote Uncle Joe Stalin, quantity has a quality all its own. 'Actually mine is probably a bit more than I said. Maybe three hundred. Definitely not more than four hundred, absolutely not more than that.'

We slept, our limbs entangled all night. In the morning he'd remembered there was a tenth girl after all. And everything was fine, as if the entire evening had never happened. Except that isn't quite right, because it obviously had, as I was grinning madly, and said the things I meant rather than the things that would mask my real thoughts, and kissed him goodbye at the door for once instead of waving him out.

 

...now if you don't mind, I would like to draw the curtain over what happens between me and T from this point on. It wouldn't be fair on him to see the early stages of a relationship written about as they happen, especially when he has no means of answering back. Thank you to everyone who wrote me about him for your encouragement and support.

What Happened Thursday, Part 2 of 3

I tucked a tartan blanket around his shoulders and we settled in front of the telly. At the first advert break I asked how he liked the show.

'Apart from the personal interest, it's not something I would watch.'

I nodded. 'Me either.'

I know! I'm a fucking hypocrite. I love Lucy and Avril and Paul and Roanna and Becky and of course Billie is beyond awesome and you all rock my fucking face right the fuck off, but I can't help being a smug middle class University Challenge type. Soz.

He fell asleep during the second episode but woke again and we had sex again. Better this time - far better. Tender and urgent at once. We lingered naked in the damp dark.

'You know what I think?' he said.

'No, I don't know what you think.'

A beat. 'Do you want to know what I think?'

'Yes, of course.'

'I think you should be less defensive.'

'I know. It's...'

'We have great sex, and sometimes things feel very intimate, but then you...'

'...the brick wall, right?'

'...become this bitch. And you don't need to.'

It is the truth. I've always known it. The sort of thing the Boy probably would have said, but only ever when we were screaming at each other, when the brick wall was so high nothing would have gone in much less stuck. Coming from T I could hear it this time, knew it was the truth, that it was meant with no judgement.

That was when it dawned on me exactly whom he reminds me of - J.

J's the one from the second book, my cousin the ex-addict and dealer, who let me live at his when I was running away from the first book, afraid even to be in Britain when the reviews came out. J is the one who has seen his father a handful of times since childhood. When we were small, so close in age, skinny fair freckly little things, people thought we were twins.

J has known me all my life - not most of it, like A1, nor half of it, like A4, nor a lot of it, like N - literally, all my life. He is the person for whom it truly does not matter how much time passes because nothing between us has changed. He is the street smarts to my book learnin', the horse sense to my logic, the chill to my raging inferno. He is the one family member who never judges me. For all of you still wondering why my parents don't know, it's because I don't believe they could handle it. J is the only relative who could and I fucking respect him for it. Not unlike I respect T, even though it's early days.

Whatever else happens after this point T will always be in the category of Man to me - no, it's not simply about having the appropriate equipment. A Man does the right thing and has the right attitude and buys you a beer after a shite day and does not expect a fucking medal for emptying the rubbish. Sure they cry, but never for attention. They were my history teacher at school and my housemate at uni. They are not perfect and make no apologies for that. They are the ones played in films by Clive Owen and Shah Rukh Khan. They do what they say on the tin. N's there. A1 and A4 are. OOP - hey, remember him? we're still friends - is in that gang. A few others I know, a few I've only had the pleasure of knowing briefly. And J, he all but defines the concept. Now T.

What Happened Thursday, Part 1 of 3

Toothbrush came round at half eight. We talked about the previous weekend; he was away looking for a place to live in his new city. He mentioned he'd been with someone else, which is cool, but condomless, which is not so. Arrrrrrgh seriously. Did we really grow up in the same decade? The idea that he could be so casual about his and others' health gave me pause. Of course no one's perfect, but I have slept with a grand total of three - yes, three - people sans latex. Ever. Was this really someone to whom I was prepared to bare my soul? I was irritated with him, stressed from the previous fortnight, and frightened to tell him about the show. As a result the sex was... functional. Okay but not great.

'What's on your mind?' he said after.

I lifted my head from my crossed arms. 'Nothing.'

'You don't seem yourself tonight.'

'You're right. It's a bit... I was going to tell you something, that secret I mentioned... you know? And you sort of stole my thunder.'

'So what is it?'

I had been preparing for this moment almost two weeks. N suggested I be as straight to the point as possible; A4 reckoned I should tell him the sex work part first and forget the rest if it seemed things might be going badly. F just said he knew it would be okay. I had crafted a thousand little speeches in my head: verbose, historical, flowery, plain. But when it finally came down to it I blurted out the whole lot. Rather inelegantly. In about ten seconds.

T gave me an odd look. 'You're having a laugh,' he said.

'I'm not.' I jumped from the bed, gathered an armload of books off the desk and stood over him. 'Now either I'm the world's creepiest fan, or... this is the book in Italian,' I said, dropping it on the mattress. 'Romanian. Portuguese. Chinese. Russian. This is the promo pack for the show when it aired in the US, and this -' I fished a bit of glossy paper out from the pages, '- is the cover of the next book, fiction, first of a series of three, which is published in a month.'

He laughed. He said it was cool, said he'd read a bit of the second book, had noticed a similarity with things I'd said about my cousin J but never quite... yes, he was fine. It was cool. Things were fine. 'In fact I think it's funny.'

'Funny ha-ha, or funny weird?'

'Funny ha-ha.' He asked whether it was like a real secret, or whether he could tell his friends.

'It's a real secret. You're the first person I've told who didn't have to know.' The others, the people who know about the Belle version of me as well as the real one: the Boy, A4, N, F. By that time it was almost ten, so we went back downstairs to watch the show.

 

Top Tip from Justin at BISH: A drop of lube on the bell end before putting on the condom makes it feel like bareback... cheers Juz!

I simply don't know what to write next - about last Thursday or about the weekend. The blog is turning a little T-tastic, so am tempted to tell you about seeing SY (Sexy Yorkshireman, he hasn't had an abbreviation before but does now) on Saturday over following up on the last entry more chronological-stylee.

Hmm.

Well.

Sorry, am going to keep Thursday to myself just that bit longer. It's too good and is giving me much soul food at the moment. Yes, I'm a greedy bitch who never learnt to share. Get over it.

Right. T was considering multiple options for the weekend and chose at the last minute to spend it away. I had tickets to a formal do, so when he couldn't come, had to make alternative arrangements.

Having only written about meeting SY here, a retelling is probably in order. No, there is too much: let me sum up. SY and I hooked up a week after we met, sex was v v good, but three weeks in he gets an attack of the clingy. Unfortunately, I was still reeling from the Boy, weirdly getting wound up over MH (who was for the record so not worth that) - and SY is nearly a decade younger than me so while a lovely lad with loads of great qualities not relationship material. We parted on good terms. He started dating one of his co-workers, I continued doing what I do best, he texted a few months ago to apologise, inform me of his recent breakup and ask if I required a naked housekeeper. I forgave him, said if he still fancied it to try again in autumn. We'd not seen each other since January.

By the way, if it has occurred to you that with the glaring exceptions of N (from London obvs) and A2 (Devon) I only pursue Northerners, you are correct.

I arrived for pre-dinner cocktails five minutes early; SY was five minutes late. I'd taken the liberty of ordering drinks (scotch and soda for him, kir royal for me). 'Hello,' he smiled, and we kissed cheeks. 'You look gorgeous.'

'So do you.' I'd always suspected SY would look delectable in a dj and was not disappointed. It did seem, however, just a touch on the tight side and I said so.

'Give us more notice next time,' he said. 'I've not put this on since uni.'

Still, it was snug in all the right places - he'd clearly been hitting the gym hard this year. We chatted a bit and it was far less strained than I'd feared, helped by the fact that (apart from the second series, the three new books &c.&c. on my side) little of note has happened to either of us in the intervening time. He took my arm and we trotted off to the event.

'So what am I in for, exactly?' he said, eyes passing over the glittery crowd.

'Oh, did I not mention? You're the entertainment. That is one of those velcro stripper suits, yes?'

He laughed. 'The worst part is, you know I would.'

I raised an eyebrow. This is precisely why he was invited. Not that I wouldn't - very much - have enjoyed taking T along, but he and I have never been out dancing. SY, on the other hand, is a known quantity. Likes a drink, likes a dance, likes making a complete tit of himself in public particularly where loud music and shaking of one's arse are involved. Rather like myself, in fact.

As for the rest of the night, many fine whiskys were drunk. Much setting to rights of the world occurred. Mutual appreciation of the girls present abounded. And when the dancing started, SY and I did what we were born to do - dominated the floor. As it happened there were prizes, not that I would have abstained in any case.

For his extraordinary efforts, SY won a bottle of champers. I was only just pipped at the post among the girls by a blonde in sequins, but was assured that really the prize should have gone to me. Ah well - I can do only so much with clothes on.

SY and I flopped on chairs in the corner, panting, watching the proceedings. 'That was fucking fantastic,' he said. 'I would pay money to see the two of you girls dancing again.'

'Have I mentioned I used to be a stripper?'

'I guessed. Woman of many talents.'

'One or two anyway,' I said. 'So is it back to yours then?'

SY shook his head. 'I'm not a homewrecker.' He was referring presumably to the huge amount of time I'd spent during the meal boring him with how amazing I think T is.

'You're not wrecking any home,' I said. 'It's not exclusive. He... you know, he sleeps with other people; so do I. Anyway I've a brunch south of the river in the morning and as you live that way...'

'A convenience fuck?'

'Don't pretend you'd be offended if I said I was using you for arm candy and a place to crash.'

'No,' he shrugged. 'And my housemate's away so we could do serious damage.' We made our excuses, found a taxi, sped off to his, and that was when I learned he'd been wearing a stripey posing pouch under that suit all along.

ObLitChat: SY is reading Understanding Organizations by Charles Handy. I would be reading this month's book club selection, Special Topics in Calamity Physics by Marisha Pessl, but Amazon have yet to deliver it! Grr! Consoling myself with a re-read of Siri Hustvedt's The Blindfold.