SWP splinter in new sex storm: never mind social and economic relations, here comes mighty whitey with the horn

I'm sure the first thing we all thought when we saw the photo of Dasha Zhukova Abramovich and the bondage chair was: ooh, hot BDSM.

My own race play consists of me as Kato doing a kung fu leap on Loved One as Inspector Clouseau, and then yelling at him in some guttural language that may be cod Chinese or just cod landed in Newfoundland.

Sometimes we reverse roles but I am not very good at being a clowning buffoon. There are some things men do better — I'm sorry, gurls, but let's just face the ugly truth on that one.

At other times I pretend I am the leader of the vanguard party addressing the millions (played by Loved One) and shout at him in long words that he can't understand or some such egregious polysyllabic sesquipedalian bumsuckery sublimating my drive for white supremacy that I must codify to render invisible the underlying hierarchy or it will make my friends' heads go pop.

Then there are the times we play Wendi and Rupe. He complains because we have to roll around on Monopoly money and old pesetas from holidays we can no longer afford.

I'm thinking of bringing the Opium Wars into our race play, and do opium while he sails a gunboat up my Yangtze. (Will poppy-seed cake do?)

Never mind the social and economic relations — here comes mighty whitey and he's got the horn.

Lily Allen's Hard Out Here video: the lady doth protest. Or does she?

Is Lily Allen having her cake and eating it with her video, Hard Out Here? The lyrics are sort of subversive but the women in the video are still having to shake their booty for a payday.

The lady of the manor doesn't have to twerk (for a living) to make her point but the hired help do. And she gets to say bitch. A lot.

Charles Shaar Murray says, "What would have been really subversive is if the women in the video turned out to be guys in drag."

Lily Allen and misogyny in the Independent.

Suzanne Moore points out the race dimension in the Guardian.

Raw octopus spunk impregnates woman's mouth

Aargh! Official: octopussy is safer than octocock. Tiny octopuddies implant themselves in a woman's delicate mucous membrane when ejaculated during a sushi meal. Sex and food, my favourite combo. True and gruesome, fugu fish now has a rival in culinary Russian Roulette. And I thought liver flukes were all you had to worry about.

Watch out for high speed octosperm. " ... a spermatophore is similar to a cup of semen."

Here's the bit you need to read from the report in The Daily Mail (don't knock it til you try it!).

'Twelve small, white spindle-shaped, bug-like organisms stuck in the mucous membrane of the tongue, cheek, and gingiva [gums] were completely removed, along with the affected mucosa.
'On the basis of their morphology and the presence of the sperm bag, the foreign bodies were identified as squid spermatophores.' ... According to Science 2.0, a spermatophore is similar to a cup of semen.
The website says: 'Each spermatophore includes an ejaculatory apparatus, which can expel the sperm mass quite forcefully, and a cement body for attachment.'

So many questions: what would have happened if they'd come to full term? Where's the Church on this? What would you name them? Could you sign them up for Eton?

Phwoar! Panda love

Fucking pandas! Or so the news tells us. Last night was the night for bamboo romance and four black eyes — Venus is in Gemini and Yang Guang is in Tian Tian (or vice versa). Good luck, my bredren and sistren. Hope you got it on. Or we'll have to wait another year for her eggs to be in the mood. No pressure. But hurry up.

With our furry chums on loan to Edinburgh Zoo from China for ten years, panda porn followed by the patter of tiny claws is a sure-fire way to draw in the punters.

Here's a video of Tian Tian gagging for it. I sometimes make those whimpering sounds ...

Jack Straw's sex fantasy about dark men and white girls

Cor! They were THIS big!

So Jack Straw draws on the age-old slur regarding men of colour and white women, with the accusation that "some British Pakistani men regard white girls as 'easy meat' for sexual abuse".

I believe this was also the chief fantasy of the Ku Klux Klan when they lynched black men in the Deep South during the days of Jim Crow.

Funny how we are dehumanising Pakistani males at the same time as we are blowing innocent Pakistani people to smithereens in their own homeland with drones, one of the most cowardly forms of military killing machine ever devised. What a fortuitous bit of mind-frakking.

Rather than deal with the breakdown of our society as the rich suck up all the remaining wealth, and having an honest look at how the resulting stresses affect human relations, we demonise an entire race group. Is Straw seriously saying that these men would never have targeted non-white girls? That white men don't traffic and abuse women?

Doesn't any group of males from a background where religious morality sets the standards for behaviour tend to have screwed up attitudes towards women? It manifests in differing ways but there are parallels, the common factors being a sense of ownership of women's sexuality.

Far from being dangerous, I remember the wave of Bangladeshi men who migrated to the East End in the 1970s as being kind to kids, presumably because they missed their own children back home or had yet to have their own families. It was they who were in harm's way, beaten and abused by skinhead gangs who shared the views of swathes of the media and the odd MP.

The Guardian reports:

The judge in the case said he did not believe the crimes were "racially aggravated", adding that the race of the victims and their abusers was "coincidental".

But Jack knows better. Who can guess what this creepy man harbours in the deepest recesses of his imagination? Er, oh we do now.

Some actual research here. Hat tip MartinJJB

Desperate Squirrel video: big nuts get him nowhere

So there I was, minding my own business, working in the garden, when I was suddenly surrounded by mayhem as the squirrels went crazy ape bonkers around me. It's summer and the wildlife is in rut.

I missed videoing the dizzying keystone cops chase around the garden, along the fences and through the trees as my little furry friends raced to procreate. The mother squirrel I'd been feeding very sweetly brought her brood to visit me a few weeks ago but now her sons are all growed up, if you know what I mean.

When I say they have big nuts, I'm not kidding. I did some scientific research (Googled a bit) and discovered that the male gonads of the squirrel drop in the horny season. Well, well. You learn something new every day.

Sad but very funny if you are a female and recognise the symptoms.

Desperate Squirrel video: big nuts get him nowhere

So there I was, minding my own business, working in the garden, when I was suddenly surrounded by mayhem as the squirrels went crazy ape bonkers around me. It's summer and the wildlife is in rut.

I missed videoing the dizzying keystone cops chase around the garden, along the fences and through the trees as my little furry friends raced to procreate. The mother squirrel I'd been feeding very sweetly brought her brood to visit me a few weeks ago but now her sons are all growed up, if you know what I mean.

When I say they have big nuts, I'm not kidding. I did some scientific research (Googled a bit) and discovered that the male gonads of the squirrel drop in the horny season. Well, well. You learn something new every day.

Sad but very funny if you are a female and recognise the symptoms.

Let A Thousand Shaggers Shag: China unblocks porn

Oh dear. I was hoping that the next liberating step in China would have been the end of the death penalty. Or the inclusion of some sort of Clause 4 in the constitution guaranteeing workers a share in the means of production. You know, all that old communist stuff.

But in their wisdom, and in a sneaky move to distract the masses from class struggle, the authorities have unblocked porn on the net.

I think I may still be blocked but who cares? Let them hand jive away. At least it relieves tension from the one-child-policy gender imbalance.

Watch out for bad news being buried while a nation judders to a climax. No, not all at once! You'll set off those tectonic plates.

Wanking is not a city in China.

Now, where can I find a picture to use for this blogpost ...?

Let A Thousand Shaggers Shag: China unblocks porn

Oh dear. I was hoping that the next liberating step in China would have been the end of the death penalty. Or the inclusion of some sort of Clause 4 in the constitution guaranteeing workers a share in the means of production. You know, all that old communist stuff.

But in their wisdom, and in a sneaky move to distract the masses from class struggle, the authorities have unblocked porn on the net.

I think I may still be blocked but who cares? Let them hand jive away. At least it relieves tension from the one-child-policy gender imbalance.

Watch out for bad news being buried while a nation judders to a climax. No, not all at once! You'll set off those tectonic plates.

Wanking is not a city in China.

Now, where can I find a picture to use for this blogpost ...?

SWP implosion: alpha female goes crazy ape bonkers

I was going to write about the implosion of everyone's favourite left cult, the SWP. But then I thought, nah! Fuckit! Let's just watch baboons shagging.

More on the exciting goings on in the British left here at SU and at Splintered Sunrise

Cassandra Miaow wrote this

SWP implosion: alpha female goes crazy ape bonkers

I was going to write about the implosion of everyone's favourite left cult, the SWP. But then I thought, nah! Fuckit! Let's just watch baboons shagging.

More on the exciting goings on in the British left here at SU and at Splintered Sunrise

Cassandra Miaow wrote this

Tube Love: short story on the dangers of public snogging by Madam Miaow

Above the great metropolis the sky was blue, the breeze was light and the trees were in bloom. It was the first day of the year that felt like spring had arrived and they were in love. The kind of love that throws up that magical bubble of crazy happiness around your nation of two and renders you invisible to your fellow citizens. At least that’s how it felt. The thought that people weren’t looking out of politeness, embarrassment or had just eaten breakfast and didn't want to lose it, never entered their collective mind as it floated somewhere over north London.

But it didn’t matter. They were as one and, in this moment, would always be as one. This was ninja love, invisible to all but the most elect sensate beings. Lips velcroed, tongues araldited, eyes shuttered, osculation making ambulation an exciting game of chance with only a few bruises to show for it, they drifted slo-mo in their alien time-scale, oblivious to the waves of homicidal rage from the city commuters with somewhere to be, something to do, looming deadlines and all the rest of the baggage a cruel world could impose. The poor lost fools. If only they took time out and tuned in to the love radiating from the couple with the mashed faces, human relations would be revolutionised overnight.

On this bright spring-like morning — or was it around lunch, time being a moveable feast under the influence of Aphrodite and her chubby cherub with the pointy projectiles — they headed off to the tube station to take in a day of culture. They would dine on a picnic of bargain sushi from the chain of Japanese automats, their love immunising them from gastric complications. They looked forward to their stroll across Hungerford Bridge, a name still indelibly associated in the minds of many with an unfortunate slaughter in the west of England, but not for the lovers, whose clear vision of humanity’s capacity for beauty and compassion in glorious technicolour eclipsed all monochromatic ugliness.

They would immerse themselves in the high art of the South Bank where they would embrace in front of the Bacons, tremble by the Twombleys, and rudely view the Rodin. OK, on this stretch the street performers lacked the expertise, artistry and verve of their New York counterparts, the theatre was full of crowdpleasing schlock, the cinema screened Beowulf in 3D, the concert halls aired the greatest TV themes and a Liberace retrospective, but it was their playground and they would be happy.

The tube train was almost empty. Great! More kissing opportunities. His unspoken mission was to snog her until she bled. She’d already swooned like a delicate Victorian Miss with an 18-inch waist and the blood-pressure of a dormouse. The fact that she was built like the Mongol Horde and dressed like a yeti at this tail end of winter made his ambition all the more touching.

They took the seats along the side of the carriage and turned to each other, him with his back to the engine in case of accidents – you couldn’t be too careful but he always managed it somehow – her facing front, because it kept at bay the projectile vomiting that occasionally threatened to overwhelm her in moments of moderate excitement.

He pulled out his bottle of Carex antibacterial hand-gel because he had touched the button of the tube train door, and offered her a squirt. She smiled gratefully and accepted his kindness, appreciating the metaphor. Thus both cleansed they moved in for the kiss.

Stretching time: that’s what they did well. Each two-minute journey between stations drawn out into a here-and-now never-ending tube of Big Love.

Their faces meshed, tongues probed, vacuum-packed gobbage puckered up as lungs sucked out all the air. She knew it showed off her cheek bones and pulled in her facial chub, rendering her beautiful in his eyes from even this close a vantage point. To him, his stereoscopic vision shot by a childhood malady, she was as huge as a 60-foot movie goddess on the silver screen, only without the merciful lighting craft of masters. But true love soft-focuses you, polyfillas every tiny crease, airbrushes every enlarged pore, photoshops every stray hair missed in your daily depilation. Would there ever come a day when they would betray her under the relentless interrogation of the searing searchbeam of the clarity of his vision once sanity reasserted itself? Never mind. For now, they were as one.

No one could have foreseen the accident, least of all the driver, with his nose in The Sun and his cheddar and pickle sandwiches wedging the dead-man’s handle at Go position.

Up ahead, the hedge-fund manager, whose triple-height riverside apartment carved from a red-brick warehouse that was once a thriving hub of employment for East End dockworkers had just gone into negative equity and who faced meltdown of his fat assetts, ate his last meal of lobster and roquette croquette washed down with a nice Krug, abandoned his Beamer on a double-yellow and made his way to Southwark underground station. Folding his copy of the FT and placing it in his foetal pigskin attaché case alongside his Mont Blanc pen, he moved to the platform’s edge. Taking a deep breath of the underground air made up largely of skin particles sloughed off by aeons of commuters, he allowed himself to topple slowly into the path of the oncoming train.

The driver hit the brakes; the new enhanced hydraulic braking system, installed only that month by the private company and their subsidiaries and subcontractors on pain of a fine that stretched into two figures. Four, if you counted the thirty-two pence. Cheese and Branston and water cress garnish flew up in a cloud of crumbs and into his eyes, blinding him to the tragedy credit-crunching and ripping away underneath him.

And behind him.

Drifting ever deeper into their reverie where time stopped and hearts slowed in unison, she’d felt a slight increase of pressure and given into it, even as it continued in a wave of bliss. He must be riding an even bigger wave of passion that usual, she thought, and opened herself to him, relaxing as he pressed further … and further.

First the teeth went, cracking and splintering through the cushion of lips. Then jaw and cranial bone. Their noses collapsed, cartilage leading bone. Cheeks and brow ridges collided and continued in their inexorable momentum. His was tougher as he had the solid caucasian ridge closer to Homo Sapiens’ Australopithecus past while the flatter more highly evolved profile of her Asiatic origins offered her less protection. But it only mattered for a nanosecond. They’d had but one mind and now they were joined in a single brain.

Yes, this all took place in a split second, but, y’know, time was stretched out like the skin on a bubble of gum blown by a bored teenager at half-term. Their hearts slowed. She waited for the next beat. But it never came.

They were found in the wreckage of the concertinaed carriage, like a Man Ray or a Chapman Brothers exhibit they might have seen that very afternoon in the Tate. Their hair perfect: his fine and fair, hers long, raven cables. In the fireman’s torchlight they could be made out. One perfect sphere of neverending love.

And that is the risk you run when you snog in public.

(c) Anna Chen, April 2009

(If you liked this, try Greased Up And Ready To Go)

Tube Love: short story on the dangers of public snogging by Madam Miaow

Above the great metropolis the sky was blue, the breeze was light and the trees were in bloom. It was the first day of the year that felt like spring had arrived and they were in love. The kind of love that throws up that magical bubble of crazy happiness around your nation of two and renders you invisible to your fellow citizens. At least that’s how it felt. The thought that people weren’t looking out of politeness, embarrassment or had just eaten breakfast and didn't want to lose it, never entered their collective mind as it floated somewhere over north London.

But it didn’t matter. They were as one and, in this moment, would always be as one. This was ninja love, invisible to all but the most elect sensate beings. Lips velcroed, tongues araldited, eyes shuttered, osculation making ambulation an exciting game of chance with only a few bruises to show for it, they drifted slo-mo in their alien time-scale, oblivious to the waves of homicidal rage from the city commuters with somewhere to be, something to do, looming deadlines and all the rest of the baggage a cruel world could impose. The poor lost fools. If only they took time out and tuned in to the love radiating from the couple with the mashed faces, human relations would be revolutionised overnight.

On this bright spring-like morning — or was it around lunch, time being a moveable feast under the influence of Aphrodite and her chubby cherub with the pointy projectiles — they headed off to the tube station to take in a day of culture. They would dine on a picnic of bargain sushi from the chain of Japanese automats, their love immunising them from gastric complications. They looked forward to their stroll across Hungerford Bridge, a name still indelibly associated in the minds of many with an unfortunate slaughter in the west of England, but not for the lovers, whose clear vision of humanity’s capacity for beauty and compassion in glorious technicolour eclipsed all monochromatic ugliness.

They would immerse themselves in the high art of the South Bank where they would embrace in front of the Bacons, tremble by the Twombleys, and rudely view the Rodin. OK, on this stretch the street performers lacked the expertise, artistry and verve of their New York counterparts, the theatre was full of crowdpleasing schlock, the cinema screened Beowulf in 3D, the concert halls aired the greatest TV themes and a Liberace retrospective, but it was their playground and they would be happy.

The tube train was almost empty. Great! More kissing opportunities. His unspoken mission was to snog her until she bled. She’d already swooned like a delicate Victorian Miss with an 18-inch waist and the blood-pressure of a dormouse. The fact that she was built like the Mongol Horde and dressed like a yeti at this tail end of winter made his ambition all the more touching.

They took the seats along the side of the carriage and turned to each other, him with his back to the engine in case of accidents – you couldn’t be too careful but he always managed it somehow – her facing front, because it kept at bay the projectile vomiting that occasionally threatened to overwhelm her in moments of moderate excitement.

He pulled out his bottle of Carex antibacterial hand-gel because he had touched the button of the tube train door, and offered her a squirt. She smiled gratefully and accepted his kindness, appreciating the metaphor. Thus both cleansed they moved in for the kiss.

Stretching time: that’s what they did well. Each two-minute journey between stations drawn out into a here-and-now never-ending tube of Big Love.

Their faces meshed, tongues probed, vacuum-packed gobbage puckered up as lungs sucked out all the air. She knew it showed off her cheek bones and pulled in her facial chub, rendering her beautiful in his eyes from even this close a vantage point. To him, his stereoscopic vision shot by a childhood malady, she was as huge as a 60-foot movie goddess on the silver screen, only without the merciful lighting craft of masters. But true love soft-focuses you, polyfillas every tiny crease, airbrushes every enlarged pore, photoshops every stray hair missed in your daily depilation. Would there ever come a day when they would betray her under the relentless interrogation of the searing searchbeam of the clarity of his vision once sanity reasserted itself? Never mind. For now, they were as one.

No one could have foreseen the accident, least of all the driver, with his nose in The Sun and his cheddar and pickle sandwiches wedging the dead-man’s handle at Go position.

Up ahead, the hedge-fund manager, whose triple-height riverside apartment carved from a red-brick warehouse that was once a thriving hub of employment for East End dockworkers had just gone into negative equity and who faced meltdown of his fat assetts, ate his last meal of lobster and roquette croquette washed down with a nice Krug, abandoned his Beamer on a double-yellow and made his way to Southwark underground station. Folding his copy of the FT and placing it in his foetal pigskin attaché case alongside his Mont Blanc pen, he moved to the platform’s edge. Taking a deep breath of the underground air made up largely of skin particles sloughed off by aeons of commuters, he allowed himself to topple slowly into the path of the oncoming train.

The driver hit the brakes; the new enhanced hydraulic braking system, installed only that month by the private company and their subsidiaries and subcontractors on pain of a fine that stretched into two figures. Four, if you counted the thirty-two pence. Cheese and Branston and water cress garnish flew up in a cloud of crumbs and into his eyes, blinding him to the tragedy credit-crunching and ripping away underneath him.

And behind him.

Drifting ever deeper into their reverie where time stopped and hearts slowed in unison, she’d felt a slight increase of pressure and given into it, even as it continued in a wave of bliss. He must be riding an even bigger wave of passion that usual, she thought, and opened herself to him, relaxing as he pressed further … and further.

First the teeth went, cracking and splintering through the cushion of lips. Then jaw and cranial bone. Their noses collapsed, cartilage leading bone. Cheeks and brow ridges collided and continued in their inexorable momentum. His was tougher as he had the solid caucasian ridge closer to Homo Sapiens’ Australopithecus past while the flatter more highly evolved profile of her Asiatic origins offered her less protection. But it only mattered for a nanosecond. They’d had but one mind and now they were joined in a single brain.

Yes, this all took place in a split second, but, y’know, time was stretched out like the skin on a bubble of gum blown by a bored teenager at half-term. Their hearts slowed. She waited for the next beat. But it never came.

They were found in the wreckage of the concertinaed carriage, like a Man Ray or a Chapman Brothers exhibit they might have seen that very afternoon in the Tate. Their hair perfect: his fine and fair, hers long, raven cables. In the fireman’s torchlight they could be made out. One perfect sphere of neverending love.

And that is the risk you run when you snog in public.

(c) Anna Chen, April 2009

(If you liked this, try Greased Up And Ready To Go)

China builds world's first sex theme park

WTF??? Loveland Park in Chongqing, China, will be the world's first sex theme park. When did that happen?

Prolefeed and objectification is alive and well in the People's Republic. My poor late father must be spinning.

UPDATE: Thanks to Oliver for the news that it's been cancelled.

China builds world's first sex theme park

WTF??? Loveland Park in Chongqing, China, will be the world's first sex theme park. When did that happen?

Prolefeed and objectification is alive and well in the People's Republic. My poor late father must be spinning.

UPDATE: Thanks to Oliver for the news that it's been cancelled.

Greased Up And Ready To Go: short story by Madam Miaow

Private Eye just gave the most damning review to an anthology of chick lit called In Bed With, which is supposed to be all about sex. “No crass wordplay or creamy cliche goes away unbludgeoned. Bushes get trimmed, the word ‘come’ is mutilated beyond recognition, chests are always ample and curves glorious.” I thought, hmm, I can do that.

So they finally greased her up and threw her over the prison yard wall.

She’d heard of this fabled activity so often in her life, as have we all. A strange unlikely event that only happens in bar-room banter and TV comedy scripts. Yet here she was.

Naked.

Shivering in her fresh bikini wax and three hundred dollar haircut.

Oiled.

Waiting.

She’d paid her five thousand dollars to the organisation she’d found on the internet. Oh, yes, she’d eventually succumbed to the inevitable despite years of tutting at the plethora of sex that threatened to overwhelm her family, just like every other nice middle-class mother with kids about to graduate. But with a husband who’d long ago abandoned passion, she’d been vulnerable. Like an overwound elastic band, something had to snap.

She’d sighed as she remembered the early days, when sex was urgent and went on all night and they’d slept into the afternoon. Then they married and, what with jobs and practical day-to-day matters, sex had settled to a pleasant twice a week. Then the twice a week had halved. A bad chest infection that lasted all winter had provided an excuse for a drop to monthly forays into the world of sensuality — they’d never gotten back into the swing of things after she’d nursed him back to health. And then it had stopped. Except for Christmas and birthday treats. And even then ... ye gods! Three minutes? Yes. She had timed it.

Cookery was her favourite way to fill the void. You kill the dying hours preparing the meal and then you get to eat it. At least her mouth was having a good time. Food was her obsession and she had the love handles to prove it, even if there was no love to put them to good use. Internet searches for recipes occasionally led to those sites where some poor soul’s lost daughters and errant sons disported themselves shamelessly. Who’d have thought that sandwiches, cream pies and the humble roast could have laid the way to such loathsome degredation?

At first the paysites kept her out. Who in their right mind leaves a credit-card trail leading back to their upstanding lives and their real identity? Christ! She was chair of the PTA, after all. Then the free porn gathered in wave after wave and washed up on her dry sandy beach. Fear of discovery and discoveries subsided under something stronger. Driven by curiosity, she told herself, her fingers had slipped inexorably, first to the laptop keyboard where swift eager keystrokes soon took her to her chosen destination, and then to her own lap and shuddering dissatisfaction.

They say your sexuality only gets stronger as you grow older. If you are a woman. What sort of cosmic joke was this? Peaking at fifty for womankind, men are left trailing from seventeen. Where the hell are you supposed to cross over? She did the maths and wept. Then she clicked on the link that had been calling to her these past months.

Ecce femina!

She stood there, arms outstretched and waited to be overwhelmed and overpowered by sheer unbridled male sexuality. Men denied the most basic satisfaction, tortured by forced abstinence for years with no prospect of relief, riven by deep subterranean urges stoking up like magma under Mount St Helens. She wanted to be there when it blew, to feel it blast right through her, to be taken to a realm she had dreamt of so often, where fears and guilt fell under primal grunting drives. To be greased and slippy not knowing who was doing what to her where or why and, oh, mama, am I a bad girl who deserves a whupping coz I bin dirty?

The men blinked.

Some went back to their conversations about the state of the food, if that’s what you call it, when their parole was due, and what a bitch she was, no sooner was he thrown into the jammer when she’d gone off with her cousin like he always knew she would. Living in Chicago, but, heh, he’d find ‘em when he got out. Which, due to the body count in the basement, wouldn’t be any time soon.

Others began to work out with Pythagorean maths the viablity of breaking out and drew sketches in the dust. Hey, if someone could get in so easily, surely they could get out.

“Jeez, looks like a sow,” someone said.

“Heck, I’m married. Old lady’d kill me.”

“I might be tempted if you was a buck, but we got plenty of them in here. All you can eat, ‘specially on shower days.”

“Hey, last time ah saw a woman naked I’d just strangled her.” Then louder for the guard, “‘Cept it wasn’t me. That’s what ma lawyer says.”

One huddle of bredren called upon the almighty to smite the Jezabel thrown into their midst as a supreme test which they were up to. Oh, yes, they were up to it all right and would not fail. The more they were up to it the bigger the test and the greater the glory of heaven, o lord.

“Here, sister,” said the Christian, averting his eyes. “Have my jacket. Are you saved?”

Maybe she should have asked for the “trussed up like a chicken” extra. A bargain at five hundred dollars down from a grand if you ordered within the fourteen day sale period. But she’d be needing her hands and so she'd declined.

She threw off the grey denim he was draping around her shoulders, hitching it up each time it slid off her oil-slick flesh .

“Hey. Hey! What is wrong with you? Hey, you with the jacket. Don’t look away. Look at ME! No, not into my beautiful baby blues. Look at me — here!”

Fifty pairs of eyes looked where she directed.

“Oh, I hate it when they look freshy plucked like that.”

She dropped her fists onto her hips. She was angry now.

“What they do? Put bromide in your coffee?”

“Damn sure yells like my old woman. You got a light, lady?”

“Where’d you expect me to keep matches? Oh, yeah, sure. I got a Zippo stashed away. Why don’tcha come and look for it?”

An elderly guard rushed across from the tower, clutching his gun to his chest and tugging his cap down firmly to reinforce his authority. Stumbling to the scene of the excitment-free zone, he chattered into his radio: “Chuck, we got us another one.”

“You all come here like you’re Catherine The Nerve or Belle du frickin' Jour or some sort of Eurotrash prevert,” said the Governor in his office. She perched on the chair on an old denim shirt someone had had the caution to throw over it first, sipping a glass of water, looking like a schoolgirl in front of the principle. “Them French. Damn degenerates. Gimme Liberty fries any day. I’m a hard working Joe with a job to do. And you come in here disturbing my prisoners? Some of them are sensitive. Now, go home.”

She walked back through the prison, past the prisoners filing in after their exercise break, and out through the front gate.

I am SO getting a refund, she promised herself.

[copyright applies]

Greased Up And Ready To Go: short story by Madam Miaow

Private Eye just gave the most damning review to an anthology of chick lit called In Bed With, which is supposed to be all about sex. “No crass wordplay or creamy cliche goes away unbludgeoned. Bushes get trimmed, the word ‘come’ is mutilated beyond recognition, chests are always ample and curves glorious.” I thought, hmm, I can do that.

So they finally greased her up and threw her over the prison yard wall.

She’d heard of this fabled activity so often in her life, as have we all. A strange unlikely event that only happens in bar-room banter and TV comedy scripts. Yet here she was.

Naked.

Shivering in her fresh bikini wax and three hundred dollar haircut.

Oiled.

Waiting.

She’d paid her five thousand dollars to the organisation she’d found on the internet. Oh, yes, she’d eventually succumbed to the inevitable despite years of tutting at the plethora of sex that threatened to overwhelm her family, just like every other nice middle-class mother with kids about to graduate. But with a husband who’d long ago abandoned passion, she’d been vulnerable. Like an overwound elastic band, something had to snap.

She’d sighed as she remembered the early days, when sex was urgent and went on all night and they’d slept into the afternoon. Then they married and, what with jobs and practical day-to-day matters, sex had settled to a pleasant twice a week. Then the twice a week had halved. A bad chest infection that lasted all winter had provided an excuse for a drop to monthly forays into the world of sensuality — they’d never gotten back into the swing of things after she’d nursed him back to health. And then it had stopped. Except for Christmas and birthday treats. And even then ... ye gods! Three minutes? Yes. She had timed it.

Cookery was her favourite way to fill the void. You kill the dying hours preparing the meal and then you get to eat it. At least her mouth was having a good time. Food was her obsession and she had the love handles to prove it, even if there was no love to put them to good use. Internet searches for recipes occasionally led to those sites where some poor soul’s lost daughters and errant sons disported themselves shamelessly. Who’d have thought that sandwiches, cream pies and the humble roast could have laid the way to such loathsome degredation?

At first the paysites kept her out. Who in their right mind leaves a credit-card trail leading back to their upstanding lives and their real identity? Christ! She was chair of the PTA, after all. Then the free porn gathered in wave after wave and washed up on her dry sandy beach. Fear of discovery and discoveries subsided under something stronger. Driven by curiosity, she told herself, her fingers had slipped inexorably, first to the laptop keyboard where swift eager keystrokes soon took her to her chosen destination, and then to her own lap and shuddering dissatisfaction.

They say your sexuality only gets stronger as you grow older. If you are a woman. What sort of cosmic joke was this? Peaking at fifty for womankind, men are left trailing from seventeen. Where the hell are you supposed to cross over? She did the maths and wept. Then she clicked on the link that had been calling to her these past months.

Ecce femina!

She stood there, arms outstretched and waited to be overwhelmed and overpowered by sheer unbridled male sexuality. Men denied the most basic satisfaction, tortured by forced abstinence for years with no prospect of relief, riven by deep subterranean urges stoking up like magma under Mount St Helens. She wanted to be there when it blew, to feel it blast right through her, to be taken to a realm she had dreamt of so often, where fears and guilt fell under primal grunting drives. To be greased and slippy not knowing who was doing what to her where or why and, oh, mama, am I a bad girl who deserves a whupping coz I bin dirty?

The men blinked.

Some went back to their conversations about the state of the food, if that’s what you call it, when their parole was due, and what a bitch she was, no sooner was he thrown into the jammer when she’d gone off with her cousin like he always knew she would. Living in Chicago, but, heh, he’d find ‘em when he got out. Which, due to the body count in the basement, wouldn’t be any time soon.

Others began to work out with Pythagorean maths the viablity of breaking out and drew sketches in the dust. Hey, if someone could get in so easily, surely they could get out.

“Jeez, looks like a sow,” someone said.

“Heck, I’m married. Old lady’d kill me.”

“I might be tempted if you was a buck, but we got plenty of them in here. All you can eat, ‘specially on shower days.”

“Hey, last time ah saw a woman naked I’d just strangled her.” Then louder for the guard, “‘Cept it wasn’t me. That’s what ma lawyer says.”

One huddle of bredren called upon the almighty to smite the Jezabel thrown into their midst as a supreme test which they were up to. Oh, yes, they were up to it all right and would not fail. The more they were up to it the bigger the test and the greater the glory of heaven, o lord.

“Here, sister,” said the Christian, averting his eyes. “Have my jacket. Are you saved?”

Maybe she should have asked for the “trussed up like a chicken” extra. A bargain at five hundred dollars down from a grand if you ordered within the fourteen day sale period. But she’d be needing her hands and so she'd declined.

She threw off the grey denim he was draping around her shoulders, hitching it up each time it slid off her oil-slick flesh .

“Hey. Hey! What is wrong with you? Hey, you with the jacket. Don’t look away. Look at ME! No, not into my beautiful baby blues. Look at me — here!”

Fifty pairs of eyes looked where she directed.

“Oh, I hate it when they look freshy plucked like that.”

She dropped her fists onto her hips. She was angry now.

“What they do? Put bromide in your coffee?”

“Damn sure yells like my old woman. You got a light, lady?”

“Where’d you expect me to keep matches? Oh, yeah, sure. I got a Zippo stashed away. Why don’tcha come and look for it?”

An elderly guard rushed across from the tower, clutching his gun to his chest and tugging his cap down firmly to reinforce his authority. Stumbling to the scene of the excitment-free zone, he chattered into his radio: “Chuck, we got us another one.”

“You all come here like you’re Catherine The Nerve or Belle du frickin' Jour or some sort of Eurotrash prevert,” said the Governor in his office. She perched on the chair on an old denim shirt someone had had the caution to throw over it first, sipping a glass of water, looking like a schoolgirl in front of the principle. “Them French. Damn degenerates. Gimme Liberty fries any day. I’m a hard working Joe with a job to do. And you come in here disturbing my prisoners? Some of them are sensitive. Now, go home.”

She walked back through the prison, past the prisoners filing in after their exercise break, and out through the front gate.

I am SO getting a refund, she promised herself.

[copyright applies]

Bondage Queen Bettie Page dies at 85

Bettie Page









Bound, gagged, flogged and now blogged, Bettie Page, legendary underground pin-up of the 1950s, has died from a heart attack after a lifetime of making other people's pulses race faster.

Prime candidate for "woman your grandfather most likely spilled his seed over", Bettie was more than just a pin-up. In an age when a mere hint of cleavage got you damned as the Devil's Whore, Bettie did fetish with gusto.

In her trademark black fringe, long gloves, pinched waist and high heels, Bettie did not do missionary. She laughed at romance, bought style and class to low-rent sex, made pervs feel like lords (and vice versa, accent on "vice"), and turned women into pasha-pleasing mistresses. Men wanted to slap her around and, hey, she even enjoyed it.

But that's false consciousness, I hear you say, comrades, and opens up a whole wide world of power play and sex games. Me? I'd rather do the smacking. Sigh! Forever grappling with the dilemma of the feminist vamp.

Madam Miaow says ... Stick me in a dog-collar and corset and call me mama. Never had objectification looked so good 'til Bettie booped.




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Bondage Queen Bettie Page dies at 85

Bettie Page









Bound, gagged, flogged and now blogged, Bettie Page, legendary underground pin-up of the 1950s, has died from a heart attack after a lifetime of making other people's pulses race faster.

Prime candidate for "woman your grandfather most likely spilled his seed over", Bettie was more than just a pin-up. In an age when a mere hint of cleavage got you damned as the Devil's Whore, Bettie did fetish with gusto.

In her trademark black fringe, long gloves, pinched waist and high heels, Bettie did not do missionary. She laughed at romance, bought style and class to low-rent sex, made pervs feel like lords (and vice versa, accent on "vice"), and turned women into pasha-pleasing mistresses. Men wanted to slap her around and, hey, she even enjoyed it.

But that's false consciousness, I hear you say, comrades, and opens up a whole wide world of power play and sex games. Me? I'd rather do the smacking. Sigh! Forever grappling with the dilemma of the feminist vamp.

Madam Miaow says ... Stick me in a dog-collar and corset and call me mama. Never had objectification looked so good 'til Bettie booped.




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The Devil's Whore review: politics and sex

With a title like The Devil’s Whore, you just knew Channel 4’s latest costume drama set during the English Revolution (yes, we had one of those) was going to be a bodice-ripping bonkathon.

So it was a bit of a shock to see popular TV tackling the politics of one of the most exciting periods in English history, one that usually gets wiped from our collective memory just because the democrats bumped off a despotic king. The series introduces a new generation to a time when the English argued for a world where human beings were equal in the eyes of God and thereby deserved an equal share of the world’s riches — a sort of ... common wealth.

In those days, and increasingly true of today, that was fighting talk.

During the Civil War (1642-51), the Roundhead Parliamentarians overthrew Charles I when he threatened to bankrupt the nation. Had we not then reinstated the monarchy after the fascinating social experiment of the Commonwealth, we’d be celebrating January 30th, the day the English took a giant step in democratising the political system and beheaded their king.

Heck, this was the birth of the Mother of All Parliaments. You’d think our cinema and TV would be choc full of it. But no, we need Channel 4 and a big dollop of sex to stamp this momentous event onto our brains.

Actually, considering it is C4, the sex is remarkably sedate, performed only by loving couples within marriage or with the promise of marriage. When mere lust raises its head, the heroine’s honour is defended to the death. It is the convention of the tale that the fictional character of, Lady Angelica Fanshawe (Andrea Riseborough), traitor to her class, must shag for the honour of the series title in each episode or we would want our money back, had we paid for this.

Unfortunately, her paramours — and I’m only halfway through the four parter — die violently, each end foreshadowed by the appearance of what looks like Donnie Darko’s six-foot rabbit and the unmissable strains of “Mad World”, Donnie Darko's theme. I am looking forward to seeing who is lined up as Death of the Week in part III and playing spot the deliberate anachronism.


The Devil (top) and Donnie Darko's rabbit — separated at birth

What’s remarkable is that the writers reverse the dictum of 1066 And All That: cavaliers — wrong but romantic; roundheads — right but repulsive. I’m used to hand-wringing accounts of a tortured Oliver Cromwell doing what a man’s gotta do to the noble and misunderstood king — usually played by Alec Guinness, who even the most hardened republican would want to put in their pocket and feed chocolate.

Instead, Charles I is played unsympathetically by a mesmerising Peter Capaldi, just about resisting the attempt to twirl his Van Dyke moustache in villainous fashion. Not easy when it threatens to upstage him in every scene. For the first time, Chas 1 is shown for the cruel vain man he must have been to have played the power game to the end because he believed he ruled by Divine Right. I assume this is due to the writing of Pete Flannery who mesmerised us with Our Friends In the North, which gave us Daniel “James Bond” Craig, and Christopher “Dr Who” Ecclestone.

And when did you ever see a drama even acknowledging the existence of the idealistic Levellers?

I did want to know why Simon Pegg was playing Edward Sexby until I realised this was Life On Mars hero and Dr Who badass, John Simm. Starting as a mercenary on the Royalist side, he is swept along by his secret love for milady and becomes a leader of the Leveller faction of the rebels, proving that the smallest he hath as large a character arc as the greatest he.

Thomas Rainsborough (Michael Fassbender), one of the senior Levellers and as dashingly romantic as any cavalier, famously argued that the “poorest he that is in England hath a life to live, as the greatest he" at the Putney Debates. My money's on him being "the greatest he". I’d give his sermons a good listening to. Yowza!

Dominic West, fresh from The Wire, as a warts-and-all Oliver Cromwell, is implicated in Rainsborough’s demise and contains the germ of the character that would wreak havoc in Ireland but which, along with Scottish events, the writers don’t have time to cover in four hours.

Madam Miaow says ... A thoroughly entertaining introduction to the English Revolution. This is your history. Have fun finding out about it. Wax on ... wax off ...

The English Civil War

Co-creator Martine Brant on the series




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