Category: adult

The Chamber Pot (adult real life story).

The Chamber Pot by Unextraordinarybint
TheChamberPot

Fishing boats bobbed with the movement of the waves against the walls of the barbican as I quickly walked across it’s cobbled stones. A strong wind forced me to pull my scarf tighter around my neck. I had no coat and was freezing waiting for him to answer the door. The walk from Mutley Plain had been painfully fresh. I’ve always found it impossible to keep warm in British winters. Pushing the ancient, wooden door open I followed Robert through the hall and into the study.

He sat in his usual place, at the head of a busy, tall table, his large frame filling the gap which worked as a doorway to the library. He collected ancient manuscripts and occult books. Taking his responsibility, to the English artefacts seriously, he’d built a temperature controlled environment for them. We discussed the Mona Lisa and Rembrandt before he suggested we start.

Nervously I climbed the well worn, wooden stairs to the upper floor. His studio was a jumble. Worked canvasses propped up walls, paints were set up on palates with painted pictures in various stages everywhere you looked, covered with large dusty, stained sheets which draped across the floorboards. He led me to where he’d already started and I tell him I’m impressed.

Robert was a master conversationalist as well as a brilliant artist (painter). Each of our meetings is remembered with fondness. He influenced me. No subject was off limits. He appeared to enjoy discussing the more intimate things in life, especially sex. I’ve met men like Robert all my life. He was gentle, loving and giving. No other men were so at ease with their sexuality. He asked me outright,

“Do you enjoy sex?”

Please remember that at this stage in my life sex is something which ‘happens to me’ and this overweight, greying man is at least twice my age (at least). I laugh at him. He continues,

“I’d love to make you orgasm. Nothing more. I’d just love to taste you Samantha.”

I don’t believe him and scoff at his suggestion. This is not good enough for Robert. He is affronted. He now wants to know why wouldn’t I let him lick me. With no reason to lie, I tell him, I don’t believe he wants to lick me just to make me cum. His expression is stunned and then he asks,

“Why not?”

Now, that was an interesting question.

My answer was long and badly expressed. I’d never had an orgasm and didn’t understand why men licked me other than to get my legs open. Oral sex seemed to be a momentarily affair before being presented with a penis to suck or envelop. I didn’t think I could cum, I suggested female orgasm wasn’t real and he assured me it was.

Robert asked me if I trusted him and held out his hand for me to hold. He led me through to a bed at the back of the studio and told me of it’s history before leading me through to a private bathroom of sorts featuring a sink and large gilt edged mirror fixed on the wall.

He stood me naked in front of the mirror, making me look myself. Robert persuaded the younger me to look at each of my reflected features. He told me that I was beautiful and worthy of worship..something I still have problems with today. He realised my self esteem was too low and as such I didn’t ask for pleasure, I didn’t know I could or should. We moved back to the four poster.

Passing me a large ceramic chamber pot he asked if I would mind emptying my bladder. It was cold and I’d been holding for hours so it took seconds for me to fill it with hot steamy urine. Robert took it from me as if it were a holy chalice; his hands either side and without hesitation, drank the lot, wiping his mouth across with his sleeve when he’d finished.

I was out of excuses.

I lay on the bed amongst the lace silk throws. Giving me the first and second orgasms of my life, Robert took away layers of fear that inadequate sex education, peer pressure and society had placed upon me.

As his tongue explored and licked I felt more worthy and empowered than I thought possible. I didn’t worry about how I smelt, tasted, looked or sounded. Pushing deep into my vulva, his tongue played, licked and teased my clitoris into spasms of joy that came over me in waves.

My first orgasm was like climbing a road hill on a bicycle, straining to reach the top then feeling my body flipping inside, as I fly over the peak doing wheelies and nothing is coming the other way to spoil the ride as I roll down the other side.

We continued to do this for weeks during breaks of him painting me. At the time I believed him to have several intimate relationships with women he had children with, around seventeen of them. Robert and I were never ‘true loves’ but we enjoy meals out together and probably some of the best conversations I’ve had. He was a profoundly interesting person with a depth of personality not often found.

My informative years (the 80s) had been full of advice for sex safe and how to not get pregnant or get HIV. It was heavily aimed at gay people and avoiding sexually transmitted disease. There was very little information for straight women other than how to put on a condom, how not to do it in the arse unless you’ve stretched (still hurts) and how to give head, (it’s suck not blow).

At twenty years old, it was liberating to talk to someone like Robert. Someone who knew something about sex, the bones of how it really worked. An older man. I’d been having consensual intercourse for five years before meeting him. No lover had brought me to orgasm. Like many women I had pretended out of boredom, embarrassment, pity and wanting it to finish.

Without meeting Robert I may have gone on to become one of life’s unfortunates, those who’ve never had the pleasure of an orgasm. His honesty, courage, patience and intelligence saved me many miserable decades and I’m proud to have known him before his premature death.

I’ve gone on to have many wonderful lovers and learnt much about carnal knowledge but it would still be over twenty years before I purchased a chamber pot.

Thanks for reading.

The Problem with Shagging Sheep.

Comments on the medical device TVT mesh.

There is some talk of TVT mesh implants and how they have ruined women’s lives around the globe, but not enough, in my opinion, as it’s a scandal.

It’s development is interesting. The TVT’s inventor piloted the initial study on sheep. Unfortunately, the gentleman died but his work was continued…He worked for Johnson & Johnson. They recognised the monetary value in a product which would cause problems for life…and also supply Tena lady.

TVT is a questionable treatment for an ‘out of control’ bladder after childbirth and it was promoted as ‘the gold standard solution’.

It was designed to be implanted for life. Essentially it is a long tape placed around the bladder. It replaced existing operations and saved an hour in theatre.

It’s made from polypropylene plastic mesh – the same material the marine life have problems with.

The TVT is wrapped, blindly with needles, around the outside of the vagina, under the bladder and through the pelvic bone – if you are lucky the surgeons will miss your skene gland, rectum and clitoris.

It ought to be mentioned, originally it was designed for ‘awake’ patients so the tension could be adjusted.

I want to go back to the pilot though. I’m assuming that they used the TVT mesh on sheep who’d previously given birth AND who accidentally wet themselves. I pity the research student whose job it was to find suitable candidates for study.

How many days were really spent finding pissy sheep?

A problem with TVT mesh, is as the plastic gets older it shrinks. It can make penetrative sex difficult/impossible and generally it causes severe pain as your other organs move against it.

How did they research the sexual element with sheep? Assuming they bothered.

And then, how would the researchers extrapolate the data? I’m thinking all the comforting cups of tea in China will not get a sheep talking. And, were the sheep checked afterwards to see if they were still dribbling? Did they put smelling salts under their noses to induce a sneeze?

There is also the bipedal thing…I know it’s small but surely an important factor?

How could they check if the sheep could lift something? A sheep has never worked in it’s life.

Whatever, I await removal.

Thanks for reading.

Edited to add cartoon and to say coincidence or not (day after I posted this piece) the media have covered many personal stories as news regarding mesh implants. But they are muddying the waters by suggesting these implants are biological. They are not all mesh is synthetic or synthetic based polypropylene. Also,, there is some suggestion that the implants have just not been fitted correctly…no, it is more than that so all these pieces people are being fed in the media have been bent out of shape to stop the blame falling at the medical devices doorstep – where it firmly belongs.

 

Ruby Wax and Me – Nipple Poetic Story

There is a woman called Ruby Wax.

A more lovely woman you would not see.

She has cheeks of red which glow, and she hates them so.

Excitable she be and there are none funnier than she.

In earlier days she travelled around England to circumvent our inhabitants.

With Hit and Run, she met me.

Robert Lenkievitz’s model was I with breasts that you could anchor a ship on.

A study of St. Anthony found me naked on the BBC.

The next day, at my work, Boss was grinning like a jerk.

By lunchtime she’d made me coffee and then slyly asked me.

Yes, it was me.

Modelling naked on the TV.

Better though, I said, glowing rather red, was being interviewed by Ruby Wax.

I was immortalised on canvas and TV and that history could haunt me.

But proud, eventually, I would become; of my breasts, nipples and bum.

Meeting Ruby Wax who is a comedy best was the making of that assignment for me.

Afterwards, she went down to Longleat, for tea.

I went back to my bar, as the maid I really was, then I got fired because I’d posed naked for The Painter. See? One rule for one and another for me.

Now, I have Ruby Wax on my Facebook but she does not know that I was the body on which one of her episodes did close.

The End.

Thanks for reading.

https://youtu.be/TqlN3zJUWEY – you tube links are rather unreliable in UK so you could search for,

“Ruby Wax meets Robert Lenkiewicz in Plymouth, 1990. Hit and Run. “

Thanks for your time.

https://youtu.be/TqlN3zJUWEY

It took a year for this program to air – hence the two job reactions.

Friday the 13th Flash Adult Horror

Friday the 13th November 2020

The Modelling Assignment.

“Good Luck!” Jessie’s mother shouted seeing her daughter readying herself at the front door. The tall blond girl pulled her Chelsea football scarf from the hat rack and threw it around her neck and put her head around the kitchen door. Her mum was stood at the counter making a cup of tea.

“Thanks Mum. See you later for dinner. ‘love you.”

“Just remember you are as good as everyone else there…better! I love you too!”

Jessie pulled the front door behind her and pushed her scarf up against her chin. It was cold. It was an oddity of modelling work to be ahead of season. Today’s casting was for swimwear. It would be filmed in December for the following Summer.

The beaches will look enticing, empty, and warm because the models will make it look hot and inviting. The reality being that they were usually modelling bikinis and one pieces in between dashes into warm blankets and gulping down mugs of soup. There was always lots of makeup to cover up the red noses.

Today’s casting was in Paddington Recreational ground. Jessie travelled across London on the underground and stood waiting for the 81 bus for the remaining part of the journey. There was another model, Jessie could tell by the portfolio, stood waiting and they smiled at each other.

The woman was tall, blonde with blue eyes just like Jessie but her skin was clear, and her hair was long and extremely straight. She had a different shape to Jessie in that her body looked more toned and you could see a hint of muscle.

“Are you going for the Yellow Studio casting for Weeelo swimwear by any chance?” Jessie asked.

“Yes, I am doing this.” The model replied with thick Eastern European accent. “You doing this also?”

Jessie smiled and nodded as the bus came chugging into the stop and they both got on. The rest of the bus watched as they showed their Oyster cards to the driver and looked for somewhere to sit. A middle-aged man sat on his own stood up and invited them both to take his bench so that they could sit together.

“Thank you, very much.” They both said in unison and laughed together.

More people got on the bus and it threaded its way over speedbumps and through narrow streets until the stop at the bottom of the Park. They got off and brushed themselves over, using each other’s eye to check over each other’s back and hair. Both satisfied that they were as presentable as possible they walked into the leisure block where the casting was to take place.

A woman with a clip board approached them, “Girls! Are you here for the Weeelo casting?”

Her energy was high and contagious, both Jessie and her new friend and competition replied,

“yes!”

They were given pens and led to seats where they could fill out the forms. They were the usual model declaration. They gave the rights of the photos to the photographers but also stated that these were just for casting purposes and could not be used for published work.

A few moment later the employee came back with a selection of swimwear and told them a makeup artist would be with them shortly. She introduced herself as the photographer’s assistant and then said they should wait while she went to get drinks.

Jessie and the other model looked at each other.

They were both thinking the same thing. Why did they need makeup artist on a casting for swimwear? These were supposed to be ‘dummy’ shots. To see if the fit is right and whether they can model. Jessie walked to the end of the waiting room they’d been put in and opened the door. Expecting to see photographic lights, umbrellas, and rails, she was shocked to see nothing.

She looked at her perspective coworker. “What’s your name?”

“Greta Hombronas. What was in there?”

“Nothing was in there. There is no photographic equipment in there.”

“Maybe they shoot it on phone?” Greta responded her eyebrows raising optimistically.

“Maybe. Maybe we should get out of here Greta. After all, I got this lead from The Standard so where is everyone else?”

“True, it is not very busy here.” Greta looked seriously around the place, as if for the first time, “I think, maybe, you are right. Shall we go and get coffee?” She smiled at Jessie with a perfect set of railings and stood up.

Footsteps drew their eye to the door.

“Not going, already are we?” Stated a tall, dark haired man, stood there. Jessie moved closer towards Greta as four more men gathered behind him. The girls looked at each other nervously picked up the forms they’d filled out and tried to walk through the men, out the door. The men blocked their way and pushed them back into the room.

Jessie stood helplessly as two of the men held her arms fast on either side of her. The only man who had spoken took a syringe from his inside jacket pocket and jabbed it into her stomach. He pulled her chin up to his face as he plunged the contents of it into her.

She was aware that Greta was also being held and injected as she slipped onto the floor, between the strangers, into a deep sleep.

******

It was dark when she woke as she could not see through the binding on her eyes. Her arms and legs were bound with rope. Her fingers and skin could feel the familiar touch of wood. But this wood was unfinished and rough. She was in some sort of crate. It felt like it was packed with straw and there was a strong smell of animals and urine.

Trying to shout out for help found her mouth packed with cloth and her throat could only manage a low moan, raspy from thirst. What had they given her? Her head was hurting, and the straw packed between her naked thighs and under her arms was itchy.

She banged her bare heels against the wood at her feet three times. Listening out she thought she could hear three bangs back as engine sounds bombarded the space around her head, hurting her ears with its powerful thrusts.

Jessie tried to sleep, going in and out of consciousness with waking moments where she felt that the crate was being moved. The soft sensation of swinging and men’s voices shouting in the distance before a bone bumping journey which lasted over a day and was unbearably painful. It was three days and two nights before they stopped still, and silence surrounded.

Jessie could hear low whimpering faintly in the distance, she tried to bang on the floor of her crate, but the straw had shifted down under her during the journey and she achieved no sound that Greta could hear and be comforted by. Tears started flowing from her closed eyes as the crate was opened and she felt hands stroke her breasts, her stomach and between her legs.

“She looks good. No damage that I can see. Aww look, she cries. Is there more sedative?”

Jessie felt the prick of the needle as it entered her stomach shortly before passing out again.

***************

Jessie woke up lying next to Greta in a large marble room. The floor was cold and hard. Raising herself up to sitting position she started massaging her legs and arms. Welts were red on her wrists and ankles where the ropes had been but now, she wore a simple white robe.

Greta was also dressed in white. Her face was bruised. She had been savagely beaten as her face was swollen, both eyes were blackened and her bottom lip badly split. She laid on the floor looking up towards the crystal white ceiling without moving. Blood was spotted on her gown around her pelvis and her feet were bleeding.

Large, golden doors at the end of the room opened and a group of children, lined up in a row, walked through looking straight ahead of them. Behind them, also in a line, came nine women dressed in dark green with yellow sashes and veils. The women stared at them as they walked past and stood, queued, near a smaller door, looking back at the entrance.

Jessie tried to stand up, but her legs were not able to take her weight and she fell over. The women chuckled as the men made their way into the hall. One of the men shouted something out towards the women that Jessie did not understand and they skuttled away still laughing.

“They think your blond pubic hair is very funny. I must admit to finding it a little off putting so my aids will come and shave you to my tastes. It is lucky you are a virgin.”

He walked around them, his shoes tapping on the floor near her hands.

“Your friend was not so good at looking after her honour. He prodded Greta with the tip of his shoe into her torso. She did not react. It was not felt necessary to protect her from the workers. She fought hard, as you can see.”

Jessie tried to say, “What will you be doing with us?” but her voice was still suffering from the effects of the cloth and she needed water badly. Her head spun but she could make out three beds being rolled into the room, scraping lightly along the marble. Greta was lifted on to a white single width bed. Women came in with screens and placed them around the larger bed.

Three women came over to Jessie with a bowl of warm, scented water and a razor. Two of them held her legs open whilst the third shaved her bare. She sat, in shock, just watching them. Willing herself to wake up from this nightmare and be back at home. Time for her tea, sat chatting with her mother. The women continued to talk and laugh. Jessie blinked furiously but could find no words.

The woman shaving Jessie turned to the man and asks him something and the man shakes his head. His eyes closed and a smile dances upon his lips as the woman pinches Jessie’s bud hard between her finger and thumb. She brings the razor down hard across it and in one swift, strong movement, removed it. Blood splattered over the white gown as Jessie tried to kick the women holding her.

Her screams were met with a punch in the face and cloth back in her mouth whilst the women then swiftly stitched up the gaping hole and sprayed it with antiseptic to stop the bleeding. One of the women clapped three times in the air. A white hatted dwarf, his eyes facing the floor, came with a gold dish and collected up the bloody flesh.

The women pulled Jessie up onto the larger double bed. Partitions screened her off from the rest of the room. Her arms were tied up above her and her legs were tied apart to golden attachments on the bed. The women came, and one by one, left a red rose on her stomach.

Jessie’s eyes grew large as the tall man came to the bottom of the bed. He lifted up his robe, “Ah such beautiful body. You will be forever beautiful my lovely.”

He pulled her down towards him, her arms stretching, and shoulders popped. Her screams muffled and she tried to twist her body painfully away. He pushed his fingers into her bloodied vulva, exposing her vagina. He lifted his gown and penetrated her with one sharp thrust, releasing himself immediately.

Raising his hands in the air he raised his hands and clapped three times as he withdrew from the bed, his gown falling back down to cover him. Jessie turned her head to see a young boy come in with a water bowl. Without looking at his master or her the boy reached underneath his gown and sponged him clean of her blood.

The partition was removed, and Jessie was untied from the large bed and placed on a single bed near to Greta’s lifeless body by four of the men carrying each limb. Jessie could feel their hands touching and probing her before binding her again with cuffs attached to the beds.

One of the men approached and stuck sticky tape across her mouth. Forcing the cloth deep into the back of her throat it muted the moaning sounds which had been escaping her.

Silence then descended over the large hall as everyone left. Jessie and Greta were laid head to head, naked and bound for what seemed like hours. Jessie wrestled with her right hand, forcing her thumb to dislocate she pulled her hand free. Working quickly she pulled the tape off her face and spoke to Greta as she worked to free her other hand.

“Greta can you walk?”

Jessie reached out her free hand to touch her new friends face. It felt cold and sticky and she knew Greta was dead. Cold, stark fear flooded through her as the coldness of Greta seemed to seep into her own body and sap her strength.

“Oi. Nah!” Shouted a deep male voice from across the hall.

Jessie saw the tall man. He’d changed his gown to a black robe with white flowing ribbons and was flanked by the children. Jessie looked at his face and at the children’s.

“Please let me go. You have one murder on your hands. Do not make it two. Please. You don’t have to do this…” She pleaded, staring at him deep into his black eyes.

“Ah this is not murder my lovely lady. My Queen. This is ritual. My family have performed this ritual for luck and prosperity for over three thousand years. We feast upon the most honored rose lady and she brings us luck. This year, this is you.”

My children will prepare you for the feast.

Jessie screamed, pulling at her tied hand, as the children open their long red satin coats. They each drew out a blade and ran towards her…

The End.

South African Women Be Careful

We know the media do their own things these days and news isn’t what it was. The mesh scandal was quickly swallowed up by covid19 news here in the UK.

The TVT polypropylene – the vaginal sort. It is dangerous and pharma are now going to push it at other countries. In order to make you want it they may tell you it’s worked really well here, it hasn’t.

And I found this…

SA specialists argue for bladder sling surgery despite NICE ban recommendation
LIARS

The ban is in place for a reason. You are not being denied something that is good. It was not licenced in your country because it isn’t safe. PR companies will be writing articles saying how wonderful it is. Terms like ‘gold standard’ will be used and they will claim only a tiny percentage suffer side effects.

We have fought long and hard to be listened to in our countries. Many of us are maimed and more of us cannot have sex comfortably, if at all. Plus, we still have the wee problem.

The same firm who makes them, Johnson and Johnson, advertise constantly on our TVs to sell us the pads to clear up after our bladders. Ironic.

However, we organised, we’ve realised that many of us had untreated bugs in our bladder before the operations and that was partly responsible for the loss of control.

Rather than sort this out they claim it’s our physiological makeup and surgically attempt to fix us.

It is always down to the individual but a life without sex is pretty grim. The Gynaes here have dismissed us for decades with comment like “you can still do anal”. (Not everyone likes anal).

Stay safe and please do not believe everything the pharma tells you. Look to traditional methods.

There is an old surgical method which was used for centuries which doesn’t involve shoving plastic in your pelvic region. A couple of stitches in the right place. Could be done with cameras etc still. Do not let them put plastic inside you. It makes you feel ill.

Thanks for reading.

End of today’s rant.

In Dice We Trust – Poem and Article

We’re going down

The shadow found

Yet, faith in each other

Will scupper others, and

Harmony will ground

They are thinly around

With barks lesser than bites

In mobs they attack

The Sportsman’s ship

Having taken sail in the night

Throw out your arms

Do rituals and charms

Say a prayer if you must

Once the needle is in

Changes begin

In the NHS we all trust

Tonight we strike up a light

We remember what is right

We put pay to the false narratives

All the chiroptera and fedoras

And NHS board room snorers

Will burn into the history of the Brits

The End.

By Samantha unextraordinary Harris.

*Remember, remember!
    The fifth of November,
    The Gunpowder treason and plot;
    I know of no reason
    Why the Gunpowder treason
    Should ever be forgot!
    Guy Fawkes and his companions
    Did the scheme contrive,
    To blow the King and Parliament
    All up alive.
    Threescore barrels, laid below,
    To prove old England’s overthrow.
    But, by God’s providence, him they catch,
    With a dark lantern, lighting a match!
    A stick and a stake
    For King James’s sake!
    If you won’t give me one,
    I’ll take two,
    The better for me,
    And the worse for you.
    A rope, a rope, to hang the Pope,
    A penny of cheese to choke him,
    A pint of beer to wash it down,
    And a jolly good fire to burn him.
    Holloa, boys! holloa, boys! make the bells ring!
    Holloa, boys! holloa boys! God save the King!
    Hip, hip, hooor-r-r-ray

Thanks for reading. First poem is mine the second is a traditional one – pagan. Pagan meaning ‘villager’ of course, it’s true meaning.

The 5th November celebrations in my country. They remember the time that religion attempted to overthrow our government. Back then, in the 1800s, we didn’t have newspapers or the media. We remembered things with poems and songs.

It was the Catholics back in the 1800s – hopefully no other religion would be so stupid.

Us English like our freedoms.

Every 5th November we celebrate by burning a dummy ‘guy’ on top of a bonfire. We usually have lots of fireworks too. This year, I don’t know what will happen. Large gatherings are illegal. Anyone found outside could get a fine up to £10,000.

But, this is England, our united kingdom spirit will not be soured.

Recent celebrations of Guy Fawkes night have found great entertainment in burning a likeness of anyone who happens to be really annoying the British public…

one of my favs

I think you get the idea.

It’s a great release and way to get celebrate without harm. It also is a celebration of continued free speech in our country. I know that the English will still find a way to celebrate. Things may seem really dark right now, and soon the nights will be coming in.

The sun will go down around 4pm and many of us will be happy to be home in the warm. Those of us still lucky to have work will be cursing the cold winds and rain. They will be turning their collars up, wrapping those scarves around their masks and looking forward to the Spring weather. In the mean time there is much to be thankful for in an unmaterial way.

Freedom and happiness, it’s not either or – it’s not a choice, both are essential for life. I’m grateful to live in a country where I have both. Long may it continue.

Today I am hoping warmth and peace to everyone, everywhere.

Thanks for reading.

2020 5th Nov 6pm

The Menopause – Blunt Adult View

Menopause – What is the point? This article is my personal relationship view and own body issues with ‘the change’ and I will talk about how it makes me feel sexually, emotionally, physically and mentally. I am going to discuss my fantasy sex life so if you are easily offended you shouldn’t read.

The list of ‘side effects’ which are linked to the menopause are bordering on stupid and could go on for pages so I’m going to concentrate on the main ones which affect me, mainly, of sexual appetite, sexual performance, foggy thoughts, hot flashes and night sweats

How many women go through the change without so called side effects? And can we really call them side effects when it is evident, they happen most of the time?

I’m fifty-one and have been going through the change now for four or five years.

It started, for me, with vomiting. Constant vomiting. I had that for two years.

It was then noted that my ovaries had probably shut down my womb had been previously removed so I didn’t have periods to stop and I was put on HRT.

I was on HRT for two years until I started getting breasts cysts and then advised to come off the HRT by the breast cancer clinic. My symptoms returned almost immediately. My concentrated work flow decreased. My anxiety increased. But the breast cysts did go…

The night sweats have returned with vengeance. The hot flashes and flushes are a real bind too. I now have Cyclizine on prescription for the nausea.

I got to thinking about the purpose of these hot flashes and flushes. The human body doesn’t generally do things unless they are necessary.

Why do millions of women still suffer from these things and would there be an evolutionary reason as to why these two symptoms, especially, are so prominent.

For myself I have not really lost my sex drive, but I have lost the ability to have the energy to do anything about it. In my fantasy head I’m attending the local dogging site regularly and doing trains of men one after the other.

The men I fantasise about are generally strangers. They are usually imagined as overweight and possessing small penises that cum quickly. I fantasise that I am filled with their cum and they are queuing to do me. Then perhaps there is a clean up guy who licks me until I cum then I’m open for business again attending my queue.

Gang bangs were never my thing and I’m pretty sure I wouldn’t want the reality as some guy with a huge cock who takes ages is bound to join the queue and my pain level would interfere with the pleasure journey. Be assured that Grannie is not about to go dogging.

I have a TVT which makes certain types of intercourse and sex very painful. The fact that the mesh interferes with my fantasy sex life as well as my actual sex life is sad and something perhaps one day the medical profession could look into? However, for the moment, this is the sex life that I have. One where I am wanting and unable to scratch.

Hot flashes. A sudden hot feeling from head to toe. This makes me feel ill and like I am about to pass out unless I completely get naked. I literally have to strip off every time it happens so that I don’t pass out (I have mitral valve of the heart). I live and work from home and live alone so this is not a problem – unless a neighbour calls without phoning!

Evolutionally, it feels like my ovaries are making themselves known and felt, like they are screaming “hey we’re still here, we’re still useful, come and fertilise us!” My skin is bright red like a beetroot so kind of ‘beacon like’. Red is usually a sex switch colour in mammals after all.

The same could be said for the flushes, full on sweat from head to toe. They happen mainly at night time for me. A time when people are thinking about love (and sleep). The moistness wakes me up. I’ve often perspired from head to toe and the bed sheets are drenched, the duvet is drenched, and the pillows and mattress are drenched. Again, the only way out is to get completely naked and uncover myself.

In order to get back to sleep I have a system of towels, dry blankets and a dry sofa which help me get through each night.

Not the environment for a sexual relationship but I do feel incredibly horny whilst sweating…

Trying to find any research is remarkably hard. Afterall I am a woman and all women go through the change so why isn’t there any research? We are half of the world’s total population at any one time. Why are these things called side effects? Surely, they are just effects of the change?

Also, why is it a blanket HRT treatment with zero look at what is actually lacking hormone wise? Transgender patients get a better service from the National Health Service. Women who still want to feel like themselves are the bottom of the pile it seems.

I’d love to know if other women are horny like me or if perhaps this is a side effect of the TVT? Everything I read tells me I should be getting drier down there…not so. Everything I read tells me that my sex drive will lessen…. not so. So, what is going on?

From the male’s point of view sexually a woman who has gone through the change can have sex without a condom and without fear of getting pregnant but why would women still want to have sex when they can longer get pregnant? Does this mean that women’s sexual organs are useful and necessary beyond the child rearing? Is this why it is denied constantly? Or am I a ‘one off’…?

As a woman gets older the vagina gets narrower. It can often get less wet, perhaps this is why I fantasise about lots of cum, as it would lubricate proceedings…? However, I’m still as wet as I was when I was a teenager, so I don’t fantasise about cum because I need it to lubricate…it’s more than that, much more primal. The cum represents ‘want’.

For me, I do not like a big cock or even the thought of a big cock (remember I don’t have a womb). I don’t need it and it is the sperm which excites me. The feeling of being wanted so much a man is willing to give me his life juice, men cumming super-fast is more exciting as it means he couldn’t control his want for me (in my fantasy).

This is probably the reason so many women join dating sites for an ego stroke and then leave. Women, well I certainly do, need to feel wanted. If my man isn’t dry humping me at every opportunity, I think he’s looking elsewhere.

This leads me to the emotional side of not being fertile. Knowing younger women have more to give, are more beautiful and youthful and that I am going into ‘crone’ stage is depressing. Many of us adopt the name ‘Grandma’ during this period of our lives and the change is more than physical. I’m not a bitter crone but many of my friends are and I cannot bare their company as they sit bitching about those younger. I stay in, a lot.

I spend the day (when I’m not ripping my clothes off) thinking about men and trying to remember what I was doing. I’m writing three books, all on the same fictional theme, and the organisational skills necessary are complicated and unique to my project. I get so confused that I have weeks between being able to write anything conjoined. Choosing to concentrate on shorter easier to accomplish articles seems to be how I cope. I need to feel productive.

Creative frustration is the outcome. I can create constantly, I do but much remains unpublished as it is ‘Bernard Manning Style’ poetry, angry and personal. It is not the complicated building of characters and chapters towards my books…my future, my way out of my TVT situation. I need money to get the removal and recovery treatment. So, not being able to be as productive as I was is an internal torment.

Piles of unpublishable material, ideas for the books, chapters and bits of the storyline for the books lie in different places around the flat, on different formats, laptops, books scraps of paper and every time I go to collate them, I freeze. I often think I need a manager, but I cannot afford a manager. I need myself as I was but that is not possible. That person has gone but her ambition still remains.

Alarms are needed for my memory. If I place something in the oven or start running a bath, I must also grab the digital alarm, put a time upon it and take it with me in my pocket or near where I am settled. This way when the alarm goes off and/ or forget it I will eventually realise that I have the alarm on me for a reason and go and investigate why I have it. This system helps me hugely as before I was always burning my dinner and overrunning the bath.

It is certainly motivation and management for long tasks that I struggle with most. Procrastination is obviously the problem but that comes from fear of failure and I don’t fear failure I am confident, so this frustrates me more and possibly adds to the brain fog as it adds to my anxiousness.

I am considering looking for another lover and am wondering how to word the advert to avoid the obvious physical properties. Something along the lines of Menopausal Woman Needs Man with High Libido and Small Cock would do but seems a little forward for Grandma.

Thanks for reading.

Smooth – Poem

It took hours of squeezing here
Positioning there
Contortionist tricks are nothing
To a woman who cares
I checked thoroughly with two fingers too;
But, still one managed to sneak through
There is little more bothersome
When every bit is smooth
Then visibly you witness
Just one hair poking up
Lifting it’s head like a buttercup
Saying hello to the world
Seemingly unaware of
My recent attempts at it’s cull
The razor and soap is now away
So, this stubborn one
Is here to stay

The end.

By Samantha “unextraordinarybint” Harris
Written 19th September 2020
Hertfordshire.

Naughty Ones Know – Poem

I live being unclothed

Loving the feel of my hair on my back

But live in a world where naked is attacked

My hair brushes and

Shoulder blades

Pats and soothes me there

To take away someone’s’ hair

Is to take away some feeling of care

Our hair keeps us calm

At the end of a twiddler’s arm

Naughty boy, he made me laugh

Naked in the shower

Although the soul is close

The distance is not narrow

The glass could not have been thinner

As he wiggled all about

I thought sausages for dinner.

I wonder what is wrong with me

Lack of a good seeing to, probably

I do miss the tease, the flaunt

I can still worship at the front

But this alone cannot keep a man

Was this part of the plan?

I wish to truss up doctors like chickens

If I can.

Practice on them, as a woman on a man

Chickens that cluck and I won’t give a fuck

If they get caught up in chicken wire

In fact,

I’d send in a Rooster to stir up their desire

Gleefully I’d watch as it’s stops the blood flow

To their special parts

Then they’d know

Ah, I only jest, I think of the dancer

His wiggle, a giggle, one of the best yet

I can think about playthings

Plan scenes

But mesh makes intimacy a fantasy

But my mind still works.

Jerks.

I’m as sexy as can be

I’ve learnt to circumnavigate

My current barren state

I invite them to play with me

Yep

Role play is where I’m at

Down there is where you’re sat

A doctor you can be

A beautiful nurse

The woman of your dreams

She will know all that you need

Relax, chill and trust in me

In schemes, I’ll be stuck in your head

You will have me in your bed

But me, true me, remains aloof

Thinking about tea,

Sat here nakedly.

End.

By Samantha “unextraordinarybint” Harris

This was written a few weeks ago, locked down under covid19 conditions.

I’d just been told my surgery for the TVT mesh removal would be postponed again as I have lung disease and they couldn’t possibly risk taking me into hospital. I wonder just how much longer I will be left like this. I make the most of it but cannot help being horny, bitter and a little twisted.

Thank you for reading.

Putting your money where your mouth is.

Well I finally did it. I almost forgot that I had done it, Whilst transferring savings to cover an Iceland shop I saw “wordpress” £36 and then I remembered that I had bought a blog space. It was not a quick decision, buying the blog, I’d been thinking about it for ages as I find it easy to type.

That is many thanks to Mrs Summerbee from  Durrington Comprehensive School and two years of typing lessons. I do love handwriting but let’s face it we are all getting older and anything easier physically works for me. And although pens are great these days I still cannot help myself from pressing too hard on the page and ending with familiar throbbing hands.

I have, for the last thirty-five years kept a diary, a journal. Mainly as a release of emotions that I had no one to share with in life. My journal was a way of offloading all the horrible thoughts in my head that I could not convey to anyone else. Sometimes it would be pages of moaning about pain, physical pain, sometimes it was about my emotional pain over parents, family or friends.

My journal was accepting of me. I needed that. I still do. Not so much now that I have a faithful and generous lover. One can never underestimate the effect of being alone can have on ones mental health. Remember that one when telling your friends that they are better off on their own.  Having someone who wants you in their life is one of the best feelings in the world.

My mother had left me as a one year old child with my Aunt and never came back for me. My father, having remarried, came to get me to live with him and his new wife and her little girl. I spent the next thirteen years being their eldest daughter.  As an adult I learnt to fake confidence to get on in society but would still run to my diary to write my deepest secrets and thoughts.

One of the few regrets I have in my life is the destruction of several years of diaries when I married my first husband. One of those ‘new beginnings’ situations. Throwing the history to the fire to start afresh, as if that history didn’t happen. I regret it as it did happen and now I don’t remember it all. None of it. I just have the feelings of the memories which are bad. They are dark feelings. However, I know for a fact, during those years there had been good times. I like to write an upbeat account of my day if possible. Now I regret not being able to look back on the years up to twenty one years old. Thankfully, as I said, I have few regrets.

My written entries in my journals have become few and far between the last five years or so.  This partly because of health but mainly the realization that I will die one day and someone will have to decide what to do with all my diaries. I looked into it and discovered that people are able to leave their diaries to the The Great Diary Project so that is what I will do with my written ones and well this digital version, who knows, maybe I will just disappear into oblivion lost in the digital world. Does it matter to me? I don’t really know.

Why do I still want to write a diary? No one has seen them to date. I have spent so much of my life trying to fit in and be normal that it is maybe time to explore the extraordinary life I have really lived. I do have a unique perspective. I left home at 17 years old and have managed to survive in the world without any family support. I’m 48 years old now, I think. I accidentally celebrated my 42nd birthday twice and as a consequence am now quite confused about how old I am.

Whatever, I have paid my money so I have to do it now. I have started my blog. Forgive me.