Heat Treatment

Autumn is here and yet my summer of bed bugs rolls on. The irony that I thought the days of risking these and STIs was over when I stopped my casual sex journeying around different bedrooms across the city is not lost on me.

My Master and Princess however have made the ick factor easier to deal with. Around Easter time, just as they went on holiday the other consequence of casual sluttery caught up with me when a small sore in a very sensitive place turned out to be herpes.

The awkwardness of that only lasted as long as having to text them both in time before they boarded a long flight and it didn’t look like I’d been fucking behind their back while they sunned themselves. By the time they were back from their trip, we’d all more or less forgotten about it and none of us have had issue since.

Bed bugs on the other hand are less painfully physically but truly one of the most stressful and unpleasant and oddly upsetting and violating experiences of my life. Herpes felt no more significant than a cold sore but these make me feel contagious and dirty and have brought up all kinds of psychological challenges I never expected.

As I’ve said before there’s been a distinct lack of fucking in my house recently and most of the dirty talk has been about the disgustingness of insects not the smut of sexual innuendo. But it’s also allowed me to see a whole new side of my relationship with both my partners and created a different kind of intimacy between us.

In fact I’m currently camped out for a day or two in their spare room while I wait for the new pest control company to solve the errors of the first pest control company and there’s something about sharing a living space I didn’t expect to enjoy as much having always been the third person in relationships with my almost pathological need for space.

Having their company and support has definitely made the whole invasiveness and awfulness easier. Having accidentally hired a bunch of incompetents to begin with having strange men in my house all summer has been mildly annoying rather than anything else but having now hired a company who know their stuff, it’s made me feel oddly exposed.

I think we all know that I have a fairly thick skin when it comes to sexual matters. I’m not an exhibitionist but I don’t waste time these days on unnecessary shame either. So I didn’t bat an eyelid when the pest control guy phoned to apologise that he’d had to move some of my underwear that I’d hung on a rail to be heat treated.

He didn’t reference that it was all stuff straight out of an escort site or the old school version of Agent Provocateur but just wanted to make sure I didn’t think they’d been being nosy. I appreciated the customer service and the proper job baking bed bugs to death and finally freeing my house up again.

But when he called back to say that in doing the rest of the inspection of my flat he’d had to move the bags in the bath, my face flared hotter than their heat treatment. In heating your house to 60 degrees to kill the bugs, you are advised to move things that will melt or explode such as aerosols or candles or ‘hand held electrical items’.

This meant I’d taken the bottles of lube and my Doxy out of the bedside table reluctant to make bed bug hell more horrible or expensive by damaging that too. I’d bagged them up and put them in the bath to protect them but a rogue bed bug in the bathroom had led to the technicians having to take my Doxy out and check it before having to phone me to tell me this.

I’ve rarely had a more awkward phone call. Having got up early and done more by 9am than I usually manage in a day I wasn’t thinking when the guy started stuttering about opening the bag in the bathroom. Tiredness had me thinking it was the bag of facecloths I’d left to hot wash but the heat of embarrassment made me squirm inside when he practically whispered the words ‘personal toy’.

Two thoughts went through my head at this point. ‘Thank god I hid all the dildos in the garden’ and ‘thank god I never have to see you again’. I’ve heard ‘sluts never get cold’ but I was unprepared for the burning sensations in my cheeks and chest of knowing there were two complete strangers in my house holding my super powerful sex toy and seeing my sluttiest underwear and I had no idea what they were saying or thinking about it.

There is such a world of difference between the sexual image you portray to the outside world and style yourself as and the side people see by accident. I felt as awkward and obvious as the times someone has walked in on me fucking or seen me without invitation. If Sir had told me to leave the Doxy where it might have been spotted, I’d have felt no shame (even though I’d probably have declined due to workplace sexual harassment.)

But this inadvertent sneak peek into my sexual life left me surprisingly uncomfortable all day. When I went home, everything was packed neatly and without any sense of voyeurism but each detail made me wince. The giant jiggle balls in the same bag. The fact the lube is actually for anal play. The purse full of spare condoms long since not needed in a long term relationship. The Helmut Newton photos in the bathroom.

Your home hides and displays so much of you when you invite people into it and while mine paints an accurately slutty and sexual image of me, I also realised I don’t want that conveyed to strangers especially by accident. Like Loyd Grossman had gone through the X rated keyhole, I hoped I hadn’t just become pest control gossip.

But it did take my mind off the bed bugs. Especially when the company called to say they’d be sending the technician back in ten days to inspect the property and I realised I would have to stand face to face with him trying not to show my embarrassment and knowing there would be no point hiding anything now.

If I wanted to the bed bugs to die before now, I had an almost equal urge to curl up and die myself. Clearly I’ve met my slutty kryptonite in bed bugs and I need them gone if I am to regain my sexual superpowers…

Heat Treatment

Textures

Nothing has ever stood in the way of my sex life quite like having bed bugs (and apparently having hired the pest control equivalent of the Chuckle Brothers to sort the problem.) Months in and I now have no actual bed which cramps one’s style supremely.

I half joking tried using the Doxy while perched on this massive essentially balloon and the whole ‘on holiday but definitely not a sexy mini break’ vibe meant I just couldn’t get in the mood. It was as erotic as queuing for a shower at a campsite.

And then about 36 hours later to compound the saga, the seam popped on my airbed and I had to buy a new one. So be warned, the Doxy is so powerful it can break beds. I’ve put mine quietly away until I am more than 18 inches off the ground on a giant cushion just in case I burst it too and end up in A&E with an embarrassing tale to tell.

But worse than this, the constant bed bug siege means the bed, normally a place of rest and calm and enjoyment for me has become a battleground. I’m jumping at every piece of fluff, Sir has been bribed into doing manly acts moving the frame rather than manly acts to me on the frame and Princess is on bite watch. All of us are terrified of infesting their flat as well.

I’ve been getting naked as decontamination not foreplay and been terrified to go near their bed *just in case* but on Friday night Princess had a reason to be wearing latex panties and we realised that we were bed bug proofed in the hottest possible way allowing us to play while not undressing.

I put Princess on her hands and knees and ran the Doxy over her latex clad cunt and up and down her thighs and finally she got why Sir and I love the feel of it so much. This time the Doxy and the rubber worked to break Princess in all the best ways. The texture allowed the vibrations to pulse right through to her clit as I stroked and teased that soft sensitive skin right at the edge of the panties until she came hard and begging for even more sensation.

She’s rarely looked hotter than in latex with smoky eye make up and that look of utterly being undone by an orgasm she didn’t believe would happen. I love knowing her body better than her sometimes. It fills me with pure joy to give her that much pleasure.

And it made me ridiculous horny too. I was wearing a pair of jeans since right now I need clothes you can wash on 60 degrees to beat the bugs. No slinky skimpy lingerie for me at the moment. In fact I’ve become so dedicated to Sir’s order not to wear panties for him I didn’t even have them under my jeans.

Normally the seam on jeans makes them annoying to wear without underwear but right now having it press against my clit and rubbing against the Princess’s latex it was perfect. She was so wet I could hear the latex lubricating itself and I didn’t care if I left a wet patch on my own outfit.

She ran the Doxy over my cunt as she pulled the material up and down against my clit using fabric as much as a sex toy as the vibrator. And each time I squirmed hard enough to push to orgasm, she pulled the fabric as far from my cunt as possible to edge me.

And when I got a tiny bit bratty trying to pull the denim down again she pushed my hands over my head and since it was an evening about textures, she pulled her fishnet stocking off and tied me up with them.

Sir always wanted me to domme Princess but recently she’s discovered that I’m so naturally submissive that her taking control of me makes me even hotter for her and she very much likes telling me what to do. And as much as I love giving pleasure I’ve discovered that I love lying back and taking pleasure with no other distraction.

I was blissed out lying back and hands over my head and ready to be given pleasure like a the slutty version of a cat wanting to be adored when Princess stopped me zoning out by sliding my zip down and spanking my bare cunt.

She spent a while edging me back and forth, slap, smack, stop until I actually asked to come because I was so desperate to let go and just enjoy one of those orgasms that takes you right over with Princess’s hands on my bare skin and the Doxy pulsing against my swollen clit.

Definitely the most fun I’ve had with my clothes on for quite some time…

 

Textures

The Edge

I won’t lie. I haven’t been blogging much because I was distracted by some big old life stuff too but it’s mainly because my bed bug problem continues with seemingly no end in sight. Apparently the heatwave has caused an increase in them especially in London and mine have been compounded by a company who don’t know their arse from their elbow dragging out the treatment for weeks.

Not even my best flirting with workmen skills have helped this time because a) I can’t fuck a man who deals with wasps for a living without crying and b) no man wants to sleep with a woman who he knows has bed bugs. It’s the slutty customer service stand off. And it’s been miserable.

Princess reacts badly to the bites swelling up and itching and I’m also acutely aware of the risk of bringing them to her and Sir’s house. The things people do not mention in the peppy little articles about poly and safe sex. So while I’ve been seeing quite a lot of Sir and Princess, it hasn’t involved much time in bed.

Part of me has loved branching out into much more conventional ‘dating’ behaviours as a triad and I’ve enjoyed each trip to the park, dinner cooked, movie watched or night out but much as I like the boyfriend/girlfriend aspect of my relationship with them, I don’t want to  be just friends. I want to fuck them too.

So it all appeared to be back on track and Princess was ready to sleep over last week and took the opportunity to try the newly positioned bed (thanks to the bed bugs) out by tying my hands over my head and edging me for some time by slapping my cunt until I came in a squirming heap. But sadly it was her with the red marks when we’d finished not me and she had to go home leaving me to sleep alone.

But like when you allow yourself just one small taste of anything, it made me unable to keep pretending I wasn’t horny and I wasn’t missing our usual fucking habits. And I think it might have done the same to my Master and Princess because yesterday turned into all about orgasms.

Princess and I whiled a way a wait for Sir to get back from work with her capturing her enjoyment of giving me orders and controlling my orgasm again. She brought me so close to orgasm with some well placed spanks to my clit piercing I begged her to let come and then rewarded her with some undivided attention to her own clit until we were both in that state of ‘I might burst if I have another orgasm but I don’t want to stop.’

We hadn’t mentioned our greed to Sir instead sitting down to dinner when he got home and enjoying some good news but maybe he picked up the mood because instead of crashing out early after a business trip like he often does, he was in the mood to initiate orgasms.

He’s bought a pair of spectacular heeled platform boots and came into the living room to show me them. He’s a tall man anyway but in these he was towering over both us, legs for miles and cock enjoying the feel as much as Princess and I were. Almost 6 inches taller than normal, he had us take turns to kneel and suck his cock, gaining extra enjoyment from the extra effort it took both of us to reach it.

And that extra height made sucking cock all the more intense for me, slipping further down my throat than I can usually take. Princess’s deepthroat skills are second to none but mine are tentative to say the least. There’s always a moment I simultaneously think ‘oh yes’ and ‘I can’t’ and I lose my confidence and stop.

Sir pushed me hard last night with this point putting me on my hands and knees on the bed while he fucked my throat and pulled my hair and stroked my back and the pleasure/pain moment was even more overlapping than usual during deepthroat. I loved it and hated it and wanted more and wanted to stop. I wanted to please him and I wanted to fight him to get away.

But while my brain panics and my body isn’t sure, my cunt knows exactly how it feels with my clit being swollen under Princess’s fingers while Sir pushed my throat to its limits and I came for them both. I do so much love that extra edge pushing myself to submit adds to sexual acts for me.

And then I found the other aspect to my Master standing closer to seven feet tall than six feet. His cock goes even deeper into my cunt than before. Every time he fucks me I wonder if my cunt has a limit for cock and last night I realised once and for all, it doesn’t. There is at point at which his cock is too much. He fucked me harder and deeper than I think he’s ever done all balanced on high heels and it reduced me to such a cock slut I genuinely thought I was going to squirt from penetrative sex for the first time ever.

I actually didn’t really notice his orgasm or Princess’s orgasm I was so wrapped up in coming over and over again on him fucking me into a whole new level of cock worship. I love that feeling inside my cunt afterwards when you can feel just fucked you’ve been but last night I could feel it on the outside too.

The pleasure/pain of the whole evening continued every time I sat down or moved and felt the sexual equivalent of a well worked muscles and it sent a little shiver of enjoyment into my whole body with each reminder. I presume this what virtuous people feel when they hike high mountains and the body feels like muscle memory and achievement. I scale the heights of cock instead.

And best of all, Sir was all pleasure and no pain in his heels so hopefully he’ll be keen to use the boots to dom me into a greedy fuck toy again soon…

The Edge

Heating Up

I am usually a pale Irish person wrapped up in layers like a human onion and having a passionate affair with my electric blanket and revelling in cold weather. But I am absolutely loving this hot weather in London at the moment.

Normally hot weather gets me super horny and ready to reach for the ice cubes but I’ve been a bit distracted by the ongoing life admin of the last month and the my bed still isn’t quite ready for human visitors again sadly so my libido hasn’t reached quite the heights of the thermometer yet.

But I’ve been rediscovering the simple joys of spending times lying in parks in hot weather with people you want to fuck. There are few more enjoyable things than this for me. Something about the heat, the fact you aren’t wearing that many clothes and being relaxed and lazy creating both intimacy and the thought of fucking later. It’s such a rare pleasure in a climate like ours and I love that I’ve been able to do it so often this summer.

My Master and Princess and I made the most of Pride a few weekends ago lying in the park together after they were on their floats. We got delightfully tipsy and took advantage of the fact Pride is not only the day you can be openly LBGTQ+ in the city but openly polyamorous too. We could laze around all afternoon obviously touching each other like partners can do to show affection and ‘coupledom’ which otherwise might cause people to react strangely.

We made even more of it by walking hand in hand across the as the three of us to Vauxhall for a night out before coming home to fuck on the sofa, made horny by public shows of affection, vodka and how relaxed London is at Pride.

Princess sat astride me while I put the Doxy between my legs and fucked herself against it like the biggest cock possible while my Master watched us cock in hand and we all tumbled into bed sleepy with alcohol, orgasms and the heat. He was even hornier next morning with his hangover and fucked me so hard and deep for long I could feel it in my cunt for the rest of the day each time I moved position lying in the park again all day.

It reminded me of long hot summers when I was younger when heat made me seek out cock even more than my usual slutty self. There was the summer of 1995 when I had finished my GCSEs and Northern Ireland found peace for the first time. My shifts at a diner that opened til the wee small hours gave me ample opportunity to meet men all summer.

There were countless nights coming home in the broad daylight of dawn, knickers stuffed in my handbag after staring off drinking on sunny evenings and dancing indoors in the dark forgetting it would be bright again when you stumbled out the club or house party.

Then there were long afternoons in the park with the guy who would become my boyfriend where I pretended to be a good girl who would only let him put his hand down my bikini bottoms when he’d rolled me one of his excellent joints. I’d suck his cock in his baking hot bedroom with the windows so wide open the neighbours could probably watch and then do the same at work in the walk in freezer with the door propped open so anyone could have caught us.

Those long hot summers that feel careful and endless are perfect for fucking and I was lucky enough to get another one just after I moved to London. I seemed to spend the whole summer in a bikini top and a denim skirt that barely covered my ass soaking up the company of men who looked good with low slung jeans and no shirts on.

I kept my cunt shaved so the only bush in town was the ones I’d lie behind so one particular guy who liked the great outdoors could lie on his back drinking a beer and chatting casually with his friends while subtly stroking my cunt and making me come silently and secretly as if nothing was going on.

I also had a semi regular thing going with a beautiful man from Australia who seemed to bar tend in all the best dive bars and clubs under a railway arch over the city. I’d get a text telling me where every so often and turn up to avail myself of the free drinks he’d pour me until I was tipsy enough to follow his orders to flirt and dance with other men knowing it turned him on.

I’d be pressed skin to skin to a strange man feeling that frisson of heat and sweat in a confined space knowing that if I looked over the bartender would be watching me and his cock would be hard. We’ll fall in cabs after his shift and behave in disgraceful ways that Uber ratings have rendered impossible in 2018 but that got him well and truly ready to fuck all night.

But the best nights of that summer were with another semi regular fuck buddy who happened to live in the OXO Tower. I never established if he was lucky enough to have the coveted social housing in there or the sub-let of all time but high above the South Bank looking out over the shimmering heat and sparkling lights as the river reflected both back up again, it created a London bubble of misbehaviour I revelled in.

Tucked a few floors below the posh restaurant, barely visible from the street and with balconies big enough to keep the neighbours away, I spent more than one night there kneeling down, sucking his cock and staring up at the London scene around me. Other evenings we both stripped naked, drinking chilled white wine on the balcony and fucking.

I seem to recall losing a pair of panties over the side of the balcony on on occasion and walking home with a breeze up my skirt failed to curb my horniness or sluttiness. In fact thinking about it makes me think I need to up my slutty game this summer while the heatwave lasts….

Heating Up

Bugging Out

So I’ve been a bit quiet recently because life has just been throwing all kind of sex blocking stuff at me. Between exams, family crises, new jobs, old jobs that get busier, travel and deadlines, kink and fucking have had to step back slightly.

But nothing has fucked up my fucking habits quite like getting bed bugs. I defy even the horniest person on earth to feel frisky when you’ve got unwanted bedfellows. It is not the kind of action I want on my mattress trust me.

Poor Princess got bitten badly and put me on notice til I could get it sorted. We managed to fuck a few times on the sofa but even that wasn’t ideal. I might have a big sofa but it’s definitely a struggle to fit three people on it and move around too much.

People often talk about fucking in bed as if it’s boring and vanilla and interesting people fuck all over the land in increasingly wild and crazy places instead. Now we all know I like a changing room or two and there’s definitely fun in the exhibitionism and secrecy of an illicit fuck in a strange place on the odd occasion.

But having had a mis-spent and slutty youth, I mainly associate sex in strange places with bad sex. Being young and horny like many teenagers I had nowhere comfortable to fuck most of the time. The only beds I encountered were in student houses often bedrooms barely conducive to spending time in and heaped with coats with parties dodging getting caught by people looking for the lighter they’d mislaid.

And that was if you weren’t fucking in even stranger and more awkward places than that. Desperation and lack of opportunity drove me to have sex in more alleyways than I’d care to admit. There’s not much room for finesse when you are banging beside a wheelie bin. Nor do toilet cubicles lend atmosphere to the proceedings.

I’ve also fucked in the grounds of a church (in fact I think I’ve been non sectarian and managed to orgasm in the grounds of both a Protestant church and a Catholic chapel.) Being non religious the trappings of that never bothered me much. I just thought of them as fairly secluded places you didn’t always have to have sex standing up.

I felt more guilty about the time I fucked a guy in the grounds of an old folks home in case I accidentally gave someone’s granny the fright of her life. Keeping an eye on lights going on and genuinely getting splinters in my arse off the pine tree I was leaning against made that moment memorable for all the wrong reasons.

Teenage fumblings are fine when you’re drunk and horny but once you switch to have time and space for sex it’s revolutionary. Even a one night stand is improved by skin on skin contact rather than only being able to expose the bare minimum of flesh needed. Only being able to fuck standing up or bent over from behind gets restricting and often awkward if like me you are considerably shorter than most men.

Being able to sprawl out on a bed gives so many more opportunities and angles it becomes easy to take that for granted and think it’s being boring. But there’s such a joy in being able to fuck at a different pace each time and use your space to stretch out and get to know your partner’s body to give them the most pleasure possible and receive as much pleasure back as possible. It’s extremely tricky to lick cunt any other way.

Plus a bed you use frequently gives you scope for the use of toys. We have duplicates of our favourite sex toys at both our flats. But you can’t really carry a dildo in your clutch bag and get someone to use it on you when you climb over the fence into a park late at night. The same goes for lube which is of course essentially for things like anal or even giving a decent hand job.

You learn so much more about sex from spending time in bed and you also get to spend that post sex time too. I think you learn as much after fucking as during fucking. You can debrief, decide what to do next or not and simply get to know each other better so that there’s more understanding sexually or emotionally. Pulling your skirt down and your knickers up while looking for a bin for the used condom doesn’t have quite the same bonding experience.

So having my bed off limits and being terrified to infest my Master and Princess’s bed either really did a number on my libido. I found it hard to get quite as horny knowing the sofa wasn’t a fun choice but a necessity. Plus having bed bugs definitely made me feel more dirty than any STI I’ve ever had which crimps your style somewhat.

It was with utter joy this week that I handed over an eye popping amount of money to get my house professionally treated and get my sex life back. Because the best treatment for bed bugs is extreme heat I had to remove anything that might melt from my bedroom. The man on the phone instructing me specified candles and anything ‘hand held or battery operated’ in fact.

In between the sheer bizarreness of spending a good hour taking all my dildos and sex toys out of their box and wrapping them up in plastic bags to hide outside in my garden, my interest was piqued to revisit these old friends. I buffed my latex catsuit and stockings before hiding them too and then pictured wearing them again soon.

Putting the toys back in place, I found myself lining them up in size order and then switching them round to order of favourites before back to size order so I could ask Sir if I could start my stretching training again. It’s never a bad idea to keep your hand in. Especially when that means Sir can get his hand in again soon.

I’m delighted to have my bedroom back with nothing else in there except who I invite. Although funnily enough in all that time off I still didn’t christen my new carpet. Looks like my Master and Princess and I will just have to reacquaint ourselves with every room going…

Bugging Out

Groupie

Princess and I are basically opposites in every way except one crucial one. Both being sluts, we were obsessed with the groupie lifestyle when we were teenagers. I suspect this was a bit of a chicken and egg situation. I don’t know if being a born slut made me seek this stuff out or if coming across it made me a slut but unlike chicken and eggs, you can combine both to enhance your enjoyment.

Sadly neither Princess or I grew up anywhere with access to being a proper groupie (although my first ever email address did have a reference to wanting to as I drunkenly allowed a friend to pick it for me and she clearly knew me well.)

Princess stuck to reading Pamela des Barres’ book along with listening to the music of those who had the pick of those notorious groupies. And clearly she had better taste in sexual fantasies than my teenage interests in tight trousered, big haired LA cock rockers because she neither regrets her early email addresses or her sexual awakenings.

These days I’d probably decline my chances with some of the men I dreamed of back then (debauchery means most haven’t aged well) but my original fantasy has never got old. I’d still get down on my knees in front of a line of horny men with hard cocks and suck their cocks in turn as they watched each other.

So when Princess and Sir went to see the Rolling Stones recently and she revelled in reliving her teenage feelings about Mick Jagger it made me wonder who my band line up would be now if I was creating my own supergroup of cocks to suck. Being indecisive I didn’t make any firm choices but there was one person I’d never say no to and would take any chance to let my inner groupie out to play with.

I have never been a fan of Led Zeppelin’s music but from an early age Robert Plant in leather trousers made me feel all kinds of things I didn’t completely understand. The infamous mud shark story left me with a guilty sense that I should be more disgusted than I was but definitely should have alerted me to my kinky interests sooner.

I think I’ve made my feelings about men feeling the need to speak to women in public clear before. So when years ago when standing perusing a selection of biscuits in a posh deli in central London I whipped my head round ready to use the equivalent of Choco-Liebniz as a weapon when I heard a man striking up conversation about cookies with me.

I could literally feel my mouth fall open as time stuttered into freeze frames and the biscuits hung in my hands like I had T-rex arms as I realised that man was in fact Robert Plant. Large as life and right in front of me discussing biscuits as my mind immediately ricocheted between blank incomprehension, disbelief, filthy thoughts and guilt over my (literally) naked objectification of him over decades. I may even have blushed.

Unlike many hell raisers, he wore living well extremely well and there was definitely that sense of sexual confidence I’d always imagined. I stuttered something back about the biscuits my mouth as dry as my knickers were suddenly wet and I almost willed him to leave me alone before I was so star struck I embarrassed myself.

I must be able to bullshit brilliantly about biscuits because he started asking me questions and advice on cake too. My mouth kept answering calmly and logically about marzipan while my mind screamed at me to just abandon all my life rules about consent and hang ups about initiating sex and just throw myself at him in public right now.

Each time I opened my mouth to reply to his conversation I had to double check I hadn’t just said ‘fuck me now’. I didn’t have the background of Continental foods in mind when I’d fantasised about sucking his cock, but sluts are nothing if not adaptable. I could fuck a long term obsession up against a freezer if it was my only chance and not care about the criminal record for public indecency to fulfil a lifetime ambition.

Being a slow learner and prone to overthinking I started to think as the conversation went on that actually he’d mistaken my taste for dressing all in black for being the shop staff instead of anything raunchier. And then I heard him say ‘shall I get us a coffee then?’ I don’t drink coffee but as I say, sluts will be flexible the situation calls for it.

Before I could accidentally sabotage myself, he ushered me to a table, paid for the cake and biscuits we’d been conversing about and ordered drinks. I attempted to look nonchalant, pretending as such things were everyday occurrences to me. I wondered if I should Google the nearest hotel where he could take me and fuck me senseless or if international rock stars with a reputation knew these things without my help. I did think fast enough to text the friend I was meeting to ask could we cancel, knowing fine rightly I’d fake my own death if that was the only way to excuse myself.

A cup of coffee and some cake appeared on the table and he sat down waiting for the waitress to bring the rest. I normally love flirting. Flirting is foreplay usually. But twenty plus years of fantasising is also foreplay and I needed little else. He started eating the cake and asking me about myself rather than prolonging any more chat about baked goods.

Robert Plant was quite definitely flirting with me and I have no idea what I told him. In my mind he was giving me orders to strip for him, not asking about my interests and hobbies. What do you say to this? Well, I enjoy going out and staying in and picturing your cock going in and out of my mouth until my eyeliner runs and I beg you to fuck me?

I was almost relieved when the waitress came over to give me a moment to breathe. I needed a moment to regroup my slutty superpowers. I waited for the second coffee to be set on the table so I could flirt properly. And waited. The pause was momentarily longer than expected and I looked around to hear him say ‘oh did we arrange to meet here?’

It was me guilty of mistaking someone for the shop staff this time as the well dressed young woman in front of use was clearly his girlfriend and if looks could kill, it wouldn’t be my awkward flirting that finished me off after all.

I introduced myself as politely as you can when you were shamelessly about to fuck someone’s partner as he started the kind of innocent explanation as to why we were having coffee that only ever sounds extremely incriminating. I’ve rarely felt as frustrated in my life sitting there as she whisked him away briskly making damned sure I didn’t have the chance to pass him my number and cursed that he of all people didn’t have an open relationship.

His girlfriend then insisted on ordering drinks to take out so they were standing just enough in my line of sight as to be both awkward and tantalising in equal measure. Plus I had to sit and drink the coffee I hate in order to cover my less than innocent intentions while kissing goodbye to the chance to turn my adolescent fantasies into very adult actions.

I watched them walk out just as my extremely prudish friend walked in. She hadn’t got my text and she certainly hadn’t got the interest in slutty men I did so I couldn’t even share my moment of almost groupie glory with her.

Instead I sat and nodded occasionally as she talked as I used my brush with reality to really enhance my fantasies for when I got home. I think the orgasm was definitely increased by the delayed gratification but also the seal of approval of my sluttiness by one who knows best…

Groupie

YES!

As I write something incredible and life changing has happened: Ireland has repealed the 8th Amendment to their constitution which considered the life of an unborn foetus equivalent to the person carrying it. This effectively prohibited abortion even in the most exceptional and life threatening circumstances within Ireland.

To access abortion Irish women had to travel outside the country, mainly to Great Britain but sometimes to Holland and pay the full costs of the travel, time off work and the procedure itself. This put abortion outside the reach of most people. The younger you were, the poorer you were, if you already had children and needed childcare, if you were disabled or had immigration issues, abortion was priced out of your reach. Even budget airlines cost too much on social security.

And you couldn’t just ask people for help. The shame and stigma of abortion in a country that for years had mother and baby homes and Magdalene Laundries that literally locked women up for being pregnant and took the babies they were forced to birth away was immense. In places like Tuam, those babies ended up in a mass grave. Elsewhere they were sold to couples wanting to adopt. The last mother and baby home in Ireland closed in 1996. That’s the year I turned 18.

The culture was cloaked in wanting to protect the unborn but really it was about shaming sexually active women and denying their rights and bodily autonomy. The case that triggered yesterday’s referendum was that of Savita Halappanavar, an Indian dentist who came to work in Galway. When her wanted pregnancy turned to miscarriage and infection set in, she requested an abortion to save her life. But because the foetus still had a heartbeat as it miscarried the 8th Amendment prevented doctors from acting as to hasten the end of the miscarriage was illegal.

Savita took took seven days to die from sepsis in a Western country with less access to maternal rights and healthcare than her native India. The case was pivotal for Ireland and set the path for the referendum (Ireland must hold national referenda to change any aspect of its written constitution. It has previously held them on divorce and same sex marriage as well as the 8th itself in 1983 when it was still illegal to buy condoms without a prescription.)

The only countries with more oppressive abortion laws in Europe than Ireland are Northern Ireland, Malta and the Isle of Man (although there is campaigning under way there to change the laws.) Northern Ireland has the unique quirk where its citizens can hold equal Irish and British citizenship but access the full rights of neither country. The UK government exempted Northern Ireland from the 1967 Abortion Act meaning that abortion is still illegal there. It will not become legal or easier to access because of Ireland’s referendum.

Northern Ireland remains the only part of the UK that still prohibits same sex marriage and in many ways the mindset of the politicians who govern it is back in the 1950s (at best.) Amnesty International has polled Northern Irish people who back similar on demand abortion up to 12 weeks as Ireland voted on and the same roughly 69% of people back it north of the border.

Yet there have been prosecutions and convictions in Northern Ireland in 2016 and 2017 of women who bought abortion pills over the internet because they could not afford to travel to access abortion. Many Irish women, north and south, had those pills seized and in both countries buying them can incur a life sentence in prison. Abortion law in Northern Ireland is from 1861 and a law created before the invention of the lightbulb is not fit for the online era.

Until recently Northern Irish women, despite being considered part of the United Kingdom were unable to access abortions on the NHS if they travelled to Great Britain. Again they had to pay privately for everything forcing many women to choose if they could afford the fee for the anaesthetic and the cost that would incur of staying in a hotel to recover from it rather than travel back the same day. When you reduce medical care to your financial ability you automatically create inequality in your system.

I have never been pregnant. I have never had to access an abortion. But I grew up in Northern Ireland and the lack of abortion rights across the island of Ireland haunted every woman. Something as enjoyable and affectionate and life enhancing as sex felt like Russian roulette.

A country that denies its women the right to choose denies them all reproductive choice. Contraception is treated like a shame on society too. When I was a teenager it was incredibly difficult to access the Pill and condoms were prohibitively expensive. We’d go to the Brook Clinic in the centre of Belfast in our school uniforms and run the gauntlet of people screaming ‘slut’ and ‘murderer’ at us, clearly unaware of how Durex work. Even now my Northern Irish peers are given less access to long acting contraceptives and had to endure protests by anti choice activists like Bernie Smyth to get it.

We had no sex education either and it was pre internet. We learned about genitals from a diagram in a biology book on a frog. Periods were often called ‘the curse’. There was nowhere to go to ask for help or advice. With this repressive background and an ongoing civil conflict meant we didn’t even need the legality of Section 28 to prevent LGBTQ issues and rights being mentioned at all. We simply had the bigotry of the Save Ulster From Sodomy campaign instead. And of course this archaic attitude did little to stop us having sex.

Everyone I knew was fucking rings round themselves. Not only did all that repression make sex forbidden fruit that we thought would taste all the sweeter, but in the middle of an armed conflict your leisure opportunities were fairly restricted and all there was to do in a country that still chained the swings in the park up on the Lord’s Day was have sex.

But the irony was that sex was all about the risk and not the fun. Every time you fucked you were running the consequences of having to ‘take the ferry’ through your head rather than the pleasure you should be experiencing. There was this collective fear and shame about sex. We discussed our escape plan for an unintended pregnancy more than our sexual desires or our bodies (and yet I was still 17 and had been sexually active for 2 years before I first heard of the morning after pill.)

The act of sex for pleasure was shrouded in deep deep shame because that was to admit you were one of those women who put your own selfishness before the unborn child’s rights even if you never had an abortion. You were a slut and a disgrace simply by association. We never discussed masturbation. We never discussed queerness. We never asked if this was normal or acceptable because we’d internalised the idea that any sex made us abnormal and wrong. We went in for self loathing rather than Cosmo quizzes.

Being able to access abortion due to my health (and the sheer fact I’ve never wanted kids) was a huge reason I moved to England. But in order to access the right to choose I had to leave everyone I knew and everything I grew up with and I left with a sense that my country was ashamed of me and I was unwelcome there. Many of my friends didn’t even have that choice or were unwilling to trade family and connections for hypothetical situations and so stayed.

But there was consequences. A girl at school concealed her pregnancy for eight months until she went into premature labour at home with a stillborn baby. She blamed herself for the death and killed herself a decade on after years of mental health issues. 80% of the girls I went to school with had children by 21.

Even if their children were chosen, they suffered from post partum mental health conditions at a rate far higher than their GB peers because it’s hard to switch from the mindset of being told that having a baby ruins your life to loving one. I’ve lost count of the cases of postal natal depression, PTSD in childbirth and post partum psychosis my school friends have mentioned. Infant mortality in parts of Northern Ireland remains the highest in the whole of Europe. Reproductive choice in Northern Ireland is class based and compounded by post conflict sectarian divides.

I’ve received out of the blue Facebook messages from people I barely remember more than once which under the ‘oh I was just thinking about you’ jollity was the question ‘could I stay with you in London for a night?’ It was always an interview or some cover story but I was just the only person they knew with a free place to stay or an address they could use. I asked no questions and played along.

I even let a friend of a friend use my English address her to have abortion pills delivered to knowing having them delivered directly would arouse suspicion and possible seizure in Belfast. I wrapped them up disguised as a birthday present for her and posted them on. They were for her 14 year old daughter who had been raped.

We both knew the risks but she did it for her child and I did it for all the people who that culture failed to prevent from abusive relationships. Again compared to my non Irish friends we, myself included, were so vulnerable to levels of abuse, coercion and sexual trauma it’s hard for people who grew up with legal abortion rights to comprehend.

Our lives and transition into adulthood was marked mainly by fear and shame. I haven’t lived in that atmosphere for nearly 20 years and it still impacts me now. It took a long time to shake off the fear of judgement and (self) blame around sex for me and to not feel profound shame for being sexually active but knowing I didn’t want children.

The things we are told as children and teenagers by our families, teachers, religious leaders and community linger in our minds for a long time and it breaks my heart that my friends’ children are hearing the same shame inducing ‘morality’ we heard from the same people. I wonder how it must feel to be a teenager in Northern Ireland today seeing the Yes vote next door and seeing that campaigning and solidarity can change things that we thought would never change.

If you are celebrating Yes today then please take a moment to sign Amnesty’s petition for Northern Irish abortion rights or support the work of the grassroots Alliance 4 Choice organisation or the fantastic Abortion Support Network who raise money to help women on both sides of the border travel for abortions. The need for their work will not be eradicated overnight.

And remember, you can be pro choice while not having an abortion yourself. No one is going to start forcing women and pregnant people to abort. But people who can get pregnant need the choice whether to continue that pregnancy or not. We don’t force people to give blood or donate organs and extending abortion rights will not detract from your right to refuse a termination.

But you can give Northern Irish women a choice not to grow up and live with the sense that pregnancy is a trauma in its own right. You can help make sure all children are wanted children. There is no sex positivity in a country that is negative on reproductive rights and I want rights for everyone I left behind.

YES!