Posted by juliettex on Thu 12 Mar 09, 6:48 PM to juliettex's blog.
(Actually, it's not really that offensive this time round. But now you're here, why not check out the following excerpt from my blog, thenewadventuresofjuliette.blogspot.com...
I've recently been making sterling efforts to promote my blog - and have been pushing it on a special interest BDSM site named Informed Consent. However, it has recently occurred to me that anyone who's encountered me through this particular route must be horribly, horribly disappointed.
They probably feel as if they've bought a shrinkwrapped DVD called Butt Fuck Sluts Academy from Harmony, taken it home, put it on expectantly, sat down on the sofa with the Vaseline by one hand and the Kleenex by the other - and found themselves faced with the on-screen words 'Life On Earth, Part Three - Dolphins.'
While I hate to diss my own work, I have to admit - you'll find more hardcore BDSM in your average episode of Heartbeat.
I'm well aware that sex sells. I'm also naggingly, nigglingly aware that I should try a bit harder to manufacture it somehow. A peremptory, vicious inner voice hisses at me occasionally, when I'm writing this sort of thing.
'Come on, goddamn you. Write some bloody posts about why you like hair-pulling. Or handcuffs. Or rape fantasies. Or any damn thing that gets an automatic 18 rating.
'Not just some sodding doll you saw while you were wombling round the shops the other day.
'I mean, for fuck's sake.'
I would try and write about some of my real sexual likes and tastes and preferences. With no jokes. No sarcasm. No taking the piss. Fantasies and memories of A Thousand Nights of Passion, written in that dark, self-consciously poetic 'no-it's-not-tacky-porn-because-look-I-just-used-th e-word-'inchoate'' Anais Nin sorta way.
Trouble is, when I even think about doing this sort of thing, I'm stymied at every turn by that eternal enemy of great art - to wit, self-consciousness. I'm constantly aware that I sound like a particularly lame-duck refugee from the Black Lace slush pile. At best, hilarious. At worst, blood-curdling.
So the second I contemplate sharing my love of certain power imbalances, or my near-fetish for certain voices, in descriptive, lingering and loving language, there's a pained, disdainful little voice at the back of my mind going 'EEEEEWWWW. Stop it.'
A voice that sounds quite a bit like a surly teenager watching their drunk parents attempting to sing You're The One That I Want on a karaoke night.
As far as I can see, the only way round this crippling-self-consciousness problem would be to get completely shitfaced before sitting down at the keyboard. In which case, I'd be facing an even greater obstacle on my road to blog-star fame and fortune.
Namely, I'd end up posting material that read like it was written in Elvish.
Thuajaha hhssrrr aasssshhristas shrzzair ano plstrictran?
Mnaiirophani.
(Wandering briefly off-topic, I never quite bought into that whole 'Stephen King wrote his first twenty novels as a two-bottles-of-whisky-a-day alcoholic' story. I'm a big fan of the guy, and I think he's a great writer - but, knowing booze as I do, that particular legend just doesn't make sense. I can just about - at a stretch - imagine that he could come up with the ideas pissed. At an even greater stretch (in fact, at serious risk of tearing at any moment) I can imagine that he could have had the words in his mind to tell them coherently.
But how the transcription process would have worked, fuck only knows. Use the computer shitfaced, and you're looking at a whole manuscript written in fluent Elvish. If you remember to save what you've written at all, which is doubtful.
And if you resort to the old pen-and-paper method, the problem's even worse.
From bitter experience, I know that, when I've tried doing this sort of thing (and oh, have I tried doing this sort of thing) I haven't woken up like a bewildered Tailor of Gloucester, to find three hundred pages of sparkling prose apparently written by helpful mice while I was out cold.
Personally, I've always spent the morning after with a thumping headache, staring blankly at a crumpled page of A4 that looks like a pissed spider went disco-dancing on it after wandering through a puddle of ink.)
Anyway, back to the main subject. However big or small or even nonexistent the audience, I just can't write fluently and seriously about my sexual tastes. For much the same reason why I'm so utterly hopeless at sex texts and phone sex.
It's not that I haven't got enough imagination. The problem is, I've got far too much of it - and it's far too morbidly self-doubting by nature.
As a result - if I even try and have phone sex or text sex - I'm interrupted every three or four seconds. By the same neurotic little self-censor that always stops me writing funny-but-maybe-potentially-offensive-somehow messages on colleagues' leaving cards.
'Oh Christ, you can't say 'fanny' - that sounds ridiculously childish, he'll just laugh at you. But then a lot of people think 'cunt' sounds gross. He'll probably hate it if you say that. And 'pussy' is awful. Such a smarmy, prissy, twee, Anthea-Turnerish sort of word. A pussy is to a vagina what a little-girl's-room is to a loo. But you can't say 'vagina,' either. You'll sound like a medical textbook. Jesus.'
(I'm talking about sex chat here, I hasten to add - not colleagues' leaving cards. Although I wouldn't tend to use the words 'cunt' or 'pussy' on colleagues' leaving cards, either.
Except maybe in the case of my erstwhile nemesis Alan the Arse. In which case, I would definitely have been tempted by the former.)
Consequently, if I'm even vaguely sober, this sort of thing turns me into a female version of Hugh Grant at his annoying, bumbling, stammering worst.
'So I'm going to pull your dress up and rub my cock on your tits.'
'Ooh. Um. Well. Gosh. That sounds. Well. Jolly nice.'
'And then I'm going to slide my hand up your skirt, and push two fingers into your wet, dripping pussy.'
'Well. Um. I suppose then I could. You know. Um. Suck your. Er. Well. Willy. Or something?'
Anyway, Constant Reader, stick with me. In the future, I'll try my very best to write about um, you know, well, sort of sex type domination type kinky type thingies. And er, well, having my, like, hands tied to the bed, and all that. Oh, you know. Sort of thing.
Goddamn it, maybe a sneaky bottle of wine will drown my insecurities and inhibitions, and unleash my inner Bitchy Jones...
*pop*
*glug glug glug*
Thuajaha hhssrrr aasssshhristas shrzzair ano plstrictran?
Mnaiirophani....
J x
| 12 Mar 09, 6:59 PM prettyname UK(NW), 11 yrs  |
lmao!
Well, you write really well, whether you see it or not ~“Nothing is ever the same as they said it was. It's what I've never seen before that I recognise.” Diane Arbus~ Edited 13 Mar 09, 9:10 PM by prettyname |
| 12 Mar 09, 7:02 PM Dochka 4 yrs |
Funny as! I was a bit hugh grant the first time someone took an implement to me actually - in fact it was two people, in public. And my response once they had finished? "Thank you very much, that was very nice, thank you" Apparently they laughed....it's all that good upbringing don't you know?!
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Go on...go for it, I dare ya 
