Chloe Thurlow's Blog, page 12

Best Foreplay Tips A Girl Will Ever Need

Foreplay tips can get complicated with all the rituals and weird positions, when the secret of foreplay is all in the word: fore-play. It’s the fun part before your senses are overwhelmed by the intense (often woefully short) burst of passion that erupts in orgasm.

girl preparing for foreplay

Most lists of foreplay tips are for men, as if girls are reluctant virgins who need coaxing and turning on. In 1951, maybe. Now, in 2015, when the complete reverse is true, here’s my roster of the best and only foreplay tips a girl will ever need.

Kissing, licking, biting
Stroking, massage, cuddling
Undies, a garter belt and stockings

The kiss is the fusion of two forces, a plug-in, jump-leads between two inert bodies that kicks them into life. Joined by a kiss we are as one. A kiss is uniquely human. A kiss can describe a 100 pictures. Prostitutes never kiss. Unless you pay extra.

We kiss lips. We paint lines of kisses down his chest to reach his throbbing cock…

But hang on. What’s the rush. Skin is an erogenous zone. Lips are shaped to kiss every erotic outpost – that magic hollow above his collar bones, the vampire spot on his neck, each wriggly toe, the indent behind his knee, the eyelids, the perineum, that neglected swing bridge of soft flesh between his anus and ballsack. Plant a smacker on his perineum, push your tongue tip in his bum, and he become a savage beast wild with desire.

Lick his lips, his neck, his cheeks. Lots of mammals do it. Nibble his ears. Do you like having your nipples bitten? I know I do. I know he will. Suck hard until the nipple pops out like a rabbit from a hole, then apply your teeth, a nip more than a bite, not too hard, men don’t have our power to resist pain, poor things.

Foreplay Tips from the Bottom Drawer

Lists of foreplay tips typically start with cuddling. I think the kiss is much better. There is nothing like a kiss. A kiss is like the sunrise after staying up all night; the smell of grass after rain; watching someone you love without them knowing you are watching.

Just as rivers run down to the sea, kissing leads to cuddling and there’s no better way to relax a man than rolling him over on to his stomach and giving him a back massage, eliminate the tension the leads to that crime of passion: premature ejaculation – shameful for him, frustrating for you.

It’s alway best to treat serious things as fun and fun things as serious, and there is nothing more serious than fun between the sheets. Girls have spent millennia playing the missionary wife and waiting – as if for the dentist – for the deed to be done.

The time has come to wriggle out from below his heavy limbs and climb on top, take the lead. Make your man feel cosy, tranquil, stress-free, lubricated and well-kissed. Stroke his ego, his shoulders, knead his bottom, massage his thighs and calves. It’s not sex that gives you pleasure, it’s your lover. You have to give to get, like karma. The longer you delay oral sex and penetration the more excited he gets, the more pleasure that comes back to you.

No catalogue of foreplay tips would be complete unless we take a peep in the bottom drawer. Just as a chef dons a tall hat and a cowboy wears spurs on his boots, foreplay should be approached in lingerie to die for, silk and satin, a garter belt and stockings he can tear off with his teeth.

One last tip for those who believe in advance planning: put a pair of panties (soiled?) in his jacket pocket or his computer case before he goes to work. That’ll put the power in his fingertips.

Love my blog? You’ll love Katie in Love –
“…a passionate journal of one young woman’s resistance to all that is conventional and her growing confidence as she embraces the joy of love,” Elizabeth Woodham
CLICK for Amazon

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Happiness is Being Yourself Not Someone Else

Amanda Quinn Guest Blog

What is happiness? Happiness is being yourself and being with someone who loves you as you. I know who I am. Do you know who you are? I mean, who you really are? Are you being yourself?

What makes you you? Do you believe you are whoever you want to be? That you make yourself? Is the person you are today the same person you will be tomorrow? Nothing is how it seems. Life would be dull if it was.

My parents were hippie types. Dad had the Jesus look with long hair, a beard, soft brown eyes. Mum was slender with small breasts, blue eyes, long legs and a yin & yang tattoo on her shoulder. She plaited her corn-coloured hair with red beads and played the guitar. I took after my mum, a skinny boy with a narrow waist, the same blue eyes like chips of sky. My hair had never been cut and I wore it like mum. I had been named Robert, but she always called me Bertie.

We had a small, jumpy, brown pug named Git. I loved Git. We were the same age. We played together, slept together, and I’m sure he must have thought he was a little boy, just as I sometimes thought I was a little dog.

Dad had a green camper van. When I was three, we stayed in Greatstone, a seaside resort. I lived on the beach. My parents believed in being yourself letting go and all things natural. We were vegetarians. Mum went topless. Dad wore a sarong. I never wore anything and tanned all over the same colour as Git. I played in the sea and peed in the sea. I learned how to throw sticks and Git would plunge into the surf and race back with the stick in his strong jaws panting and looking up at me.

Being Yourself and Being Happy

One windy day, the tide was stronger. I had become good at throwing sticks and that last stick I threw was carried away in the swirls of water. Git swam far out, looking for the stick, and I called ‘Git, Git, come back,’ and watched as he turned to paddle back to shore.

Git was barking as I ran out through the waves towards him. He jumped up and I felt his teeth close around me. I screamed so loud I pierced a hole in the universe. Git wrenched his jaw as he bit down harder, the pain was like no pain that can be imagined, the pain of childbirth, and I woke in hospital with mum at the bedside.

I had spent twelve hours in surgery. The doctors neatly tucked what was left of my penis into a vagina and I never missed what I don’t recall ever having. Sitting down to pee came naturally. I was used to running around naked. When mum bought me dresses, they slipped over my thin shoulders like it was meant to be and it was meant to be. I was being myself.

I was registered at school as Roberta. I played with dolls and hated boys. I had been taking hormones since I was three, to make sure my girlie bits functioned as girlie bits should, and when small breasts appeared I looked just like my mum. I did feel jealous of the other girls when they started having periods, but enjoyed the advantages of not having them.

When people ask me how old I am I say 22. For 22 years I have been me and that little boy I was is gone forever like the lost stick. I changed my name, severing that part of the past, and was reborn as Amanda Quinn – AQ, any questions?

I have a flat in Greatstone where I paint water colours of the sea and go for long walks among the sand dunes with my brown pug named Bertie. Look out for me. I am the beautiful woman with long legs and a yin & yang tattoo on her shoulder. When men ask for me for my telephone number, I tell them my story. They rarely call. They are attracted to the me they imagine I am, not the me I am.

What is happiness? Happiness is being yourself and being with someone who loves you as you. What is Love? Here are my thoughts.

Click and see if you agree.

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Why A Summer Fling Makes You Feel More Alive

FREE Summer Fling

In the good old days when I was still promiscuous, a summer fling was as much a part of the holidays as a new bikini, a suntan and, as often as not, a broken heart that healed almost as quickly as it was broken.

On my first summer fling, I lost my virginity on a beach in Spain. My last summer fling – all life is cyclic – was in Barcelona after an intercambio – a learning technique where you interchange English and Spanish for an hour and, given the guitars strumming in the café’s along the Ramblas and the whiff of rebellion in the air that hot afternoon, the interchange of bodily fluids with José Antonio, the wild-eyed student from the Universitat Autònoma, was as inevitable as the sea coming into shore.

I say last summer fling in the literal rather than literary sense, in as much as I have spent all my spare moments these several weeks writing a new short story I called Bringing Angels to Life for the new Gratis anthology Summer Fling. Thick and juicy, steamy with sensuality and surprises, the collection is Out Today and FREE everywhere you can find good books.

I use the word ‘good’ advisably, as this 4th collection of short stories brings together a group of the finest writers exploring like space travellers the far reaches of the erotic universe – and beyond. Most of these names will be familiar to readers and, if not, they soon will be.

Summer Fling Stories

Isabelle’s Submissive July – by Emily Tilton
A Day in Brighton – by Hedonist Six
The Fashion Model Diplomat – by KM Dylan
Dear Diary – by M.J. Carey
Marsala Sweet – by Molly Synthia
Generation Game – by Secret Narrative.
Bringing Angels to Life – by Chloe Thurlow

What I personally enjoyed reading this collection was that in every case the writer has clearly spent a great deal of effort editing their work to present stories with no wasted words, every gesture and nuance driving the narrative to climaxes that, for the most part, achieve two goals: providing what the audience expects, but not in the way they expect it.

A satisfying short story weaves fine lines more than broad strokes. Explanation is death. Short story writers are experimental, indie by nature: they think visually, avoid cliché and seek out fresh ways to explore love, passion, romance, regret and all the human foibles and feelings that follow a summer fling.

One more thing, my short story is about a disheartened waitress who meets a handsome stranger and discovers that every time she has an orgasm it brings an angel to life. What more needs to be said? Well, nothing.

Just get Gratis Summer Fling. I mean, it’s FREE, after all.

Buy Links (which should read free  links)

Amazon: http://myBook.to/gratis4

All Romance EBooks:  https://www.allromanceebooks.com/product-gratissummerfling-1839462-354.html

Smashwords: https://www.smashwords.com/books/view/547973

Apple: https://itunes.apple.com/us/book/gratis-summer-fling/id1003547432?mt=11

GooglePlay:https://play.google.com/store/books/details/Chlo%C3%AB_Thurlow_Gratis_Summer_Fling?id=Iz7ECQAAQBAJ

Kobo: https://store.kobobooks.com/en-US/ebook/gratis-summer-fling

Barnes & Noble: http://www.barnesandnoble.com/w/gratis-chloe-thurlow/1122089212?ean=2940151957519

Goodreads: https://www.goodreads.com/book/show/25704749-gratis

 Please share with the links below:

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The Electra Complex and Daddy’s Girl

My mother used to call me daddy’s girl. I became aware of what she meant by this that long summer when I was seven and it seems sometimes as if I have spent my whole life looking back into the garden of my childhood when I lost my innocence.

It was unusually hot that year and I was in childish bliss running across the warm grass and jumping in the inflatable paddling pool. Father, in shorts and an old straw hat, was trimming the roses. Every time I emptied the water jumping in, he would stop, turn on the tap, and refill the pool with the hose.

I have no idea why I removed my bathing suit, unless the desire to be naked was coded in my genes, a need to be free, to reveal, to assert that feminine instinct sacrificed in the Garden of Eden.

My giggling was contagious. Father was laughing as he chased me with the hose, spraying me as I ran squealing in circles until I caught sight of Mother approaching in hurried steps along the crazy-paving path. She wasn’t smiling. She was carrying a white towel in which she snatched me up mid-step.

‘That’s quite enough of that,’ she cried, and carried me back to the house. As she rubbed me dry, I saw my reflection as our eyes met. ‘So, who’s the little daddy’s girl?’ she then said.

I stopped wriggling and, at that moment, as if I’d been struck by a revelation, I was aware on a subconscious level that I was competing with my mother for my father’s affections, and, as a little girl, running around the garden naked was in some way both improper and provocative.

Electra Complex & Jung

It was decades before I learned that the daddy’s girl drama in the garden that summer followed what Carl Gustav Jung called the Electra Complex, a girl’s psychological competition with her mother to possess of her father, the first stage of our sexual awakening.

This sense of being rivals starts when a girl becomes conscious of herself as female, herself as both an independent and sexual being. Jung divides sexual awareness into five stages: 1) oral, 2) anal, 3) phallic, 4) latent, 5) genital. Girls pass through these phases from age three to puberty, the positive resolution of the Electra Complex being, in psychoanalytic theory, a girl developing a mature sexual role and, finally, identification with her mother.

Electra at her Father’s Tomb, William Blake

The Electra Complex has largely been consumed by Sigmund Freud’s theories on the Oedipus Complex. Freud proposes that girls resolve their mother fixation through penis envy, boys through castration anxiety. Adults who remain stuck in the Electra and Oedipal stages of psychosexual maturity might be considered a daddy’s girl or a mummy’s boy, made apparent when you pick a partner who resembles your dad and your brother picks a girl just like mom.

As the names of these complexes indicate, there’s nothing new in sexual confusion. Poor Oedipus we learn in Oedipus Rex, Sophocles’s play about fate and free will (c 429 BC), murdered his father, then married and had an incestuous relationship with his own mother. So distraught was Oedipus when he found out, he blinded himself by ripping out his own eyes.

As for Electra, she was born to give name to the Electra Complex. When her father, King Agamemnon, returned from the Trojan War, his wife, Clytemnestra, was not a happy bunny. She persuaded her lover, Aegisthus, to help her kill her husband. In Clytemnestra’s defence, Agamemnon had himself returned from Troy with a new lover, the fortune-teller Cassandra, who had given birth to his twin sons, certainly a provocation, but no excuse for the plotters to do away with the King.

When the news reached her, Electra was incensed. With the help of her brother, Orestes, she hired some assassins and did away with Clytemnestra, her mother, as well as Aegisthus. Electra spent the rest of her life hanging around her father’s tomb (see fanciful illustration by William Blake), while the two great playwrights of the day, Sophocles and Euripides, set about writing tragedies about her life.

The term ‘daddy’s girl’ has become popular in fetish and BDSM fiction. She’s the girl in the rabbit mask crawling on all fours with a cat-o’-nine-tails in her teeth, an image for me that defines the difference between porn and erotica.

In pornography, daddy’s girl submits to domination. In erotica, she’s nobody’s girl and submits only to her own whims and desires. Porn is a blunt axe. Erotica is subtle, elusive, literary – and, on that subject, if you don’t yet have your copy of Katie in Love, just CLICK here. If you are among the many who do, a big thank you xx Chloe

“…one of the most brilliant writers I have had the pleasure of reading,”
Brian Kirk on Amazon (what a sweetie).

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How To Keep a Healthy Vagina

A healthy vagina smells like a rose

Perhaps a rose on a table with a selection of Mediterranean cheeses, olive oil, virgin, of course, and something piquant, a bowl of Kalamata black olives. Keeping a healthy vagina means keeping healthy – exercise, a sensible diet, un vaso de vino de la felicidad (a glass of wine to make you happy), and regular sex, every day if possible.

Contrary to the hype from the marketing men (men!), your vagina is self-cleaning. A healthy vagina doesn’t need costly douches and pine-smelling wipes, just a hot shower, a bar of soap and a finger wash.

According to Dr Suzy Elneil at Wellbeing of Women, a consultant urogynaecologist at University College Hospital, London, vaginal discharge is natural and not ‘always a bad sign’. “There is a myth that copious clear or white discharge is associated with sexually transmitted infections. Changes in the amount of discharge can be 100% hormonal – in other words, linked to the menstrual cycle, pregnancy or menopause.”

The character and amount of discharge varies throughout the menstrual cycle. Around the time of ovulation, when your ovary releases an egg, discharge usually thickens and grows stretchy like the sticky stuff in a raw egg. The smell is not unpleasant and, as for the feeling of moistness, this is a sign of being healthy and normal.

Porn merchants show shaved girls with their shiny slot like a money box. They would like to convince men that pubic hair is smelly, unnecessary and unhealthy. Not true. The opposite is true. In fact, when it comes to human odours, men should pay more attention to their own hormonal smells if they wish to lose themselves in the warm shell of the female vagina.

The healthy vagina for beginners

For those men, and there are lots, unaware of the female landscape, here’s the healthy vagina for beginners. The vagina is a tunnel of muscle that runs from the cervix (the opening of the womb) to the vagina. The exterior decoration, called the vulva, consists of the labia majora and labia minora, big lips and small lips – although, to make it confusing, sometimes the smaller inner lips are bigger than the outer lips. The vagina contains the urethra (for pee-pee), a hard-to-find sense receiver called the G-spot, and the clitoris, the altar in the palace of divine pleasure.

Below the vaginal opening is something called the Bartholin glands. When aroused, they moisten, easing penetration before sex, and leaking in your panties if arousal transpires from unexpected or extraneous stimulation (like the good looking sweaty guy at the gym). Before we leave the genital scenery behind us, between the vulva and the anus is the perineum, a largely neglected pleasure point that enjoys the occasional visit.

The pubic mount, or mons, or mound of Venus, sprouts hair at puberty, slender silken threads or thick wiry carpets. Like riddles and secrets, there’s no telling what you are going to find. But hirsute or short-back-and sides, and contrary to urban myth and porn peddlers: pruning the fuzz IS NOT healthier, but actually increases the risk of sexually transmitted diseases and infection.

Shaving leaves invisible nicks and cuts in the skin. Bikini waxes inflame the follicles – opening still more breaches for infection. Removing pubic hair removes the cushion between you and your partner, increasing friction and, you got it, pushing up the chances of contagion and STDs.

What’s the best way to keep a healthy vagina? Leave it in peace. Avoid perfumed soaps, gels, douches and antiseptics, not only are they potential irritants, they can cause the natural bacteria to go out of balance, resulting in thrush. Shave if you want to, not because he (or she) wants you to, and enjoy sex when you can get it.

hloe-Thurlow-ebook-cover 3

CLICK for your copy of Katie in Love

“Chloe Thurlow is the finest writer of our generation,” – Ingrid Druslan on Amazon

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Chloe Thurlow Does Not Blink

Katie in Love – review by Terrance Aldon Shaw

It is the clothes that cover us that stir desire for what lies beneath . . . A girl in primitive times was the victim of male lust and the guile required to survive and flourish is the mask she subconsciously wears today. Love is war, and clothes are our armour . . .
Being naked for a woman isn’t the same as it is for a man; our clothes acquire different associations. We don’t dress in clothes, we masquerade in the robes of contrivance: too tight, too small, the contours outlining shapes and displaying slivers of flesh like promises, like the trailers for a film. Nudity is a logical progression. . . from Katie in Love

Chloe Thurlow clearly enjoys being a girl—and her readers are all the more richly enlightened for it. Katie in Love is Thurlow’s sixth erotic novel, albeit her first (and I would have to say quite auspicious) venture in the realm of independent publishing. It is also a masterpiece on many levels; a romance that transcends the surly bonds of genre convention; a trenchant novel of ideas that skillfully entertains; an acutely-observed comedy of manners in which even the shallow characters are imbued with a certain sympathetic depth; a classic Bildungsroman (novel of education) with clever nods to Herman Hesse, Anais Nin, Vladimir Nabokov, Albert Camus, Georges Bataile and George du Maurier, the creator of Svengali. Thurlow seems to have taken Mahler’s notion of the symphony to heart, ingeniously applying it to a work of literature that is “like the world, containing everything.” If this is “erotic romance”, it is erotic romance with an awe-inspiring intelligence.

And what is it that turns a work of smart, broadly appealing fiction into “erotica”? The author and editor M. Christian says that erotica is fiction in which the author “does not blink” or turn away with distaste or discomfort when it comes time to describe the sex act. An amorist at heart, Thurlow has, for all practical purposes, given her readers an accessible, first-rate literary novel that “does not blink”; a work in which sex is treated as an essential element of a compelling story, not as some unpleasant afterthought or demeaning literary chore. “Erotica” the eponymous narrator tells us:

…is an untapped well of human mystery and potential, the seam of gold hidden below the fault lines of a culture that imposes limitations on our true nature. If erotic writing is to be regarded as literature, the taste and cadence of the words must embrace the senses, ignite the passions. The emotion is integral to the story. Readers must be stripped naked and led to a warm bath perfumed by sex. They must feel as they dress the softness of silk and the chafe of leather. Each description is a portrait so fresh and vivid they can hear the adagio slap of flesh against flesh, the rattle of chains, the snap of the whip, the sound of one hand clapping against willing buttocks.

Readers should be inspired to seek in their lovers new erogenous places, the enchantment of roll play, masks, ball gags and bonds. In the heat of the night when you allow the brain to rest. the body lives a life of its own . . .

Erotica holds up the mirror to a society where those things damned and outlawed are secretly desired. The erotic explores human extremes, lost love, impossible love, innocence and purity mingled with decadence and debauchery. All human fears become clearer analysed under the microscope of erotica. As I keep telling mother, erotica is about feeling, not fucking.

At first glance, a basic description of the plot is not especially promising: A handsome physician with a clouded romantic past hooks up on New Year’s Eve with an attractive, if slightly self-absorbed writer of erotic fiction. The doctor is a dedicated do-gooder, working in the Third World with the poorest of the poor, and he must shortly return to his frontier practice after a short holiday in London. The sex is better than good, and there is clearly a spark between these two—or, at least, the heroine thinks there might be. But, of course, there are obstacles, both real and imagined, trivial and serious, to that proverbial happily-ever-after, and therein lies the tale.

This could easily serve as the framework for almost any potboiler romance—I sometimes suspect that certain authors keep a template on their computers in lieu of an outline, making it fast and easy to fill in a set of blanks, different names and slightly altered details here and there to suit. It’s the way such basic plot-skeletons are fleshed out that, in the end, makes the difference between the merely amusing and the genuinely enlightening, the disposable and the indispensable, the generic remainder and the future classic; ultimately separates the hackish has-been from the undisputed mistress of her craft.

Original Storytelling

And—wowzer!—is Chloe Thurlow ever the latter! This is highly original storytelling of breathtaking assurance and awesome craft. Especially impressive is the way the author integrates essential backstory into a highly-elaborate, almost symphonic structure, gradually revealing her character’s pasts in a kind of grand, sweeping arc —wholly visible only at the end—expertly overlaying and bridging the narrative of the here-and-now. (I was reminded of those massive, but always tuneful, late-romantic symphonies, say, Mahler’s 3rd or 7th, Bruckner’s 4th, 7th, or 8th.). And yet again, as in any well-conceived symphony, the intimate phrases, the solo passages and moments for small ensemble are as deliciously memorable and moving as the mightiest tutti.

There is no forced conflict here, no contrived melodrama. Katie’s self-doubt may be de rigueur in the genre, but this is not the shallow, formulaic wool-gathering of the typical romantic heroine fresh from central-stereotype casting. For once, we are treated to genuine introspection. This author respects her characters—and herself— too much to treat them like mere ex machina plot facilitators or pawns—and she gives her supporting players a chance to shine as well, portraying them as real people with real passions and real things to say, rather than convenient constructs, employed to inject odious or disagreeable alternate points of view into the story, thus eschewing preachiness and propaganda—the conjoined-twin buzzkills of otherwise-intelligent storytelling

Thurlow’s writing is very much like her main character; moody—by turns melancholy and reflective—beautiful, sensuous and cerebral. This is “writer-ly” writing to be sure, the sort that stirs serious critical buzz and garners shelffuls of prestigious literary awards—or would if life were fair. Not that there isn’t a good deal of authorial absolute certainty here—the sort of “let me dazzle you, dear reader” assertions brooking no contradiction that judges for those awards seem so thoroughly to adore. One sometimes gets the sense that Katie is as much the author’s thinly veiled personal avatar as her creature. And yet, there is a depth to all Thurlow’s characters—a feat in itself—but, even more impressively, a sophistication—a real, complex dimensionality—to the world they inhabit, a compelling richness that transcends the banal mechanics of genre scene-setting.

And what a world it is! There’s grit as well as glamour here; a hefty dose of moral complexity to go with the simple thrills of lust, a certain seriousness to balance these lovers’ candy-floss flirtations with all their delightfully glib sweet nothings. They are not so blinded by love as to be willfully ignorant of the turmoil that surrounds them. They delve the issues of the day, discuss geo-politics and macro-economics, lament the cancerous inequality in a society grown so rich that it can no longer see the poor; the clueless high-rise-dwelling haves and the hustling ant-like have-nots below, so far apart that one can never truly comprehend the life of the other. The author does not blink at the painful contradictions in her own heroine’s heart, feeling guilty about her own privilege, but also helpless in the face of need she has never been encouraged to consider.

Things come, more or less, to a conventional head; the characters arrive at a cusp and must decide what to do with the rest of their lives. At first glance, the leisurely leave-taking of the penultimate chapters feels like a let-down after what has gone before, the tying up of all the loose strands of the narrative in a bow that seems overly elaborate. Yet, without this dreamlike bridge, the ending itself might have seemed too abrupt, too pat. In retrospect, it is just right. Along the way the author seems to play a set of elaborate variations—something like one of J.S. Bach’s mind-bending masterpieces for the harpsichord—her deft fingers gently pressing the keys of our imagination until we can only groan with delight.

Katie in Love cover

As the stunning—and stunningly clever—heroine of Katie in Love reminds us, the great 20th-century English literary critic Cyril Connolly once said “whenever you start writing a book, you must set out to write a masterpiece . . .” In this, Chloe Thurlow has surely succeeded. Passionately recommended.

Review by Terrance Aldon Shaw copied from Erotica For The Big Brain – “the best erotic reviews on the internet,” Chloe Thurlow

Click to get your copy of Katie in Love

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Public Nudity – Why Girls Like Taking Their Clothes Off

Public nudity comes naturally to girls. It’s only chilly days and public pressure that stops us taking our clothes off. As for Peeping Toms, we welcome their wolfish leers and hidden longings.

If a couple are strolling on the beach, she will walk in the sea holding her sandals, while he, in socks and shoes, sticks to the hard sand. She is in touch with her primeval genes, a flimsy dress and four square inches of cotton panties away from public nudity, while he wants to make sure he doesn’t get sand between his toes.

Women are connected to the earth’s pulse, the stars above our heads. When the sun reappears after its long winter in mourning, we want to feel the heat like a new lover kissing our bare skin. It is men who turn naked women into porn. Men don’t see public nudity as natural, a pleasure women enjoy in other women without it being sexual.

When Lady Godiva in the 11th century rode naked through the Coventry in protest over increased taxes on the tenants of her own husband, the townspeople agreed not to look. Only a full-bodied young lad named Tom peeped through his fingers, breaking the pact and society’s brainwashing.

Lady Godiva knew exactly what she was doing, her rebellion an extravagant display of public nudity revealing her slender young body while raised on a white horse – and all in a good cause. It’s enough to make any girl jealous.

Public Nudity & the Selfie

Nude-selfies have made public nudity more widespread and acceptable. Girls know when they send nude-selfies to their boyfriends they are going to share them. That’s what boys do. And that’s what girls want them to do.

Just as caterpillars become butterflies, girls go through a miraculous transformation that holds us spellbound before the looking glass. Exposed, we see more than our naked self in the process of change, we catch a glimpse of our very soul, our body an emerging work of art some instinct urges us to display. Represented continuously through the millennia in art, the nude is what we strive for, the artist’s aspiration to create a surface perfection the visual expression of our own desire to reach inner perfection.

Artists through history have been obsessed with the nude, drawing on classical and biblical imagery, as if gilded youth and physical ease with public nudity belonged always to the far away past, not the real and censorious present.

Victorian artists veiled their work in references from mythology and literature, selecting subjects conveying moral or religious undertones: Lady Godiva, of course; the fauns and fairies frolicking in the woods from Shakespeare’s A Midsummer Night’s Dream; or Diana, the Virgin Goddess of the Hunt, identified with the Virgin in Christian iconography.

An major boost to nude freedom came by Royal Appointment: Queen Victoria and Prince Albert not only admired the form, but the Queen made a point of giving her Consort a print of a nude for his birthday each year as a symbol of her love. British artists placed the nude out in the open, implying the benefits of fresh air, sun-bathing and exercise.

The development of photography created a new demand for the nude, easily made prints blurring the boundaries between the real and imagined body and offering a new immediacy not possible in painting. Where the nude had historically formed only one part of the artist’s composition, in photography, the representation of the model became an end in itself.

The debate over public nudity raged across the divide throughout the 20th century, and continues even in our more dress down times. At the 2004 Super Bowl finals, the ‘wardrobe malfunction’ that exposed Janet Jackson’s right breast inspired 200,000 complaints. That, of course, took no note of the 10 million viewers who may have approved of public nudity.

cover The Secret Life of Girls

 If you loved Katie in Katie in Love, discover Bella in The Secret Life of Girls – where Katie’s story begins
CLICK for Amazon xx Chloe

 

 

 

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Stripped Bare Naked & Female

Excerpt From Katie in Love

He stared into my eyes.

‘Katie, will you do something?’

He didn’t say what. He just looked at me and I nodded.

‘Take your top off for me.’

The words came from his mouth like a coil of silver smoke and seemed to hang there as if in tiny cloud.

Take your top off for me.

It was such a simple sentence. Such a simple request. My nipples were tingling. I wanted to release them, give them air. The sweat on my back turned cold and made me shiver.

‘Take your top off for me.’

He said it again, his smooth voice deeper, darker, the words no longer a curl of smoke, but words whispered from far away. They reached me like a recording that had been slowed down.

Take your top off for me.

Just as I often knew what Mother was going to say before she said it, I had known Roger Devlin was going to ask me to take off my top. But the ‘for me’ tagged on to the sentence made the request appear so courteous it was difficult to say no without seeming disrespectful. I felt flustered, embarrassed, confused.

‘I can’t do that,’ I finally mumbled.

‘Katie?’ He waited.

‘Yes.’

‘I won’t tell you again.’

‘But…’

I sensed rather than saw the faint shake of his head. The disappointment. I was just a silly schoolgirl with my head full of fantasies, a pathetic little virgin. That’s what Simon had said, and the words rang through me like a funeral bell. I had failed. I would never sell Black Spires.

‘Please,’ I said, but my will had gone.

He raised his brow, the upward motion acting as a spring that resonated from his bright eyes to my arms. It was uncanny, a stage trick, a radio wave. As his brow went up and his eyes flashed, I wriggled my arms up my back and unhooked my bra. Like a stripper in a night club, I held the cups to my breasts before allowing the material to fall away. I had been holding my breath and let out a long sigh. We remained motionless in the amber light, my breasts standing out firm, my nipples hard and painful, pink and shiny with the rush of blood. I had always thought they were too small, but they were full now, throbbing.

He took several pictures, but I wasn’t posing, just standing there. He clicked his fingers and pointed.

Stripped Bare Naked in the Fading Light

‘If you please.’

I went to speak but my mouth fell open and nothing came out. My breasts were already on show, sun bronzed and pretty, rising and falling with the beat of my heart. Breasts are everywhere. In every newspaper and magazine, on television, on the sides of buses.

His brow went up and he repeated the same instruction. ‘If you please.’

‘But…’

He adjusted the camera. ‘Hurry now. Before the light changes,’ he said, his soft tone whispering my own unknown desires.

Each time he asked for more, I gave more, my blouse, my skirt. My bra. I was on a slippery slide and there appeared to be no way and no reason to get off. It wasn’t that I nursed a repressed yearning to stand naked in front of a stranger; it just felt natural to obey. I was used to obeying at my strict school. It was easier than swimming against the current, and I always thought I would rebel like Bella in my own good time.

Our eyes met and I watched as he used the corner of his handkerchief to polish the camera lens. He looked me up and down. There was nothing prurient in his look, and I had that sensation that came to me sometimes standing on the platform in the Underground, the rush of air, the train charging from the tunnel, the feeling of being sucked towards the edge. So much seemed to depend on what I now did, perhaps my entire future, and I felt in some way detached from the decision.

My mind was spinning and my mouth was dry. My panties fit snugly, the elastic stretching like a bridge from the supports of my hip-bones in such a way that, had he leaned forward, he would have caught a glimpse of the dark forest of hair nestling below. He didn’t look down. He was still staring into my eyes and I stared defiantly back.

I was determined to shake my head and say no, but my will had gone, absorbed by something more profound and overpowering. I lowered my eyes and slowly lowered the soft fabric over my hips, over the cheeks of my bottom, and down my legs. I stepped from my panties in a little dance and stood up straight with them in the palm of my hand.

He took them from me as if I had offered him a gift and what he did was so unexpected, the scene still returns to me on nights when sleep is distant and the mind has its own mind. He stretched out the damp material, stared at the faintly stained gusset and held my panties to his nose like a connoisseur with good wine. He breathed in my bouquet and tucked the perfumed triangle in his pocket.

I was stripped bare naked in a beam of sunlight with a man I didn’t know. He was standing back to take more photographs. Perspiration coated the split in my bottom. I was aware of the scent of my arousal and realized with shame that the obscure pleasure of that moment came, not from any expectation of what might take place, but simply from exposing myself. I was free. I felt terrified and I felt completely, totally alive. I danced around the room. Snap, snap, snap went the camera. The camcorder whirred and I was sure I heard in the distance the song of the nightingale.

Katie in Love cover

Katie in Love is available everywhere.
Just CLICK

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Naughty Boys Are Great Lovers & Heart Breakers

I’m a 7. I assume out of 10. I’m not sure how to feel about that, I mean, at least I’m not a 5.

I received the score from a tall, smiling, charismatic bloke with curly dark hair who blocked my way as I was entering a bar full of City types on Friday evening. He was wearing a good suit, tie freed at the collar, and was standing on the pavement with friends in the later afternoon sunshine.

He looked me up and down, face, breasts, legs in jeans, sandals, white top, green jacket with lots of brass buttons, an impatient expression that fluted his brow before he announced the score.

‘Seven.’

‘May I pass?’ I said, and he made a sort of mock bow for me to do so.

He was not the bum-grabbing, nipple-pinching type with too much drink running through his addled brain. He was much worse. He was full of himself, God’s Gift, he thought, one of those charismatic naughty boys destined to break girls’ hearts – hymens, too, if you are still intacto.

Naughty boys will beam at you as if you are the only girl in the world when, of course, you are not the only girl in the world, you are a shell on a beach of pretty shells he will walk over

Naught boys are used to getting their own way. After telling you what you want to hear, they will tell you how wonderful they are and what you can do for them. You look into their glossy eyes full of feeling and wonder and you believe them, you trust them. You are such a lucky girl to have snagged this naughty boy all for yourself

Naughty Boys Make Great Lovers

Naughty boys do make great lovers. They are male versions of Helen of Troy, whose beauty launched a long war, never mind the thousand ships. They believe in their own sex appeal. Good sex is all about relaxation and confidence; they are brimming with both and it lasts long into middle-age when they are still in the game breaking hearts and bedding girls younger than their daughters, by which time they have had a string of marriages and numberless children.

It is easy to be captivated by naughty boys. He’ll be the guy at the party around which the action spins. He holds court. People laugh when he speaks. If you are the lucky girl selected for his attention, it makes you feel special.

Naughty boys who have this power lack empathy as well as inhibitions. They know how to get their own way and show no shame or remorse when things go wrong, in relationships as well as in business. Was there ever an apology from the bankers? No. They are always right, no matter how wrong they are, a sure sign of narcissistic personality disorder.

Naughty boys grow up to be the hard-hearted men who enter government, rise to become the head of corporations, the police force, the trade union. They have the power to be convincing, even their apologies are powerful, if premeditated, because deep down they care for no one; they have no empathy, no sympathy, no heart. Psychopaths suffer the same malady, the difference is naughty boys are psychopaths smart enough to hide it.

Next time you are at a party and the good-looking charisma-laden guy casts his eyes in your direction, look into the corner where the nerdy chap in glasses is aching for attention. If he’s reading a book, he’ll be much more interesting.

Katie in Love cover

Katie in Love is FREE on all the Amazons until Sunday, 31 May.
Do grab a copy and PLEASE leave a review – even if you like it.
 xx Chloe

The post Naughty Boys Are Great Lovers & Heart Breakers appeared first on Erotic romance writer Chloe Thurlow.

Bi-Desires & What the Canaries Saw – Guest Blog by Bliss Lost

Some months ago, I became a member of a website where gay/bisexual men meet. Through this experience, I have come empathise with the plight of women who date men online and are obliged to bare their souls. By and large, it would seem men of all sexual orientations are full of shit.

Although a few genuine guys checked my profile, I never allowed it to come to anything because I am married to a wonderful woman who does not understand my bi-desires.

Only on one occasion did I broach the subject with her. But never again. When I did have an encounter with another man, I kept it hidden. The experience remained in my mind and I replayed it so many times I had reached the decision that I had to explore again.

On the advice of my lover, another wonderful woman, I put myself out there and waited to see who might come my way. I had in my head a Dorian Grey lookalike, but I do possess a mirror and that would be a bit of stretch. So, when I got a message from a guy in my age group, married as well, and who lives close to my work place, I knew I would have to take a chance and fulfil my bi-desires.

After speaking to him on the phone, we agreed to meet at his apartment before he went to work. I was a little put off at first by his eastern European accent. He had a very matter of fact way of talking about our proposed engagement, and I developed a Stasi image, some border guard in a 1980s Michael Caine film: “Papers!” You get the picture.

Bi-Desires Dangers

Being on Facebook, Pinterest and so on, I have discovered under one of my many pseudonyms this horrible phenomenon of “cat fishing,” where gay men have been lured into a false sense of security by others trolling online for guys like me who are lured into liaisons only to get beaten up by groups who do not understand or agree with gay or bisexual lifestyles.

I had worked myself up into a state of nervousness by the time the meeting came round and, with the fear of some prehistoric catfish lurking behind a doorway with a studded baseball bat, I pressed the intercom to his apartment  while my free hand gripped a can of pepper spray hidden in my pocket.

Luckily, he was a genuine guy. He had a nice body build, a bit like my own, a broad frame and that eastern European oval face, but with kind eyes. He was in his dressing gown and asked if he could undress me. I said no. I admitted that I was nervous, but that I would undress myself (so that I could leave my jacket hanging in such a way that I could reach the pepper spray).

He took his dressing gown off and sat on the corner of the sofa while I got undressed. He was relaxed, so I relaxed. Stripping down to nothing but my boxers, I sat down beside him. He quickly began to stroke my cock and I went with the flow.

Taking my boxers off, he began to slowly lick me and then take me in his mouth. I loved it and liked having him down on his knees in front of me. In the emails that followed our first phone call, he had indicated that he enjoyed being a “bottom” and wanted to know what it was like to feel like “the woman.”

I let this run through my mind when he came up for air and said, “Yes, very nice cock.” I have to admit, I think I drew blood from my lip trying not to laugh, as the next statement I thought I would hear was “papers,” and a bespectacled Michael Caine giving me a saucy Ipcress File wink.

I got really aroused. I told him I wanted to take him, even though I think I would like to be a bottom myself, having loved anal sex with my lover. For me, it’s a spiritual experience. We call it our ‘Greek Love,’ and here I was at long last about to have my long anticipated ‘Greek Love’ bi-experience.

He very expertly put a condom on me and then reached around to gel his ass. I liked the look of his shaved balls and looked forward to feeling his cock, but unfortunately, the poor man had just had a vasectomy the day before, so to be fair, I really admired his horniness. No touching for me this time. Men eh!

He knelt down before me and I slowly pushed myself into him. To say I felt empowered might come across a bit strong, but I did. I liked the feel of his skin and, as I pushed deeper into him, I leaned over with my hands on his hips and kissed his back.

Finally I felt complete; no more wondering. He asked me to go harder. I was more than happy to oblige, but as I began thrusting deeper into him, I heard a chirping sound. My mind was drifting and I half expected to see a pair of happy birds circling my head, but in reality, having been so busy looking for angry catfish, I had completely missed the enormous birdcage at the end of the apartment containing two canaries. Sitting side by side, they were chirping away and watching me so intently, I couldn’t help but laugh as I came. Sometimes my life is just a little too weird.

I will meet him again and he seems keen on meeting my lover. I have never known a woman to orgasm so deeply during phone sex at the thought of watching me with another man. I fear for the canaries. It just might be a little too much for the poor birds.

 See Two Lesbians and My Lover, another post by Bliss Lost

The post Bi-Desires & What the Canaries Saw – Guest Blog by Bliss Lost appeared first on Erotic romance writer Chloe Thurlow.