Chloe Thurlow's Blog, page 13

Why High Heels Make A Girl Feel Erotic

High heels don’t only make you feel tall, chic and shapely. High heels make you feel erotic. High heels tap out a drumbeat that whispers sex, sex, sex. I girl in high heels is a girl who wants to be looked at, admired, appreciated.

High heels shape and stretch your legs, they trace a faint curve in your spine and add a confident depth and thrust to your breasts. Stilettos, like a shiny blade, make you look thinner. You can’t march in high heels, you flow, you sway, you swagger. You don’t arrive at a party, you emerge, you manifest.

In high heels, you look men in the eye, and short guys have to look up to you. They feel compelled to take your coat and rush off to get you a drink. Those three or four inches of stature provide a self-confidence no dress or new hairstyle can compete with. If you feel depressed, go to a shoe shop and buy a new pair of spiky heels.

My first high heels were plain red pumps without straps or show. They were bought for me when I was sixteen by a wicked uncle who followed up the gesture two years later on my eighteenth birthday by buying me a dashing set of silk underwear, much to Mother’s annoyance on both occasions, the first because it made me taller than her; the second for reasons I only understood ten years later.

Like wearing a bikini, or a large hat, high heels require poise and practise. To keep your head held high, imagine there is an invisible cord that connects from the top of your head to a hook in the sky. Walk from heel to toe, the opposite of when you are jogging, and sway your hips to maintain the perfect rhythm. Start slowly and never rush.

Anyone who has read my novel, Katie in Love, knows that Katie has a fetish for shoes and likens culling them to clubbing baby seals. In her closet she has a military parade of designer heels – Monolo Blahnik, Jimmy Choo, Giuseppe Zanotti, Bruno Magli – all men, enemies of the podiatrist. When Tom, the new boyfriend, suggests a clear out it makes her wonder if falling in love is really worth it.

High Heels in Cannes

I also have pairs of running shoes, sandals, thongs, ballet pumps, clogs, flip-flops, loafers, knee boots and walking boots. I wear high heels because I like them. They they make me feel good. They make me feel erotic. When I want to feel erotic. What I put on my feet is my business.

Which is why the red-carpet scandal at the Cannes Film Festival this week struck me as a medieval witch hunt, a castigation of women everywhere, blatantly sexist, an attack on gender equality and women’s rights. An attempt to put women back in their box like a new pair of shoes.

The film industry newspaper Screen Daily broke the story after the gala presentation of Todd Haynes’s new movie Carol, an adaptation of the Patricia Highsmith novel, ironically about a lesbian affair. Women not wearing high heels reported that they were turned away from the red-carpet and sent packing. Director Asif Kapadia, with his new Amy Winehouse documentary, Amy, tweeted that his wife was at first barred from entry, before being allowed into the screening.

According to festival guidelines, the dress code is dinner suits and black ties for men, and that women should be ‘elegantly dressed with smart footwear.’ Organizers at Cannes denied that high heels were obligatory, but the glamour conscious security bouncers manning the velvet ropes and red-carpets along La Croisette interpreted the rules from the macho, sexist, controlling standpoint women have spent centuries trying to break down.

I wear high heels because I like them. If I were obliged at a festival (or let’s say a book prize event) to wear heels, I would probably turn up in Crocs, the ultimate in anti-chic.

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Writing a Novel is Like a Terrible Illness

Writing a novel is like having a terrible illness. Every time you feel as if you are recovering, you have to start a new chapter, get over the setbacks endured by your heroine (you feel her pain) and set her up for more suffering. Conflict is the oil of fiction and in a romance, someone always needs a cuddle.

Publishing a novel is often likened to having a baby. It is much worse to that. It is like giving birth to something with cloven hooves, a monster in a black and white mask. Characters must reveal a blend of good and bad qualities with distinguishing tics and mannerisms. It obliges the writer to clear the mist from the mirror to see who you really are in order to establish who they really are.

A novel is a long confession in which you expose your heartaches, complain about all the things that are wrong in the world, then try to put those things right for the sake of the reader, as well as your own well being.

The best novels capture the times in which the writer lives, which accounts for the current, if contrasting taste for lost utopias and dystopian nightmares peopled by vampires and wolves.

A novel is a wish list of who you subliminally want to be and can be. Writing is an arrogant pursuit. In the secret heart of every novelist there are two people: a politician and a philosopher certain that he/she knows best while, at the same time, remains an outsider who believes nothing matters much, and few things matter at all.

Between the lines of every novel the writer reveals herself

Katie in Love

In my new novel, Katie in Love, there are aspects of myself in Katie, but also aspects of other characters I have assembled in words, seen in movies, on the bus staring aimlessly at their iPhone, complaining at timid waitresses in loud voices in restaurants, bending to share a word with the homeless man begging in the street.

The result is a projection of what is tangible and sentient into narrative and back again: base metal turned into gold; or rust. I am not Katie and Katie is not me. We are twins born on different planes, me earthbound with the weight of the mundane, Katie an astral traveller on a fictional journey that must, as a novel, end in a way that the reader expects, but not in the way they expect it.

It is said that in every Persian carpet there is an error created by the weaver to avoid making a mockery of the belief that only Allah is perfect. Writing a novel is the quest for a perfection every writer knows can never be achieved, but is obliged to “Set out to write a masterpiece.”

This advice by author Cyril Connolly has haunted me since I read it in The Unquiet Grave, a melancholy title for what is a rather uplifting potpourri of adages and wise counsel, for example: “Lend a friend a fiver and you have an enemy for life.”

Katie in Love was a 13 month pregnancy during which this monster baby inside was continually growing and shrinking with editing and new drafts in order to bring into the world the best novel I was capable of writing. All writing must be like this. Writing a novel is like setting out for Shangri-la knowing it doesn’t actually exist.

CLICK for Katie in Love downloads 
CLICK For the (rather beautiful) paperback

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Katie in Love – review by Paul Green

Years ago, when I was working in a second-hand book shop, a woman came in seeking a novel. Title? Publisher? Author? She couldn’t remember. ‘It’s all about a man and a woman. They fall in love!’ she announced, indignantly, when I professed bewilderment. I was about to suggest that we began with the Troubadors and proceeded to Anais Nin by way of D.H Lawrence, but by then she’d stomped out, obviously dissatisfied with my lack of bibliographical recall.

Chloe Thurlow has taken the oldest story in the world and made it her own, making it new in the process – and making it memorable. This tale of Katie’s progress from wild erotic experiment to sexual and emotional fulfilment is infused with passion, wit, and self-knowledge. It’s propelled by an intense love of life – and language.

The appeal of Katie’s first-person narrative lies in the sharp focus of her consciousness. She’s a writer of erotic fiction, which scandalises her posh mother and places her as a partial outsider, despite her privileged background as a convent school pupil. Intelligent and educated (BA Hons Cambridge) her sensibilities are fine-tuned and allied to a flair for vivid imagery and felicitous phrasing, whether she’s evoking the transgressive delights of prolonged oral sex or the more sedate pleasures of a family lunch in a Surrey farmhouse.

She doesn’t miss a thing when it comes to social observation and the black comedy of metropolitan manners, which encompasses the piggery of champagne-fuelled executives at the corporate functions where she sometimes waitresses, the niceties of lesbian flirtation at exclusive Soho clubs and the narcissism of floppy-haired ‘resting’ actors and media types.

Katie and the Secret Rites of Girls

She celebrates the secret rites of girls as she chooses the right knickers, the definitive top, the Jimmy Choo shoes. But she’s equally alert to contradictions in her own attitudes, especially as her relationship with Tom develops. He’s a doctor working with Sri Lankan orphans, whose indifference to worldly possessions challenges her hedonistic lifestyle. But he’s fantastic in bed…

If you’ve read Chloe Thurlow’s earlier books like ‘The Secret Life of Girls’, you won’t be surprised to learn that the sex sequences are created with a remarkable freshness of language and insight, as Katie comes to realise that through role-play and artifice – symbolised by the mask she wears as they make love – the deep energy of her sexuality is released.

As her involvement with Tom deepens, reflections on her earlier affairs and the enigma of sex are deftly interwoven with the ongoing narration. She has lost her virginity in a situation that could be construed as both exploitative and liberating. And her Cambridge tutor’s chastisement when correcting her essay went further than merely giving her a D grade – yet also expanded her intellectual; horizons.

There is a depth and complexity to her analysis of her sexual history – and of Tom’s – which reflects the existential ambiguity of lived experience, instead of falling back on ideological stereotyping. She discovers her ‘core values’ – a phrase much debased by politicians but useful here – so inevitably is forced to make bold decisions when Tom returns to his work in Sri Lanka.

‘When you add love to sex it feels as if your soul is being drawn from the chains of gravity into the core of the infinite…Love bends and curves like space and time.’ Chloe Thurlow has pushed against the boundaries of the erotic fiction genre to create in Katie in Love something highly distinctive and individual. I look forward to her next book.

Grab your copy of Katie in Love today.

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Blind Date From Hell

A blind date is like jumping out of a window when your house is on fire not knowing if you are going to crack your skull on the garden path.

The moment you meet on a blind date, the reason why you are there flies out of your head. You feel tense, a bit stupid, and it’s hard to focus on this stranger with his unknown desires and expectations.

A blind date was traditionally set up by a mutual friend of the daters. In cyber times, with almost as many dating sites as porn sites, love is found stroking the keyboard. You can invent a new persona. If it doesn’t work, change your Gravatar and become someone new, an unceasing quest to find yourself as much as love.

Before I was hooked up, if I wanted to meet someone new, I spent a night in one of my preferred West End bars, usually with a girlfriend, sometimes alone when sleep was the enemy and my notebook was itching to slide out beside a glass of champagne and get written in. There’s always danger, but it’s never dull.

It was under Gemma’s pressure that I succumbed, and my blind date with Mike (real name) provides a list of warning signs that have stuck in my mind liked a tattoo.

Blind Date State of Play

We met at a restaurant – a public place, safe for us both. Mike was at the table and glanced up from my photo on his phone. He looked at my legs, tits and finally my face.

We brushed cheeks and he sat back where he had been sitting looking out with a view of the restaurant. I sat facing him, and the wall, and he snapped his fingers for the waitress. I began with a glass of cava. He asked for house red and tap water.

We ordered, and when the first course came my blind date complained that the walnuts in his Waldorf salad were rancid. ‘It’s just the flavour of the yoghurt,’ the waitress told him, and he told her: ‘Why don’t you taste it yourself if you think I’m lying.’

She took the plate away and brought him the Greek salad, the same as I was having; fresh feta, plump Kalamata black olives, ripe tomatoes and cucumber. ‘I hate it when they try and rip you off,’ he said.

There’s an old joke: a man talks about himself in a restaurant for two hours and then says, well, that’s enough about me. Let’s talk about you – what do you think of me? The joke came to mind as Mike sat there telling me about his job in IT, and just the mention of those two initials were enough for me to swig back my cava and order another one.

Mike moved on from his career as a world authority in SEO – search engine optimisation – to his love of ice hockey, which he played growing up in Maine and could have gone pro. ‘I guess you were meant for higher things?’ I said, and he nodded modestly.

I asked Mike how he knew Gemma and he snapped his fingers at the waitress. He needed another glass of wine to explain that she was a ‘crazy girl’ who ‘ran hot and cold.’ They really had something, he said, but she just blew it. He couldn’t stand ‘ego-mad’ women who only thought about themselves.

He had started to tell me about another crazy girl who’d messed up up his life when his phone rang. He glanced up from the screen. ‘I have to take this,’ he said, and proceeded to explain to a client for ten minutes that SEO doesn’t happen over night. Like love, I thought. He mentioned keywords and alt tags. I wondered if I should ask him for advice about my own blog, but didn’t.

In fact, now that he was on his third glass of wine, he was stroking the back of my hand and telling me I had nice eyes. ‘You should see my feet,’ I said, and he wasn’t sure if I was joking or not. I realised, too, that what attracts me most in men is wit, silliness, fun, and Mike from Maine must have had a humour bypass.

We shared the bill and I paid the tip. He didn’t have any change, and didn’t think the waitress was worth anything. She was gamine with short pixie hair, the perfect blind date, I thought.

10 Blind Date Warning SignsHe looks first at your tits and legs, not your face.He sits facing out in a restaurant, leaving you to face the wall.He snaps his finger for the waitress and treats her with impatience – this may be done simply to impress. Don’t be.He complains about his food as if the waitress is to blame for its apparent shortcomings; a sign that he is probably abusive, even violent.A blind date who talks incessantly about himself isn’t as interesting as he thinks he is. He’s a bore and bores get more boring the longer you know them.Men who talk about sport usually aren’t doing any, they’re watchers, not doers, a statistics wonk, not an action man.Ask him about past girlfriends. If he puts them down, if he blames them for breakups, it’s a red light on the list of warning signs.He leaves his cell phone on the table, a display of his belief in his own importance.If he gets too romantic or sentimental and starts stroking your hand across the table, don’t let him keep refilling your glass, and be careful if you go to the loo in case he’s dropped a rape date drug in your drink.He under tips – or worse.Share your blind date from hell in COMMENTS – 

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Words are Never at a Loss for Words

Words love me best when I leave them alone, when I stop poking and prodding and allow them to arrange themselves.

Words have a taste, sweet but subtle, like dark chocolate; the scent of old bookshops; a flamenco rhythm; the feeling of the rain on your face on sunny days. Words are cruel and spiteful sometimes, wise and loving at others.

Words know that there is always the right word and no other word will do. Words believe in brevity – the soul of wit, said Shakespeare, a man never at a loss for words.

Words hate to waste energy. If you can’t find the right word, don’t look for it. It will find you. The right word at the right time stops wars, cures heartaches, mends bridges, sweeps away barriers.

Words want to be sampled, relished, remembered; they need breathing space in the shape of commas, colons, semi-colons and full stops. Words are individual. They are content to string along together in sentences and paragraphs, but remain mavericks, outsiders beyond the crowd, the mob, the gang. A long novel begins with the first word.

Words are forceful but fair, feminine, flexible, yet solid, strong, dependable. Words are multi-cultural, without prejudice. They believe in freedom, equality, equanimity. If a word were a man he’d be a man of his word.

Words Maketh Man

In the beginning there was the word and the word was good. The word was healthy. The word civilized our barbarous precursors. After man had taught himself to make tools, he grew crops to feed himself and stored or traded the surplus. He needed to keep records and used the sharp edge of an axe to mark tokens fired in a kiln to confirm the exchange, a form of writing that started 12,000 years ago in the Zagros Mountains in Mesopotamia, present day Iraq, Syria and Iran. Words have a sense of irony.

It took thousands of years for the marks on clay tokens to develop into pictograms to represent quantities, time frames, commodities. The word was born and the scribes in Mesopotamia, Persia, Egypt, Greece, Rome, were crucial figures because they had the gift of words.

Man turned his tools to architecture, painting and sculpture, but we know more of classical civilizations than the ruins they left by the words of the philosophers and dramatists, Sophocles, Euripides, Plato, Virgil, Ovid, Bukhari; the words of the poets that resonate still.

A picture may describe a 1000 words but it will often need 1000 words to describe a picture.

Spread the word and CLICK the links below – 

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An Orgasm a Day For A Longer Life

An orgasm a day will help you live longer. Regular sex with plenty of orgasms is healthy, provides pain relief, aids weight loss, relieves stress, feels fantastic and makes you look younger.

People take sex far too seriously. It’s only sex. Do you love chocolate? I know I do. Eat it. Enjoy it. Sex makes your heart beat faster and, according to one study, burns away five calories a minute. Do the maths.

Sex is the best exercise in the world. Try a shoulder and arm work out by standing on your hands with your partner supporting your thighs as he glides in and out. You’ll be achy in the morning, and that means you need your orgasm a day to build up those muscles.

I heard at a recent party one man say to another: Do you play golf? The other replied: No, I still fuck. Men of advancing years who have sex twice a week are less likely to be struck down by heart disease than those who have abandoned the bed for the golf course and tennis court. Sex boosts your heart rate and keeps testosterone levels in balance.

Orgasm brings a surge of blood to female genital tissue, keeping it healthy, supple, refreshed in oestrogen. Forget those medieval taboos, sex during the menstrual cycle wards off endometriosis, a uterine condition that can lead to infertility.

If you have a headache, the last thing you want to do is tell him (or her) that you have a headache. Light some candles and put some sexy undies on instead. Sex increases pain tolerance. Headaches and other neuralgia complaints are often stress related. An orgasm a day ignites the passion hormone oxytocin and all those little aches and worries vanish like smoke.

As an insomniac, the writer’s disease, I find a session between the bedsheets carries me off to the oneiric land of sleep like no amount of pills or ice cold glasses of cava. The oxytocin blast releases a monsoon of endorphins that have a sedentary effect and you wake thirsting for your orgasm a day revitaliser before the fresh orange juice.

Orgasm a Day Studies

To go back to the golfer, the more he knocks those little balls around the course the more he wants to knock those little balls around the course. Sex is like that. If you are lucky enough to be in the orgasm a day club, your libido zooms off the charts, your handicap falls to zero and you need an orgasm a day to stay match fit.

Just as some guys are good at golf, some girls are not good at reaching orgasm. As many as one in three women suffer FSD – Female Sexual Dysfunction. There are treatments available. But the best therapy is the try, try and try again method with a partner devoted to tongue play and relentless dedication to clitoral and g-spot stimulation.

You can assist that dedication, first by giving as much as you get, but also by what you eat. Vaginas have their own scent. Six showers a day won’t change that. If you want to keep your parts as fragrant as Chanel, not as odorous as the English Channel, eat strawberries, pineapple and oranges; avoid vegetables, particularly asparagus and cabbage. Now that I have given up smoking, I can also say: don’t smoke, it’s smelly, unhealthy and chops years off the end of your life.

People in loving relationships are generally healthier than singletons. But if they want to live longer, too, the orgasm a day guidance is borne out by a number of studies.

A British research team over an extended period interviewed 1,000 men in six Welsh villages about their sex lives. In the fullness of time, death records were sent to the scientists, who determined in a ten year study that those men who had two or more orgasms a week had lived significantly longer than those who had confined themselves to a lonely big O a month.

A study at Duke’s University, with 252 participants over a 25 year period, revealed that frequent sex was a ‘significant predictor of longevity.’ A study in Sweden has shown that men of 70 who reached 75 were those on a regular sex diet.

Doubters will say that the studies don’t prove that an orgasm a day is the road to longevity; rather it is the reverse: healthy people have more sex, more orgasms and live longer anyway. But, then, why take the risk? An orgasm is like the big bang, the explosion that creates life and makes life worth living.

Now CLICK & read Katie in Love to put you in the mood!

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Professional Authors on Starvation Wages

My new novel Katie in Love came out on 21 March and has reached in four weeks more than 70, mainly 5-star reviews at Amazon.com, with proportionately similar results in the UK, Canada and Australia.

Katie in Love is my 6th novel, the first indie-published. It took 13 months to write. I worried and fussed over ever sentence. I used a professional to design what is considered a rather beautiful, eye-catching cover.

I followed my own Five Prime Rules for Writing:

edit, edit, editshow don’t tellif in doubt, leave it outdon’t use a long word when a short one will doavoid clichés like rat poison 

Though I believe, as do the critics, that this is my best book, the modest sales reflect a disheartening trend highlighted in the current newsletter from ALCS (Authors’ Licensing and Collecting Society), a UK campaigning organization for writers that collects money due to members for secondary uses of their work, including photocopying, cable retransmission, digital reproduction, educational recording, royalties from foreign sales and translations.

ALCS commissioned Queen Mary University of London to conduct a survey of 2500 working writers. The Report, The Business of Being an Author: A Survey of Authors’ Earnings and Contracts, reads like a death sentence and includes the distressing statistic that author earnings have fallen by 29% since 2005, with just 11.5% of professional authors making a living solely from writing, down from 40% a decade ago.

The Writing Life and EarningsThe career of a professional authors typically begins in the late 20s/30s. The optimum ‘earning age’ for the majority is the mid-40s to 50s, with incomes beginning to decline thereafter.The earnings picture is top heavy: the top 5% scooped up 42.3% of all the money earned by professional authors.The bottom 50% (those earning £10,432 or less) earned only 7% of all the money earned by all writers cumulatively.Since 2005 the typical author has become poorer against society as a whole and now (from self-employed writing) earns only 87% of the present minimum wage (less than £20,000).Nearly 90% of professional authors need to earn money from sources other than writing.17% of all writers did not earn any money from writing in 2013, despite 98% of these having had a work published or exploited in each year from 2010 to 2013. That means at least 17% of writers work without any expectation of earnings.Self-PublishingA quarter of authors have self-published a book.Among indie authors, the top 10% of earners made a profit of £7,000 or more.The top 20% of earners among authors who have self-published made a profit of almost £3,000.The bottom 20% of indies made losses of at least £400.Publishing Advances and Contracts44% of authors stated that the size of the advances they had received from publishers had declined over the past five years.46% of authors said they had signed a buy-out contract (where there is a single payment for use of their work without the further payment of royalties), with 30% stating that the prevalence of such contracts was on the increase.Copyright42% of authors said they always retain copyright in their works, with most others retaining it most, or some of the time. Only 12% never retain any copyright in their works after publication.

According to Richard Combes, ALCS head of Rights and Licensing: “The research highlights a familiar paradox: at a time when the creative industries are a thriving mainstay of the UK economy, the industry of individual creators is an increasingly undervalued national resource.”

Amen.

It leaves me to thank to ALCS for the sobering numbers, and thank, in advance, to those now tempted to CLICK and READ the generous reviews for Katie in Love.

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First Anal Penetration – Steven Josephs Guest Blog

Like so many of my sexual adventures, my first anal penetration by anything other than a tentative finger, happened on the initiative of someone else.

Whilst enjoying my favourite post ejaculation recovery one day, being stroked gently by a woman half my age, she asked me if I fancied taking a strap-­on.

Yes, just like that.

She can be quite direct. I have learned that when a beautiful, intelligent woman suggests something, anything, there can be only one response. So she went out next day and bought herself a strap-on. Life is very simple really.

Next time we were together, we opened our ‘present’ and fixed the straps. I could not believe how sexy she looked in the strap-on, and that itself is a big turn on.

The girl is naturally submissive, which is lovely, most of the time. But I do enjoy her taking the initiative and becoming more dominant. I had been wondering how to encourage her to become that very thing, when she made the suggestion and then followed through by buying the strap-on.

Joys of First Anal Penetration

She ordered me to kneel, and pushed the hard rubbery ‘penis’ into my mouth. She held my head and began gently, but with growing force, to fuck my mouth. Not as pleasant as a cock (don’t ask?) but she needed to do it. And I needed to submit in that way for her. Withdrawing, she pointed to the bed.

Firstly, I went on all fours and she stood behind me. She lubricated my anus with her fingers, added lube to the dildo, then leaned forward and pushed against my opening.

The opening is tight, and there is an instinctive nervous resistance, but she eased gently into me, and I was conscious of being filled. She began to slide in and out and we continued for several minutes. Then she lay on top of me, a very gentle, loving experience.

I laid on my back, ‘missionary’, I guess, and had the experience of observing her determined face as she entered me again. The determination to control and set the pace was a delight to watch. This time she was harder. Soon, a thin film of perspiration covered her face and body, and her skin turned pink. As she took control of me, I had a feeling of overwhelming joy. I loved it. Honestly.

Then I made my masterstroke. I told her to ‘rape me.’ And that was truly dynamic. Her personality seemed to change. She placed her hands on my shoulders and, gripping me in place, rammed and rammed my aching anus until I pleaded with her to stop.

My first anal penetration was a delightful experience and I believe it would be for any man, particularly one who is endeavouring to encourage his lady to be more dominant, even aggressive. She is now threatening to buy a larger strap-on…..

Do you have an experience you would like to share? Write to me at chloe.thurlow@yahoo.co.uk

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Why Men Like To Watch Girls Peeing

Girls peeing is more fascinating to men than men peeing interests women, except with that splash of envy we feel when, caught short on the way home, he whips it out to spray the nearest wall, while you have to squat down, lower your knickers and wet your new Monolo Blahniks.

Men are obsessed with breasts, they suckle on them as babies, and the allure of bottoms entices their horny hands as if with some celestial force. The appeal of girls peeing comes from some atavistic kink in the male genome. Like canines marking their territory, girls peeing is feral, primitive, earthy.

Freud described the libido as psychosexual energy: the driving force behind all human behaviour. He suggests that for a child, ‘pleasure is derived’ learning to hold the bladder, ‘but a fixation at this stage can result in a personality that is too rigid.’ Put another way, girls peeing for watching eyes is a release from the rigidity of contemporary society, a tiny rebellion.

If we go back to our cavemen ancestors, girls peeing whenever they wanted and wherever they squatted was normal. That feeling of sliding back into your primordial skin is inborn and curiously sensual. It’s like going naked in public, or peeing in the sea. You are doing what came natural before shame and the fig leaf entered Eden.

Girls Peeing on Jellyfish Stings

 I would like to dispel two myths:

Pee on jellyfish stings does not relieve pain. It makes it worse. The only relief is bathing (without touching) the sting with sea water drawn away from the area where the sting occurred. Then go to the pharmacist for some cream.Drinking your own (or anyone else’s) pee is NOT good for you, except on that rare happenstance when you are lost without water in the middle of the desert. Our urinary tract is layered in bacteria and urine is a secondary waste disposal mechanism removing used blood, toxins and dead cells.

Having said that, across the palette of fetishes from girls peeing on their partner or being peed upon, bathing in pee, watching others wet themselves, wetting the bed and sniffing pee-soaked clothing, while drinking each other’s urine does nothing for your health, it is perfectly acceptable if that’s what floats your boat, although I would suggest champagne, or cava, same colour and a better buzz.

In a world in crisis growing tougher for more people and in more complex ways, baby role play (paraphilic infantilism) has been rebranded as: Adult Babies Wearing Diapers (ABWD) with support and contact groups on Facebook and other social platforms.

Baby suckles from a bottle, cries, wets herself (it’s usually girls peeing their diapers) and daddy gets off on cleaning her up. Note: infantalists are not paedophiles but adults with “altered lovemaps, imprinting gone awry and errors in erotic targets,” says Wikipedia.

The Japanese have a predilection for Omorashi – holding your pee until you are ready to burst in order to give pleasure to yourself and for those watching your discomfort. It takes all sorts.

The ever-inventive Brits have created Pussing – girls peeing in public places like pubs or the office, so their partner but no one else can see, the pleasure being, one assumes, in getting caught out.

Peeing fetishes are called watersports, golden showers and, to get classical, urolagnia, from the Greek ouron, urine, and lagneia, a lovely word meaning lust. Happy peeing…

Got to rush…

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Katie in Love – review by India Reid

Opening up Chloe Thurlow’s Katie in Love is a lot like slipping into the perfect bath after a long, hard day. It’s the perfect temperature, warm enough to make you sweat. The water is the most gorgeous shade of lavender– no, not lavender, but instead Katie’s signature pink. There are rose petals floating in the water, candles lit all around; the air is deliciously humid, floral with hints of something darker – leather, maybe, or sandalwood. Best of all, the bath is drawn in one of those gorgeous old tubs with the claw feet, but it’s big enough that your whole body can sink down into it, right up to the bottom lashes of your eyes.

It probably sounds like I’m romanticizing Thurlow’s work – but I’m not. There’s something incredibly intimate about Katie in Love that does all of the romancing for me. There were times when reading Katie left me feeling like I had just seen the author naked – and Chloe, if you’re reading this, consider me seduced. There’s a definite sense of voyeurism to the piece, a floaty realism that leaves one wondering how much of the story is fact and how much is fiction.

Katie in Love is both erotic and elegant, delicate but bold. It’s a hell of a story, in the most classic sense of the word. They just don’t write books like this anymore. Thurlow spins a tale like she’s traveled to us from a classier time to bring fine literature to the masses.

The primary plot is basic – as basic as all love stories are, when you get right down to it. Katie Boyd meets sex bomb doctor Tom Bridge at a New Year’s Eve party and they do the deed; a romance blossoms, a bond is formed, the sex is magnificent and the banter is to die for.

But Katie is no simpering Austenesque regency heroine who can’t step out in the rain without catching a deadly cold. She’s an intellectual, a former Catholic school girl with a naughty side. Katie meets her friends at lesbian bars, writes erotic novels and forms trysts with her tutors that are just as educational in the books as they are naked, on top of them. And Tom is no General Hospital extra, either – he’s running a non-profit for children orphanage in Sri Lanka and running away from the kind of ex-girlfriend that every one of us fears deep down inside.

The thing about this book is that it’s honest, honest in the most fascinatingly baring ways. It’s not just Katie that one feels emotionally entangled in after reading; it’s Thurlow as well, her writing, her poetic patterns of speech and her particular way of teasing out the most intimate of details with her words.

You’ll never read another book like it again – and it’s ripe for a second read.

Katie in Love at Amazon, just click.

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