Chloe Thurlow's Blog, page 8

Confessions of a Coffee Addict

I am a coffee addict and I have got my first New Year resolution lined up ready to go: I am going to give up trying to give up coffee.

Apart from being a coffee addict, I am also an insomniac, thrive on stress and drink too much bubbly  – on occasions. In the past, when I did give up coffee, I still didn’t sleep, traded coffee for chocolate, suffered migraines and couldn’t do up the waist buttons on my skirts.

What a relief it was after the dead days of denial to grind the beans and smell the grains brewing and bubbling in the cafetiere. Once a coffee addict always a coffee addict. Coffee is life. Everything else is going out to buy new skirts a size bigger.

Are there downsides? Aren’t there always? Coffee is a stimulant, it interferes with sleep and, experts say, increases the risk of heart disease. Coffee can be an appetite inhibitor (don’t we all eat too much?) and really strong coffee can discolour your teeth.

Are there upsides. Oh, yes. It may come as a surprise, but according to WebMD, caffeine reduces inflammation. It is a key ingredient (up to 40%) in most popular pain killers, and works wonders for morning headaches. Better two cups of coffee than two aspirin. WebMD further informs us that coffee is ‘a rich source of disease-fighting antioxidants.’ Studies show caffeine lightens bad moods, boosts athletic performance, reduces the risk of type 2 diabetes, gall stones, cirrhosis of the liver, colon and liver cancer.

Coffee may even increase longevity – the Spanish are the long living proof. Life expectancy in Spain is the second highest in the world (after Japan) and Spaniards consume coffee like there’s no mañana. They pig out on pork products, drink carajillos (black coffee with brandy) at breakfast, and in summer go out at midnight for dinner.

So, look out New Year, here I come, a coffee addict no longer merely proud of my addiction, but guzzling for my health.

First Coffee Addict

Coffee is the second biggest commercial product in the world (after oil); 125 million people live from planting, reaping, sorting, exporting and importing coffee. Coffee has become a development vehicle in countries such as Vietnam (now the planet’s second largest producer of coffee beans after Brazil).

Most of the world’s coffee comes from the Arabica plant, a large bush with dark green oval leaves, and is grown by individual farmers on five to seven acres of land. Families harvest by hand into large baskets. The fruits, or cherries, are rounded and mature in 7 to 9 months; and usually contain two flat seeds, the coffee beans. Coffee also comes from the Robusta shrub, a small tree that grows up to 10 metres high.

We can thank a shepherd named Kaldi for the discovery of coffee in the Kaffa province of Abyssinia, now Ethiopia, in the 5th century. The legend tells us the goat herder noticed that his goats became stimulated when they ate the fruit and leaves from the coffee plants.

Kaldi took some fruit and leaves to the monks living nearby, whether to be blessed or not history doesn’t say. They cooked up an infusion and the good shepherd became the world’s first coffee addict.

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Slave Girl With The Spider Tattoo

A line ran from below my bottom lip, around the curve of my chin and down between my breasts in a blue thread to the spider tattoo on the dome of my shaved pubis. My belly was adorned with a green stone, shiny as an emerald, the colour of my eyes.

From the ramparts, I watched a pickup cross the desert. It shot by the caravanserai, the driver tooted his horn as he swerved through the gate and the vehicle vanished from view in a cloud of dust.

I should have gone down to the courtyard with the other women. That was the role of a slave girl, to fall to the floor and weep with joy. But I remained in the tower. I had a new life now I wore the spider tattoo of the clan, but I knew from my old life that just as absence warms the heart, so denial keens the appetite.

When Samir climbed the stairs and I finally heard his robes sweep along the corridor, he would be ready for me and I would light up and glow like a chameleon.

I didn’t have long to wait. He appeared in the doorway and I ran into his arms. He had remembered how to kiss and when he kissed my insatiable lips, the air fled from my body. He carried me to the stone shower where I washed away the dust of his journey and he washed away the dust of my doubts and fears. I could smell the sea on his skin. His face was bronzed, flawless. His cock stood between us and, when I bent to take it into my throat, I felt complete, a lock being joined by the key to paradise.

Samir’s warm manhood was an alien sun that energised me. His taste was sugary like sherbet. I felt spasms rolling down from his ribbed stomach and paused, not wanting that first orgasm to come too quickly. I rose with a long wet lick up the trunk off his manhood to the groove in his soft helmet, from his navel to the broad plain of his smooth chest. I climbed up into his embrace and the little sheikh throbbed against my belly.

He pushed the plug back in the shower. We dripped in the morning sun. The yellow parakeets stood hopping from foot to foot, close enough to touch, and sang their dissonant song.

‘You are happy to see me, habibi?’ he said.

‘So happy, you can’t imagine,’ I answered in Arabic, careful with every word, and he leaned back, pleased and surprised.

‘You speak my language?’

I ran my forefinger in a line from my chin to the spider tattoo. ‘I had a good teacher,’ I told him.

He went down on his haunches to admire Amatullah’s handiwork. He caressed my mount. ‘It’s beautiful,’ he said.

‘And you are beautiful.’

‘Yes, me beautiful.’ He kissed the spider tattoo. ‘She beautiful.’

‘You speak my language,’ I said and he looked up over my belly, which he stroked.

‘I be away too long.’

Tribe of the Spider Tattoo

We entered the tower. The light was hazy, like a dream. I took his hand and kissed his palm. I sucked his fingers, one after the other, then slid like an obedient slave over the pillows piled high on the carpet. I got a good purchase with my knees, my breasts hung like udders over my lovely tummy and, as I rolled my hips seductively, an ancient memory flooded my mind. I was thirteen in the showers after a hockey match at school, a skinny thing with budding breasts barely contouring my chest. A plump hirsute girl ripe as a peach slapped my backside with a wet towel and all the girls laughed when she roared, ‘Shame your arse is your best feature’.

I was angry and tearful, but the memory now brought a smile to my lips. The girl may have been right. My bottom was full, plump, two precise domes that rang out like a bell as the weathered hand I’d kissed came down in a hard smack that set me off on the yellow brick road to euphoria. The weight of that slap pushed me forward, collapsing the pile of cushions, and without my arms for support, I buried my head and pushed the target up to meet the next stroke of discipline.

There is nothing like a good spanking. I wiggled all the more as my bum grew redder, sweat poured from me like a tide and the sheikh’s wet hand rang out louder and louder as smack after glorious smack rained down on my intoxicated posterior.

I liked the whip. You can enjoy the cane. But your lover’s hand is the fleshly connection of your lover, it is his penis in another form. Men with large hands are endowed with large cocks and the sheikh’s hands were long and fine. If you look at the shape of a man’s palm and the soft curve of a girl’s backside, you can see that they are meant to join. They are the two parts of a child’s first puzzle.

I wriggled and writhed. My breasts wobbled. My wet hair hung in a golden veil over my eyes. Samir beat me until the glow spread up my back and down my thighs. He beat me until my drenched pussy sent a stream of boiling lava down the insides of my legs. He beat me until the smell of my arousal stewed his mind and he fell on me like a satyr, driving his spear deep into the winking eye of my backside, filling me to the rim, and we exploded, roaring like beasts.

We lay in a lake of sticky fluids, chests beating, the light growing stronger as he revived sufficiently to swivel around and investigate the spider tattoo. He licked the eight legs of the spider, he petted and nudged my swollen clit and his tongue like a sword slid into the sheath of my flooded vagina.

All warm and soft, the little sheikh was perfumed with my own scents as it worked between my teeth and, like baking clay, slowly hardened. Is there anything better than sucking a man’s cock after it has rutted your backside? Is there anything better than fucking?

The morning was soon gone and Samir was gone all too soon. We bathed away the juices coating our bodies and he threw a sheet around his waist. As he hurried along the walkway, the parakeets took wing and suddenly, for no reason, a cold chill like a bad omen ran down my spine.

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“Thurlow’s work never ceases to amaze and surprise me.  Beautiful writing, well-developed characters and intriguing plots are three reasons why I keep coming back for more. Chloe Thurlow is gifted writer; a modern day Anais Nin. She weaves erotica into something that transcends sex.” Ellie Bay on Amazon

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Breaking Up is Just Beginning to Live Again

Breaking up breaks your heart. Breaking up is like a nervous breakdown. Breaking up makes you feel as if you have done something wrong, made some terrible error, that there is something wrong with you – even when you know it’s not your fault.

We search for blame after breaking up. But, more often than not, there is no blame. Relationships hang on slender threads. They wear thin and suddenly snap. Those little quirks and peculiarities you found amusing in each other grow tiresome. What was fun isn’t fun anymore.

We spend weeks and months analysing ourselves and our ex looking for the reasons why a relationship has come to an end. It’s hard to sleep at night. Your eyes get puffy. You eat chocolate. The face in the mirror no longer belongs to you, it belongs to that person you were before breaking up. Your shoulders slump and, like a stuck record, you play the same dull snatch of mind music over and over again.

Breaking Up Civil

What this soul searching does is slow the process of recovery. We must come to terms with the fact that breaking up is normal. You don’t fall in love with the first man you meet, have children and remain together for the rest of your life. Maybe once upon a time. In fairy tales. But not now. Not any longer.

A desire for revenge after breaking up is common, but always fruitless and will make you feel worse. Don’t behave like a troll and blacken his name across social media. Trolls are the worst species of humanity, psychopaths, web terrorists.

Don’t send presents back. Give them to a charity shop. Be civil, compassionate – the vibe you give out really does come back. Make yourself be in the moment, the now, not the time that has slipped with the sand through the hour glass and is gone.

You know you are getting back to normal when the face in the mirror looks like you again, when you find all the clothes in the closet still fit and the shoes you spent too much money buying suddenly look fabulous. Clothes reveal aspects of our identity, our personality, the person we really are. Call a friend you’ve been neglecting and suggest going out for a drink. Just stepping into those shoes makes all those dead dying cells come back to life again.

Breaking Up Freedom

The way to get over one man is to get under another. A new man blows away the musty air of the past. A steady relationship strips away layers of our individuality, our freedom. Once you feel the weight of a new man – or woman – on top of you, you know you are still attractive, that breaking up was not your fault, it wasn’t anyone’s fault, and there is a long future of new lovers, starting again, breaking up again, that this is the reality of life.

There is a sense after breaking up of feeling liberated, of feeling young again. You have a desire to be audacious, outrageous, iconoclastic. You want to have sex with a stranger, try a threesome, sex in public (weather permitting). If you feel like it, then do it. We rarely regret the things we have done, only the things we didn’t do when we had the chance.

There is after breaking up a period or mourning what has passed, what could have been. Go with the grief, then seal it away in a box and live life again. Breaking up is not easy, it’s never easy, and living again, finding your old self again, is the best cure for heartache.

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“This woman can write! Ms. Thurlow understands words and knows how to weave them. I had run across the author’s blog, and was impressed enough by the content there to give Katie in Love a try. I admit to approaching the novel with skepticism and trepidation. There is so much tripe out there that passes for literature. Not so this novel. It is wonderfully well-written, and casts a mesmerizing spell. I rushed through it much quicker than it deserves because I was so happy to find a book I actually enjoyed reading. I will go back and give it a more leisurely read and take the time to savor the cadence and flow of the captivating prose.” Rowena Tisdale on Amazon 

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Teen Blowjobs Giving Head Fellatio

Two in three teens have had oral sex and teen blowjobs is one of the top ten enquiries on search engines.

The figures come from research by the Centers for Disease Control and Prevention (CDC), and marks a ‘hierarchical reordering of oral sex in American culture,’ according to Justin Garcia, an evolutionary biologist with the Kinsey Institute at Indiana University.

Mothers watching their daughters grow up in the sexting, nude-selfie generation have one dictum they scream daily as their girls leave the house with more flesh revealed that covered: don’t get pregnant.

With their fizzing hormones and desires to experiment, girls believe giving head will 1) keep mom happy, 2) their boyfriend happy, 3) guard their virginity, 4) they are protected from sexually transmitted diseases, STDS; the latter is partially true, but CDC points out that infection is also possible as a result of oral sex, and 5) girls, in my experience, like giving blowjobs.

Internet sites specialising in streaming teen blowjobs such as Only Teen Blowjobs craft an air of innocence and depravity that would have appealed to the Marquis de Sade and obviously appeals to the millions tapping teen blowjobs into Google.

Teen Blowjobs Chronicle

There is nothing new in teen blowjobs. Sex to restock the species is our primary instinct. The first known representations of oral sex appear on cave walls in Neolithic times where we can see Lucy (great choice or name) sucking off one guy whilst being penetrated by another.

In Ancient Egypt, when Osiris (the god of the dead and afterlife ) was cut to ribbons by an enemy, his wife Isis put him back together a strip at a time and blew life back into him with a blowjob. When men are in a deep sleep from which they cannot be roused, a blowjob will do the trick.

In the Song of Solomon Chapter 2 Verse 3, we read: ‘Like an apple tree among the trees of the forest, so is my beloved among the young men. In his shade I took great delight and sat down, and his fruit was sweet to my taste.’ Now I would have translated sat down as kneeled down, but it seems clear to me that in Biblical times they knew giving head is good for your health.

Most of the clips from teen blowjobs sites show girls on all four in what Georges Bataille describes as ‘animal-like positions,’ and end with erupting cocks spurting sperm into their open mouths and across their faces, a facial or a cream pie in the jargon.

Bataille, author of the seminal work Eroticism, says it is man’s nature to profane objects of beauty, particularly young women, and that it is the nature of the female sex, in an erotic sense, to be a party to this profanation. In sacrifice, he writes, the victim is chosen so that her perfection adds resonance to the full brutality of death.

‘Tastes and customs vary, but that cannot prevent a woman’s beauty and humanity from revealing the animal nature of the sexual act obvious.’ Beauty, he adds, has a cardinal importance, for ugliness cannot be despoiled and ‘to despoil is the essence of eroticism.’

Teen Blowjobs Simplicity

Perhaps Bataille overcomplicates matters and teen blowjobs in our more liberal times are popular for the simple reason that girls like giving blowjobs. It feels completely feminine to be down on your knees sucking your boyfriend’s penis. A penis is something girls do not have and to feel this warm throbbing piece of flesh in your mouth is more than merely sensual, it feels life-affirming, joyous.

As you suck the cap and swallow the entire shaft down your throat, you sense the pressure rise through his body. A speck of pre-cum touches your tongue and, when he reaches orgasm, you want to feel its warm silky touch on your face. There’s a feeling of achievement, that a goal has been set and successfully reached. Male sperm is the essence of life. It should be no surprise to anyone that the female wants to taste it, drink it, take it into her body.

For teens, teen blowjobs are often an end in themselves. For older couples, giving head is just the start of a loving session where it is now his turn to put his tongue to good use. A man who has already reached climaxed orally will slowly revive during cunnilingus and provide his lover with the same ultimate pleasure – an orgasm.

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Sisters on the Hill of Widows

When night falls on Tapaye Zanabad, one of the hills surrounding Kabul, women appear with shovels and sieves. They work in the dark, digging in the mud to shape bricks with their bare hands to build adobe houses.

Tapaye Zanabad means ‘built by women’ in Dari, the local language, but the steep, featureless incline is now more commonly known as the Hill of Widows.

The women living on the hill lost their husbands in more than thirty years of continuous conflict in Afghanistan – the war against the Russians; the civil war between the Mujahedeen and the Taliban; the war the Americans brought with promises of democracy, and the war women fight every day just for being born a woman.

In a population of 30 million, there are in Afghanistan between 1.5 and 2 million widows. The men who died in the wars were mostly young men who left behind young widows, usually with children. It is the custom for widows to remarry, routinely to a family member of the dead fighter, and many have become widows a second time.

In Afghanistan, a woman belongs to the head of the family, her father or husband. A widow is a burden cruelly called ‘a saucepan without a lid.’ Women who have lost two husbands are considered unlucky and face intolerable choices: men prepared to marry them seldom want to take on their children, while to live alone, or make a living by one’s own means, runs against the strict traditions of the country.

Women who do not submit to their families are often killed by them. Those who escape are social outcasts, and can never return to their villages. Women who flee to Kabul, the capital, find their way to the Hill of Widows, where more than 1,000 women and several thousand children have built a unique village of shanty houses and a community of ‘sisters’ struggling to create a future.

Hill of Widows Dangers

The hill belongs to the military. To remind the women that they are squatters, the police have always come with long sticks to smash a few heads and remind them that they are breaking the law, as well as Afghan conventions. The reason why they build at night.

The women are not expelled. There are no facilities for so many widows and their children, a fact that has brought new confidence to the community. With aid from international charities, five years ago, the women dug trenches and laid pipes for water. A year ago, in 2014, cables strung from roof to roof brought the first electric lights.

The majority of the women are unskilled and illiterate; in spite of the wars and promises, there are still few schools for girls in Afghanistan. The widows beg in the streets, launder clothes or work as cleaners. When two women were employed to clean the police station at the bottom of the hill, the police learned their stories and stopped climbing the slopes with their long sticks.

At the beginning of 2015, Shakria Jalalzay, an Afghan activist, obtained a grant of 18,000 euros from a Spanish charity to buy sewing machines and set up a workshop. In August, twenty women were chosen to take part in an intensive five-month course to learn how to read, write and work the machines. In December, they will receive certificates as qualified seamstresses and leave with skills to make a living and teach other women.

Shakria Jalalzay’s ambitions do not end there. She is negotiating for funds to take another forty widows through the course in 2016. ‘The project is to empower Afghani women condemned to a life of dependence and marginalization to be self-sufficient,’ she told the El País newspaper.

Ambition is catching. The women have started laying rugs and painting their mud houses in bright colours. Plastic sheets cover the windows, but they dream of glass and are working to make their dreams come true. The Hill of Widows is now a village, a community. The sisters welcome new widows, listen to their stories of suffering and loss, and work in teams shifting war debris to build new houses.

It has always been the custom in rural Afghanistan that women leave their home only twice. Once to marry and move into their husband’s house, the second time to be buried. That is changing. By taking control of their own lives, the widows have shown that women can be economically productive and survive on their own.

The government has finally plugged the community into the mains water and electric supply, an acknowledgement that the women on the hill are there to stay. This was the last token of encouragement they needed to begin legal proceedings to acquire deeds for the houses they built with their own hands.

After thirty years of war, the sisters on the Hill of Widows have created their own means of survival and an economic and social model governments in developing nations would do well to study – just ask the women. They usually know best.

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Just a Touch in a Typhoon

Rachel de Vine Guest Blog

Chloe Thurlow’s recent blog about sex with a stranger brought back a sweet memory of that night in a typhoon on board a ship travelling between Singapore and Perth when I learned that just a touch can say more that a million words.

I had spent three months travelling alone across Asia. I arrived in Singapore and booked a passage to Perth, Western Australia. When I boarded the ship, I had just seven Singapore dollars to my name. I couldn’t even buy a drink, and was feeling homesick for my friends and life in London.

On the first night, as we sailed across the South China Sea, there were ten passengers at our table for dinner. Our waiter was Greek, tall and tanned with messy hair that made him look as though he had just rolled out of bed, and perhaps he had. He spoke just a few words of English and I, a twenty-two year old English girl, spoke not a word of Greek.

On the second day, a typhoon broke and the ship began to roll. Most people retreated to their cabins, feeling seasick. But I stayed on deck as much as I could, it was easier to cope with the constant movement there than down in the fetid sleeping quarters. As the storm continued, the number of passengers appearing each day dropped sharply until, at dinner on the fourth night, I was the only one at our table. I suggested the waiter join me, as he had so little work to do.

He grinned, and his hand brushed mine as he served my food. He used the few words of English he knew, while all I could do was smile and look as tantalising as it is possible to be on a rolling ship in a tempest with tangled hair from sitting on deck in the wind, and wearing the crumpled clothes that had spent three months in my back-pack.

I did not feel very enticing. Perhaps he admired my stoicism, or perhaps, for him, it was any port in a storm. I did not care. I just wanted to re-connect with the world after travelling alone for so long and that contact, just a touch, made me feel totally and completely alive.

Just A Touch of His Hand

The couple on the next table, the last to give in to the storm, left half a bottle of white wine as they fled from the dining room. With a conspiratorial wink, the waiter filled my empty glass. I felt the brush of his hand on my shoulder, again, just a touch, then he leaned over, close to my ear, and whispered. “You want to see me later?”

I would like to say that I paused and gave the matter some thought. But I didn’t. I nodded and said yes without hesitation. I yearned for the pleasure of touching a man’s body, of being touched. His cabin deep in the bowels of the ship was no bigger than a cupboard with two bunks. He heaved me up to the top bunk. It was hot, humid and noisy, but I didn’t care about my surroundings.

He removed his shirt, before leaning over and pulling my t-shirt over my head. He paused to kiss me on the lips. He murmured a few sweet nothings in Greek, which sounded sexy, but could have been the shipping forecast for all I knew. I smiled. The ship rolled violently and we swirled around like two fish in the sea.

There was no room for sexual acrobatics without falling from the bunk, but we were as inventive as we could be. It was hot and fun, intense and beautiful, and I was thankful, at least, that we were not in a hammock.

It felt oddly liberating and exciting being in the middle of a vast ocean, completely free, away from everyone who knew me, and making love to an attractive man who had no expectations other than what was happening in the here and now. We did not even know each other’s names. We were just two lonely souls in a moment of simple pleasure.

We landed in Fremantle (the port for Perth) the following morning. At breakfast he stroked my hair, just a touch, like a message, like Morse code, and, as I turned to leave the dining-room, he raised his hand and smiled. I knew that we would never meet again, but I felt rejuvenated from my brief encounter with my sexy Greek waiter, and I had survived the typhoon.

Copyright 2015 Rachel de Vine

That Day at the Lake

5***** “Action-packed, fast paced, romance-filled story with lots of Hot sexy scenes throughout the whole book. This is a Must read.” No Angel on Amazon

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Why Sex With A Stranger Made Me Feel Like Me Again

Sex with a stranger makes you feel decadent, a risk taker, young again. Sex with a stranger is life on the edge. Everything else is life wrapped in cotton wool.

All girls have sex with a stranger fantasies and fantasies played out are healthier than those that have been left to fester and go mouldy. When we look back, we don’t regret the things we have done, only the things left undone, the things we wanted to do and never did.

Look in the mirror. Half close your eyes. Pretend you are an old lady and ask yourself if you had the chance again to have  sex with a stranger would you take it?

It happened yesterday. Wednesday. I took a long shower, put on a sleeveless black dress, a pair of old shoes I love and went to a wine bar I know well for the first time in almost a year. I sat at the zinc counter, ordered a glass of champagne, and wrote these words in my notebook: I feel like me again.

A man appeared. They usually do. A girl alone sipping champagne, legs crossed, scribbling in a notebook is like a magnet and the men usually ask the same thing: What are you writing?

This one didn’t. Instead, he said: ‘Your glass is still full, so I won’t ask you if you want another drink. Fancy some peanuts?’ I smiled. It wasn’t that funny, but it was funny enough. Men read books on how-to chat up girls and repeat the inept advice, but really, it’s so very simple. Be yourself. Be amusing. Make a girl smile and you are half way there. Men care about looks, they study your face, your breasts, your legs. Girls admire wit. They try to look into your minds.

I shrugged. ‘Why not,’ I replied.

His name was Jerry, Canadian, just married with a little girl aged two; early thirties, well-built but lean like an athlete. He worked for an insurance company and was on a six weeks training course in London. I liked his smile. I liked his honesty. We drank two more glasses of champagne and scoffed the peanuts.

Healthy Sex With A Stranger

The bar was filling up. Couples, singles looking to become couples, music with a warm beat, a girl in a white dress dancing. ‘I need to go to the loo,’ I said. ‘So do I,’ he replied, and we went downstairs Indian file to the bathrooms I knew were large with low lights and nice hand towels.

I paused at the Ladies. So did he. He pushed the door open and followed me into the far cubicle. We kissed a perfunctory kiss as his palms glided under my skirt and over my thighs. He gently eased my panties over my bottom and ran them down my legs. I stepped away from them.

Without haste, he made me wet with his tongue before unzipping his fly. He smelled fresh like pine, like shower gel. As he lowered his trousers, I went down to my knees and took him into my mouth, something I have always adored, sex with a stranger, no dates, no tomorrows, no blame.

We made love. He came inside me. We kissed again. He was a good kisser. I dried myself and we climbed the stairs to the bar. It was packed, noisy. I called for a cab. We waited outside. He kissed me on the cheek when the car came and it ten minutes I was on my way home.

For six weeks I have been depressed. After nearly a year, I broke up with my boyfriend and spent those weeks analysing what was wrong with me. It took that long to realise that there was nothing wrong with me. Nothing wrong with him, either. What was fun had stopped being fun. What he found interesting in me was no longer interesting. What I found interesting in him had stopped being interesting.

Do I want to see Jerry again? No. Do I feel guilty about his wife back in Canada? No. Sex is healthy, important, underrated. We are two strangers who lived out a normal human fantasy that brought us a moment’s pleasure and harmed no one. I don’t know that I will again, become a regular at the wine bar in Soho, but sex with a stranger broke those weeks of depression and now I feel like me again.

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Raising the Bar on Erotic Romance

Katie in Love Review by Brian Moorhead

Katie in love is a magnificently decadent romantic tale written by a truly gifted author named Chloe Thurlow. She is once again significantly raising the bar on the quality of erotic romance and a reading of this latest novel will erase any possible doubts you may have about her immense storytelling skills.

When we first meet the main protagonist, Katie, she comes across as rather shallow and narcissistic. The disappointments and emotional pain associated with her past have left Katie jaded and only interested in the pleasures of the moment and occasional one night stands with the ubiquitous men that she meets in nightclubs. One such encounter begins very much as has others before. Katie meets an attractive man in a bar and after a short seductive interlude she takes him home for a passionate night of lovemaking.

The reader becomes quickly immersed in Katie’s world in an intimate and luxurious fashion. The love scenes are told in exquisite detail. Chloe has an expansive and very imaginative vocabulary that is exciting, titillating, and completely intoxicating for any reader who dares to take this erotic journey with her.

Through an interesting plot twist, Katie finds that her most recent one night conquest is actually a doctor named Tom. During their second meeting, she finds out much more about him and she begins to see new possibilities in herself that she thought no longer existed. Tom Bridge excites her intellectually as well as physically and a new romance begins to bloom.

Intimate Erotic Romance

Thurlow has achieved the elusive balance of something that is difficult to become which is to be both a great writer and a master storyteller. The details of the story are so delicate and intimate, you will feel as if you are actually in the bedroom yourself with Katie. This type of immersive experience is exactly what readers of erotic romance are seeking and they simply could not be in better hands.

I must admit that before reading her work, I never would have imagined that any erotic romance could actually be a piece of fine literature, and yet that is exactly what I think after having had the privilege of reading Katie in love.

My own perspective is somewhat unique; I am the author of seven novels, including six Bart Gnarly zombie novels that have been well received with some critical acclaim and success. Any work of fiction that I read I look at both as an author and as a reader. To be honest, I usually have a fairly high opinion of my own writing talent. I like to pride myself on strong character development, intricate plotting, and storytelling that will leave my fans temporarily satiated and yet immediately wanting more once they are finished reading my work.

I will quite candidly admit that Chloe Thurlow is a far more accomplished and proficient writer than I am. Reading her work makes me aspire to become a better author and that is about the highest compliment that I can give. I can say without any reservation that any lover of erotic romance will be totally captivated by Katie in Love and with the author of the story.

In fiction there are bad writers, good writers, excellent writers and, rarely, a few elite writers. Ms Thurlow firmly belongs in the latter category and once you read Katie in Love you will understand exactly what I mean.

Brian Moorhead, author of the Bart Gnarly Zombie Books follow Brian on Instagram  – @bartgnarly.

  Katie in Love on Amazon, just CLICK

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New Sensations

You don’t regret the things you do, only the things you neglect to do and probably should have done. I believe we grow from new experiences, new sensations, and came to understand during my last weeks at university that nothing is ever how it seems. Perhaps life would be too dull if it were.

The exams were over. Everyone was relieved and terrified. It feels as you wait for your results as if you have leapt into the abyss from the body of a plane and hang suspended waiting for the parachute to open. You are, at this moment, neither who you are, who you were, or who you might turn out to be. Years of cramming and revision have fused in crafted words on final papers and the outcome is an invisible map to an unknown future.

The only antidote to these confused feelings of hope and anxiety is drinking and the wine flowed liberally on punting trips on warm slow days on the river, in riverside pubs, in professors’ rooms with their view of the universe through dimpled windows like weepy eyes through which I recall seeing Guy Sieghart for the first time marching along with bent shoulders as if in imitation of Atlas with the world on his shoulders.

Guy soon after we met had suggested we go for a drink and must have read the worry lines on my brow when I told him it was impossible at that moment. All things in life, all opportunities and mishaps, are a question of timing. My tutor ran hot and cold, harsh one moment, sickly sweet another. My nerves were raw as I edited my final thesis, a comparison of 20th century French and English literature, and each word and comma I took out in the morning I was inclined to put back in come the afternoon. Would I march into Marie-Claire as a fashion editor or wait tables at corporate events between scribbling stories in notebooks that no one wanted to publish?

Guy was studying philosophy and regularly talked at university debates on art, his great passion. He believed all art had to be political, or it had no intrinsic value. What’s the point of being a rebel if you have nothing to rebel against. Anyone with a good hand can draw a landscape, a reasonable likeness, but that, in his words, is merely decorative, not art.

He was tall with dark hair, misty brown eyes and a baritone voice that projected his enthusiasm in a way that left echoes in my head and, I should imagine, in the heads of many of his listeners; certainly the girls. His style was a mixture of persuasion and allegory: Turner might thrill us with vast skies lit by mysterious lights and colours, but Picasso with Guernica was ‘a fist reaching through your chest and grabbing your heart,’ a phrase I wrote down and remembered.

His rival was known always by his surname, Blake. They dressed the same in black jackets, white tee-shirts and jeans, the undergraduate uniform, but in every other way they were opposites. Blake was all angles and bones, stick thin with ashen hair and ice blue eyes that grew colder as he hammered the lectern to make his points. He had that way of staring at you until you looked away and lacked Guy’s charisma, which Blake once described as his opponent’s ‘lack of intellectual rigour.’ Blake was studying art history. He believed there was no such thing as “art,” political or otherwise, only artists, and defended abstraction as if his life depended on winning over audiences at those debates.

Discovering New Sensations

When I saw Guy after the last debating club event of the season, he asked me to go with him to a party at a farmhouse in Bar Hill owned by a well-known sculptor and his student girlfriend, a ceramicist. This time I said yes, and he scooped me into his arms.

‘You’ve finished your thesis?’

‘Abandoned it more like,’ I replied, and he laughed.

‘You’re an original thinker, Katie, that’s what I like about you.’

‘I hardly think so.’

‘No, I mean it,’ he said. ‘Don’t you like new things, new ideas, new sensations?’

‘Yes, of course I do.’

‘Then it going to be fun.’

I wasn’t sure what he meant exactly and, as for my being an original thinker, he was probably talking about himself. I carried my fair share of self-doubt, the English disease, and have always been suspicious of compliments.

Guy had a motorbike, an old BMW with a torn seat, and I have no idea why I wore a dress that night, not jeans. We tore along the Hungtingdon Road, engine roaring, weaving in and out of the stream of cars, the beam of the headlight scanning the trees, terrifying and exhilarating. The exams were over. There was no future, no past, just that roaring moment flying over the abyss.

The house was L-shaped on three floors with small windows and bodies spilling into the open courtyard with its display of twisted metal sculptures like scenes from the bombing of Palestine. We squeezed together. We drank punch from large pottery cups and everyone looked glazed, happy, lost, suspended. It’s lost time that matters – the time between time – the moments when you forget time and life just happens.

Guy put his arm around me like a new possession. Shakira and the Scissor Sisters streamed through big speakers, shaking the dust from the wooden beams supporting the ceiling. My heart pounded to the beat. When you gather in a group some native sense of self takes over. You move and sway like you are on the deck of a ship on a rolling sea. You laugh at nothing. You can’t hear a word anyone says, and it doesn’t matter. After three years attending lectures and debates you never want to hear another sensible word being said for the rest of your life.

The punch was ice cool that hot night, rum, vodka, pomegranate juice, the taste of faraway places. I was welded to Guy’s side, the warmth of his body pressing through my dress, his lips like sweet water when we finally kissed. The clock set in a sculpture consisting of a dozen brass stick figures holding the numbers 1 – 12 chimed twice.

The crowd had thinned. Blake was arguing with a girl I knew, Lizzie, an art historian. I thought Guy was going to join in, lose the momentum, but as he caught Blake’s eye, he wheeled away from the knot of listeners and led me up the curve of the stairs, one flight, then another, the beat of my shoes and the pulse of my heart in some preordained synchronicity.

Feeling New Sensations

We entered a room with a dormer window looking out on a black night lit with stars, a quarter moon shedding its silvery light over the sloping walls where I watched our shadows draw closer. We kissed as if the time on the clock was spinning. His hands ran over my back like moving water. He turned the big key in the old-fashioned lock and pulled down the zip at the back of my dress. I stepped away from the puddle of material and we slipped between the sheets below a crocheted wool blanket.

We shed our clothes in the scramble, kissed lips and necks. The music was muted beneath the stone floors. He slipped inside me as you would a train about to leave the station. We swayed gently back and forth like a rocking horse rocked by the wind. I pressed my eyelids down. My head was swimming, spinning. He reached his pleasure point and faded, breathing deeply, mumbling something I didn’t catch. It was gentle, caring, without drama. His breath became regular and my heartbeat slowed. The silvery glow faded as the moon lowered and I slept the sleep of the hour with my blood fired by alcohol and the exams forever over.

The door opening woke me from a dream where I was on a train watching a horse racing along the side of the track. Guy’s silhouette was lit briefly from the light in the hall and the door closed. I was half sleep, trying to get back to the dream, when the door opened and closed again. He slipped beneath the blankets. He kissed my neck, my throat, my shoulder blades. I was lying on my front. He straddled me and I felt a momentary wave of cool air as the covers fell away. His hands rolled down over my back bone, pausing at each chakra, which he massaged with his thumbs, digging out the tension and moving on down to that dimpled spot at the base of the spine.

He eased me forward. I pressed down into the pillow and rose up, pushing out my backside. As his tongue slipped into my vagina and curled about my clitoris, I felt a spasm run through my entire body. He moved the fluids pouring from me into the dark hole of my bottom. A tide of want and desire bound me to the sheer energy of the moment. I was on my hands and knees, my breasts throbbing and full. I was no longer chilled. I felt wanton, feminine, totally alive, my skin burning and damp.

The sound of his hand slapping my bottom was loud and unexpected. The pain was brief, fiery, jolting. I pushed away, but he was strong. He held me still as the pain transformed into a strange, unforeseen pleasure. His tongue wormed deeper inside me, into the core of my being. The second slap sent silver stars cascading across all my nerve endings, lighting my vagina. The contractions came in waves. As I began to reach the moment of eruption, he plunged into my anus and I screamed in shame and pain and a mysterious kind of ecstasy. As I climaxed, he came, pumping into me. He emptied himself and collapsed like a fallen warrior at my side.

We slept, pressed together like two books on a shelf, and I awoke with a slither of dusty light shaping a triangle on the sloping ceiling. When the door opened and Guy walked in with a tray containing a teapot and four ceramic cups, I thought for a moment I was dreaming. I could still feel the warmth of his body against me, one arm over my hip. I turned over and my breath caught in my throat.

It was Blake lying there. His eyes opened slowly. He smiled. I don’t think I had ever seen him smile before.

Guy poured tea. ‘Milk and sugar?’ he asked. ‘Or there’s honey.’

‘Just milk,’ I said.

‘Try it with honey,’ Blake suggested. ‘Guy said you liked new sensations.’

I took my tea. ‘Why are there four cups?’ I asked.

‘It’s for Lizzie. She’s making some toast.’

Guy and Blake had played the same trick on Lizzie as they had played on me. We had been duped, used, made to feel foolish. But I came to see that sex is not bound up with emotions, that one man is much like another, and I always take honey in my tea.

© 2015, Chloe Thurlow

Reviews for Katie in Love – just CLICK to visit Amazon

5***** “Chloe is an amazing writer and this is a delicious book.” Ashley Morales, Amazon.com

5***** “Katie has the same problems with love that most young women face today and the way Chloe Thurlow peels back the layers of meaning to get at the core of what love really means is a journey that held me riveted to the very end. Beautifully written with an eye for detail, and some passionate scenes that make your fingertips tingle, Katie in Love has all the hallmarks of success from the very first line.” Rybak, Amazon.co.uk

The post New Sensations appeared first on Erotic romance writer Chloe Thurlow.

All About Skin – 3 Tips to Look Younger

It’s all about skin if you want to look younger, feel healthier and stride into the new day like Alexander conquering the world.

How’s it done? Sleeping with toned clean skin and a pure heart churning hot blood without a trace of alcohol, cigarette smoke or trans fats – ie: hamburgers, fries, butter, cakes, ice cream.

No four-cheese pizza. No glass of vino or bottle of beer. As for sleep, no cat naps, just eight hours every night or you’ll wake up more tired than when you went to bed with ditches etched on your brow, valises under your eyes and skin feeling like a used tea bag.

It’s all about skin, the body’s largest organ, the outer layer, the epidermis, built to protect us from pathogens and synthesise the sun’s harmful rays into vitamin D. Unless you walk around naked, it is our face, the image we show the world, that must be protected from ultraviolet rays, the cold, pollution and wind. Stock up on hats and hoods or wear a mask and pretend it’s the Day of the Dead every day.

At night, when we try to relax, preferably in candlelight, the skin enters a different biological rhythm and repairs itself in preparation for conquering the world again the following day.

All About Skin Tone

Before we go on to cleaning, toning and creaming, there are many among us who believe a sticky dose of male semen is probably all you need for fabulous skin; filled with protein and vitamins, it dries in a masque, draws out impurities and leaves your face like a bouquet of roses after the morning shower.

Yes, it may be all about skin, but don’t forget, sex every day and sex every night increases the antibody immunoglobulin, an immune-booster. Regular sex fights stress by producing the endorphins that stitch up torn nerves and increases the hormone oxytocin to levels that act as a natural pain killer, cures migraine and lethargy. It’s fun, too.

To avoid premature aging, it is essential to clean the skin from the day’s tar, toxins and heavy metals that float invisibly on the air. This allows your skin to renovate while you sleep – and, one has to hope, while you don’t sleep.

The laboratories at Lancôme are certainly all about skin and their Visionnaire’s Gel-in-Oil Beauty Sleep Perfector sits on my shelf with the Nivea Q10 Plus Anti-Wrinkle Day Cream and Green Tea Antioxidant Skin Therapy. There’s about a million other bottles too numerous to catalogue.

I’m far from an expert, but here’s My 3 Tips to stay looking young and gorgeous.

Cleanse, tone and use a moisturizer (serum or semen)
Drink gallons of water, eat fresh fruit, fresh fish with omega-3 oils and avoid fats, snacks and alcohol (except on special occasions)
Don’t go out like mad dogs and Englishmen into the midday sun. Use loads of sun block, protect you face and don’t sunbathe (and if you do sunbathe, do it naked)

Next month I’m going to have an unpleasant birthday and, as my friends keep saying, it’s all about skin.

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