First day of writing ‘dystopian’. Up at five, seventeen hundred words by half past six.

On a whim, I’d decided (around five past five this morning) to start writing from the end of the story. No real reason other than I haven’t before and apparently, that’s how “Gone with the wind” was written, last chapter first, in reverse order. So, I’ve just written the foreplay to the tale’s conclusion – where there is, in fact, no tale yet, other than a very basic outline. What a whacky, zany, arse-backwards world I inhabit!

There was a documentary on the subject of ‘Fifty shades of gray’ the other night. I didn’t watch it, but the word on twitter was that it was either a criminally offensive misrepresentation of BDSM or it was a hysterically funny misrepresentation of BDSM.

Apparently anti-BDSM feminists were wailing that it was all so anti-wifie.

I’ll try and keep this simple for those having difficulty keeping up with the rest of the class: Getting one’s rocks off – on one’s own terms – is, by definition, an empowering experience. Doesn’t matter if you choose submission, domination, gentle happy-sex or a good, hard, brutal upshove. If you’re getting what you want romantically, you’re in the zone where no government can touch you.

Penetration? I don’t differentiate between cocks, dildos, strap-ons, cunts, mouths or the tradesmen’s entrance. If that’s what floats your wee boat – and your opponent can give informed consent – then the only people being hurt are those who aren’t having a good time themselves and can’t keep their stupid noses out of other people’s.

Ian ‘lemmy’ Kilminster once said that sex is the best fun you can have without laughing. bollocks.

As Frank Zappa pointed out, everybody looks funny when they fuck.

Scenario thusly: me, tied up and in a state of romantic arousal? Go on, keep a straight face – I dare you – I fucking double dare you!

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