Thursday, December 22, 2005

Sunday, December 18, 2005

That moist feeling

I’ve not been feeling myself lately.

Although in one respect that sentence isn’t quite true as with no girlfriend around I’ve been doing rather a lot of it actually. However, in the other sense, that of mood swings I’m afraid I’m swinging lower than a bulldog’s balls.

I’m feel so bad that I’m even beginning to like Coldplay’s songs for Christ’s sake. Yes, it’s getting that suicidal!

So my concerned friends are rallying around in their own particular rally styles.

My two special Christmas fairies Dolce and Gabbana decided a big hairy alpha male would perk me up (and we’ve all tried that, haven’t we girls?). So they took me to see King Kong.

I don’t know which of us cried more. I started blubbing at the Central Park ice scene and by the time Kong and Naomi were staring into each other’s eyes on top of the Empire State we were all in a right state. In fact, I can't remember whose eye make-up ran more.

Still a touch of dampness around the eyes does wonders for your spirits and I felt much better afterwards in Couch 33. Fuck Coldplay let’s have another cocktail.

My good friend Ms Rude prescribed dampness too - but at the other end of my body.

Her vast experience suggested that what I needed was a good seeing-too so she set up a blind date (and what with my puffy eyes and sallow complexion they’d have to be blind)

“A contented cunt means a contented soul”, she said sagely.

My, what a beautiful thought for the human race. Set it to music, have it crooned by James Blunt and it could be a surprise Christmas No 1. “A con-ten-ted cun-t…” yes I can almost hear his girly voice.

Sadly the evening itself wasn’t a hit. My date turned out to be an avid reader of my blog and my stories so I expect she imagined I come in the pub door on a sled pulled by polar bears wearing a white latex thong, thigh boots and a 12 inch strap-on and then proceed to shag her over the snooker table.

In fact, the only bending that night was of the ear variety. We talked, and talked about love lost and found. And later at Ms Rude’s flat the promised fuckfest became a kiss and a cuddle although remembering that I was 'Sadie Dark' I did slip my hand down her knickers.

Sadly though, whilst my finger was definitely into it, my heart wasn't. We parted soon after promising to ring each other.

(It’s not your fault Darling D – I was absolutely hopeless that night)

All this sorrow has put out the fire in my writing a bit. So when I got snappy with Morgan (my co-writer) over his comments about some of the jokes appearing a bit forced he decided to humour me.

He turned up one beautiful, crisp, blue-skied morning in his Morgan sports car and off we went for a country pub lunch.

Our arrival at the ‘Goatshagger’s Arms’ or whatever it was called, was great. A group of sheepskin coated male and female drinkers drawn outside by the winter sun just gawped.

If we’d turned up stark naked in the Queen’s State Coach we wouldn’t have created more interest. The Morgan, (a 1930’s style racer) is a star - all the men nodded approvingly and moved over to make envious comments.

The women hung back so I decided to show them some more shapely superstructure.

Out I got in my tight black pants, my knee high boots and Morgan’s flying jacket.

I got a flash of the women’s lined faces – each with a disapproving mouth like a cat’s bottom. So I decided to give them a flash.

On the pretext of reaching in for my bag I gave everyone a long and lingering look at my upturned bum.

As I straightened and turned, I noticed the men’s car chatter had briefly stalled, Morgan was smirking at me, and the women…the women. God those boozy bitches hated me.

The meal was brilliant but then it’s amazing what a seasoning of self-confidence can do to bangers and mash.

I felt like my old self (and I like my old self – she’s a spunky minx). I laughed so much with Morgan that there were actually tears in my eyes. At one point I felt like spontaneously breaking out into a rendition of “I’ll Survive”.

But I didn’t. I wonder if the pub realised how lucky they were.

Love & Laughter Sadie

Wednesday, December 14, 2005

Happiness is a warm bum

When I started this blog I intended to comment on the dark side of sex and Dark’s side of sex. That’s right, I also wanted to discuss my personal experiences of social shagging.

But, decorum prevailed. My g/f seriously didn’t want her legs-apart action taken apart. And even my friendly licentious Brighton buggers and fuck-bunnies desired anonymity. So what could a gabby girl do?

Well, I gave my friends nicknames and ignored my personal pantings (but not in some of my other writing though). But now it’s all changed.

My g/f is in London and out my life. And I’ve had some fun with a close acquaintance who doesn’t mind if I blog my bedtime goings-on.

She’s Ms Hastings. I’ve mentioned her before and if I was absolutely accurate I’d call her Mrs Hastings.

That’s right, she wears a slave ring on her left 2nd finger. But, as she says, she’s Mrs when she’s with HIM but a Ms when she’s with me and other pals.

I’ve known her for a couple of years. We met when I worked at a gym and she was a customer. It wasn’t love at first sight – because it wasn’t love, just a friendship.

I’d worked in marketing and that’s what she did. We also just clicked like women often do. Chats became chats over coffee became lunches became regular phone chats.

I can’t pretend I hadn’t checked her out in her lycra exercise pants but I didn’t want to get into them.

She wasn’t part of my Brighton life, my friends didn’t know her at all and that was great. We’d meet every two months or so and have a laugh. She loved my gay goings-on and I was sympathetic about her pathetic husband. After all I’d been there too.

So, she rang me, as she does most weeks expecting the usual gossip and smut, and got the ‘mygirlfriendsleftmeandI’msoupset with added boo-hoos’ rant instead. This, she quickly realised needed special treatment.

Being a sensible little nurse she prescribed alcohol and so on Friday night we hit the hot spots of Brighton.

And seven hooch-filled hours later she was guiding me back to my flat whilst I held passionate conversations with lampposts.

She told me this later because, well, I was out of it at the time. But, suddenly, in the early hours something suddenly awoke me. I was in bed and in my best underwear and Ms Hastings was next to me.

However, the alarm bell was my bladder and quickly I staggered off to the lavatory. I sat there gushing many, many, many cool cocktails into the Brighton sewer system. Fuck, I bet the rats were really raving down there.

I wandered back and saw myself in the mirror. A hung-over woman in a hung-over bra was just too depressing so off it came. And now bare-arsed naked I climbed back into bed.

I lay there, suddenly focussing on my companion. She lay there huddled up but the sight was soooooo sexy.

Don’t get me wrong, this wasn’t that special. For most of my adult life lots of my female friends occasionally slept over in my flat and I did, in theirs. And, if there was just one bed we shared it (innocently, like Morecombe & Wise)

On lifting the sheet I looked down on her smooth tanned body and her pricey pants and bra. She was wearing a thong in fact, a coffee coloured shiny sexy piece that, all too quickly, hid itself in between her bum cheeks.

These were special. Ms Hasting is a generous girl and her bum overflowed in a particularly grabbable way.

Our state of undress wasn’t unusual. I’d seen her underwear as we chatted while she’d changed earlier from her business stuff into her party gear. And she, like all my male and female friends, had seen my ass and tits many times as I’m not over particular about wearing anything as I wander around the flat.

So a typical early hours scene in the Dark place. What wasn’t typical was the way I was feeling. I’m afraid I’d pissed all my high spirits way along with the booze.

In the cold light of dawning realisation I suddenly remembered my g/f was gone and I felt totally shitty.

I looked down on the warm body of Ms Hastings. I loved the way the bobbles of her spine pressed against her skin as they flowed down to her arse crack. I wanted to be comforted and she could do it. So I carefully edged my way across the mattress until her bum pressed into my belly in classic ‘spoons’ fashion. My knees slid up against her legs and I buried my face into her hair.

Her warmth and nakedness instantly began working on me. But it wasn’t feelings of lust just a longing to be cuddled and told everything was going to be fine.

Her hair smelt a bit smoky to be honest – all those low Brighton bars. But her body smelt wonderful to me – that close, fleshy, warm, sleepy scent.

I ran my hand down the edge of her body and over her hips and she moved languorously in her sleep. Was I taking liberties of my friend, possibly, but I didn’t care? My hand reached her bare bum and I gently stroked it. Again she moved in her deep sleep and she moaned gently.

I pressed my groin deeper against her. And the warmth finally worked and I dozed off.

Later, I woke again. My tits were rubbing against her back, with the nipples gently grazing against her bra strap.

It took seconds to realise this wasn’t my girlfriend next to me and I instantly felt sad. It was a deep and upsetting feeling

But then I remembered when I was young and upset. My mother would hug me and I’d press my face into her breasts. I needed this kind of comfort now but could I really expect Ms Hastings to give it too me.

Well, I thought (still a bit pissed I’m sure) there’s only one way to find out.

Her bare bum cheeks were hard against my naked thighs and the heat had caused my skin to get slightly damp. The sensuality of a woman’s unknowing body in such erotic circumstances excited me. I should have been happy to leave it that way. But I was dying for comfort.

So I reached over carefully and cupped her tit in my hand. Her shiny firm bra shielded her natural softness but even in her sleep her body responded to my touch and I felt a nipple pressing against the silkiness of the fabric.

She moaned softly…and her eyes opened. I froze, suddenly petrified at how she’d react. We were just friends after all and, for all I knew, she’d be horrified at my, well, groping hand. I could see her angry face, hear her horrified voice and imagine her furiously getting dressed and going home to her husband.

She spoke. “Saaaaadddddddieeeeeee” she said in a mock-shocked voice. Then she giggled, sat up, reached behind her back and unclasped the bra.

It fell away from her plump tits and her big beautiful nipples rose to greet me.

She reached out and placed her hands behind my neck. Her voice was as encouraging as her nipples, “Oh Sadie” she said, “why have we waited this long?”

With that she pressed my face into her soft warm breasts. And I…I…I…I started to cry.

I sobbed for myself, my fucked-up life and for all my regrets. She hugged me closer and her fingers gently massaged my back.

When I’d stopped crying I focussed on what I was feeling.

And I was feeling better. So I kissed her silky skin, then I kissed her nipple, just holding it between my lips for the briefest of time.

And now she was aroused. She kissed me full on my lips. Then our tongues met and they were wet and almost animal-like.

I whispered her name. And her mouth was on my nipples. She sucked me like a baby and I wondered if this was the first time she’d felt the wonderful tactile sensation of a woman’s strange rubbery nipple in her mouth. Her tongue licked my bumpy brown circles relishing the feeling of wet sensitive skin again dry oh-so-sensitive skin.

Now it was my turn to moan softly and try to pull away as her teasing tongue sensually tortured me.

But her mouth hung on – what a little slut she was. I kissed her passionately and she released me.

If this was one of my erotic stories then suddenly all sexual hell would break loose. My tongue would be tickling her tonsils via her arsehole and her orgasmic screams would be terrifying the seagulls on Brighton Pier.

But this was real – so we just kissed, and kissed. I squeezed her bum a couple of times but our hands and fingers never went further southwards. Instead I sought out that space between her breasts and buried my head in there, away from all the troubles and pain.

That sweet stretch between her tits smelled of Miss Dior, her favoutite scent and was soon wet with my tears as my emotions overflowed again…and then we must have both fallen into a contented sleep.

My personal alarm woke me again and within seconds I was sitting on the loo gushing pina coladas into the pan.

I wandered into the kitchen to put some coffee on and when I got back to the bed she was sitting on the edge – getting dressed.

The thong lay discarded on the floor and she’d put more sensible knickers on. But sexy too, cotton and white – my favourites on other people.

She smiled up at me, in I felt, a rather embarrassed way, and fastened her bra, the clasp firmly holding her breasts and also firmly locking me out.

I stood there,not knowing what to say and unashamedly staring at that tantalising spot where her knickers divided into those delicious creases that would suggest her cunt – Christ I’m so obvious!

To give her credit she didn’t slam her thighs apart. Instead she gave me her mock-shocked look and spoke with love and affection.

“Look Sadie” she said, “you’re fucking wonderful but this has all gone too fast for me”

I looked up from one set of lips to another and these spoke again

“ Give me a bit of time…I do find you soooo sexy”

I walked over and kissed her as a friend. As she dressed we chatted more, it was more like our normal banter but somehow different. But then we’d crossed the line between friend and lover – not all the way but enough to change the way we reacted to each other.

Later I walked her to the ugly car park where she’d stowed her company runabout. As no one was about so we kissed languorously, enjoying each other’s taste.

“This is making me dizzy Sadie” Ms Hastings said – and then she joked. "If you write about this, make me sexy"- and then she was gone. Back to Mr Hastings and normality.

I strolled along the promenade with mixed feelings in my head - what the fuck did I think I was doing?. And strong feelings in my cunt - I really didn't have to make her sexy, she was Ms Hot!

Then I bumped into Ms Rude (now my only ‘you think they’re doing it – but they aren’t’ friend).

Over hot chocolate she told me a long story about a party where she’d almost seduced one of the shapely but brainless elves from Santa’s Grotto in that hideous Shopping Mall. I wasn’t surprised, after all green tights and red pixie boots would always do it for Ms Rude.

So it was back to normality for me too.

Love & Kisses Sadie

Thursday, December 01, 2005

Dark spirits

I’ve taken to riding a bicycle along the promenade.

I borrowed it from one of my male friends who now prefers boxing as exercise. It’s the latest gay thing apparently and I must admit the image of poofy pugilists slogging it out is a fascinating one – I expect the satin shorts have a lot to do with their enthusiasm. Still it does give a new meaning to ‘taking a blow’ and receiving ‘a right hander in the ring’!

But, back to my bike. It’s a great way to see amazing Brighton on a winter day and as it’s a sports bike it’s also an amazing way for Brighton to see my great arse on a winter day.

On this subject, I’m reminded of the answer a famous poet gave to the question of what he would like to be re-incarnated as.

His reply was “the saddle on a ladies’ bicycle”. But then this was John Betjeman and apart from being a witty and evocative writer he was also a randy old bugger.

In the last months of his life he was asked if there was anything he regretted. “Yes”, he replied, “I wish I’d had more sex”

I’m rather sympathetic at the moment as my girlfriend and I have split up again and the bike is the only action I’m getting between my thighs.

It’s a big split I’m afraid (and no I’m not still talking about what’s between my thighs). It’s pretty bad, we’re not speaking and I think she may be with someone else.

Like all couples we’ve had a problems. One is me being in Brighton and she being in London for most of the week. This is compounded by my writing as I think she imagines I live out my fantasies when she isn’t around.

This is of course ridiculous as I haven’t got the energy or the time. To paraphrase the ‘Essex Girl’ joke it would mean the answer to the question: “Why does Sadie Dark wear knickers?” would be “To keep her ankles warm”

So I’m in the bizarre position of having a silent and unforgiving former lover imagining I’m here in Brighton forever fucking whilst in reality I’m sulking about and sleeping very, very alone.

There’s a poster campaign for that unpleasant drink Tia Maria around at the moment. Its end line is “The Dark Spirit”

And that’s what I’m going to need to get me out of my present wintry mood. I’ve heard of SAD (Seasonal Affective Disorder) but SADIE is even worse!

Love & sobs Sadie xxxx