by Janine Ashbless
She ran her hand down Brad’s chest and stomach, all the way down to that silky cock touched by morning sunlight. Brad stirred, woke and turned to her with a sleepy but wicked smile. They kissed , their tongues-
Brad took a mouthful of champagne, then pressed his lips to hers. Insinuating the tip of his tongue, he parted her lips enough to let the liquid, warm from his body but still fizzy, pass from his mouth to hers-
NO!!! AARGH !!! OHMYGOD I’M GOING TO HURL…
Okay, it’s a bit embarrassing. I’m a smutwriter. I write - whisper it because my mother might be listening - porn. So I should, like, have the heart and stomach for just about anything, right? Nothing should shock me. (Well, nothing legal.) All expressions of consensual sexual passion should find a place in my imagination and my writing, shouldn’t they? I mean, I’ve covered exhibitionism and panty-wetting, bondage and anal, threesomes and facials, gay sex and dragons. What’s my problem?
My problem is that like most people I have my Achilles’ heel. My problem is that I’m not the omnisexual lust-goddess I ought to be.
My problem is kissing.
Yeah. I can’t stand kissing with tongues. In real life, a peck on the lips is the furthest anyone gets and French kissing makes me run for the hills. You see, I’ve a mild phobia about saliva. Mostly (but not entirely) other people’s saliva. It’s just GROSS! Yes, I know my attitude is irrational and stupid: saliva is the most insipid, harmless and inoffensive of all the body products, and I don’t have any particular problem with the others. I can stick my tongue anywhere else on my partner’s body – but not in their mouth. I can’t bear to watch someone cleaning their teeth. As for that romantic morning-after kiss in movies – I have to put my hands over my face. And I cannot bring myself to write it.
There are of course other motifs I don’t write about; mostly because they are things that don’t spark my imagination. Sex toys and vibes are fine and fun but I can’t fetishise them for literary purposes. I can write femdom but I don’t do submissive males (I can write raging chained-up men just dandy! But they have to be forced rather than willingly submissive. Maybe I should worry about this…) . But the fact is, if I tried I could put myself imaginatively into the shoes of someone who was fixated by such themes. I could write them. I just haven’t done it yet.
Kissing … No Way. It’s not a case of Don’t, it’s Won’t. I won’t fake it that far.
I would do anything for love – but I won’t do that.
This post is offered in a light-hearted spirit, without intention of oppressing or marginalising People Who Kiss. I don’t like kissing. I am allowed not to like it, and to express that feeling. You are allowed to regard me as a silly twat. You do not need my or anyone else’s approval or consent, explicit or implicit, to validate your Consensual Kissing Lifestyle: you are an autonomous adult, for chrissakes. Exactly the same goes for all other opinions expressed below.
Terms and conditions apply. The value of your investments may go down as well as up.
First of all I found Dayle Dermatis vigorously warming up the band in the Ballroom. She has a dedicated musical streak, you know. She told me: "Here's what I don't get, or do: showers of any sort. Golden, brown, rainbow. I THINK I can understand the idea behind golden showers, or at least the idea that having to pee a little can enhance sensations, but that's it. Keep those bodily fluids far, far away from me. I don't think I could even write about them convincingly. Heck, I don't even like portapotties!"
Olivia Knight was in the Kitchen, doing something fairly surprising with a broomstick to a nice young man. She said: "Leather masks - they're freaky. Gimps are disgusting. A nose squashed down by fabric is as horrible a sight as a missing nose, to me. Even in shop windows, they don't suggest a dark and dangerous world of edgy thrills - it's the visual equivalent of stepping in a dog-turd. Barefoot. Along with leather masks, I won't have anything to do with master/mistress action - but that's because I have a sense of humour and I can't say "Yes, sir" with a straight face. (I was a difficult child at school.) Role-playing is like the elephant in the room, and while everyone's cowering or towering, I want to yell, "Get over yourself! It's a game! You're just pretending!" I like my characters (and my people) to be absolutely true to themselves, which is hard to do when you're coming over all strict-nanny and secretly loving it."
Kate Pearce, who was out in the Stables discussing marquee ropes with some dusty fellows in boots and leather chaps, surfaced from the hay long enough to gasp "I just don't get the whole chain me up, treat me like a dog and put me in a cage thing." Then she was lassoed back inside with a cry of "Yee-hah!"
Probably that was just as well because at that moment along came Kristina Lloyd, who is co-ordinating the entertainment for the evening – some sort of puppet show, she says with a wicked glint in her eye. She told me: "There's loads of stuff I don't write about because I'm not really into it rather than because it transgresses some limits. I stick to femsub and I explore it quite deeply. And it's my kind of femsub, meaning the scenarios are often rough, humiliating, unpolished. I don't depict formalised role-play and disciplining. Authority figures (daddy, master, teacher) give me the creeps. My male characters' dominance is about testosterone and cunning rather than elevated social status. And I'd sooner chop off my right arm than write 'He' when it should be 'he'. Ew! Domming via bad grammar. It makes everyone look so silly."
Madeline Moore, busy setting up the poker table, was particularly specific: "One line I will not say and will not write. It’s this: ‘I could have peed my pants!’ This is a statement women use to indicate that their funny bones have been tickled in a big way. I hear it a lot, always from women. Why don’t guys, who’ll say anything, never say that? I don’t find pee sexy, but I might write a golden showers scene someday, who knows? It’s not beyond me to why some women get off on the intimacy of a partner’s warm, sterile bodily fluid splashing over her skin, running in yellow rivulets down the crack of her ass, over her thighs, her breasts, what the hell, even into her mouth. I think I get it. What I don’t get is why so many women are blithely willing to share their bladder inadequacies with all and sundry. Who among us wants to know that she has poor bladder control?"
So there you go. Oddly, nobody else mentioned kissing at all, but most of us have our stumbling blocks. What about the rest of you out there?