ALL FOR THE LOVE OF A TANTRIC BIKER

Due to life’s habit of throwing unexpected circumstances one’s way, I haven’t managed to blog for a while. I hope you pined for me as much as I missed sharing the quirkier episodes of my life with you. Believe me, it’s extremely therapeutic to blog about the more unusual scenarios one finds oneself in. Somehow, the resulting, internal confusions that can plague a sensitive person, are miraculously resolved in the act of attempting to convey one’s thoughts articulately enough in order for the reader to be a)sympathetic and b)captivated enough to read to the end of a piece. As a writer this is surely the fundamental motivation. What’s the point of taking time to write any composition, even the most academic of essays, if the intended audience isn’t compelled to read on?


The last time I put pen to paper, or slut-red nails to keyboard, I was single, celibate and seemed to have the luxury of a fair few hours in the day to devote to reading, writing, staying in touch with my friends and calling my mother. I realise of course that if you were to have read the last blog, entitled ‘The Best Gifts Come in Small Packages’ it would be difficult to imagine that it was written by a celibate. But have another look...there’s no mention of sex whatsoever. Bondage rope, yes...implements of pleasure and pain, yes...supersonic vibrators, yes...but the kind of sex that can lead to babies? No.


I have to tell you that I was very happy bobbing about on the ocean of singlehood, enjoying a sabbatical from relationships. It was an important year for me, considering the fact that I’ve been attached to a bloke in one way or another since my first french kiss, aged eleven. I had boyfriends, who overlapped with lovers, who morphed into partners. I’ve even had a real husband. I heard that sharp intake of disbelieving breath from certain corners, but I’ll have you know that as much as I appear in my blogs to be all Self-Obsessed Tantric Sex Goddess, I was, in fact, a good wife for nine, domestic years and have been a devoted mother for nineteen! Which leads me to the story I want to share with you today.


Just like a book that has been wrongly judged by its cover, I am often perceived by others as lucky or stupid, courageous or dopey, inspired, confident, ditzy, promiscuous... Admittedly, I have been all of these things at various moments during my life, but each personality aspect is not ‘me’. Of course, all kinds of labels are pinned upon one, the minute one declares oneself publicly and there is no more public a forum than blogging. But isn’t it easy for the reader to think they know the author based on a few snapshots? I write about sex, therefore I must, by definition be engaged in sexual activity every day of my consistently erotic life. Huh? Do medical writers spend their every waking hour sharpening scalpels and playing with stethoscopes? Do authors of crime novels spend their time away from the computer plotting their next gruesome crime? We write about a subject that interests us (hopefully) but we are probably less inclined to be participating in that subject’s related activity than many others, simply due to the sheer number of exhausting hours we spend sitting in static and inhuman positions in front of a computer screen in order to produce the written material! So yes, I like to get out occasionally and have some fun. I throw the odd tantric party. My wardrobe is eclectic. I believe in moderation and excess. If you’re interested, my motto (alright, one of the many) is “The key to a happy, healthy life is excess in moderation.” Just to put the record straight though, I’m often leading a quiet and low-key existence in a conservative, Hertfordshire village.


Anyway, Valentine’s this year brought with it an exciting turn of events, well worth blogging about. I was leading a spa retreat in Somerset, unaware that one of the men in the group was ‘interested’ in me. When I’m facilitating an event, my main concern is in giving everyone their money’s worth and I tend to be fretting about things like whether the next meal is going to be to everyone’s approval. Try running a retreat which has to cater for carnivores, all the way through to breatharians! So, obviously I would never notice if a participant might be eyeing me up, sexually or romantically. Had I known at the time what this man’s intentions were (mainly to get to know me intimately, on every level imagineable, leaving no stone unturned really and then spend the rest of his life with me...) I would have been unbearably self-conscious. Fortunately I was oblivious.


He and I wound up in the ‘smoking temple’ on the last night. This is where the renegades end up after the hard-core, more dedicated spiritual warriors stride purposefully off to do their bedtime meditations or asanas or enemas. We suddenly found ourselves discussing a mutual interest in bondage. He knew more about me than I did about him (well, I’d never come across his website and he doesn’t blog) but it soon became clear that we had rather a lot in common. A love of magic and mysticism, a passion for ritual, a devotion to our kids and all in all, a mammoth appetite for life.


Everyone enjoys a good love story, even the most hardened cynic, and I expect you all to be delighted to hear that we became heavily intertwined shortly after the group. Shocking the neighbours with his grand arrival on an overly noisy motorbike he proceeded to sweep me off my feet in a startlingly short amount of time. He then stepped courageously off the deep end, diving recklessly into my rather less than normal life.


I will call my hero Harley Biker for now, or Harley for short, or even H for shorter, as he’s not convinced about going entirely public. It’s a miracle he’s letting me post this blog. My new boyfriend does indeed ride a Harley and is yang in all the ways I was yearning for. He’s learning to enjoy the more dungeonish form of BDSM (my previous exposure was limited to indoors), involving chains, equipment and lots of latex and leather. I am learning to enjoy the more woodsy side of BDSM involving trees, rope and chilly breezes. He is also a total sweetheart and as soft inside as the centre of a belgian truffle, although I’m not supposed to go on about that as it’s not so good for the image, especially around the bike club...


One assumption H came with, which has taken a while to dispell, was that I must be an expert on tantra, having written a whole book on the subject. I think he was a little disappointed to discover that the old adage holds true in my case – ‘teachers teach what they most need to learn’. It would have been nice to provide the fast track to spiritual enlightenment for my beloved but ironically I’m more questions than answers myself. My life is really one, big query, posed in various ways – “What happens if I try this?”, “What would this person do if I said this?”,”What’s going on here and what does it mean?” I’m like a nagging, four year old with a constant stream of irritating and unanswerable questions.


So, my new boyfriend has had to face the fact that when we’re not in some satori moment, merged as one in the Great Tantric Union, it’s really a case of the blind leading the blind when it comes to the theoretical side of tantra. The disappointment he’s had to face in coming to terms with my reluctance (or inability) to answer his perfectly intelligent questions has been so acute at times I’m surprised he hasn’t got on his bike and ridden off somewhere in search of a real tantric guru he could sit at the feet of, who would, no doubt have some solid information for him. He is a deliciously intellectual man and adores answers, whereas I tend to be more comfortable drifting about in the free-flow space before the answer arrives, as if the question was like a good book that you don’t want to reach the end of...well, they say opposites attract and it’s certainly true in our case.


Anyway, this gradual dawning of awareness around who he’s actually ended up with here and how human I really am, culminated in an hilarious interchange recently.


We had been planning a holiday for weeks. The flight was booked, but nothing else. I had been envisioning a quiet, secluded villa or studio, dripping with bougainvillea, in a casual environment where we could make love, wander about naked and generally enjoy a kind of honeymoon in the sun. Over the years I’d heard about Cap d’Agde, a large naturist resort in southern france. I was picturing a utopian hideaway, full of floaty, tantric types, spreading the lurv...I had been angling to go there for a week, imagining us in a little cottage within the safe confines of a supportive environment. Little did I know, while I was jumping up and down with enthusiasm for a visit at last to this earthly paradise, that H knew exactly what Cap d’Agde was all about, and although he wanted desperately to go to france with me, he was secretly dreading ending up in what he suspected was heaven if you were a rampant, hedonistic swinger and hell if you were a newly-in-love, monogamous ‘honeymoon’ couple.


The day before setting off on our magical, mystery tour, I phoned my mate who had just returned from the very place in question. She’s a writer and had been on a research trip for her new book. In one fell swoop she shattered my illusions.

“Darling! It’s a concrete jungle.” Her damning critique carried on for a while, ending with, “You’ll hate it!” She was most vehement.


I’ll be forever grateful to my friend. Because of her timely advise, we ended up on an island that is a bona fide Garden of Eden, but I’ll save that exciting story for another blog. Just to say that it was only when I told H I’d made a phone call and found out what Cap d’Agde was really like and was horrified and had lost any desire to go that I realised he’d thought I’d known all along and had just quietly assumed I’d wanted to check the place out, regardless of its reputation!


It goes to show – never assume anything, especially about your partner – if your relationship is in any way alive they will generally continue to surprise you, sometimes frighteningly but if you’re lucky, mainly pleasantly...

The Best Gifts Come in Small Packages

I received a small package last week which contained not diamonds, not pearls but something far more thrilling than expensive jewellery – a state-of-the-art, hi-tech, ergonomic, astoundingly inconspicous, his & hers G-spot massager. It was a gift from someone I’ve never met - a friend of a friend who designs sex toys and who seems to regard me as the perfect guinea pig for his latest inventions. I’m not sure if this is something I should be proud of – perhaps I’ll leave it off my CV...

The packaging was covered in enthusiastic claims. You know, the kind of jargon that immediately produces expectations that you’re about to have the most amazing experience of your life. Had there been any personal instructions attached to my new toy they might have gone something like this: ‘Prototype. Please try in all orifices.’ The packet was open. I briefly wondered where it might have been ‘tried’ before, but put that slightly disturbing thought to the back of my mind, told myself to remember to wash it before use, and laid the packet on the kitchen counter (the kids were away) with the best of intentions to try it out before the day was done.

Now, if you’ve been following my blogs you might think that I spend an excessive amount of money on sex toys. I can’t deny it, but just to put your minds at rest, they are for research purposes, and I can write them off against tax. It’s not creative tax evasion, it’s just one of the many benefits that come with being a Tantric Sex Goddess.

Anyway, compared to the ‘New and improved Rabbit’ I’d invested in from ‘SH!’, the women’s sex emporium in Hoxton a few months ago this diminutive bunny looked a tad on the under-fed side. I couldn’t quite imagine how this unassuming, little white gizmo could possibly match the pink pariah’s performance, with all its bells and whistles, gyrating penis with rolling balls inside, vibrating clit stimulator and numerous settings.

You’re dying to know, aren’t you? Ok, ok. But there’s a story leading up to the final verdict. As you know, if you’ve been receiving my newsletters, I’m writing another book to deadline for a publishing company who basically only pay up when they get the stuff, on time. This is writing taken to maximum stress levels. Not the fun and leisurely, creative writing of my youth, when I dreamed of being a novelist, spending hours gazing out of a window at some Elysian valley. At the moment I am what’s known as a jobbing writer, filling six pages on oral sex before Wednesday, ten pages on orgasm by the following Tuesday. This kind of writing is not conducive to a wild, juicy, spontaneous sex life. I’m more concerned about getting enough sleep for my brain to function adequately than for my body to get a suitable quota of physical contact or sexual stimulation. Many days spent in isolation with only a computer for company does not a sex goddess make! They should conduct a survey on how many sex writers actually have sex. A low percentage I would imagine. I’m drying up like a dehydrated fig. I think I’ll join a pole-dancing class when I finish this book.

So, to cut a long story short, the little white bunny (called the Nexus Duo Range Max 7, in case you’re interested) remained un-tested, looking forlorn, sitting between the juicer and blender for six whole days! How sad is that?! Every time I did the dishes she winked at me, but I couldn’t quite muster the energy or desire to free her from her wrapping.

The weekend came around and my kind and considerate, very part-time playmate, who lives a fair distance away, agreed to visit. I think he took pity when he heard the manic desperation in my voice, having spent six days straight seeing nobody, aside from my brother on Skype. True to form he showed up with a suitcase containing power tools, bondage rope and ceiling hooks. It’s rather handy as he’s a builder by trade. I also got him to bring his radiator bleeding key. Not the most romantic request, but I’m all for killing two birds with one stone.

We proceeded to have dinner in the civilised manner that we do before beginning a tantric-BDSM ritual. He and I hooked up on a Tantra meets BDSM workshop (that’s a blog for another time). Half the participants had come from the world of tantra the other half from the fetish world but unusually, he and I had come from both. It was a match made in Nirvana and I’m constantly grateful for how easily we seem to be able to play hard, and love tenderly in equal measures.

He’s a switched-on guy, and had noticed the toy on the kitchen shelf while clearing up after dinner. At a certain point in the night’s activities he produced the little mite and inserted it somewhere, but to be quite honest, having entered the ‘zone’, already flying in a state of euphoric ecstasy, it kind of got lost in the scheme of things, if you know what I mean. And let’s face it, at two in the morning, when your master has exhausted himself, punishing and pleasuring you, he doesn’t really have the energy or wherewithal to start experimenting with the settings on a vibrator.

After my hero left the next day, I noticed the new addition to the family, sitting on my bedside table. I could almost hear her whispering, “Try me”, like some enchanted object out of a Lewis Carroll novel.
So I obliged. Eureka! Now I know what the marketing people who wrote the blurb on the packaging were raving about. This is vibrator technology taken to a whole new level. How have they managed to refine a simple sex toy to such a degree of perfection? Some mad geeks out there have got a lot of time and patience, which is what must be needed I guess to design the next level of sex toy for the hungry consumer. The mind boggles (well, my rather pervy one anyway) imagining the research laborotaries...

There are seven settings, each one more jaw-dropping than the next. Any visitor I get at the moment I bring down the Max 7 and shove it between their fingers, saying fervently, “Check this out!” I mean, I’m like one of those preachers who attempt to convert anyone who comes within two feet. But honestly, you’ve never felt such subtlety in a vibrating gadget – little hums that build up to high-pitch revs and back again, short pulses that grow in intensity, slow wind-ups that peak and trough. There’s enough going on to keep you entertained for hours. Although the Max 7 is promoted as a G-spot massager I have to say that it’s equally effective for clitoral stimulation, especially if you like a more subtle approach.

Oh god, I’m beginning to sound like a telly ad!
Am I getting carried away? Do I sound a little hysterical? Perhaps I should start thinking about trying to find a serious boyfriend...

LOOK BEFORE TEXTING

There is one day a year where I know, without a shadow of a doubt that I’m going to have a bloody good time! No matter the weather, regardless of my mood upon arriving, and despite a trek into London I am guaranteed a fun and stimulating time, well worth leaving my safe and civilised cocoon for.

I’m aware that there are people out there who claim that Erotica is ‘commercial’ and ‘sleazy’. I’ve even heard folk say that they find it about as erotic as a trip round IKEA, but for some strange reason I relish the whole event, from the minute I bounce through the door as Erotica opens its cash-gobbling doors to the public, to the minute I fall out at the end of the day, laden with bags, exhausted from a brain-melting shopathon.

I usually go on Friday when the crowds are manageable and one can collapse into a seat at some point close enough to the Fantasy Boys to see sweat glisten on rippling muscles, at the same time as resting ones weary, not-so-young-anymore legs. Yes, shameful to admit, but I’ve been known to squeal along with the best of ‘em...

There was one, vintage year when the ‘no nudity’ stipulation was lifted. The general public seemed happy to show more flesh about the place, and the live show was deliciously risque, full of body-beautiful and proudly naked performers. It was a day to be celebrated. Even the Fantasy Boys revealed what they were really made of, to the ecstatic yelps of an abundantly estrogenic audience.

But what happened? Did the government get wind of this shocking turn of events and instantly clamp down on such unruly (and joy-inducing) behaviour? Were the organisers threatened with a fine for public indecency if they ever allowed the showing of genitals in Olympia again? When I returned the following year everyone was fully clothed again.

But here’s what I don’t understand - everyone at Erotica is over 18, has either paid for a ticket or is selling something to do with sex or performing erotic acts on stage, and everyone is there by choice. Nobody has been forced inside, under threat of torture. Well ok, maybe one or two...but I have to say that anyone I’ve spotted on the end of a leash at Erotica looks perfectly happy to me, being led from stall to stall by their Master or Mistress.

Can you imagine...?
“You vill attend Erotica viz me! You vill buy cheap sex toys und crippling fetish shoes, and vill not leef until you haf spent at least two hundred pounds on items zat vill lie unused in your bedroom drawers for effer and effer...” It just isn’t going to happen, is it?

So, why in heaven’s name can’t we take our clothes off in Olympia if everyone inside has agreed? Do the doormen get offended? I don’t think so. I shouldn’t imagine that the staff on the hot dog stand take offence at suddenly having to serve topless ladies...The ‘no nudity’ law at Erotica has proved once and for all that England has become a Nanny state, and obviously Norland...

I shall slip gracefully off my soap box now and climb on to my pole instead. Speaking of which, this year I caught the most innovative pole dancer I’ve ever had the pleasure of watching slither, slide and contort for the entertainment of the Erotica audience. She is, in fact a ballerina who pole dances in a black tutu and ballet shoes and does a fair amount of her act en pointe. Made me want to run home and start trying to touch my toes without bending my knees again...I always get inspired at Erotica.

Sadly, just as I was about to leave, an unfortunate texting incident happened which spoiled the light-hearted glow of the afternoon. I sent a message to my mate, by way of a tease for being a party pooper and staying home to work instead of joining me for a jaunt round my favourite indoor market. It said very simply, “Just bought a fabulous glass dildo. Do you think I should go back for the satin sheets?”

Now, I’ve had the same mobile phone for a few years, and over that time I have got to grips with how it works, so I was shocked and horrified to notice a message pop up on my screen, never seen before, saying “Sent To Many”.

What did this mean?! Had I just sent the most embarrassing text in the history of texting out to my entire address book? My mind went crazy and started running frenetically down through the list, “Oh my god...my publishers...my ex husband...my aunt...my ex mother in law...MY KIDS!!....” It went on like that for a few minutes and I finally came to, finding myself crouching on the floor in the middle of Olympia with sweating palms, my life flashing before me.

Somehow, I pulled myself together and called my ex-husband (always good in a technological crisis) who confirmed that, yes, he had indeed received the text and suggested (calmly and rather kindly under the circumstances) that if it had gone out to everyone perhaps I should send out another saying it had been some kind of joke that had arrive on my phone and during my attempt to delete it, the horrid thing had accidentally been sent out to all and sundry.

Not knowing how to send out a group text I floated in a blind and delirious state to the cafe where I called my mobile company and enlisted the help of a patient employee who seemed unperturbed when I told him the content of my text, and assured me he’d heard worse. The mind boggles...

Off he went to check what I’d done and for the three minutes he had me on hold, my life flashed before me some more, my mind running through the list again, “...my financial advisor at the bank...the hotel I stayed in last month...oh shit, my son’s schoolteacher!...” on and on, while I tried to think of what I’d say to rectify the situation with all of those innocent and kindly people who think of me as a mum, or a serious writer, or a great-niece who visits a couple of times a year for chats over smoked salmon and bagels.

Finally he returned and told me that I’d only sent the message to two people. Two men with the same name, sitting side by side in my address book. My mate and my ex.

I almost burst into tears of gratitude. It was like a religious experience. Light filled my head and I began to smile beatifically at the coffee drinkers around me. Slowly my breathing returned to normal and suddenly what had seemed before like a vast and embarrassing amount of money spent that day at Erotica seemed insignificant and paltry. Life felt gooooooooooood...

Never again will I send a text without checking exactly where it’s heading, but I must admit that while writing these lines I’m remembering the delicious sensation that came over me as I realised that all was well in my world. This will be a useful point of reference for me. Whenever I think that life’s too heavy, too tough, too anything, I will sit for a few moments and remember that joyous rush of relief in a Costa coffee in the middle of Olympia on a late Friday afternoon.

By the way, while I’m on the subject – a big shout out to the guys at Wildcat who sold me the glass dildo. It’s perfect!

BDSM - An acronym for our time

If members of the general public were stopped in the street and asked the question “What does BDSM mean?” most people wouldn’t have a clue. Even I, who have been known to enjoy the odd fetish club or two, tend to sometimes forget exactly what the letters stand for.

I do know that the people who coined the acronym spent many months arguing over which letters from our alphabet would best serve. It had to be politically correct. One of its main purposes was to make all fetishists feel welcome. Most important of all, it had to be catchy. It amuses me to think of how those negotiations might have unfolded. I would have loved to have been a fly on the wall...

”What about the light fetishists, the ones who get off on having their feet tickled with artichoke leaves, for example, or the oddballs who can’t think of anything more erotic than a long, hot soak in a bath of semolina? They’re going to be offended. We need to include everyone! Come on, suggest some other letters please!” Did they meet in a board room, or a darkened warehouse with fetish furniture dotted throughout?

Eventually, after months of squabbling, the movers and shakers, the leading lights in the world of dungeons, dominatrixes and 'deviants' came to an agreement, and it was declared thus “From this day forward, all fetishy activity will now be known as BDSM”

These four little letters strung together have at once made the subject curiously easier to talk about and more challenging. If you’re chatting with someone already involved in the scene you can casually mention, “Last week I had a great BDSM session with some guy who lives in Kennington” and no more explanation is needed. On the other hand, if you’re trying to describe to the uninitiated but curious where and how you spent the previous night, it becomes complicated. The minute you’re asked for a definition of the acronym you can find yourself in deep water.

At the precise moment that the word “bondage” has left your lips, it has hit the wall of prejudice that stands between you and the person ‘listening’. Simply say “Bondage, discipline, dominance and submission, sadism and masochism” and watch most people shrink slightly as the small hairs stand up on the back of their necks. Sometimes I think it’s a shame that we have to use the language of words at all. It is certainly a complex and relatively inclusive acronym and it serves its purpose, but only to a point. As with all experiential as distinct from intellectual activity, it is impossible to convey with any real authenticity the true nature of the pursuit through words alone.

Nevertheless, I ask all newbies reading this blog to put aside their preconceptions at least for the duration of the piece. We all interpret words used to describe experience from our own unique viewpoint, usually based on our personal history, and thus cannot possibly ascertain whether an activity that someone else has enjoyed is inherently ‘good’ or ‘bad’, ‘innocent’ or ‘sordid’, and so on.

Human beings as a rule are instantly judgemental. We desperately want to believe that there is such a thing as the ‘Truth’ (our own preferably) and we walk through life scattering our opinions about as we go, spoken and often, more dangerously, unspoken. I say dangerously, because we are wont to write another human being off based on the misinterpretation of a word, without even being aware that we’ve done so.

I admit to that flaw within myself. Recently I met a man who told me early on in our conversation, with no self-consciousness whatsoever, that he’s into ‘swinging’. I shuddered, and made to leave. It’s a scene I’ve avoided for many years. This man, who had smiling eyes and a flirting muscle in fine working order, persuaded me to stick around long enough to buy his (intelligently written) book on the subject and we’ve since exchanged many informative emails, and enjoyed some stimulating and challenging conversations on the phone.

I’ve come to realise how I was tempted to dismiss in one, egocentric moment, a gentle and heartful soul, who is turning out to be a dear and valuable friend. We’re a very unevolved race.

So, for your vicarious pleasure (and education) I shall recount here in as much detail as I can fit into a blog, my latest adventure in the often maligned world of BDSM. I won’t bother to give you more insight into the definition and meaning of this clever little acronym - just type it into Wikipedia, the font of all knowledge.

I will pre-empt this story by pointing out that I don’t often allow myself to be bossed around. My friends will vouch for that. I’m usually beyond the reach of bossiness, rushing about striking terribly important tasks off my to-do list and generally being a control freak. Lately though, I’ve been longing for some relief from, well, basically, me.

For someone who is both blessed and cursed with a large amount of self-discipline and drive it takes a fairly strong force to cause a significant shift in the modus operandi. I often find myself searching for a ‘let-go’, a trigger that might shunt the personality out of the way, and make any kind of lasting difference to my daily life. I don’t have a telly, nor do I drink, so I’m very enthusiastic on my mission to find natural ways with which to alter my state of consciousness. When I heard about Dave and his magical healing powers as a ‘master’ I began to think that maybe I’d found an, if not the answer. Someone I could pay to beat the ego out of me. It had to be a man who I wasn’t required to see regularly, and I had to be able to place my faith unquestionably in this person, in order to fully let go and ‘release’, transforming the poisons into nectar (one of the main tenets of tantra).

I have great respect for people who have mastered any healing art to a degree of perfection that enables them to conjure powerful alchemy with confidence and surety. As Dave happened to be the husband of a friend of mine, I figured it was a safe bet. I respect her, so I naturally felt safe to act on her recommendation, “My husband is a master. He’ll dominate you to within a inch of your sanity. Darling, you can trust him completely. You’ll love it. You’ll love him,” she urged me with an encouraging smile.

I also figured that as Dave happens to be the ‘Dungeon Master’ at one of the top fetish clubs in London (I wonder if he puts this on his CV when applying for a job) he obviously knows his stuff. I mean, I’m a smart little dabbler, I’ve been at it for a long time – if I try any alternative healing modality, I’ll find the most proficient and experienced practitioner. I’ll search out the top holistic dentist, osteopath, massage therapist, so why wouldn’t I attempt to locate the best dom in town?

The basic structure that is used to form the foundation of BDSM is the ‘scene’, which is a fantasy scenario that players set up together with a strict set of rules and a common language of code words and signs that make the game a truly consensual meeting of minds and bodies. The code of communication between submissive and dominant, or ‘top’ and ‘bottom’ as they’re sometimes called, is agreed upon beforehand, the rules are negotiated, and 99% of the time a ‘safe’ word is agreed upon, whereby the dom will cease immediately if that word is spoken. As a general rule only couples who have been together for a significant amount of time, and know each other intimately play together without a ‘safe’ word.

I have only ever submitted to a master and have not had the pleasure of putting myself in the hands of a mistress (yet) but one thing they seem to have in common is that they get their thrill out of giving their sub everything they want and need – in other words, their money’s worth. Every dom I’ve met in the scene so far is an incredibly sensitive and generous person – they simply love to give love, in whatever form their sub requires it, and the truth of the matter is, for some people love can be delivered in unusual packages. A good dom can read body language and has instant reflex and response. He or she would very quickly earn a bad reputation if not.

So, it was with hopeful positivity and only a slight nervousness that I rang Dave’s bell on a dreary night down by the river Thames last month.
He soon put me at ease in his ultra-modern and more importantly clean flat, as we discussed over a cup of tea the details of our session in the most surreal and matter-of-fact way.

As he went down the list of potential BDSM activities I was supposed to respond with a “Yes, sure” – which basically means “I’m up for trying that. In fact I’ve been a very bad girl, and I want you to do lots of it, please sir” and “Not sure” which is shorthand for, “Actually, the thought of that makes my skin crawl and I’d rather have my nails pulled out one by one than succumb to that humiliation...but I might give it a go at some point...sir” and “No way” which means, “Don’t even think about going there.. sir”.

I only baulked at one suggestion, which I figure is a pretty good percentage (I’m up for trying most things once – its a short life) which instantly highlighted my jewish background. It was the mention of ‘force-feeding’ which he told me afterwards I had responded to with a look of sheer horror. I had never even considered such an abomination. I couldn’t even answer, I merely stuttered incoherently, which proves how abhorrent I found the idea of someone putting in my mouth food that I might not like. He promised not to feed me McDonalds while I was blindfolded. I promised to work on that limitation...

There was space for me to express my concerns. I expressed that I was afraid I might giggle a lot. This couldn’t have been further from the reality of what happened. Dave is so deadly serious about what he does I was in awe of him from the minute we started. I don’t often feel instant and total respect for someone I’ve only just met. Anyway, I giggled once I seem to recall and was chastised so mercilessly that I didn’t do it again.

Dave is a delightful mixture of tender and tough, and now I’ve met him (albeit in a rather unconventional way) I have to admit to being a little jealous of my girlfriend. But I am not one to begrudge others, and after all she’s gorgeous and extremely brave and powerful, and without question deserves her knight in shining latex.

Through my extraordinary session with Dave, a theory I had been tossing around, relating to the game of yin/yang, or sub/dom has been confirmed to be a crucial aspect for success. The master, if he is given the permission and power to play that role for a damsel in need of a release, has to be unequivocally and totally dominating, 100%, without wavering. Any wooliness or wishy-washiness causes a tiny seed of doubt to form in the sub, which will not allow the surrender to happen, or the ‘breakthrough’ to occur. It’s the polarisation, the meeting of contradictory elements that fires up the spark and creates the alchemy we need as humans in order to expand. Speaking for myself (which is all I can ever do, of course) if I’m going to be dominated I need to be administered to by a man who is in no doubt of his own strength and masculinity, who is in control every second and can really see and feel me and will not compromise. He will truly meet me. I have to say that as a woman, I honestly experience that as pure love.

So, back to the session. I’m sure you’re gagging to hear about it (I know, I know, I can’t resist at least one pun!). One of the things which makes Dave an all-rounder (I like multi-faceted blokes – hard to find, but worth keeping them around if you do) is the fact that he is well-practised in tantra. What a combination. He knows how to administer a severe and much-needed flogging and then pick you up and hold you tenderly and kiss your cheek and ask how you’re doing and stroke your hair and tell you how brave you are...yum.

I found the session to be a seesaw ride, ricocheting between pain and pleasure that yielded tremendous emotional reward. What I found in this ‘safe, sane and consensual’zone was that the more I could surrender to pain, the more I could expand into pleasure on the ‘upswing’. It certainly blew out the central circuit in the most effective way. Pain and pleasure slowly became one over the course of an hour and a half, which incidentally felt like twenty minutes, and then suddenly, towards the end I found myself popping out of the pain/pleasure oscillation, almost as if being shot up out of a rabbit hole into pure bliss. I was pulsating in a place that was beyond physical sensation. It was the realm of pure, cosmic energy.

I have to clarify here that I wasn’t in a ‘dissociated’ state. This is a comment that outsiders often make, pontificating on the theory that only wounded and abused people like BDSM, as they’ve learned to ‘cut off’ from pain in such a way that they require strong stimulation to feel anything at all. This is not my own personal experience. First, I’ve been looking at my general dysfunctions for enough years to at least be able to recognise where I’m hung up, secondly I was never abused (thank god) and consider myself a rational, highly-sensitised, well-adjusted, open-hearted and sexually liberated being. So yes, I’m sure there are desensitised folk in a state of denial who go into the fetish scene, just as there are emotionally retarded people who step into tantra, or fat and unfit people who dive into yoga. All paths that lead to Nirvana are a valid route, no?

There was one point where he made me stay on all fours, naked, with my legs spread apart while he walked around looking at me in a silent and detached manner. The extraordinary thing was that I found this simple instruction harder to obey and the experience more challenging to surrender to than all the other punishments he’d put me through. The 20 slow, deliberate and perfectly placed canings (I had to thank him for each strike) were nothing compared to this.

I found it interesting even while it was happening. I was watching myself having to breathe deeply to access enough will-power to just stay there, unmoving. I was squirming inside. It felt like the most humiliating thing that had ever happened to me. And I was also the observer watching my own discomfort. The experience gave me much food for thought.

At no point did I ever feel that Dave was a)taking advantage of me b)pushing me beyond where I could go or c)using the session for self-gratification. I’m not saying that there weren’t moments where it wasn’t painful or intensely uncomfortable, but there was welcome release in the pressure-drop that seemed to follow each punishment or degrading humiliation.

In case you were wondering, at no point did it become sexual in the conventional sense of the word. Dave stayed fully dressed throughout and neither he nor I even got close to any feelings of desire that one might associate with such an intimate encounter. This is what is so liberating about BDSM. It can take you to transcendental heights in the same way that great sex can. And there’s nothing emotional to disentangle oneself from afterwards. Or rather, the emotional journey is purely ones’ own, and one is free to engage with the post-session assimilation as thoroughly or as non-committally as one wishes. The healing is your very own, not linked to the participation of the ‘other’.

Dave was simply magnificent throughout. It seemed to me that the man was channeling some higher power through his mind and hands, rather like I do when I’m giving a hands-on healing. He was graceful, true and wise. There was no effort in the playing of his role. He looked to me at certain moments during the session like an enlightened and mystical shaman.

Now I know what to look for in a man – it’s a glint in the eye, a sign that indicates “I can see exactly what you need, you bad and beautiful girl, and I’m here to treat you in the way you deserve to be treated and love you right. I’m going to penetrate you to the core of your very being”.

Mmmmm....that look....bring it on. It’s enough to make a girl dissolve on the spot.

EROTIC MASSAGE

If you read my last blog you may be wondering if my relationship survived the five months I spent permanently attached to the computer writing a book on how to maintain a fulfilling relationship. It didn’t. Of course, these things are never simple, but I’ll spare you the nitty-gritty of that particular chapter. Suffice to say, I looked up from the screen to find myself single.

I’m still trying to catch up with this rather dramatic and unexpected shift in reality and I’m in what they call on twelve step programmes, ‘recovery’.
Don’t fret for me though. Being the jolly goddess I am, I’m no longer crying into my muesli every morning. Encouraged by a friendly and insightful tantric psychotherapist called Martin who was brave enough to take me on, we’ve now located my inner man, who is apparently going to take care of my inner woman so that I don’t feel compelled to keep looking for an outer one to take care of me. It’s all about balancing the inner yin and yang. I mean, come on! I know this stuff. I get paid to write about it. And yet, here I am taking baby steps into life as a peri-menopausal woman, wondering how I can best practise what I preach. They say you teach what you most need to learn. In making the decision to go into therapy I'm humbly allowing someone to point out my blind spots on a regular basis. It actually feels good, in a slightly masochistic kind of way.

Now, I’m a Tantric Goddess, and I’ve decided that what befits my title is to skip gaily into singlehood with positivity. Well, I figured I could either curl up on a sofa with a six month’s stash of Ben and Jerry’s and a few box sets of American sit-coms, or I could become a role-model for the many 40-something females who recently seem to have given up on conventional relationships.

In finding ways to please myself, I have joyfully rediscovered the purpose and power of erotic massage. Not the kind of half-hearted rub given by a sexual partner who really just wants to get to the sex, but a professional massage, given by a therapist who is sensual, erotic and present. The key to success is the fact that the masseur isn’t interested in being your lover, or if he is, possesses the rare ability to transform desire into the pure, white light of super-consciousness in the moment – and you generally won’t find one of those down the local. Ideally, he has no agenda for the outcome of the massage whatsoever.

As a woman, when you’re in a active, sexual relationship you don’t have to pay much attention to your own yoni, as someone else is generally paying all the attention for you. I have to admit that for a few weeks after finding myself single I almost forgot it was there. When I finally remembered its existence, I realised I had no desire to rush out and grab sex with any willing love god who happened to be strolling past. And let’s face it, as important as it is to indulge in bouts of creative self-pleasuring it can only go so far and can leave one feeling a trifle lonely.

Erotic massage, given with the right intentions, never leaves me feeling lonely, or empty, or wishing for more. It beats ice-cream, chocolate and shopping for new shoes. Erotic massage taps right in to the core essence of YOU. It doesn’t try and manipulate, or please, or try to‘get you in the mood’. It hits the spot (no, not that one! A more profound, emotional and spiritual spot) and heals on a cellular level every time. But - and here’s the crucial element - the erotic masseur has to be good. In fact, he has to be, without the shadow of a doubt, astoundingly accomplished, experienced, well-trained, sensitive, confident, clear, loving and emotionally intelligent. That leaves five men in England that I know of, who can successfully provide this service for women. Fortunately, I’ve managed to persuade three of them to give me regular sessions, so lucky old me barely has a week go by without a trip to Nirvana booked in to the schedule. In taking such a bold, and quite frankly what many people would consider, self-indulgent step, I inadvertently found out how a woman can stop snapping at her kids and avoid getting on her soap box to rant against the entire male race during the delicate, post-relationship phase when she’s seriously considering either turning gay or becoming a celibate nun.

In an erotic bodywork session that would be worth writing home about, the entire body is first lovingly massaged - deeply, and therapeutically. Every knot of tension has been dissolved. Toes or fingers have possibly been sucked and gentle feather strokes have softened you to your yin core. The masseur himself has done a significant amount of inner work and is so balanced and centred that he is almost transparent, barely there. He has no personal needs whatsoever - his joy is tuning in to you and the flow of your energy. By the time the maestro has turned you over and his artistic fingers have made their way to your yoni, you are already just one, big, throbbing sex organ. Suddenly you find yourself unable to distinguish between body parts. It’s not like, “Oh, he’s touching my genitals now”- you’ve been experiencing a gradual progression into the yoni part of the massage which feels absolutely right and natural. Your masseur has become the greatest man to have walked the face of the earth, and can do no wrong. Let’s be honest, he has become GOD. He touches you with the perfect amount of pressure, massages your yoni utilising a staggering number of massage techniques. You never imagined your yoni could be stimulated and pleasured in so many imaginative ways. He isn’t asking anything from you – no orgasm or climax, you’re not expected to make any particular sounds or reciprocate in any way, other than to soften and deeply receive any pleasure that happens to be alchemically generated in the fusing of his hands and your body. And a really switched on yoni masseur knows when to stop, when to do absolutely nothing. He remains still, breathing, circulating the sex energy through his body, transmuting it, his finger resting on some power point, gently tapping in to the energy and transmitting it back into the core of your volcanic body, where you simultaneously implode and expand outwards into the cosmos, erupting into molten sex lava... now you are one, long, rolling orgasmic river...now gliding on a plateau of pleasure...on and on and on you keep softening and opening and you are liquid and there is no 'I'...you are the molecules of air around your body and the trees outside the window you are the sky and the birds and the wind that carries the birds you are the ever-extending cosmos you are everything that ever moved you are life itself you are infinity...

Girls, let me tell you – if I could send my men round to knock on the door of every woman on the planet I would. If you hear of an erotic masseur in your local area, check with me to see if I'm aware of his work, and then book him! Don’t be nervous or shy. This is just an excuse to deny yourself something which will not only be good for you, but will benefit all those around you. A session with a true master will be the greatest gift you’ve ever given yourself and I guarantee you’ll be wondering how you managed all those years without it.

Begin your research on www.tantralink.com

The Most Boring Person in the World

I'm writing a book on tantra and sex. I have been given mad deadlines. What this means in reality is that I'm not practising tantra, nor having any sex! Consequently, I have become the most boring person in the world. I certainly have no lurid tales to share with you. I haven't attempted anything this challenging since putting together Tantralink.
The most exciting thing that's happened to me in the last week has been a mud wrap at a spa retreat I was researching for the book. I'm not complaining - it's just that All of my sexiness, juiciness, sassiness is pouring into the book. So when it comes out, GO AND BUY IT! It'll be the hottest book out there. I'll let you know.
In the meantime, I've become like a man - thinking about sex every 6 seconds. Why, oh why did I throw out my Rabbit? A fleeting paranoia about the dangers of leaking latex I seem to recall. I haven't even got time to go out and get one.
Hang on, I have a boyfriend! Oh yes...maybe I'll give him a ring sometime this week and see if I can squeeze him in between the ten hours a day on the computer. Actually, thinking about it, I'd better check to see if I still have one. I wouldn't be surprised if he hasn't been scouring the pages of the dating site, looking for a hot date. Bless him. When this is over, if he hasn't dumped me, I'll make it up to him.
If I get any sex, or have any spontaneous satoris, don't worry I'll let you know. In the meantime please pray that I don't dry up completely. Ah, the life of a writer...
By the way, if you're looking for something good to read, go to the articles on Tantralink. There's some great stuff there.

Sex Festival

SEX FESTIVAL

It’s hard to imagine how the cosy, unmistakably English seaside town of Dartmouth, with its quaint cobbled alleys, Tudor buildings, hills and harbour could have ever been chosen as the place to host England’s first tantra and healing arts festival.

One might expect a couple attempting an idea as madcap as throwing a tantra festival in their own home town to be renegade hippies, but the Lamberts are a quintessentially English couple themselves, polite and appropriately behaved (although their children might disagree). Kerry and Colin ran a highly-respected, local sailing school before selling up and stepping into the unknown. The courage this took came from discovering tantra, diving in at the deep end with a year-long, couples training under the facilitation of John Hawken from Skydancing Tantra, and watching their 30 year marriage transform itself from, let’s say ‘tired’ to ‘rejuvenated’.

The Lamberts fell in love with tantra and spent a couple of years dabbling in various different styles of tantra, which is a common practice amongst tantrikas, who tend to be like butterflies, tasting the nectar from different flowers. They began asking themselves, “How can we create a business that would let us immerse ourselves in the thing we’re most passionate about?” Their previous obsession, sailing, had given them the impetus to set up a sailing school from scratch, which had consequently provided them a series of unforgettable adventures upon the high seas of the world. After a lot of hard work, and with the growing realisation about the dangers of mixing business and pleasure, they decided to let the sailing school go, and allowed themselves a short spell of “What the hell do we do now?”
The next step soon became obvious and the intrepid Lamberts set about bravely creating an ambitious festival, bringing together all the teachers, practitioners and oddball characters they’d met along the way so far on their tantric journey.

The Dartmouth yearly calendar is chockablock full of festivals – regatta week, music, comedy, food, literary – show up there and you’ll be pretty sure to find some festival or another in full flow. It’s lucky (or unlucky, depending on which side of the picket fence you stand) that the place has been bought up by rich city dwellers, who rent out their houses for the 351 days they’re not in Dartmouth themelves. Clever folk who opened holiday rental services ten years ago...

In early December 2007, unsuspecting Dartmouth found itself descended upon by two hundred or so curious tantrikas, excited to be part of this seminal event. The normally rather functional Flavel centre was festooned with tibetan yantras, incense burned fiercely and new age music caressed the ears of local and visiting punters as they climbed the staircase to the main hall, which was packed with stalls selling a wide array of products, from tibetan bowls, to tantric clothing, to boxes of raw chocolate. Hundreds of exotic Thai buddhas had been displayed throughout the centre by the Harry the Buddha Man and colourful booths housed various alternative practitioners offering kinesiology, massage and clairvoyant readings.

Dartmouthians are a conservative lot, and sadly many stayed away, having been deterred by the local rumours that this was a ‘Sex Festival’. There were also floods closing the main roads into Dartmouth from the outside world, and with weather warnings from the local radio urging people “not to leave their homes”, there was a disappointing turn out from the nearby areas. This didn’t stop the participants, who had journeyed from far and wide to take up residence for the weekend in the Royal Castle Hotel and various rental houses, from having the most glorious time. All of the tantra workshops were full to bursting. There were courses available at all levels of tantra, from beginners to advanced and there was a buzz in the air as participants rushed around, grabbing fabulous organic food between classes.

Kerry had booked some supremely talented performers who gave shows virtually back to back – singers, musicians, psychic readers tuning in to Great Aunt Ethel, an acupuncturist offering a live demonstration (I stupidly watched this while eating a veggie burger and promptly found myself with severe indigestion), healing sound journeys – honestly, there was no chance of being bored for a minute!
On Saturday evening the incredible band, One Hand Clapping got everyone dancing. We were fully revved-up for the late night party which was held in private in the Royal Castle Hotel. The fancy dress theme was ‘desire’, and the costumes certainly didn’t disappoint. There was latex, lace and leather in abundance. The bar staff had been warned, but I’m sure that nothing could have prepared them for the hundred wild and exotically-attired guests who descended en-masse from the hotel rooms at 11.00. We danced, drank and made merry until 4.00 in the morning. My favourite spot of course was the aptly named ‘Bizarre Bazarre’ which had been created behind a curtain at the far end of the bar. In this secluded spot guests could partake of anything their hearts desired – there was every kind of stimulation on offer, from gentle massage, to blindfold sensorial delights, to spanking. While chatting with guests at the bar I noticed a few raised eyebrows from the staff as they caught the sounds of slaps and squeals emanating from behind the curtain. The name of the party was ‘Tantrabound’, Colin’s desire being to merge tantra and fetish for the night, something not often attempted. I noticed a few tantrikas in a state of mild shock. Bless their hemp socks. They had obviously never found themselves quite so up-close to playful S & M before. I’m a believer in trying something before you ‘dis’ it and this was a perfect environment in which to dive into new experiences. If you judge someone for obvously enjoying an innocent activity that seems beyond your comprehension, an activity that isn’t harming anyone else, just notice where that judgement comes from...is it from your mind? Is it formed from the mental residue of some experience you once had long ago? Interesting to note that the Dartmouth Tantra and Healing Arts Festival seemed to provide challenges for both the pure tantrikas, and the uninitiated, curious about this strange practice they’d heard about from a random flyer they’d picked up at some fetish club in London.There was certainly something for everyone at Tantrabound. Quite a number of guests never even left the dance room, remaing completely unaware of the Bizarre Bazarre, as the music, DJ’d by the sensational Suta continued to motivate and move body, heart and soul for the full five hours...

After all the late night shenanigans you would have expected the early morning meditation on Sunday morning to be empty, but to everyone’s amazement at least 20 people showed up at 9.00 prompt for Sarita’s Mahamudra, with live music provided by One Hand Clapping. This is an active and dynamic meditation and the fact that so many people showed up at this uncilivised hour demonstrated the dedication and passion of tantra lovers.

Lunchtime saw the first ever forum of tantra teachers. This was a panel consisting of the main facilitators who had offered workshops at the festival. Laurie Handlers from Butterfly Workshops in the USA, Jewls from Heart Tantra, Sarita and Chintan from School of Awakening and Hanna from Transendence sat side by side on a panel, answering questions from the captivated audience. This was an historic event and I was proud to be hosting this inspiring forum. Questions as varied as “How do I practise tantra if I’m a celibate?” and “Do tantra and business go together?” were fired at the teachers, all of whom answered with grace, openness, generosity and genuine wisdom. There was such a feeling of love and support between the teachers that it would have been impossible to leave that room without an overwhelming sense that there could be peace and harmony in the world in the not too distant future.
The Lamberts set out to run a healing arts festival bringing together a few, like-minded people. I believe they achieved far more than that. For one weekend in rainy Dartmouth, Colin and Kerry, and a bunch of slightly eccentric tantrikas created heaven on earth.

The next Dartmouth Tantra and Healing Arts Festival is on 4th to the 7th December,2008