Lucy's Bedroom

Lucy And Her Dad Review The Edge Of Love

Lucy’s Dad: Did I ever tell you that your grandfather once got into a fight with Dylan Thomas in a pub?

Lucy: Yes, I think you may have mentioned that twenty or thirty times during my O Levels. And again during my A Levels.

Lucy’s Dad: Did you do Dylan Thomas for A Level as well?

Lucy: No, but it didn’t stop you.

Lucy’s Dad: I haven’t been to the pictures since I took you to see Robin Hood in 1993. I had to take you out after Robin Hood fell in the moat and you thought he was dead. We stuck to DVDs after that.

Lucy: So what did you think of the movie?

Lucy’s Dad: I didn’t think Sienna Miller sounded significantly Irish. Or Welsh or particularly English come to that. She looked quite like Caitlin Thomas though.

Lucy: Apart from what the women looked like…

Lucy’s Dad: Well, it’s not really about Dylan Thomas, is it? It’s about the people around him. You didn’t learn much about him as a poet or his life outside of his own home. For example, it showed you a glimpse of his writer friends but only so they could be painted as villains. I wanted to know who they were and why he sought out their company – how they influenced him – but there was nothing about that.

Lucy: It felt like quite a long film – it’s long on atmosphere and short on incident. I do however have a new life goal as a result of having seen it. I want a job like Keira Knightley’s, got up in a cocktail dress and singing songs in the London Underground during air raids with piano accordion accompaniment and a young man to operate a spotlight.

Lucy’s Dad: I don’t think they’d arrange air raids for you.

Lucy: Unless you already knew something about their story I’m not sure from the film that you’d understand that Dylan and Caitlin Thomas stayed together in large part because they were co-dependent alcoholics. I mean everyone spent a lot of time in pubs and there was one symbolic scene where they crashed in through the door and fell giggling onto the floor, but none of the ugliness or secrecy of alcoholism.

Lucy’s Dad: No, that was your grandfather’s problem of course.

Lucy: Go on then, I’ve been deliberately not asking you since I was 15. What was the fight about?

Lucy’s Dad: Hmm? Oh, I don’t know. I expect they’d all been fucking around.

Lucy: Dad!

Oh Noes! Where has ur cartoonz gone?

Now that Typepad have introduced a fabulous new beta platform that runs really slowly and has an image upload feature that doesn't work properly, I've decided to move the cartoons off my main blog and onto their own page.  This will reduce the amount of swearing I do at my computer.

There's a link to the new page on the side bar on the left.

It's going to take me a while to upload everything because I'm very lazy.  But some of the advantages of doing it this way are that I'll be able to load comic strips, not just single frames and you'll be able to sneakily read my blog at work without drawings of naked women chained to trees attracting the attention of your boss.

So if you only come here for  comic strips  of women fucking on trains,  being assaulted with 14 inch dildos, having unnatural relations with circus animals and being chained up and whipped in dungeons, get clicking because you've come to the right place.

Lucy x

Sleeping Bags

I’m feeling much better today. Spending most of yesterday asleep on the sofa, followed by tea and toast and Doctor Who has done wonders for my poor, raddled body. Lynda phoned to fill me in on the details of her adventures in fucking. Apparently, the naked man in the photo she sent me isn’t the same naked man who gave me the coke yesterday. This is his flatmate who came home to find Lynda naked in his kitchen waiting for the kettle to boil and apparently decided to make the best of a bad job by screwing her on the kitchen table. And then again on the sitting room floor. Lynda then scuttled back into the bed of naked man number one, who had fortunately fallen asleep and so wasn’t wondering why it was taking so long for the kettle to boil.

In the morning, Lynda ministered to the needs of naked man number one who, relaxed by this, suggested she take her time getting dressed and just pull the door shut after her, before he left, leaving Lynda to slip in beside naked man number two and…

“So hang on, I’m trying to count on my fingers while being conspicuously hung over. Altogether, in the last 24 hours, you’ve been fucked…”

“Well if you’re counting, it’s seven times, but that’s two different men and they both had a little sleep halfway through so it’s not as impressive as it sounds at first.”

“No, I suppose you’re right, and it’s early so there’s still time for you to get into double figures…”

D zipped his sleeping bag to mine and climbed inside with me on the sofa for a bit of a snog and a fumble and lazy, companionable fuck, which is not quite what I’d texted on Friday night that I wanted to do to him, but was still very nice.

Feeling Frail

I may have been just a teeny little bit drunk last night. I’m not sure what can have caused it. Certainly the bottle of champagne I shared with Lynda while we were getting ready to go out wasn’t at fault. And I didn’t have more than three or four vodka and limes in the pub. And then at the party I was careful to steer clear of the punch (because you never know what’s in it) and I very sensibly stuck to white wine right up until the tequila slammer contest began. Then I remember coffee and knocking on all the bedroom doors looking for Lynda and a lot of giggling as her gentleman acquaintance laid out a line of coke for me on her naked tummy. Then there was lots more dancing, a brief interval for being sick and brushing my teeth followed by sitting on the stairs sending D obscene text messages at work.

I feel very frail today and I don’t remember coming home, just being woken by D when he came home this morning and attempted, belatedly, to put me in the recovery position in bed. I made him text Lynda to check she’s not dead. She replied with a photo of a naked sleeping man so it seems she’s OK.

I did try to go back to sleep but I kept having to get up and be sick, which was keeping D awake, so I’ve decamped to the sofa where I’m curled up in my sleeping bag and wearing knee socks, French knickers, a t-shirt and a shade of pale green on my face. Before he went to sleep, D showed me one of the texts I sent him last night and said, “As soon as you’re feeling better, we’re definitely doing this one.”

I'm Ready For My Close-Up Now, Mr DeMille

D has been hard at work. And when I say ‘hard at work’ what I actually mean is ‘has wasted several hours of his life’ on editing together some of the many bits of film he’s taken of me. I’m absurdly impressed that he can do this on his laptop but in reality it’s probably quite straight-forward and I’m just a Luddite.

He’s very pleased with the finished product. “It has a plot and everything.”

The plot seems to be: Lucy is innocently having a shower when she becomes overwhelmed by the urge to slather herself in shower gel and have a wank. She is discovered, forced to her knees and deep throats D’s cock. Back in the bedroom, and with a slightly different shade of hair, she sucks it some more then spends some time alternately riding it and sucking it clean. Tiring of this, D apparently flips her over, though we don’t see this, lands a few swats on her bum and then lubes up her arsehole with his finger before buggering her and spanking her some more. Following a slightly jarring jump-cut, Lucy gets her face fucked at some gagging and spluttering length while D grips hold of her hair. Finally, in a montage of cum shots, Lucy gets sprayed with spunk on her face, tits, belly and face again (twice). She kneels on the floor, smiling up at the camera, sucking her fingers and winks saucily.

I sit on D’s knee, watching this, quite rapt. Although he’s taken hours of film, I hardly ever watch any of it and I’m mostly struck by my dimply thighs and how clearly you can see the roots of my hair when I’m blowing him. D is clearly not worried by this sort of detail as I can feel his hard-on through his jeans.

“So, what do you think?”

“I think you could deal with the jump-cut by having a cut-away shot to a pram rolling down a flight of steps…”

“Then I’d have to call it ‘Lucy Does Battleship Potemkin’ and frankly you’d have to suck a lot more cocks to make it look like you did a whole battleship.”

He’s sounding a bit miffed, so I give him a kiss on the nose then slither down to the floor so I can suck his cock while he watches it again.

A Pint Of Ale, A Pie And A Blow Job

1960s-themed stripping went down very well, you’ll be pleased to hear. D entered into the spirit of the thing by behaving like a 1960s chauvinist and heckling, “Get yer kit off luv!” and “Cor, you don’t get many of them to the pound, do yer, darlin’!”

He made me keep the shiny white boots on and my thighs wrapped firmly round his neck while he slurped noisily at my pussy, spreading it open with his fingers and sucking on my clit, catching my clit stud between his teeth and tugging gently on it then fluttering the tip of his tongue across the tip of my clit while I squealed and grabbed fistfuls of his hair. Still sucking and licking hungrily, he thrust two fingers into my cunt, frigging me hard and fast until I tipped my head back, unresisting, my whole body jerking with each thrust, my tits bouncing and shivering like jelly on a plate.

Suddenly he flipped me over onto my tummy and sank his cock into my slippery cunt, urging me to press my legs together and cross them at the ankles, squeezing his cock tightly as it delved between my thighs. With a happy sigh, he stretched out on top of me, pressing me flat against the bed, fucking me with firm, steady strokes as I wriggled back against him.

With one hand tangled up in the knotted, backcombed mess of my hair and the fingers of the other pressed into my mouth, D kissed my neck and ear as he fucked a little faster. I moaned into his fingers as I sucked and lapped at them, stretching my tongue out to lick their tips as he pulled them out then groaning, eyes fluttering shut, as he plunged them back in, making my cheeks bulge as I rolled my tongue around them.

Propping himself up a little with one braced arm, D began thrusting urgently, his breathing ragged, his fingers still in my mouth. I nipped at them, digging my teeth in firmly but gently as he screwed his face up and, with a grunt, pumped his spunk deep into me, rolling off straight away and lying sprawled on his back.

After a few moments, I scrambled across the bed and kissed and licked his tummy and chest and neck before propping my chin on my folded arms, resting on his chest and gazing up at him with innocent eyes. “So, do you think I’ve got a career as a stripper?”

Laughing, he peered down at me. “Three shows a night at the Working Men’s Club, entrance fee covers a pint of ale a pie and a blow job in the back room…” He smacked my arse hard. “Champion, lass!”

Things You Would Never Have Caught Etruscan Women Doing

Hooray, I handed in my last piece of work today and I’m free of history until the end of September! I think, in the intervening months, I shall live entirely in the future. I’ve got my PVC cat suit and thigh boots - now if only I could track down that torture machine from Barbarella that killed you with orgasms…

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=ye5Jo1I4XXc

I had a meeting with my tutor to talk about the work I’ve been doing, which has been tangential to my course – it’s been a way of making sure I’m serious about coming back next term after getting special leave earlier this year. And I made my course selections for when I do come back, which everyone else did months ago but they didn’t put me under any pressure to think about it too soon.

I shall be having a year of economics and revolutions, with courses on the Enlightenment and Revolution in Europe 1715-1805; The European Revolutions of 1848; the Economy, Society and Politics of Georgian London; and Popular Protest in Georgian England.

Feeling terribly organised and grown up, I took a walk to the British Museum, through the garden squares of Bloomsbury: Gordon Square, Woburn Square and Russell Square. There I looked at all the bits we nicked off the Mausoleum of Halikarnassos and tried but failed to fully empathise with the degree of social freedom afforded to their women by the Etruscans. Then I had a cup of tea and walked all the way to the Euston Road where I was nearly knocked under a lorry by a man cycling on the pavement with 2 suitcases roped to the handlebars of his bicycle and a small boy perched on the crossbar. Just a normal day in London.

I feel like I should be making the most of D right now because, although it will be lovely to spend some time together in Suffolk, once I’m back at university I shall be all on my own here. Looking for clips of Barbarella has put me in mind of the famous striptease over the opening credits (and if you haven’t seen it, this is the only bit of the film that isn’t actively rubbish, you can switch off and go to bed when she’s finished). I can’t quite imagine where I’d rustle up the silver spacesuit I’d need to recreate it at short notice (plus, I’d have to explain to D what I was doing greeting him at the door in a silver spacesuit, and that would involve taking off my helmet, which would spoil the surprise – he’d know it was me!)

However, I do have a silver sequined halter-neck mini-dress lurking in the back of the wardrobe – all girls should have one, it’s a design classic – and teamed with a pair of shiny white boots borrowed from Itsuko, a pink feather boa, some pale pink lipstick, false eyelashes and a bit of back-combing I look 1960s-tastic! I do a few practice wiggles and moves, a couple of sinuous touch-toes bends, some writhe-to-the-music while-running-my-hands-up-over-my-hips-and-belly incidentally-hoiking-up-my-skirt-and-showing-off-my-knickers…and then I get a fit of giggles at how silly I must look, watching myself being a stripper in the wardrobe mirror. I bet you never caught Etruscan women dressed up as strippers in the middle of the afternoon.

Rule 43b

I’m back in the big bad city where I’ve spent a happy evening earning pussy lickings by getting trivia questions right (and being tickled until I squeal if I get them wrong). It all ended badly, as these things generally do, with some overexcited leg waving which resulted in D’s chess clock (which was an integral part of the game) somehow being kicked off the table. Apparently, the little-used Rule 43b of this game is that the party responsible for kicking the chess clock off the table has to suck her boyfriend’s cock until he cums all over her face and then thank him sweetly.

Fortunately, this lies well within my range of talents.

(And now that I’ve typed the phrase ‘range of talents’ I’m struggling to think what the others might be. I can play the piano, deep-throat for several seconds before gagging and reliably point to a number of major constellations. Look, there’s Andromeda. I wonder if there’s a job that calls for this skill set?)

Eeeeeeeeeeeeeee!!! A moth just flew in and bounced off my nose! I hate moths and anything else that flutters unpredictably. Ladybirds are menacing and I hate walking where there are pigeons in case they all suddenly take off. Now I don’t know where the moth is and if I switch the main light on it’ll start fluttering again. If it comes back, I’m going to have to get D and then follow him round the room, wringing my hands and squeaking “Don’t kill it! Just persuade it to go out the window.” He tolerates this because he knows I will rescue him from any spiders that take up residence in the bath (spiders are OK because they don’t flutter).

Right, I’m back. I’ve been sitting on the stairs while D crashed about the room ‘persuading’ the moth. I’m choosing to ignore all the bonks and thuds and also the fact that he’s taken the book he was holding with him so I can’t see it, and I feel certain the moth has simply gone on to live a happy and productive life outdoors.

What was this post about again?

Reading it back, if it did indeed have a subject, it would appear to be cock sucking. A few posts ago I mentioned having lunch with C, who’s a writer. We actually had a conversation about writing and television which was rather exciting but also made me think “Damn, now I suppose I can’t suck his cock because he’ll think I’m doing it to get a gig when in fact I’m doing it because he laughed at my jokes plus I’m a total cock whore.” I should probably get out of the habit of imagining myself sucking the cock of every man who’s pleasantly polite to me because it’s going to ruin my employment prospects. I’ll end up sitting on the pavement, wrapped in a Salvation Army blanket with a cardboard sign that reads ‘Will suck cock for food’. Mind you, that’s more of a career plan than I’ve had up until now…

So, in the absence of any point to today’s post or a satisfactory conclusion – if you’ve come here looking for a neurotic, cock sucking pianist with poor life goals, a boyfriend plus a crush on someone she’s only met once, you’re in the right place. Look, there’s Cassiopeia.

Owls Murdering Small Furry Things

OK, so here’s the thing. D needed to find a new post by August, he wanted it to be in anaesthetics and he wanted it to be in London. Well, the good news is it’s in anaesthetics. The bad news is it’s in Suffolk. This wasn’t his only choice but all the choices were outside London and at least in Suffolk he can stay with his folks who, as I may have mentioned, are mad hippies who keep chickens and pigs and generally annoy the locals by reviving rural festivals from the 16th century only insisting on doing them at midnight while drunk and occasionally naked.

So this weekend, while D’s been working nights, I’ve been staying with them while we assess the viability of a cottage on the edge of their land. It didn’t sound very promising when D described it. It hasn’t been occupied since the 1950s, has gas but no electricity and the water for the sink in the scullery has to be pumped from a well. But having now seen it now, I’m slightly less alarmed.

It’s a little brick-built one storey Victorian building with a slightly wonky slate roof. You step straight into a large kitchen, which is slate-flagged and has a gas-fired Aga range with a beaten up leather armchair and a wooden rocking chair in front of it. The only other furniture is a big scrubbed pine table and chairs and a dresser and there are exposed beams in the ceiling that look high enough for D not to hit his head off. There’s a scullery off the kitchen with a big Belfast sink and a hand pump for the water, which comes from a well. The Aga heats water in a copper tank on the wall and the bath is in the scullery. Off the scullery, there’s a big walk-in larder which is cool and dark, with a marble shelf that’s cold to touch and there’s also a stone trough that, filled with water, will keep bottles cool. Off the kitchen is the only other room, a small bedroom with a big mahogany wardrobe and nothing else at the moment. And yes, there’s an outside lavatory.

My spirits dipped for a moment, and then D’s dad started making a list of things he’d do this weekend – fix those loose slates, tie that guttering back, whitewash the walls – and I perked up a bit. On Saturday morning, the house was filthy and I was standing next to a gleaming skip. By Sunday evening, those positions had been reversed and the house was shiny and scrubbed but the skip had disappeared under a pile of grot (and I include myself in the description ‘pile of grot’ by the time I’d finished).

There’s still more to do. We need to get someone out to check the Aga won’t explode or poison us, we need to have the water in the well tested and we need to carry down a bed from the farm house. I’ve started making a mental list of things we need to remember or plan for when we’re here: boil all water before we drink it; take laundry up to farmhouse to use washing machine; charge phone and laptop batteries while we’re there and probably lots of other things I haven’t thought of yet.

On Saturday night I camped out in a sleeping bag on an inflatable mattress but had trouble getting to sleep because, in the general silence, every sound there is sounds so loud and close. There’s a crescent of woods on one side of the house that rustled and screeched with owls murdering small furry things. I peeked out to look at the woods at one point but scurried inside again when it occurred to me that the startled flock of birds taking off into the night sky were actually bats. On the other side there’s a meadow fringed with hedgerows and more trees where something weirdly snuffly was having a fight with something that sort-of barked (can you tell I’ve lived in a city all my life?). Beyond the meadow there’s what at first I thought sounded like a distant motorway but gradually realised was the shallow stream rushing and hissing past.

In the morning I sat in the meadow in my t-shirt and knickers with the sleeping bag wrapped round my shoulders and drank coffee from a flask.

A Greasy Stain

The pink mark on my face has faded – only I know it’s still there, just a little, if I turn my face into the light from the bathroom window. I’m going away for the weekend without D and he mopes around the flat after me instead of getting ready for work, until I flap him away in much the manner one flaps away friendly cows and then I feel sorry for having done that.

So instead of any sort of kiss and cuddle and come down from yesterday’s rather over-egged role play, we shuffle on the doorstep and have a slightly awkward “well, see you then” conversation, finishing with a half-wave and me trapping my fingers in the door.

They’re still sore now, hours later. I’m sitting with my lap top in the Welcome Break on the M11 watching some teenage girls be vivacious to impress boys (this consists of screaming “You fucking minger!” at each other at a volume that threatens the stability of the Earth’s axis while chucking bits of KFC in each others’ anorak hoods). I know it’s traditional to bemoan the passing of simpler times with age, but I suspect my life hasn’t actually got any more complicated than these girls’ in the last five years. My emotional gestures still amount to chucking food then running away squealing.

I was going to tell you why I’m going away for the weekend and how both our lives are going to be turned upside down but I’m too bored to do it now. Think of this post as a fried chicken leg tossed negligently in your general direction that misses and bounces off the wall leaving a greasy stain.