Lucy's Bedroom

Censorship Watch II

A follow up to my post courtesy of the BBC. The BBC report fills out a little more the prosecution's reasoning for bringing the case but, as you'll see, they offered no evidence for the prosecution so the case hasn't clarified or changed the law. I stick by my original assessment that he shouldn't have posted it, but I'm glad the law didn't get any stupider today.

Lucy's Film Club

I've touched before in this blog on matters relating to censorship affecting sexual expression.  Today I'm turning my attention to an international issue.  Why do the Japanese pixilate genitalia in porn?  I mean seriously, why bother?  Let's say your film is a heartwarming story of a Japanese schoolgirl being molested on public transport by between 20 and 30 men who ignore her sobs as they rip her clothes off and spunk up in her face (and this is the storyline of 72% of Japanese porn).  To what extent is this made less liable to corrupt and deprave because their dicks are a bit blurry?  It's not like we suddenly think they've all taken yummy chocolate bars out of their pockets and invited her to take a big bite.

You're right, I don't actually care about this, it's just a lame excuse for a link to some anime.

Scroll down on the left hand side and you'll find a new list, Lucy's Film Club.  In my sudden spurt of multi-media activity, I've got a vague notion of adding to this as the weeks go by but equally I might get fed up or forget, let's just see how it goes, shall we?  Let your mouse hover over each title for a brief description and click on the link to go to the film - this will take you to an external page which is outside my control.  Films are free to view, can be expanded to full screen size and have been streamed on my computer (medium speed broadband) with no ill effects.

So get yourself a large popcorn, a diet Fanta and a bag of Revels, make sure you've brought your specs and please don't put your feet on the seats or stick chewing gum on the upholstery.

Wilted

Blimey, it's hot. In last night's competition to sleep on top of the duvet spread out like starfish, I lost and finally stumbled into the spare bedroom at around 3.30. A couple of hours later, D came looking for me and ruined my life again by getting into bed with me, our bodies sticking sweatily together as though our skin was made of velcro. I lay half trapped underneath him, with his leg hooked around my thigh, his arm across my neck and his hot breath in my ear.

As if that wasn't bad enough, my tube train got stuck in a tunnel between Euston Square and Goodge Street. As the lights flickered and went out briefly I stood with my eyes shut and my forehead resting against the metal pole in the humid fug of bodies and sweat, feeling a bead of sweat escape from the dark prison of my cleavage and trickle down my tummy, while my linen shorts stuck to my thighs.

The grime of Tottenham Court Road dusted my damp skin and my fringe clung wetly to my face as I listlessly ran my errand in PC World and then stared in shop windows at furniture I can't afford. Over a Bento Box in the Japanese Canteen, I got talking to a nice man who shared my table and asked me about my book (Persian Fire, by Tom Holland) and my Pavlovian, 'opportunistic sex' gene kicked in. I leaned forwards, all cleavage and wide eyes, smiled and nodded animatedly while he was talking, held his gaze just a fraction too long after I'd laughed at his little jokes - I even let him feed me a vegetable dumpling with his chopsticks, and let's face it, that's only two steps away from anal sex. But you know, it was just too hot.

Sorry nice man, if you're reading this. Normally I'm an easy lay and I'm phenomenally dirty, random fucks the length and breadth of London can attest to this. Instead, I bought myself a big bunch of flowers on the way home because I don't feel I've made much of a domestic contribution to this house yet. I ran a tepid bath, climbed in with the flowers and perked up their and my wilted leaves.

Traced In Blood

Oh dear God, David's had a tattoo. At Glastonbury. It's 83% mud, his arm will rot off. It's on his left bicep and it says 'Lucy' in a sort of handwriting script, so I should probably be more gracious about it than I am. But he's had years of medical training, surely at some point they touched briefly on the subject of hygiene? He's too tired to stay awake for the full duration of the argument. It occurs to me, watching him snore, that I've misunderstood. It's not a tattooed sign of devotion, it's like when the victim in a murder mystery, with their last breath, traces the name of their killer with their finger in blood and then expires. He's so tired he even sleeps through me changing the dressing and slapping Dettol on it.

In a 'let's make amends for shrieking like a harpie at the man who just had my name permanently engraved on his body' kind of way, I unpack his rucksack with a view to doing some laundry. This is a big mistake. Some parts of a man's life are sacrosanct, and this includes his rucksack. Among the mud-encrusted socks I discover: the unexpired portion of his stash; a copy of Last Exit to Brooklyn which quite frankly falls open at certain pages; a half-empty box of condoms; a fag packet that's been ripped open and on it drawn a map with an arrow labelled 'approximate position only'; and a bar of Galaxy chocolate. I eat the chocolate. After three and a half years I still sometimes find myself looking at him and thinking, "Who on earth are you?"

Look, A New Thing!

Is there no end to the technological marvels abounding on my website.  Not only can you now subscribe to my feed by scrolling down on the right and clicking on 'Subscribe in a reader' but you can now have updates delivered to your email in box by clicking on 'Subscribe to lucys_bedroom by Email'. 

This of course means you have to enter your email address but don't worry, this will be used only for the purposes of bringing down corrupt governments and finding loving homes for puppies.

More Girls From Essex

So, what exactly does the young woman about town wear for a trip to Spearmint Rhino? I'm channeling Joan Collins in The Stud so I opt for a dress that originally belonged to my stepmother in the 1970s, a black silk jersey halter neck with a skirt split to the thigh. I borrow heated rollers for that Farrah Fawcett flicked back blow-dry look (and God bless the obituarists for trying their best with her life and career, but in the end it all came down to that poster where you could see her nipples through her t-shirt). I've got lip gloss, I've been to the nail bar to get porn star acrylics, I'm ready. Actually, I've omitted fake tan, which I'm expecting to see a lot of tonight. My fashion sense can be a bit skewed at times, but I draw the line at orange.

So, what do you get for your money (Jim's money, it was his idea so I made him pay)? Leopardskin carpet, marble effect ceilings, huge gilded-frame portrait photos of the girls, who all have made-up porn names like Nicolette, Carmen and Caprice. So far, so Michael Jackson. The girls themselves are a bit...how can I put this without sounding unpleasantly like Heat magazine...they're quite sturdy. Some of that is an optical illusion caused by the amount of surgical enhancement on offer and I suppose the rest can be explained away by the fact that England is normally a cold country and it's important to eat plenty of pies to keep warm. Oh, I sound horrible and I don't mean to. What they actually are is a perfectly normal, healthy size, it's just that I imagined there'd be pressure on them to be whippet thin, so I suppose the fact that there isn't should be celebrated. The other notable thing about the girls is how they can't really dance. They swing around their poles, bend over with their legs spread, wiggle their bums, crouch on all fours and some of it is approximately in time with the blaring R&B but there's nothing approaching elegance or choreography. I sit there thinking, "I could do that" just as Jim leans across and whispers "You could do that".

I'm far from the only woman in the audience, there seem to be quite a few couples or pairs of couples sitting, as we are, in club chairs round little tables with lights in the middle, clustered around raised podiums. There are also some big, loud, drunk groups of men, probably stag parties. One of these sends across a note inviting me to come and sit with them. In fact there's a constant interruption of girls coming to sit at our table, how are we enjoying the show, she's only doing it to work her way through university, oh look here's the waitress, would you like to buy the lady a drink, no thank you we wouldn't, goodbye. I'm reminded of visiting Pisa, where it was impossible to sit at a cafe table anywhere within spitting distance of the Piazza dei Miracoli without North African students putting soapstone elephants on your table, which they would then come back and try to sell you for only €15. There's a similar hard sell to visit the private booths, which Jim keeps batting away. I'm conscious that this is something he might actually want to do but feels a bit inhibited by my presence. "No, it's not that exactly, I just haven't seen a girl I'd really like to ask."

So we have some more over-priced drinks and watch some more girls from Essex take their bikini tops off and wave their bits about. I become curious about the effect this is having on Jim and, drawn to it like I would be drawn to a big red button labelled 'do not press', I reach across under the table and rest my hand lightly on his cock. To be honest, he only had a semi, but it gives a twitch and stiffens, just as Jim gives a twitch and spills his drink.

"For God's sake, Lucy, I can't take you anywhere!"

"Sorry, I was just curious about whether you had a hard on."

"Well I do now!" he screeched in such an affronted tone that I laughed until my £7.50 Coca Cola spurted down my nose.

Jim spots a pretty girl with shoulder-length brown hair and the boobs she was originally issued with. She catches him looking and comes over, do we mind if she sits down, how are we enjoying the show, she's only doing it to work her way through university, oh look here's the waitress, would you like to buy the lady a drink, no thank you we wouldn't but we've heard there are private booths...She has dimples and a lovely smile that goes all the way to her eyes, so I expect she hasn't been doing this for very long. There is a sliding fee scale, depending on whether you want a topless dance or a nude one, but she strips off immediately, not giving us the option. Jim had been holding my hand as he led me through the tables and he's still holding my hand as we sit self-consciously watching her, not nervous or anything. What I would really like to do now is put my hand on his cock again, unzip it, still watching the girl, who is arching her back against the pole, holding it above her head as she slides down until she's crouching on her tiptoes, her knees spread wide, then I'd wrap my fingers round its shaft and circle its tip with the pad of my thumb until my hand is dripping with cum. But I suspect there are rules and cameras and I have a vision of appearing in grainy video footage on Crimewatch, "Have you seen this woman..."

Afterwards, we walk down the Tottenham Court Road, looking for a taxi. "So what did you think?" I ask him, "Would you go again?"

"No, it's only erotic in a perfunctory sort of way, it gets boring very quickly, the best bit was having you with me."

At home, alone in my bedroom, I experimentally try out my pole. If I position myself carefully I can see reflections in the wardrobe mirror and the dressing table. I copy the girl's move, arching my back against the pole, reaching up behind me to grip it, slowly sliding down, my split skirt falling open as I crouch and spread my knees. My thighs ache as I try to push myself up again from that position. I face the pole, holding tightly with both hands, hook one thigh around it and try to swing. I lose my grip and land with a huge thump on my bottom, very glad no one is watching.

An Unimportant Announcement

Hello, I've been fannying around with my blog's feed so if you were previously a subscriber you may need to click on the link again (or you may not, I actually have no idea).  And if you're not a subscriber, why the blinking flip not?  Scroll down the right hand column and click on 'Subscribe in a reader'.  There, that didn't hurt, did it?

Modern Manners

Lots of good advice following the last post. How to make money from my blog, don't put a sauna in your cellar, don't feed chocolate to dogs. I have to say, the suggestion for making money from my blog sounds like tremendously hard work as it appears the real money is in being a dominatrix and I'm just not. I do try occasionally - for purely recreational purposes, you understand - but I'm easily distracted and it's much easier to think "those curtains are a bit busy" when you're tied up and gagged than it is when you're waving an implement in the air and hissing "crawl for me you sniveling pig-dog".

I've had a photo from D at Glastonbury. He's wearing a sort of enormous, see-through plastic poncho, like a full-body condom, so that will come in handy for the ladies. In a cultural pile-up that doesn't bear thinking about, he's seen Lily Allen, The Specials and Neil Young and today he's going to see "anything that's out of earshot of Bruce Springsteen".

This morning I was woken early by one of the neighbours and stood blinking blearily at her while she complained vociferously about the pub at the end of the road. Now I'll admit it did seem very noisy last night, but that's partly because it's hot and everyone has their windows open. And yes, I'll also admit that there was a running battle up and down the street at closing time, but only for half an hour until the police arrived and it did mostly consist of teenage girls screeching at each other to fuck off. But angry neighbour wants me to sign a petition to the council to get the pub's late licence and music permit revoked. And I have a problem with this. First of all, when I bought this house I knew there was a pub at the end of the road, and presumably so did she when she bought her house. I took the precaution of checking it out on more than one weekend evening to see how noisy and rough it was, and last night was clearly an aberration. And it's a business, employing people with mortgages and children, and I really don't think it's the role of London's middle classes to take concerted action to damage people's businesses in the middle of a recession, possibly throwing innocent people out of work, maybe causing them to lose their homes and perhaps causing irrevocable harm to their children's welfare and development simply because of a minor inconvenience. I told her this, in pretty much those words (because I'm testy in the mornings) and sent her away with a flea in her ear. At some point in the day I'm expecting to find a cross daubed on my front door, so the neighbourhood mob knows where the witch lives.

Jim is taking me out tonight. Originally it was just going to be for a drink but, on seeing the pole in my bedroom, the invitation has mutated into, "let's go to Spearmint Rhino, it'll be a laugh". To my surprise, Jim has never been to a Gentlemen's Club. He is slightly affronted that I'm surprised by this. Honestly, modern manners are too confusing.

Not Quite Mykonos

No sooner home than abandoned again! D's gone to Glastonbury (thunder storms forecast for tomorrow, I note with some glee) and Andy the Gay Policeman leaves tomorrow for Mykonos, which I'm especially jealous of. I could just fancy myself squinting into the blazing sun as I lounge in a hot tub sipping absurd, fruit-filled cocktails through a bendy straw. So much does this idea grip me that, when my dad phones to ask how I am and how we're settling into the house and what would we like for a housewarming present I say, "A hot tub" and then wonder where we're going to put it.

So I'm going to spend a happy afternoon looking at hot tubs online. There is a bewildering array available and so far I've only really made two decisions. One is that any more than 4 persons is unnecessary (you can go up to 7 but I'm not sure D and I know 5 other people who'd take their clothes off in our garden - OK, that's a complete lie, yes we do but still, 4 is enough). The other decision is we're definitely having 9-colour LED Mood Lighting. Just because.

Several of the sites have links to home saunas and I can't help noticing that a 2 person sauna would just fit into our cellar (this only extends under the hall and stairs but there'd be room to have a shower down there too). Sadly, the shock of buying the house has sucked up most of Great Aunt Jane's legacy so there'll be no more dipping into it for little treats and shopping trips. In fact things are so bad that I need a job until the autumn - yes, I knew you'd be shocked. In a properly-ordered world, girls like me should be able to spend their days reclining in translucent negligees on chaises longue flipping idly through fashion magazines and feeding hand-made chocolates to tiny fluffy dogs.

So I've signed on with the sales promotion agency again and taken a deep breath and phoned C. I had a whole spiel worked out that would only gradually and subtly work its way round to the availability of work/introductions but he's a clever man.

"Hello, you're probably skint and looking for work, aren't you?"

"Absolutely not. I just thought you might be able to give me some advice on which hot tub to get."

"Liar. Though tell me more about the hot tub."

He's promised to have a think and let me know what he can come up with (about work, not hot tubs). In the meantime, I'm sending some of my work off to an agent he recommended and said I could quote him as a reference. So until something turns up, I shall be the one on the chaise longue in my nightie.

Why not pass the time with me with this classic of 1970s cinema.

Waving My Little Legs In The Air

My cat came home from the cat hotel today and now she's purring and rubbing herself against my knees and rolling on her back waving her little legs in the air to have her tummy tickled. And I'm doing much the same thing when D's around.

I'm supposed to be resting so I can't walk very far or heave boxes or go anywhere on my bicycle (and I note with disappointment that for the second year running I've missed the World Naked Bike Ride). I've had to settle for putting my wellingtons on so I can pace out the new garden and play with my soil pH testing kit.

I was awake very early this morning, because the house still feels strange, even in my sleep. I opened the big sash window in the bedroom and stood naked, watching the street and sipping scalding hot tea. D stirred and said, "What on earth are you doing now, woman?"

"Settling in; getting to know the neighbours..."

"Hussy, come here."

Three loud swats on the bum were the price of my exhibitionism. We lay in the dawn chill snogging while D slowly circled my clit with his fingertip and I steadily wanked his cock until he spurted in my hand. Then I lay on my back gazing at the ceiling and sucked and licked my fingers clean.