Kavida Rei Blog

CRAZY BEAR – BEACONSFIELD’S BEST KEPT SECRET

2011-11-16T11:08:00.001-08:00

The stage is set...

You may have heard of The Crazy Bear, but I’m willing tobet that most people haven’t. Considering the fact that I don’t own a TV, norlisten to the radio which I admit renders my general knowledge of current affairssomewhat limited, I do pride myself on managing to keep abreast of what’s hip,hot and happening out there: shows worth seeing, restaurants worth trying, spasworth indulging in, even if I may not be able to afford to visit them myself(yet). There must be a conspiracy to keep Crazy Bear a closely guarded secret,because I certainly hadn’t heard of this extraordinary hotel until last month,when we were unexpectedly gifted a free night in their best room.

Ifyou google ‘Crazy Bear Beaconsfield’, I’m sure you will gasp at the websiteand, like me, project yourself into the photographs, a fantasy image of yourmost chic self, lounging by the impossibly elegant and comfy poolside, drinkingBollinger, or standing on the chandelier-lit staircase, dressed in Valentino.The second I knew I’d landed a night there the wardrobe was already beingplanned; the fetish shoes, the best latex outfits, designer dress for thebar....I would need two suitcases!

Thiswas a real gift from the gods. We inherited the booking from a friend after hehad tried to surprise his (very busy) girlfriend with a romantic night in thelap of luxury. He attempted the mission over a six month period but kept beingforced to reschedule. The poor guy was trying to keep the location of their hotdate a secret, so she obviously hadn’t googled it. If she had, she would surelyhave moved heaven and earth to get there. Well, you would, wouldn’t you? He’dpatiently re-booked the room twice and then, BAM, they split up a week beforethe date! Typical. The hotel were willing to shift the booking a third timebut, understandably, I don’t think our mate fancied going on his own and hecouldn’t see himself there with anyone other than the goddess he’d planned itall for....so he offered it as a gift to us, with the express request that we“do it proud”. What a guy.

Weweighed up dinner in the hotel’s Thai restaurant against a picnic and decidedwe’d have more fun and a much ruder time feeding each other in the room thandressing up formally and trying to be polite in the company of other diners.Joy of joys, there was an M & S in the high street when we arrived inBeaconsfield and we filled our basket with extravagant provisions, givingourselves free reign in the smoked fish section and indulging in champagne andchocolate, both on special offer. A good omen I thought, seeing as it wasn’tChristmas or Valentines day.

Asthe drive had taken precisely twenty minutes from our home we were feelingdecidedly relaxed. When one goes on holiday there always seems to be anexpectation that you’re going to get the most out of wherever you’ve travelledto. When does one ever go on a holiday where you simply stay in the hotelwithout venturing out to investigate the area? I usually feel like I need aholiday after a holiday. I’m sure Beaconsfield has some lovely spots, but wefelt no desperate need to explore it. Ro and I were coming to the Bear with adifferent agenda and a suitcase on board full of equipment to fulfill thatagenda. We were going to be busy indoors.

Theydon’t make Crazy Bear easy to find. We followed the satnav only to drive up anddown the high street, round a couple of roundabouts before stopping to ask alocal for directions. The woman, who was top-to-toe Jaeger, gave me a distinctly disapproving look, followedby the snide comment “Ah yes, that place. There’s no sign. It’s overthere...and it’s very weird inside”. I wouldn’t have been surprised if she’dwarned us to “turn back before it’s too late”...

Thereception was manned by a team of attractive girls and we were given a tour of the hotel by an alluringGoddess-in-a-Uniform with a twinkle in her eye. The hotel is so small, the tourwas over in ten minutes but the whole place is packed full of surprises thattake your breath away. If there was a theme it would be ‘quirky opulence’.Crazy Bear basically looks as though it were designed by a team of kinky interior designers on anacid-fuelled bender. It’s most definitely a hotel for lovers. Lovers of life,food, luxury and sensual beauty. The Crazy Bear is without question,unutterably sexy.

Asour tour guide proudly showed us the ‘features’ of our magnificent room, Ro andI were uncharacteristically speechless; the brass bath at the end of theenormous bed filled from the ceiling, the lighting system was sophisticated andflexible, the funky bathroom tucked away behind a heavy, black curtain....the walls were black velvet,the floor black leather...black, black everywhere, interspersed with theoccasional pinch of gold, silver and bronze. The bed linen was thefinest...aaahhh...white, Egyptian...mmm...cotton, but the piece de resistancewas the ceiling mirror which stretched the length of the bed and beyond. Checkthis out - you could see yourself lying in the bath from above! We did a lot ofthat, in fact - lying about without our clothes on, admiring ourselves in theceiling mirror. Even if I say so myself I looked especially appealing thanks tothe ambient lighting. Usually I’m peering at my imperfections in anunflattering bathroom mirror at home. This was like I’d been Photoshopped, butin real life.

Roand I were like a couple of over-excited kids. We didn’t know what to do first;Open the champagne? The whiskey? Have a bath? Sex? For a while we did all of itat the same time. Hard to imagine, I know. I do wish we had it on film. Thatwould be one to keep hidden from the children. Ro was at his sexiest, whichturned me into an enchantress. We spurred each other on into flagrantdebauchery. I got the shoes out. And I’m talking eight inches of fetish heelhere, not your regular stilletos. At first walking tentatively, for fear ofpiercing the faux alligator floor and then, gaining confidence, moving into astrut, I commanded attention in this imposing setting. I was the queen, thesiren, the bitch, the worshipping slave. Ro played king, master, servant,devoted slave, powerful mage. We moved in and out of roles, inspired by thesurroundings. The room became the stage for the playing out of our sex drama –a production of West End standards.

Aftera while, suprise, surprise, we’d built up quite an appetite. Unwrapping ourlavish feast, Ro lay in the bath, champagne in hand and I fed him tidbits fromthe bed. The most erotic picnic ever consumed. Sadly we didn’t have our sexslave with us to deal with the crumbs from the bed (come to think of it thehotel may have a slave service - do remember to check if you go) so after the clean-up we decided to letour picnic digest by the pool, before attempting more athletic activities.

Underthe stars, sipping Scotch, smoking roll-ups we talked about hedonism andspirituality, sex and soul connection and agreed how wonderful it is to bemarried to someone who understands the true meaning of tantra.

Therewas still much exploring to be done. We hadn’t even ventured into themulti-mirrored bathroom yet, so a couple of hours were spent in the fabulous,‘open’ shower, taking dozens of erotic photographs. I’ve never spent a nightbeing so dirty and getting so clean...

Finallyassuming the sleeping position at 5am, ecstatically spent we slept like babies,waking a few hours later to order tea. Tea in bed may not seem so rock ‘n’ rollperhaps, but believe me, when you’ve given up caffeine like Ro and I, one hitof PG Tips can send you flying just like a line of coke. Up we bounced readyfor a fruit breakfast in the bath (to alleviate the guilt, we didn’t shower fortwo days afterwards to make up for all the water we’d consumed at Crazy Bear)and happily skipped off to a nearby woods for a floaty walk in the autumnsunshine.

Ihave a fantasy that the staff at Crazy Bear have installed a secret camera system and they sit aroundcomparing notes on guests. How entertaining it would be to have a yearlyceremony – the ‘Kink Awards’, a bit like the Oscars, where the most adventurousand enthusiastic couple are rewarded with a trophy and a free weekend. I’mabsolutely sure that Ro and I would win. We’ve worked long and hard at it andit needs continuing professional development, but I reckon we’re the most rock‘n’ roll couple I know.

Visit us at www.tantrateachers.co.uk | www.kavidarei.com

www.sensual-soirees.com www.sensual-spirit.com

PLEASE MISS, WHAT’S A BALL GAG?

2011-06-17T05:08:00.000-07:00

Anita and Gordon Roddick were the inspiration behind Body Shop, bringing the novel concept of ‘fair trade’ into the public’s awareness, and they raised their daughter Sam to be equally politically conscious, outspoken and passionate. Sam left school at fifteen and roamed the planet as a radical, social activist for ten years before settling down in London and opening Coco de Mer, the ethical, erotic emporium that rocked the sex world.

The story of how the daughter of idealistic, hippy parents- turned mega-wealthy, corporate directors came to start a retail, sexual revolution is a fascinating one. I met the sexy maverick once or twice and I liked her immensely. We have a lot in common, including an irrepressible lust for life and a ceaseless flow of creative ideas, with not enough hours in the day to fulfill them. Both of us possess the talent of normalising sex during conversation, inspiring just about anyone to be able to talk about sex unselfconsciously. We also enjoy a good old laugh.

When most people think of sex shops they imagine blackened windows camouflaging seedy little dives selling dodgy, plastic sex toys and tacky mags. Not so Coco de Mer, which claims its territories with a fanfare and flourish. Bold, beautiful, bright window displays in their latest Kensington shop boast of delectable treasures within. Friendly, intelligent and upbeat girls welcome you inside and serve you with deliciously wide-eyed enthusiasm. Coco de Mer has made kinky sex classy and brought it, nipple clamps and all to an ethically concerned upmarket clientele who seem to lap it up as fast as you can say diamante-studded butt plug.

As most of you know from reading previous blogs, I tend to stock up on sex toys at Erotica, once a year, where you get a good deal... so, although I’d wandered in and out of Sam’s flagship store in Covent Garden a couple of times fingering the lace lingerie and drooling over the exquisitely crafted, designer acoutrements I hadn’t bothered to look at the price tags. I’ve since found out that Coco de Mer do in fact sell items from as little as £5.00 (spanking rulers), lubes at £16, spanking paddles for £20, cock rings from £15, blindfolds and restraints from £25 and many more affordable products that are ethically made…. so make sure you have a good look around. They also have a company policy of supporting British artisans and educators as much as they possibly can which is refreshing.

Coco de Mer has an interesting sideline. As well as showcasing custom-made sex objects Coco de Mer also run a series of salons after hours. I’m very honoured to have been asked to teach a Sensual Massage salon in October this year, joining the impressive roster of teachers that have been hosted there, including the highly respected Midori, Deborah Sundahl and Rachel Foux all of whom have an impressive track record teaching a vast array of subjects related to sexual wellbeing.

I had many questions that needed answering before I even began to compile the content of my class; How risque are the audience? Any nudity? In my live demonstration what bits of my model client am I allowed to show? Attending a couple was obviously the best way to find out what goes on in their popular salons.

The first available was Midori’s “Tricks to Thrill a Man”, offered in two sessions. I wasn’t sure how welcome the men were, so I decided to attend Part One without Roland, who was, I have to say, a little miffed to be left at home. However, I promised faithfully to take notes and demonstrate everything I learned on my return.

By 7.30 the shop had filled with well-groomed women, aged mainly between thirty and forty, sipping champagne and socialising affably over the merchandise. The atmosphere was fairly relaxed considering a lot of the women there were at their first ever sex class, and we took our seats, facing the ‘stage’ which had been created rather ingeniously, utilising the large bay window, from which the nubile and kinkily-clad mannequins had been removed.

Midori, confident, articulate and witty, introduced herself and then her demonstration-model lover, who turned out to be a girl wearing a strap-on dildo and high heels. She then asked us to open our goodie bags which contained a condom, a lollipop and, wait for it, a courgette.

I had wondered beforehand what I could possibly learn in a sexual skills class– after all, I’ve been practising and teaching tantra for a long time now – so I was surprised to find out that I don’t, in fact know everything. I had never learned how to put a condom on a man without using my hands, for example. Imagine a classroom setting with forty women trying to cover the length of a courgette with a condom using only their mouths. I bet you’re smiling...well, some of us were nearly on the floor with laughter. But I have to say, everyone tried it, there were no party poopers not even the journalist who was frantically taking notes for GQ magazine. Even she put down her pen to join in with the group veggie pleasuring. And that’s Midori’s talent – she can persuade the shiest wallflower to get right on in there and have safe, oral sex with a courgette along with the best of ‘em.

The class was packed with information and fun exercises and I couldn’t wait to get home to try some out on Roland, especially the ‘Girl melting into Tigress’ trick, which involves sliding mysteriously off the Couch of Doom (Midori’s name for the sofa that featured large in your relationship at the beginning, during the honeymoon phase. The one upon which you fucked like bunnies in various positions for hours on end but eventually ended up being the place where you crash out together to watch TV and fall asleep over cups of hot chocolate) onto the floor and morphing into a tantalising tigress, growling and purring seductively, then crawling gracefully onto your (hopefully now interested) partner’s lap and employing various sexual techniques to whet his appetite, such as sitting firmly on his thigh and pulsing your PC muscles – ‘Super Kegels’ Midori calls them.

I asked Midori whether I should bring Ro along to the second session and she responded enthusiastically, saying she loves to teach men and doesn’t see enough of them, particularly in England for some reason. She confided that even her “Tricks to Thrill a Woman” classes are only half full in London and she asked me, quite seriously whether I thought that English men were considered superior lovers who didn’t need to learn anything? I snorted and told her that although I’ve personally been fortunate in my choice of lovers over the years I do tend to hear complaints from women rather than praise. Anyway, she was delighted to hear I’d be bringing my intrepid fiancee with me to Part Two.

Consequently, three days later Roland and I found ourselves at the Advanced Bedroom Skills class and sure enough, he was indeed the only bloke. Ro wasn’t fazed at all, bless him, and seemed perfectly at home amongst the hip and trendy (and rather intimidatingly beautiful) women.

It was an entertaining and educational class, to say the least. Midori had brought a real man along to demonstrate on this time, a platonic friend who obligingly lent her his body, heart and soul for the duration of the class. A ‘bedroom’ had been constructed with fur rugs and cushions and Midori, in her inimitable style which is a combination of intelligence and humourous flirtatiousness, tied together with a touch of attractive humility, presented a wide range of erotic techniques. Quite an achievement really, seeing as she and her ‘lover’ never even took their clothes off! “Presence is the most important thing” she kept reminding us. And she was the epitome of presence.

Various gadgets and gizmos were handed round after an explanation of their various functions, which was a great relief to me, as I’d spotted a few in the shop earlier which had left me baffled. Some of the toys in Coco de Mer are so elaborately decorated and so, erm, well, unusual, that it’s difficult on first glance to see what their purpose is, but you can only ask the girl behind the counter once or twice, “What does this thing do?” before you begin to feel ridiculous.

Although the salons are fairly pricey it seems to me they are well worth every penny. The setting is so uniquely whimsical and the atmosphere so special, one is bound to remember all the content of the class enabling you to become firmly embedded in quite a few partners’ memories as their “best lover ever”....

I shall be teaching my Sensual Massage class on October 5th and look forward to seeing you there. And in case you’re worried, there won’t be any condoms or courgettes. I might bring lollipops though.

See coco-de-mer.com/salons for more details and book to see me!

Of course you should check out my brand new website tantrateachers.co.uk

because you know I love you and I want to know what you think.

Click and come and see what's new... tantrateachers.co.uk

DEATH RITUAL

2011-04-11T15:20:00.000-07:00

We tend to be rather squeamish about death in our culture. Unlike India for example, where a funeral is often a communal and highly visible affair. There, traditionally one can witness funeral processions through the streets and the ritual burning of bodies on public ghats. Death is part of life in India, where you can see, hear and literally smell it. We are shielded in the West, where the whole business is considered unsociable and inconvenient and is swept away as politely and inconspicuously as possible.

For a while I’d been contemplating the spiritual axiom - ‘If you fear death you cannot truly live’ - dealing with my own anxiety around an impending surgery. True to form, life immediately presented me with the perfect opportunity to challenge myself on a deeper level around what was obviously not a fear of general anasthetic at all but a classic terror of death. Lo and behold we received an unusual request – a dear friend wanted us to devise and perform a special ritual for her. An obsessive and suffocating death phobia had been dampening her spirit, but the desire to break free of it was so strong that our friend assured us she was willing to try anything...

We custom-designed this elaborate ceremony as a gift and it turned out to be a dramatic and empowering journey for our courageous friend. As soon as it was over I knew I wanted to be taken on a similar journey myself.

I’d participated in a tantric death meditation before which had certainly blown my mind at the time and made me realise how much denial we live in and how little understanding we have around death. However, the meditation was facilitated in a controlled and safe environment – a tantra workshop, where the boundaries were, by necessity restrictive, in order to take care of the most fearful participants in the group. The kind of madness we were cooking up with our trusting friend was on another level. Not for the fainthearted, this was BDSM and Tantra combined and fused with a Shamanic twist. That’s going to be a powerful combo, right? And pretty much guaranteed to work if the person receiving is truly willing to drop all control and be open to receiving the gifts that are inherent in the ritual. A big IF though! Conscious BDSM play always takes us to the edge of the cliff. Whether we dare to jump off and fly is another matter.

A Death Ritual really is the ultimate surrender...a gateway to freedom. I thought (even more carefully than usual) about whether I should blog about this taboo subject but I took the plunge. In reading the blog I hope you may be encouraged to try this life-changing process yourself. In publishing the account, obviously I risk being labelled a complete nutter, but hey ho, that’s one of the risks you take when you start blogging about your radical, left-of-centre, spiritual growth practices...

In the hours leading up to my ritual I find myself in a heightened state of awareness and anticipation.
The semiconscious desires swirl around each other like tidal flows on the surface of an estuary where river meets ocean. It’s clear that I wish to be free, to feel freedom deep within my being...I am consumed with a desire to let go of a life of pressure and unceasing agenda...a yearning to let go of everything I think I ‘know’, all of the accumulated belief systems – to give up control and surrender into the complete ‘unknown’...to shed my old ways of being, in other words die to my old self....to be reborn without fear, pain, stress and judgements. I have a passionate longing to merge with the Cosmic Oneness...And while I’m watching these desires bubble up from the fathomless depths of my unconscious, I’m also wondering whether my expectations are a little high. The mind is a great saboteur and mine seems to have switched into overdrive.

Am I crazy?
Do I deserve all this, anyway?
Am I worthy of such attention and energy from another human being who is offering the ritual to me in purely selfless love?

I really struggle for a moment, wrestling with the familiar and insidious guilt that slithers its tendrils up my legs until I remember a motto I inherited from my Grandma (it’s one of my kids’ favourites in fact, that they’ve put to good use, certainly around me) –

“You don’t ask, you don’t get!”

I can allow myself this gift. In fact, it’s vital that I do! I sternly remind myself that the more I receive, the more I can give. This is a lecture I often give to other people when I’m coaching them on the healing power of pleasure and the importance of allowing more of it into their lives. I remind myself that the more transformational experiences I put myself through, the easier it will be to facilitate my clients’ growth and transformation. Obvious really. All good then. It’s time to begin.

I shower to cleanse myself and come naked to the bedroom where a carefully chosen array of ropes, chains and various accoutrements, toys and gadgets lie neatly by the bed. Ever in control I ask that the bedspread be turned over so that I don’t have to lie on the sequin side. Once a jewish princess always a jewish princess I guess, even in death...he humours me and turns the bedspread. My perfect partner.

We namaste and look deeply into each others eyes. I trust this man with my life (and apparently also with my death)

When he switches into role of Dominant Master he gets this look about him. His face transforms and he takes on the persona of a wise shaman. In his eyes I see a man who is not afraid to take me to the depth of pain and the heights of pleasure, to the brink of death and maybe even beyond. I know he’ll be with me all the way. I know he’ll be there when I’m reborn into a new world.

He says “It begins” and I feel a shiver go through my body. He ties rough green string onto my nipples and around my back. From experience I know he’ll show me no mercy unless I speak my safeword, “Pussycat”. I am determined to surrender to him utterly. I will not safeword until I die...

Black leather cuffs are strapped to my wrists and ankles and I am forced to kneel while he manipulates my body with great force, encouraging me to let go more, throwing me from side to side and backwards, yanking me up by my hair. He is rough with me but as I drop any resistance the movement somehow changes from irritating and uncomfortable to delicious and dreamy, and I feel as if I’m a sea anemone being effortlessly and irresistibly swirled by the ebb and flow of the ocean....

I watch as my master hangs a chain from a hook in the ceiling. I begin to imagine disastrous scenarios of monstrous proportions and try not to visualise a broken neck. My breathing has become rapid and shallow and I notice my mind’s chatter – it manages to interrupt rudely, even in the wildest of rituals. I attempt to negotiate by muttering, “Don’t hang me upside down, we don’t know if it’s strong enough...I don’t want to break my neck”. My words sound pathetic and whiny. He laughs and says “I’m not going to suspend you.” I relax and breathe slightly more easily.

My legs are taken up and tied to the chain so that I’m partially suspended while still lying on my back. He begins with light whacks with the riding crop. This builds up to a bout of intense spanking with paddles and even some strikes of the cane. My skin is on fire, stimulated and alive now.

I have no control over my voice which is making sounds I don’t recognise. On a deep level I know that my master won’t do anything that will cause damage to my body (we have a solid understanding between us and there is laser-guided focus and concentration from him always) but even so there are shocks of pain that seem to obliterate everything else. I want to die, I want to let go into oblivion...

I’m ‘gone’ by this time, in an altered state of consciousness... vaguely aware of hot candle wax dripped on my chest, clothes pegs pinned to my belly and vulva....my breathing stopped by a hand closing my nose and mouth...

I’m blindfolded, which adds to the fear. He ties my arms behind my back, pulls up one leg and ties it by rope to the arms so that I’m standing on one leg and hanging from the chain in the ceiling. I’m perfectly balanced until he starts to bite my ear and whip me. I flail from side to side, desperate for it to stop but knowing that I must last to the end.

I’m picked up and held virtually upside down. He seems to have the strength of a giant. I feel a wave of nausea sweep through me and I know I’m going to throw up. Finally the safeword comes out, quiet and muffled through the gag.

He unties me. I’m weak at the knees. He guides me gently to the bed and lays me on a white sheet, wrapping it around me like a shroud. He recites a eulogy – beautiful words about my life and my soul’s purpose. He leaves me. I lie there in darkness for what seems like an eternity, not feeling or thinking. It’s the most profoundly meditative state I’ve ever known.

I’ve left the planet...drifting in the universe...pure consciousness, no thoughts, no emotions...death has liberated me...

Eventually he returns and unwraps me, sweetly and kindly. I feel like a newborn baby. The air smells fresh. I’m full of wonder. He gently guides me out of the bedroom where he has lit a dozen candles on the stairway and he says “Into the light”. Holding my hand he leads me down the stairs to the lounge where there are many more candles alight and soft music playing.

“You are flow, you are pure light” he says to me. I feel so young, so sensitised. We are both naked and dance an exquisite dance of love and joy...there is no Self...the I that was is now One...I am pulsating with the Universal Pulse...there is only Love...

So, there you have it - my Death Ritual. I survived. And I think I’m a nicer person for it.

If you fancy meeting death in the face, give us a ring. It will be our absolute pleasure to guide you there.

Click here if you dare....

Facebook – Life Online

2011-01-27T04:20:00.000-08:00

I must warn you that this posting might disappoint some of my blog fans. It’s not about sex. On the other hand, some of you might be relieved that it has nothing to do with any of my body parts either, seeing as the last two blogs were all about my yoni. This blog is about my relationship with a) Roland and b) Facebook.

We’ll start with Facebook, with which I have a love-hate relationship. I still can’t work out whether Facebook is a time saver or time waster. There’s something sinister about the whole thing. Once you go on, it seems almost impossible to get off. It hypnotises you and sucks you in like a giant, electronic black hole. I do try to limit myself to a couple of visits a month, and spend a lot of that time shouting at the thing, but I have to admit that last week it came in rather handy. More about Facebook later, after I tell you the love story part...

They say opposites attract. Roland and I are so opposite that I can only assume we met all the way round the other side and accidentally merged. Whereas I, like a puppy dog, trust everyone I meet and open my door and heart (and mouth) to just about anyone who steps across my path, Ro is resolutely cautious. I dive into bestfriendhood on a regular basis. Ro tiptoes towards new people warily. With my X-ray ‘Ro vision’ I see his hackles rise and with my bionic ‘Ro hearing’ I hear the low rumble of a growl as he automatically leaps into protector mode. Recently he conceded that perhaps I don’t need quite as much protecting as he’d first thought. I mean, let’s face it, I did manage to look after myself fairly well for the forty five years before I met him. I must admit it was a novel experience having a personal bodyguard for a while, especially on a twelve hour, overnight train trip through India, shortly after we met. He sat up all night in the sleeper carriage, guarding me fiercely, with his penknife in open view. Made me feel very feminine. I may be painting a picture of an intolerant man but Ro is, in fact one of the most patient people I’ve ever met. He is curiously paradoxical and I find him endlessly fascinating and I guess that goes partway to explaining why last week I accepted his proposal of marriage. Yes, you read that correctly. ROLAND AND I ARE GETTING MARRIED!

Seeing as I was the Anti-Marriage Woman I shouldn’t be surprised that everyone around us erupted in shocked amazement at the news. I’ve been proclaiming loudly for fifteen years, since my kids’ dad and I divorced, that I would never marry again. Not even Jonny Depp.

There’s something else about Roland that is a constant delight to me and that is his persistence when he really wants something. He does not give up easily. Ro first asked me to marry him fairly early on in our relationship. My reply was immediate and unambiguous. It went something like “No way...never...please don’t ask me again.” Lesser men would have packed up and left, or at the very least resolved never to ask again. The second time he proposed I was immoveable and even less sympathetic, “Fuck off. It makes me feel guilty when you ask me, ‘cos I have to say no, so please stop”. Starry-eyed romantic, me...I obviously had a bit of an issue around marriage.

Then two weeks ago I found myself reading Elizabeth Gilbert’s book ‘Committed – A Love Story’. The book is a study of the history and meaning of marriage in various cultures around the planet, throughout the ages, interwoven with the writer’s own, personal love story and the inner struggle to reconcile her feelings around being forced to marry her boyfriend for immigration reasons. To say I resonated with the book would be an understatement. I gobbled it up, cover to cover, but it was a paragraph in the last chapter that was to change my life. I read the passage and cried. I read it to Ro and he cried. (Please don’t imagine that Roland sheds a tear easily – he rides a Harley, remember, and would like to keep the tough biker image intact). Then, a very unexpected thing happened. He looked deeply into my eyes and said, “So, does that mean you’ll marry me then?” and I said, “Yes, I’ll marry you.”

Aw.

We both then went into shock for twenty-four hours whilst we slowly assimilated this momentous paradigm shift. I mean I’m a tantric sex goddess who preaches emotional freedom and sexual liberation. I have to think about my public image, right? I spent the day alternating between two states – ecstasy and terror.

The next morning I called two of my closest friends. As those two conversations took up most of the day I realised at that rate it would take all year to convey the news to just my nearest and dearest. I had a brainwave! I’d post it on Facebook and hit everyone at once. Brilliant. Well, of course two things happened almost immediately. Fifty-five ‘comments’ appeared underneath the posting from friends and family. Being me, I have felt compelled to reply to every single person, as they’d all left such exquisitely heartfelt messages. A week later, I’m only halfway through! Way too much time with an online social network site and not enough time with my fiancee...and ten seconds after the post went up my brother rang from Australia, incensed that he had found out that his sister was getting married - on Facebook!

If you’re my age you’ll remember those ‘Love Is’ cartoons. Well, here’s one for you...(which also shows my age) ’Love is – a cup of tea in bed in the morning, with your beloved and a good book’.

So...was it the book that made me change my mind, or was it my deepest, most unconscious desire to marry him that compelled me to buy and read the book which contained the words that would free me from the tyranny of my resistance? A profound inquiry indeed – a chicken and egg question if you ask me. The bottom line is that we’re nuts about each other, can’t live without each other in fact...play guitar together, drum, dance, skip through woods, lose ourselves in mad, tantric rituals and he makes me laugh more than I’ve ever laughed in my life, so at the end of the day – why the hell not? It’s also a damn fine excuse for a knees-up.

P.S. (My facebook page is www.facebook.com/kavida.rei - it is notable that Roland's page just tells you to mind your own business - lol x)

VIRGIN TERRITORY

2010-10-09T05:05:00.000-07:00

As this is the second blog in a row all about my yoni you’d be well within your rights to accuse me of being obsessed. But hey! Go google another subject. There are plenty of blogs out there that cover far worthier topics like politics or sustainable living. You might think my yoni does not deserve its own blog and many will have already clicked off in disgust at my sex-driven monologues. Do I sound a little over-sensitive? Paranoid perhaps? Okay, the opening of this blog is a bit of a therapy session I guess, but bear with me...

For me, writing is like breathing or eating, the tippety-tap, tippety-tap sound of fingers on a keyboard a constant in my house, but I’m confessing to you here, dear reader, that there is a part of me that thinks I should perhaps turn my attention to blogging about more innocent pursuits - activitites that don’t require an ‘over 18’ disclaimer to publish. But I’ve posted a photo of my pussy on the worldwide net now (sigh) so I suspect there’s no turning back...

I promise the next blog will feature someone or something other than my vagina - a notable, social event maybe, or even another person’s body parts, but please be patient just for one last yonicentric blog - I want to tell you about the most exciting thing that’s happened to my vagina in the forty seven years I’ve had one.

A girlfriend started raving about a product that apparently rejuvenates your pussy, your sex life, your boyfriend. In the past I have been known to jump in and out of businesses as fast as you can say “multi-level marketing” – organic body goop, concentrated cleaners, you name it, I’ve sold it. They’ve all been great products but I’m far more interested in people and sex (as you know if you’re a regular reader) and so the enthusiasm for discussing ingredients of green washing powder or the benefits of ecologically-friendly window spray tends to wear off quickly and I have always found myself giving away remaining stock, stuffing the paperwork into boxes at the back of the shed and getting back to humans. So, in the attempt to avoid taking on another business, I ignored my lovely friend. I'm kicking myself now, of course, when I think of all the women I could have helped during that year!

Then, out of the blue, three other people approached me with the same product. They were excited to say the least. At this point I figured I should pay attention, at least try the thing. Whoever talked about Secret Ceres made it sound like some kind of miracle cure-all, a panacea for every physical symptom under the sun. When I called my girlfriend she was so happy I’d finally agreed to test drive it she sent me one for free. Now I was really curious! If I wanted to turn someone on to a product where I had actually had direct experience of it working, I would also send one to a potential promoter for free, so naturally I couldn’t wait for the post to arrive.

I followed instructions, ran the rather unattractive stick under the tap (let’s face it, it’s not a jewel-encrusted, glass dildo from Coco de Mer) and inserted the Secret Ceres into my yoni for the 2 minutes they suggested. Hmm...not particularly pleasurable, although not unpleasant, but certainly not like my time with the Nexus...after rinsing the rock and setting it to dry on the windowsill I had a little feel around. Goodness, there was indeed an instant tightening, but I had my sceptical hat on – perhaps it was the shock of inserting a stalagmite into my pussy that had made it tighten like that. The jury was out until further evidence.

The next day I repeated the procedure. Still the same result, although I noticed a slight change in the scent emanating from my Cave of Wonder, and in the consistency of moisture therein. Coincidentally, Roland and I happened to be in a rare period of abstinance, due to debilitating chest infections and exhaustion, so he wasn’t witness to my experimentation.

Then on day three the most extraordinary thing occured. There had been mention on the leaflet about a ‘cornified layer of the vagina’ that apparently all women have if we’ve ever had sex, (you learn something new every day) another about ‘shedding the lining of your vagina, painlessly’ (good, I thought. I don’t mind a bit of pain as you know, but the thought of a painful shedding of my vagina did not appeal)

Jesus! In only three, neat little globs, what was very obviously the ‘cornified layer’ of my yoni came out! It was faintly alarming, but there was no discomfort and after a little wash I came back to set about exploring the area.

OH MY GOD! (this was fast becoming a religious experience as both God and Jesus appeared to be present) It was a miracle! I had an entirely new pussy. My vagina felt like I remembered it had felt when I was a young teenager. I couldn’t wait to show Roland.

“Ro! Ro! I’ve got a new pussy!” I called down the stairs. Confused by this sentence but sensing the urgency, Ro came to the bedroom.

“Feel this, quick! You won’t believe it!” I was a bit excited to say the least.

“I can hardly get my finger inside What’s happened to you?!”

It was a comical scene, Ro’s face, full of wonder as he made his way slowly inside the cave and me laughing as I thought of all the women I knew who would love me forever for turning them on to Secret Ceres. Then I laughed harder, thinking about all the women in the world, not just the ones I knew. Every single woman, surely? Those with vaginal yeast infections, those with vaginosis, with post-birth prolapse, the women who rush to the doctor to be prescribed evil, allopathic drugs which never sort their issues long-term anyway... I know the misery that most women go through in their desire, not for a perfect vagina necessarily but a healthy one at least. This was the product I’d been waiting for! Pushing all that green bathroom cleaner and organic shampoo had been merely preparation for this. I must open a shop immediately I thought, as Ro continued to venture further inside, eyes popping out of his head...a shop that sells only one product. Ha! I’d found the end of the rainbow.

My pussy smelled divine, it was producing the most intoxicating, clear liquid - nectar of the gods indeed. The walls of my cave were soft and responsive and freshly elastic. Just as my friend had promised (alright, alright, I believe you now!) every sensation was magnified and I was in a state of ecstatic arousal.

Ro hadn’t spoken for a while – speechless is an understatement – but his eyes said it all. After a little more fiddling about in awe, we rushed downstairs, built the webpage, created the shop and ordered twelve. We don’t mess around. When there’s a job that must be done, we just get on and do it. That’s one of the reasons we’re together. That, and the chocolate mousse, and the laughter and dancing and the music we play and the love, love, love we make every single day....

To order your Kavida's Secret Ceres click here!

A Day in The Life of a Superyoni

2010-09-11T04:02:00.000-07:00

(Ceres, goddess of fertility, harvest and abundance)

The English language is somewhat limited when it comes to describing the sensual body and the act of lovemaking in its myriad of forms. Having written two books on the subject I’ve exhausted the thesaurus and am constantly on the look out for new sexual vocabulary. I’m sure you’d agree that ‘vagina’, for example is not an attractive word. ‘Pussy’ is appropriate in porn, of course, and ‘cunt’ too. But if you wish to define and describe the mysterious and wondrous place that lies between a woman’s thighs in terms which do its power and beauty true justice, there are very few words that do the job. Luckily though, there is Sanskrit, the ancient, spirtual language of India, arguably the oldest in human history.

The Sanskrit word for the female genitalia is ‘yoni’ which means ‘sacred place’ or ‘cave of wonder’. I adore this word. In tantra the yoni is honoured as the gateway into life as well as a source of sexual pleasure. Tantric texts say that if you meditate on the yoni regularly you will become enlightened. Staring at a happy yoni in a trance state strikes me as far more fun than sitting on a cushion and chanting or retreating to a mountaintop for twenty years. I am extremely fortunate to have found a partner who takes great pleasure in yoni-gazing. This is not the case with all men - some are a little squeamish - so girls, if you find a guy who enjoys looking as well as touching, my advice would be that you grab him and keep him around.

I am pleased to say that I have a healthy relationship with my own yoni, having practised tantra for many years. We have a deep understanding of one another. She has been encouraged to develop good self-esteem and consequently enjoys any worshipping that comes her way. You might think she was too big for her boots with all that attention, but she’s never blown her own trumpet in public. Today though I have to admit that I’m a tad worried about my yoni’s suddenly rather inflated ego. Having been given the chance to model for an entire morning, she has decided to pursue a career as a superyoni and from now on will be demanding that level of fuss on a daily basis. Just like Linda Evangelista, my yoni has now declared that she refuses to get out of bed for less than a $10,000 a day. She’ll also be expecting her own trailer, thank you very much...

It all started with a request on Facebook. Hanna and Martin, from Transcendence School of Tantra had sent out an enticing invitation to be part of the Great Yoni Mandala project. A mandala is a geometrical shape, usually in the form of a picture which, when meditated upon can also bring about a state of enlightenment. The bold idea is to compile photos of 108 yonis (I have yet to find out why 108 is an auspicious number, but when I do I’ll let you know) into a spiral configuration resembling the serpent shape that depicts kundalini ( the sexual energy that uncoils from the sacrum and rises up the spine leading to a spiritual awakening). This digital mandala will then be made available to all who wish to gaze at it...who knows, it might make a nice calendar too? A yoni a day keeps the doctor away...

Let’s face it, it’s not often one gets asked for a photo of ones genitals, even in my world, and the posting jumped out from the page. Before I committed, I just wanted to make sure that my name (or face, or indeed any part of the rest of my body) wouldn’t be attached to the picture and after reading the document, which reassured me that my yoni would remain anonymous, I decided to go for it.

When it comes to taking photographs I think that a mobile phone snapshot works just as well to capture the moment and I’ve never really understood why my partner owns an expensively professional digital camera, complete with fancy macro-lens. I’ve often secretly wondered whether I could persuade him to trade it in on E-bay for something more useful, like a hot-tub or a love-swing. But if there was ever going to be an opportunity where Roland’s investment could prove it’s worth, this was surely it...

Ro has a natural talent for directing, especially if I can shut up for more than five seconds. He could have been a professional film director or photographer I’m sure, and given half the chance he’ll spend hours fiddling with Photoshop or setting up elaborate scenes for tantric, BDSM rituals. I decided to let him boss me around for the morning and he grabbed the opportunity with great gusto,

“Right, we need to shoot her in various stages of arousal...the light needs to be just right...you must be completely shaved and naked...” The enthusiasm was infectious and I found myself getting quite excited.

We began in the bedroom. Strangely, my yoni was rather shy at first - maybe it was the pressure of having to perform. I reclined on my sheepskin rug while Ro tried some test shots, making positive and helpful comments like “She’s beautiful” and “Pout baby! Show me you want it!” It was clear that some direct oral encouragement was required and Roland put the camera down for some teasing and licking, to get her in the mood. Where’s a fluffer when you need one? I tried not to dwell on the fact that the Google Earth satellite can apparently see right inside my bedroom window.

The shots were fair, and I was slowly relaxing, but we decided to go on a recce to find a pastoral setting with some proper outdoor sunlight. We didn’t have a lot of time to play with, as I had a train to catch in one hour, so we threw my luggage into the car and drove off into the countryside like a couple of pervy location scouts. Lo and behold, just outside the village we came across the ideal spot – a large, golden wheat field. The farmer was in the far corner beginning to plough the crop and we reckoned we had about twenty minutes before his combine harvester would reach our side. I wasn’t sure how he might feel about finding a genital photoshoot in full swing in his field, so we threw the blanket down into the wheat without further ado.

Quite frankly I’m not sure how sexy I looked, with my shirt, boots and socks still on, but it was my yoni that was the star of the show, so I graciously spread my legs once again and let the maestro start shooting.

Suddenly, I realised we were dangerously close to the bypass and hoped that we wouldn’t cause an accident. If any of you were driving along the A41 on the 31st August at about 11am and wondered if you were seeing right – well, now you know.

The photos are exquisite, so I’m not surprised that my yoni fancies herself as the next big, pin-up sensation. And Ro now knows for sure what he bought that camera for - fuck flowers and landscapes - after today, he’s probably wondering if there’s a potential market...so if any of you gorgeous goddesses with ambitious yonis out there are stuck for a willing photographer, you know who to call...

To find out more about Kavida and her work, visit www.kavidarei.com

her social networking / dating site www.sensual-spirit.com

and her gatherings for conscious people www.sensual-soirees.com

Love Lies in a Bowl of Chocolate Mousse

2010-07-03T16:55:00.000-07:00

Many delicious delicacies are on offer at a Sensual Soiree, one of which, for example is the chance to massage and be massaged by conscious and loving, sensual beings who aren’t shy about connecting deeply on a heart level. But if truth be told, we are most famous for our chocolate mousse.

When Roland and I created the idea for Sensual Soirees in a mad, transcendental moment of bliss at an after-party in Islington, our primary intention was that people would depart from our events happily satiated and high as kites on pure love alone. We had the firm belief that we could create a dynamic party which would not leave its guests with a residual hangover the next morning. Instead, the guests would be left with a lingering love vibration which would last for days, continuing to stimulate and energise not only that lucky person who had been at the soiree but all those around them too.

How does one get a group of people to a quivering state of unbridled ecstacy in four hours without pills or alcohol? It’s a question of our time, as the 80s ravers have produced offspring and grown out of drug-fuelled, all-nighters and the next generation, who seem to be rather more intelligent (or more concerned about how to keep a job in these financially precarious times perhaps?) are looking for ways to party without killing off brain cells in the process.

If anyone could do it, I could! I’ve indulged in the chemical form of ecstasy enough to understand the wonders of that particular trip and enough years practising as a tantrika to know that tantra offers the same high without the resultant fallout. I also know how to have fun. I was born with a strong gene in this department – ask anybody who knew me as a child or teenager – and I seem to be able to instinctively know the sort of thing a group needs in order to let their hair down and drop the self-consciousness that generally stops folk enjoying themselves. After all, we’re just trapped in grown-up bodies, waiting for any chance to let our inner kids out, right? The parties I’ve thrown over the years are legendary and it was with my set of skills around event organising; assembling the perfect combination of people, a natural flair for catering, along with an obsessive drive to provide top-notch music, that I set about designing the ultimate social gathering.

Blindfold feeding had to be part of it, in true tantric style. When the visual sense is removed, the remaining senses become highly attuned. One’s awareness of the taste and texture of food becomes infinitely richer. Certainly if you’re a foody, there’s nothing quite as sexy as being fed by an attentive worshipper who takes you to the very edges of orgasmic explosion using erotic teasing and titillation and then sends you over that edge with a mouthful of sweetness. Imagine an entire room full of relaxed and happy party guests immersing themselves in a bacchanalian orgy of feasting and frolicking! Well, I didn’t just imagine it, I made it happen, and have continued to, month after month, for dozens of enraptured revellers. A clever bunny, me...

Dessert at a soiree consists of mountainous piles of exotic fruit, the best cheese we can get our hands on and most importantly, chocolate mousse. Two varieties in fact; the super-sweet, dairy-laden kind for those who crave the sugar hit and don’t fret about cholesterol, and a unique concoction made from (wait for it) avocados, blueberries, agave and generous helpings of raw cacao, for those sugar-free, dairy-free goody-goodies (of which I’m one). The food is divine enough in itself, but being fed, sensually and creatively while blindfolded adds a whole other dimension to the experience of eating. If you haven’t tried it, you haven’t lived!

At the first, experimental soiree, held in our generous friend’s flat, rather a lot of chocolate was left on his carpet in the general frenzy that ensued over this intoxicating entertainment. It was a bit like teaching kindergarten children a new game and trying to control the over-excitement. This inevitably led to the hiring of a venue with a wooden floor and the hurried purchasing of many, dark-coloured sheets. It’s all good, clean fun, but you do want to be able to just throw the evidence in the washing machine at the end, not have to call in the carpet cleaners.

Roland and I have begun a passionate love affair with the cocoa bean. We experiment with new concoctions and regularly practise our blindfold feeding techniques in the privacy of our living room, hoping to inspire the participants at the next soiree to greater heights of creativity and sauciness. The story I’m about to tell is a warning to be very, very careful when blending chocolate mousse. Recently we invested in a new blender purely to take the weight of all the mousse making. As an aside, it had Jamie Oliver’s name on it. Strangely, half the kitchen appliances in Costco had his mug on them...have you noticed that the world is being taken over by coffee shop chains and celebrity chefs? I’m not a conspiracy theorist, but it does make you wonder...anyway, the first time we had to use our new blender was the day of a soiree. I started early. I loaded the jug to the brim. I switched on and began to fold in from the sides. What I hadn’t realised was that the blades were longer than in my previous mixer. They caught the spoon and in an ear-splitting explosion, the mousse erupted and plastered itself over the entire kitchen and in a very dramatic fashion, me. From top to toe. Ro came running in to see what the hell had happened. There was only one thing to do and that was to strip off and get licking. It was an orgy of naked chocolate feasting until we suddenly remembered that my teenage son was about to come downstairs to get ready for school. This, I guess, is the sort of hazard the poor boy faces in living with a mother like me. Out of courtesy to him, (he claims, half-jokingly that I have mentally disturbed him, and assures me that he already has enough material for ten years of therapy) I made my way to the shower while Ro got down to the mammoth task of cleaning the kitchen.

We don’t have time for private dinner parties very often but anyone who does get to visit is invariably asked whether they would like to play the blindfold dessert game. Most guests surprisingly turn us down but recently two intrepid traveller friends arrived from Australia and were game for a laugh. After a couple of hours of licking, sucking, contorting, gasping and a lot of giggling they were totally turned on to the joys of rudely consumed raw chocolate mousse.

I was going to spare you the mucky details but Ro just reminded me that you read my blogs for those very details, so here goes...

To set the scene we light candles, choose an iTunes playlist called ‘Blindfold Feeding’ ( believe me, I have playlists compiled for every imagineable scenario under the sun) and lay pink sheets over as much living room as we can access. We start with a tantric opening ritual - “Namaste” - all strip - Note: at a Sensual Soiree most people don’t get naked, but I have to say it’s easier (and more fun) than battling with clothing and risking staining your best togs - and the guys sit cross-legged and blindfolded on cushions with their dessert beside them. Us girls, partners in crime, after a wink and a grin at each other, set about finding as many unusual ways to feed a man as we can. We have good material; strawberries, blueberries, dates, pears and the infamous mousse. We start in a relatively tame manner - using a spoon, the end of a finger..then the music gets groovy and inspires us to rock ‘n’ roll it a little and we’re encouraged by the moans and groans of pleasure from our love gods. We experiment with offering mousse from an ear. *

My friend dips a nipple and offers it to her lover’s mouth. I copy her and our partners spend an extended amount of time lingering in that area...you can see how one can easily take two hours to eat dessert...rampantly we sread chocolate over our bellies and lay back, pulling our partner’s heads towards us. They soon get the message as their lips find the mound of mousse and there is much rolling about and general raucousness for a while...Strawberries were always meant to be eaten out of pussies. Everyone knows that. It should be made compulsory at Wimbledon. We simultanteously insert our strawberries (tricky while laughing) and stand over the faces of our intoxicated lovers, slowly lowering our selves onto their mouths. Their tongues probe and search for the hidden treasure...they are drunk on fruit and passion and when we remove the blindfolds they look too dazed to feed us. Slowly they recover themselves and we blindfold ourselves, ready to take our trip to nirvana.

There is a wonderful innocence that comes over people when diving into blindfold feasting. It must be something to do with the memory of being fed as a child. When I’m deeply immersed in it, as if in meditation - the mind safely out of the way, and the body fully engaged - the feeling is one of a curious combination of childish playfulness and adult eroticism. Heaven on earth. I’m visualising a tantric restaurant...any investors out there?

We will be serving strawberries at our Sensual Summer Gathering in August. They won’t be eaten off plates.

* Unless you’re ticklish there, a tongue caressing ones ear is a fabulous sensation, but we soon suspected that even the most zealous of tongues can’t do a thorough enough job, and in fact can wedge the stuff inside for good. I suddenly found myself paranoid, a bit like when you’ve smoked too much grass and lose the plot. I had a flash vision of me in A & E trying to explain my damaged, chocolate-sodden eardrum. Don’t worry, it was only paranoia and I didn’t end up in hospital, but I was indeed finding mousse in my ear for days afterwards, so a word of advice – don’t bother with ear-feeding.

To find out more about me, visit www.kavidarei.com

For information on Sensual Soireés, visit www.sensual-soirees.com

To meet like minded beautiful people go to Kavida's networking and dating site, www.sensual-spirit.com

WET WISHES COME TRUE

2010-03-25T06:34:00.000-07:00

I’ve got some ground-breaking news for you. I know I have a tendency to get carried away but I do believe that my achievement could be the pivotal shift in human consciousness that mystics have been talking about for millenia...

You’ve probably heard the story of the hundredth monkey where research scientists on an island in Japan observed that the newly-learned behaviour of washing sweet potatoes gradually spread throughout the primates of the island and when it had reached a critical mass, transferred through some paranormal phenomenon, to the monkey inhabitants of all the other islands and they all began washing their potatoes. Being a Pollyanna type (and a bit of a hippy) I’ve always loved this story, even though Wikipedia – font of all knowledge - states that the ‘scientific conclusion’ has since been disproved. Finding this out smacks of the disappointment I felt when I discovered, aged eight, that Father Christmas didn’t really exist.

As usual, I’ve digressed a tad, but the point I was trying to make was this: now that I’ve done it, maybe all the women in the world will suddenly, miraculously be able to do it too! Perhaps it took so long, and seemed so difficult because I was the hundredth monkey, just waiting to pop.

“Has all that tantric fandango finally caused delusional disorder?” I hear you asking.

“Has Kavida perhaps become enlightened?” others of you may be wondering...but no, neither of these things are so, although according to my tantra teacher, enlightenment is within my grasp (if only I could give up those remaining two vices). But anyway, I am happy to share with you that after a long quest on which I journeyed through various states of enthusiasm, desire, effort and resignation, I have...yes...wait for it...ejaculated!

Those of you who have followed my blogs loyally will remember that a couple of years ago I attended the female ejaculation seminar given by Deborah Sundahl. I got home filled with motivation and hope and resolutely set-to, ‘sensitising’ my G-spot with regular massage and ‘loving my prostate back to life’. I have to admit, It was a rather dull project – in fact it regularly put my boyfriend at the time to sleep with boredom – but I perservered.

I visited a professional. Yes, that’s right – a man whose profession is indeed making women ejaculate in his very own ‘temple’ in West London. It’s a tough job but someone’s gotta do it, eh? I turned out to be one of his apparently rare failures and left the temple utterly mortified. Bless him, he did try to soften the blow by telling me that my “spongy sack” (the whole experience was all a bit anatomical, I have to say) wasn’t even filling up with liquid. That would need “a bit of work”. Oh, and that I “wasn’t really relaxed in my vagina and would need healing there”, but it was all “totally doable”. You would think this prognosis might have given me the confidence to continue, perhaps even to book another visit to the expert, but sadly it had the opposite effect. It was rather like that sinking feeling you get when your mechanic gives you the list of what needs fixing in order for your car to get through the MOT and you wonder whether or not the car’s actually worth it. I started to imagine that maybe I was some kind of freak, that my vagina was anatomically incorrect, and that I might as well give up right now, if it was going to be that hard to even get the old spongy sack to fill up with liquid....

I must admit I felt a trifle fraudulent. How could I call myself a Tantric Goddess when I couldn’t produce a bit of amrita for God’s sake? Then I began to tell myself that it was all a load of fuss about nothing and that made me feel better. I gave myself a good talking to and reassured myself that I can climax till kingdom come, orgasms feel good, I should thank my lucky stars that I am orgasmic and certainly stop fixating on the absence of ejaculation, especially when my sex life is obviously rich and rewarding in every way imagineable... I put it on hold for a while and didn’t even think about my prostate for over a year.

Then, last month our sexy friend Gem came round to make raw chocolate mousse for our Sensual Soiree and we got chatting about her own journey on the squirting trail. As you probably know I have a fabulous new partner whom I referred to as ‘H’ in my last blog. At the time he wanted his true identity kept secret, having led a very private life until bumping into me. But let’s face it, if you’re dating a celebrity goddess you can’t expect to stay undercover for very long. After much negotiation and many months in the tantric fast lane, he is finally agreeing to be written about. His name is Roland and he’s either very brave or very foolish...

Ro, like me has a great appetite for life in general and, also like me is particularly fascinated with the ins and outs, as it were, of sexuality. When Ro heard Gem waxing lyrical about the joys of squirting and saw a shadow of disappointment drift across my face (after all, its rare for me to not be able to join in a conversation) he became a man on a mission.

A couple of nights later I found myself pinned to the bed (Roland can be very forceful when he’s made up his mind to do something. I like that in a guy) with a lot of intensively-focused activity going on below. He hadn’t been asked to do lots of sensitive prostate massage for weeks on end, which I’m sure contributed to the fact that he seemed very keen to get started on the job at hand.

I kept insisting that I needed a piss. I also kept trying to sit up and get to the loo. This was a mistake. Roland does not like to be deterred when he’s nearing any goal and he set to work even more fervently, shoving my head back down on the pillow and telling me to “just fucking pee if you need to!” He also told me I needed to let go of control. One thing a control freak hates being told is that they’re a control freak.

“Fuck you” I thought, “I’m NOT a control freak! You’re a control freak! Right, I’m going to piss in your hand then...”.

The whole thing seemed to have turned into some kind of battle, but being a Leo and also incredibly stubborn, I wasn’t going to be defeated. Resigned to the fact that there was no way I was going to be allowed off the bed until any kind of liquid even remotely resembling ejaculate had been released, I surrendered and stopped resisting. I pushed down, instead of contracting upwards, which is the normal muscular movement that happens when approaching orgasm and simply willed it to happen with all my might. Ro’s hand on my neck, pinning my body to the bed with great force was an added erotic feature. I’m always grateful for Roland’s strength and masculinity – a man who never wavers until he gets the job done. This is one of the factors that makes it practical for us to work together (you couldn’t have guessed that I’m a fanatical perfectionist, right?) and certainly the reason I’m now able to claim that I’m a fully paid-up member of the squirting club.

I wouldn’t want you to imagine Roland like some kind of brutish, sexual bully who pins women to beds on a regular basis. Nothing could be further from the truth. He doesn’t like to brag, and hardly anyone knows that he is a fine acoustic guitarist whose musicality and artistic finesse translates neatly over to his sensitive and skillful lovemaking. But every so often, a woman like me needs the kind of man who will masterfully render you incapable of moving, using whatever methods are necessary and then proceed to encourage (dominate) you until you give in. And (lucky old me) Roland is blessed with an equal balance of yin and yang.

Eureka! I felt my erstwhile neglected prostate pulsating and releasing its nectar of the gods. I sat up in astonishment and marvelled at the amazing gush of clear liquid pouring from my yoni, forming a puddle below.

I shall try to find words to describe the experience. The actual squirt itself has got nothing on orgasm and in itself is a bit of an anti-climax (a weak pun I know), but it’s the post-ejaculation bliss I’m most excited to tell you about...

It was as if years’ worth of tension had been released. Softly glowing, golden light filled my womb. A thousand tiny fairies were flying about in there, sending electrical charges from their wands which snaked into and caressed the deepest crevices of my pelvis.

This was a kind of sartori – bliss descended upon both of us and we spooned together without moving a muscle, lost in ecstatic reverie, falling into an unintentional, yet deeply healing meditation.

This was what they’d been banging on about – I had finally found the holy grail.

I didn’t dare try again right away, although I was tempted. I was a bit worried I might run out - although apparently once you get going you can squirt all night, gallons and gallons of the stuff, but that sounds like way too much laundry for my liking.

After rising, I floated about the house, with a sense of immense power and profound calm, my pelvis softly vibrating and still glowing. I felt like shouting from the rooftops, sending out a group text and posting it on my Facebook wall.

So, those of you who haven’t quite made it yet – don’t give up. The end result is really worth it, I promise. But if you’re still struggling down the road, I might spare Roland for a few hours. He rides a Harley and can get anywhere fast...

ALL FOR THE LOVE OF A TANTRIC BIKER

2009-10-20T15:51:00.000-07:00

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

2009-03-22T06:36:00.000-07:00

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

2009-03-02T12:03:00.001-08:00

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

2008-12-10T13:08:00.000-08:00

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.

The Most Boring Person in the World

2008-04-04T09:25:00.001-07:00

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

2008-02-19T06:29:00.000-08:00

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

HIGH HEELS AND HERNIAS

2007-12-15T00:44:00.000-08:00

HIGH HEELS AND HERNIAS

We never miss Erotica and plan our yearly calendar around it. One thing you have to understand is that ordinarily I loathe shopping. I’m not like your average woman – I break out in a cold sweat at the thought of visiting Brent Cross, or spending more time than is absolutely essential in any high street store, but Erotica is shopping in a different realm. Imagine the large hall at Olympia, filled wall-to-wall with stalls selling every product related to sexual pleasure that you could imagine, and gadgets and gizmos that your imagination hasn’t even ventured anywhere near! It’s retail therapy for the carnally courageous.

One needs to train for Erotica – it resembles a triathlon, and by the end I always feel as if I’ve completed a kind of indoor Outward Bound. On the subject of bondage, you can get very good tape at cost price...
I have one piece of advice if you’re considering booking for the first time – wear comfortable shoes! If you find yourself with sore feet after a couple of hours, you’ll be stuffed. The only footwear you could possibly acquire, from the dozens of shoe stalls available, is cheap, high and plastic (you can, if you get there in time, find flippers at the hard-core fetish stall that specialises in army standard gas masks and full body rubber suits). When I say high, we’re talking eight-inch heels, four-inch platforms, stilettos that could pin a rhinoceros to the ground... The first year I visited Erotica I arrived in heels, with no back-up thinking, “If I can’t show off my legs at this event, when can I?” I ended up without shoes by three o’clock, anticipating a drawing pin in the sole of my foot at every step. I escaped unscathed, rather miraculously considering I’d been trodden on by more than one over-enthusiastic shopper.
When I say it’s crowded, that’s an understatement. Friday’s the easiest, but Saturday and Sunday make Oxford Street on Christmas Eve look like a relaxing day out. The payoff is that you get to buy clothes and toys that you’ll never get sick of, don’t go out of fashion and will last you the rest of your life
One walks for miles at Erotica. Just when you think it’s time for a sit-down and a nice cup of tea, you remember that quartz-crystal dildo that they had only one left of, and you rush back over to try and find the trader who was installed somewhere between the bespoke latex hood retailer and the man who hand-crafts kangaroo hide whips. On the way you get distracted by the pole-dancing show that’s going on in aisle six, then swept upstairs to catch the Fantasy Boys who are about to perform their last show of the day, which you absolutely cannot miss.
It’s worse when you’re with a partner. Then there are two agendas going on side by side. This year we tried a sort of master and slave arrangement. I bought a collar and heavy lead and encouraged my partner to do Erotica ‘his way’ for a change. Off we went, me in tow, my dominant alpha male looking very pleased with himself. This lasted all of five minutes. After I’d tugged on the lead a few times, saying “Wait! I just want to read this!” Andrew threw the lead back at me.
“Why are you doing that?” I asked, genuinely perplexed, “Don’t you want to lead me?”
“It’s embarrassing,” he said,”trying to drag a woman around who keeps yanking on the leash and bossing ME about!”
I could see his point - I’ll have to work on my inner submissive female I think.

Erotica is an exercise in creative expression. The exhibitors push out the boat, the merchandise demonstrators (sexy, attractive girls and muscle-bound, hairless men, who I'm sure have been hired from some standard agency, their work experience probably having stretched to spraying perfume on passers-by in Selfridges or handing out car promotion leaflets in shopping malls) seem happy to be dressing up in Torture Garden style outfits, selling sex. You should have seen the 'live show' at the lingerie stall, involving two girls and a chaise-longue. You'd never bother with Marks and Spencers lingerie department again.
Tantra it aint, but one can bring a state of meditative awareness to anything - even at the point when the sandwiches have run out and one's forced to chow down on the last remaining food in the whole of Olympia - pork sausages. I'm generally a vegetarian, but i'm sure that if I was on a survival course in the bush (or a Vision Quest, if I were a New Ager) if I was about to die of starvation and a pig and a fire presented itself to me, I wouldn't think twice, right?

This year, the highlight for me was Dita Von Teese. She is a truly remarkable woman. Not least for the fact that she basically gets paid (a lot!) for parading a perfect body around the stage, wearing some rather fetching outfits, and waving a couple of large feather fans about. Tough job but someone’s gotta do it. Dita is an icon, a living legend. If you could have seen the men’s faces in the audience you would know instantly that this creature is something special. My beloved’s mouth was open for most of her show, and I’m sure I saw him dribbling at one point. My friend Nisarg, who is a connoisseur of Goddessness, paid a hundred quid this year for a VIP ticket. Although one of perks was that you got free champagne in some dismal VIP lounge (they ran out by four o’clock), the primary reason for him paying 83% more for a ticket than me, was so that he could (maybe) get to meet Dita Von Teese. Perhaps one day I’ll have that kind of pulling power...
A few Tantra Club friends and I watched the show together, marvelling at the whole spectacular phenomenon that is Dita Von Teese. We ooh-ed and aah-ed along with everyone and applauded when she removed another layer. She didn’t ‘do’ anything that amazing really (apart from taking a shower on stage and looking as perfect post-shower as she had before she got drenched – quite a feat! You try it!) and yet we had to admit – she’s got it. Whatever ‘it’ is... hard to put one’s finger on it, but I’m sure there isn’t a man on this planet who’d refuse to try...

Wet Wishes

2007-11-07T15:08:00.000-08:00

WET WISHES

Female ejaculation. I’ve always wondered what all the fuss was about. That is until I found myself at a serious lecture on the topic, presented by American s/expert Deborah Sundahl, author of “Female Ejaculation and the G-spot” (www.isimedia.org) who’s been travelling through Europe giving talks and hands-on (or rather fingers-in) workshops on this misunderstood and repressed natural function of the human body.

Fifteen eager participants met at Coffee Cake and Kink in Covent Garden one weekday evening, a few from Tantralink Online Community. It was somewhat surreal, gathering in this sensual Aladdin’s cave to learn about the intricacies of G-spot orgasms and the power of the female prostate, while commuters were wending their weary way home outside after a day in the city.

Coffee Cake and Kink is a miniature sex emporium and well worth visiting for a browse. I want to warn you that Harvey Nichols it aint, so don’t take your mum - at least until you’ve checked it out for yourself first.

CC&K provide extremely good cake and coffee, as well as stocking an impressive catalogue of sex books and retailing top of the line sex toys. Downstairs is a comfy art café, replete with red couches and sexy pictures lining the walls. In the corner you can look through the portfolios of well-known erotic artists. Amongst the many tantalising events in their programme I notice they hold cosy ‘story nights’, which are, I understand, a great way to meet new people. Think Jackanory with undertones of fetish...

Back to our lecture which begins with an eye-opening Power Point presentation containing explicit videos of a woman receiving a G-spot massage and ejaculating copiously. We’re shown photos of ancient sculptures depicting women ejaculating (it’s always been assumed by the experts who analyse these kinds of historical things that the women were urinating – which just goes to show how much direct exposure to female ejaculation archaeologists have had) and diagrams based on new research around the G-spot’s design and function which completely re-write medical history.
How’s this for an astounding fact? In 2001 the Medical Association finally declared the G-spot an official ‘organ’ of the body and yet, in medical school doctors and nurses are not taught about its existence. The G-spot, or female prostate, is completely overlooked in medical training. Strange that. I’m picturing scores of angry women parading outside their local medical training establishments with banners bearing the message “Power to the Prostate!”

Around the world, much evidence has been found, showing that many cultures have celebrated female ejaculation throughout history. For example, woodcuts from the 16th century Japan depict implements used to increase and collect the ejaculatory waters. Female ejaculate has been drunk as tea, its properties revered for their health-giving qualities. The Japanese considered female ejaculate an aphrodisiac and claimed that it reversed the aging process.
Interestingly, one of the benefits to women in allowing their ejaculate to flow is that due to its high levels of glucose it soothes the walls of the urethra, acting as an antidote to the acidity of urine.
Honestly, the things you discover from reading my blogs! But get Deborah’s book, you’ll learn lots more...

At this lecture there are four men present. This puts paid to any chance of having a go ourselves under the guidance of the G-spot Goddess herself. Apparently, the event held the previous night was man-free, so they all got down to business right after the slide show. Mops were needed at the end, so I was told...

Here at Coffee Cake and Kink it’s all a little, well, lecturey, but that’s ok because it happens to be quite a lively and engaging bunch of people. There are two young girls who I assume are lovers due to the close proximity they keep to each other all evening, one of whom ejaculates (the reason I know this is because at the beginning we’re asked to raise our hands if we ejaculate. Only two women in the group admit to squirting, which is quite astonishing in this modern and emancipated age I thought).

In the corner is a young guy who’s been sent by his girlfriend. They couldn’t both afford a ticket, so he won the coin toss and he’s taking notes fervently throughout. A couple from Tantra Club who are always up for something new are riveted, as is everyone in fact, and I’m sitting next to my trusty playmate Nisarg (The Nick from my previous blog), a marvellous tantric masseur who is of course fascinated by all things genital. I see a sex journalist I’m familiar with and I’m sitting next to a very attractive single woman who tells me she doesn’t have a partner. I’m tempted to ask her if she wants to come home and practise after the lecture, but diplomacy prevails...

After questions and answers we eat cake and drink coffee and discuss how motivated we are to start ‘awakening and sensitising’ our G-spots and working towards ejaculation. I must just inform you, in case you were wondering, that ejaculation has nothing to do with regular orgasms or ‘climaxes’. The prostate releases the fluid using a whole different set of muscles and nerves. So, women who are orgasmic don’t necessarily ejaculate, and vice versa. Ejaculate comes through the urethra, and the other kind of sexual lubrication comes from... hang on a minute, I don’t know the answer to that... how shameful, I shall have to investigate and report in a future blog.

Female ejaculation itself, as a function on its own, orgasms (the quality and length of), sexual techniques etc. don’t really have much to do with the practice of tantra, although if you looked on most websites you would be forgiven for thinking that those things are the main focus of tantra! But the truth is, one can bring tantric consciousness to everything. Consequently, as a tantric sex therapist and Urban Goddess I feel it is my duty to investigate and explore everything that’s going on out there related to the fine art of sexuality. Deborah Sundahl is in fact a firm believer in the potency of tantric practices and she spoke a fair amount about the sacredness of female ejaculation and the importance of women empowering themselves through full understanding of the potential of their own bodies.

I opened the book as soon as I got home. What great bedtime reading! Naturally I’m practising myself and shall keep you updated on my progress.

SEX TOYS 'R' US

2007-10-11T00:50:00.000-07:00

SEX TOYS ‘R’ US

It was your average day in the suburbs, nothing too exotic occuring between the school run and the kids returning to their father in the early evening. During the mothering stints it is possible for me to forget entirely that I’m a Tantric Goddess. Don’t get me wrong, I love being a mum (except when they’re operating in ‘selective listening’ mode) but it is somewhat challenging to remember that you’re One with the Universe, Channeling Cosmic Energy and Embodying the Divine Feminine when you’ve spent a week in sweats and trainers and haven’t seen much of life outside the kitchen and utility room.
Nevertheless, as luck would have it there was a treat in store that evening, which I’d been looking forward to all month. I have some very interesting friends, and one in particular had phoned to ask if I would like to participate in some market research - a colleague of his had just been given the distribution rights for a brand new, hi-tech vibrator and needed some feedback from a woman or two. Well, I’m always up for a bit of sensorial stimulation, as you already know if you’ve been following my blogs.
This friend (I’ll call him Nick for artistic, legal and safety reasons), who proves his love for me by leaving the excitement of London and trecking to the ‘burbs, happens to be one of the finest yoni masseurs in the country and as I consider myself a connoisseur in this area, having tried a fair few yoni massages in my time, I also consider myself qualified to rate my mate’s massage at the top of the scale. Now being a woman who knows which side her bread’s buttered on, I wasn’t going to turn down the offer of a yoni massage and a test drive on a new sex toy..I couldn’t believe that there was a machine on the market that might be even more effective than Nick! This I had to try.
Now, what you have to realise here is that I’m actually not big on vibrators. I honestly prefer the real thing, attached to a real man, with faults, feelings and foibles. I’d rather wait for the genuine article, no matter how long. I enjoy those additional bonuses like spontaneous groans, unexpected bodily fluid, snoring in the post-coital cuddle, etc. Also, a vibrator can’t get up and make you a cup of tea afterwards.
I do posess a gizmo or two in my bedside drawer, more because as a Modern Woman I feel obliged occasionally to join the emancipated masses and consume accordingly. (Did you know that the top selling domestic appliance is indeed the vibrator? Has anyone told Mr Dyson he’s in the wrong business?)
I pick up a new model every couple of years at Erotica (where you shop alongside the emancipated masses - about ten thousand people visit Erotica over three days. It's a bit like being on Oxford Street on Christmas Eve) with the good intention of self-pleasuring occasionally and sadly they lie in my drawer for years, unloved and barely used. I even threw an expensive one in the bin the other day. It was fancy - shaped like a frog and it twiddled, twirled and tap-danced. But I didn’t like the way it smelled, and paranoia was beginning to set in around the level of carcinogens in latex.
So, back to the yoni massage, which was unfolding in its delicious, unhurried way. I was transcending even the need to talk, and had drifted off to Planet Sex where an orgy was taking place starring angelic beings in a state of enlightened euphoria.....
“Shall we try it?” asked my bringer of heavenly delights.
“Oh yeah, I’d forgotten,” I mumbled.
“I think you should keep your eyes closed, it’s a little industrial-looking”, instructed the expert.
I did as I was told.
Suddenly I heard what clearly resembled the sound of a jack hammer. It sounded like someone was fixing the pavement outside. I almost jumped off the table as my shoulders were attacked by a road-digger.
“Waah!” I yelped. “You’re not putting that thing on my clit are you?! Can’t you turn the vibration down?”
“That’s the lowest of the two settings” replied Nick, sounding a little nervous.
As the fearsome, juddering contraption made contact with my yoni, I hit the ceiling.
“Waaaaah!” I screamed and laughed and screamed some more.
This was not the effect my friend had expected and within a minute we were helpless with laughter, tears rolling down our faces.
When we recovered, we experimented with the ‘attachments’. Bobbly bits went here, flicky things went there. Gadget Man would have had a field day.
Whenever the device was vibrating anywhere near me, the only sound I appeared to be able to make was,
“Waaaaaah!”
It’s quite possible that I’m not the ideal testing ground for researching battery-operated sex toys. Women who use plastic toys, fuck machines that simulate the ‘real’ thing, cucumbers, broom handles and such like, tend to become de-sensitised. A soft, warm, wet part of the human anatomy just won’t ‘do it’ anymore. This makes sense, doesn’t it? I mean the stronger the pressure someone needs to stimulate climax, or any level of pleasure, surely the pressure would just have to get harder and harder. Think of those kamikaze fun-fair riders who need a wilder ride to achieve the thrill, or valium addicts who have to take incrementally higher doses to put them to sleep..... There are a lot of numbed-out people in the world trying to have a decent sex life. Thank god for genital healing...........

Anyway, back to my thoughts on The Jack Hammer Vibrator (not its real name, so don’t go Googling for it), which is to be taken with a pinch of salt (or ‘Extra Zest, Hot and Spicy’ sex lube) considering I’m a bit of an old-fashioned tantric sex goddess at heart:
The JHV is certainly an experience, although perhaps not quite the experience that the manufacturer had in mind. I’m going to ask a question, at the risk of seeming a little dramatic –
Do you think it’s possible that the inventor of this glow-in-the-dark monstrosity actually HATES WOMEN?
This brings us to the rather more important question relating to our modern age – why are there women out there who can’t/choose not to/won’t/believe it’s impossible to find real, fulfilling sexual connection on a regular basis, either with one special partner or a variety of lovers? And believe me, there ARE women who would choose a vibrating, plastic object over a man. Sad, but true (although completely understandable if you’ve ever been in a British city at the point when the pubs empty out).
The answer to this dilemma lies in tantra.
There is a common misconception out there that tantra is all about sex. If we drew a foot-long line representing tantra, tantric sex is about an inch worth, tantric massage about an inch; dancing, meditating, swimming, walking in nature, creating art, writing, hugging, sharing, channeling, eating, all these aspects make up the remaining part of that line..... but I want to assure you that should you step into the world of tantra, you certainly stand more of a chance of connecting sexually with a genuine, honest and authentic fellow human than if you spend your leisure time down the disco or local sport centre, or traipsing the barren floors of your local mall.

Tantra is the antidote to all the cruelty and unconsciousness that exists on the planet right now. A rather bold claim I know, but hey, why do you think I created Tantralink? It’s not a hobby! Way too expensive and time-consuming. I’m the Tantric Supercrusader on a mission. And considering how irritating I can become when I’m on a roll, it’s a miracle I have any friends left.......
I’m not ashamed of my enthusiasm, and here’s a message to the Sistas – Throw down your vibrators! Register on a tantra course and sign up with a tantra dating agency.
But if you’ve just read this blog and think, ‘Nah she’s off with the fairies’ and you do decide to just head off down the pub, a word of advice - keep your vibrators handy. You’ll need them.

Night of the Senses

2007-09-15T13:32:00.000-07:00

NIGHT OF THE SENSES

How does one find the words to successfully recount a night spent at what has been described as the ‘world’s biggest and best sex club’?

Putting Tantralink.com together was the most challenging project for me to date, but as I start to compose this blog I realise that I’ve set myself a hefty task – to convey to you in literary format the most sensorially stimulating occasion of the year! Describing sensation in a way that translates to the reader is, in a way, an impossible task - words can never 'be' the experience, but your faithful blogger is happy to pull out the thesaurus and wrestle with sentences to do my bit towards raising public awareness of the incredible work of the Leydig Trust and Outsiders, two charitable organisations you don’t hear much about in the evening news.

Dr Tuppy Owens is the mastermind (or should I say mistressmind?) of this monumental event, and has been running it for fourteen years. In fact, this combined awards show and party was known for many years as the Sex Maniac’s Ball, and I’m not sure why they changed the name, but I can only assume that the ‘sex maniac’ bit scared away potential participants.... Tuppy is a courageous activist who has been tirelessly campaigning for a more positive sex attitude in England, particularly towards and amongst the disabled community (www.outsiders.org.uk) and is well-known in the Highland village, where she recently moved to from the hubub of London, as ‘that sex lady on the hill’.
I feel kindred with Tuppy. She is attempting to provide accsessible information, forums and events so that people can 'get off it' around sex, which is what I'm attempting to do with Tantralink.com - reframe the general assumptions around tantra. If you ask most people what they think tantra is you receive answers like this - "Isn't it sex that lasts all night?" or "Something to do with candles and sitting on cushions."

Having immersed myself in the living science of tantra for ten years (gaining a degree in the subject along the way) I have only recently begun to investigate the enigmatic domain of fetish and BDSM. One thing I discovered in my tantric explorations is that there is no such thing as ‘wrong’ certainly in the world of sexuality and self-expression in general. The question I asked myself recently was - So if I’m really going to live that truth then what better way to test the waters of my new-found ‘acceptance of all things as they are’ than exploring the fetish world with a non-judgemental attitude? Now that I’ve dipped a toe into a club or two I can safely say to the uninitiated and timid that the idea of a fetish club is far more daunting than the reality.
Surely anything that breaks boundaries and opens one's eyes to the myriad aspects of human nature can only be a good thing? Visiting Wikipedia and typing in BDSM is an education in itself. My observation so far is that, whether it turns you on or not, there seems to be an admirably high level of consciousness and respect within the world of fetish, very little drug taking or alcohol abuse and basically a lot of rather normal and nice people who like to dress up and have a bit of fun. The Night of the Senses celebrates in style and safety hundreds of different sexual preferences and practices and I was impressed by the generosity of the guests, contributors, helpers and performers. Next year I might even take my mother.......

I had invited members of the Online Community on Tantralink to join me on this adventure and sadly, only one tantrika showed up. What a shame. I see tantra as a gateway to consciousness, and although 'tantra' per se is not represented directly here, there is a great feeling of connection and spirit running through the Night of the Senses which gives me hope for humanity. Tuppy and I dialogued about this topic and she told me she doesn't like labels around sex, suggesting they can be used to engender elements of control. I relate completely to what she's saying. Tuppy also reminded me that there was a 'Sensorial Chamber' on the 3rd floor, in which the various senses were lovingly awakened. I'd noticed it during my escapades of the night, but hadn't gone in, as it was set up for one person at a time and there was a queue (of course, it's England, we get off on queueing!) One thing to point out here is that there were a thousand different experiences of the Night of the Senses. My mate told me he'd seen a dozen men and two women in a room in which, two hours later I saw a dozen women and three men. So, you can see it all comes down to that old chestnut - we create our own reality.

Participating in the Night of the Senses, even merely in voyeuristic capacity, is rather like dropping a tab of acid with a large bunch of good friends. About a thousand, in fact (and yes, believe it or not, I can still remember my teenage trips under the influence of the great hallucinogen, even though I’ve had two children since. I'm convinced that pregnancy and childbirth kill off far more braincells than LSD ever could.....but that’s another topic, for another day and another blog).

Just arriving at the club is an eye-opening experience. Some people turn up fully dressed and others arrive in street clothes, transforming themselves in the changing room inside. There is a well-stocked ‘dress up’ shop where you can hire a fantasy costume at low cost. Everybody, without exception makes an effort to present the most outlandish image they can create for the night, and wandering up and down the floors of the club one comes across revellers from every walk of life, kitted-out in a vast array of fantastical and eccentric outfits. Anything from sarongs and floaty silks, to high heels and latex rubber wear. You can feast your eyes on leather straps, collars and leads, priestly robes, thongs galore, pvc nursing outfits (on some of the men too) pirate gear á la Johnny Depp, every kind of uniform imaginable....there were a few ‘policemen’ about, which was faintly disturbing somehow. Fat, thin, disabled and abled, young and old, fit and gym-allergic mingle together in a friendly and heart-warming way, and the atmosphere is electrically-charged as guests move around the club, finding their way in this cavernous venue, which ironically used to be a church. What better way to honour consecrated ground, I say?

The finals of the Annual Erotic Awards is even more gloriously satisfying than the semi-finals, held a few weeks previously. Before the performers begin the stage show there is a presentation for the winners of categories such as ‘sex worker’, ‘pioneer’, ‘blog’, ‘film-maker’, ‘sex club’. At a break in the proceedings I lean forward and introduce myself to the most lovely man in a wheelchair sitting in front of me, who happens to be one of the judges. He is accompanied by his amiable cousin and they oblige me by enthusiastically appreciating my eight inch fetish shoes, which are already giving me blisters, and giving me marks out of ten for my outfit. This intelligent and cultured man has been coming to the Erotic Awards since its inception and tells me that even though he’s seen a lot of the performers many times, he’s never been bored. I can see why. The fine art of strip-tease is taken to a whole new level here, the sado-masochist acts are humorous and imaginative and the pole dancing takes one’s breath away. I get to see the impossibly fit and flexible Ekatarina tie herself up in beautiful knots in aerial silks once again. And as the show goes on, each act more innovative than the next, I can’t help thinking that much as I enjoyed Cats and Les Mis this is a more entertaining show than anything Sir Andrew Lloyd Webber has produced for the West End in thirty years.
I can’t remember who won! ‘Winning’ seems utterly irrelevant in this competition – each perfomer is so unique it’s impossible to rate one over the other.
After the show I go for a wander, teetering on my heels and wishing they’d introduce bedroom slippers as fetish footwear. I’m determined to grin and bear it for as long as I can – “Glamour before comfort” my mother always used to say. Or was it “You have to suffer to be beautiful”? Funny how those childhood messages lodge themselves deep inside the psyche.
There is room after room, each with a different theme and decorated accordingly, and I find out, with relief that there’s no pressure to enter the spaces or to participate – the more cautious can spy through peep holes to witness the goings-on inside. Every sexual fantasy you could possibly imagine gets acted out here with gay abandon. I watch men with men, women with women, more than one woman with men, many men with one woman – you name it, I see it!

We come across a large, black box with holes in the walls which you step inside to be, yes you’ve guessed it – groped. It’s a hoot. I take a turn and scream with laughter as half a dozen or so anonymous hands appear and touch me all over. It’s so intense I last about forty seconds, but the bare-breasted and obviously seasoned punter after me remains in the box for at least five minutes. There should be an award for Grope Box stamina.

Unfortunately I’m on my moon time, which is the tantric term for what can only be described in my case as ‘bleeding for England’. My partner has a stomachache, so between the two of us there ain't much action, but I’m happy to prowl the place as enthusiastic voyeur, a cat-o-nine-tails carried religiously throughout the ten-hour marathon, showing that yes I am a sex maniac at heart, even if I’m not about to strip naked and get down and dirty on this particular night. It’s five minutes before we’re due to leave and a polite gentleman comes up to me and asks, in an Etonian accent,
“Are you available for a whipping?” It’s a question one doesn’t get asked an awful lot, especially in the middle-class, suburban village I reside in, and I think, what the hell, you only live once (unless you believe in reincarnation, which sometimes I do and sometimes I don’t, but on this night I definitely don’t).
He leads me to his friend, who’s dressed in a kilt (I’m not even sure why I’m mentioning it, by this point no article of clothing is surprising) and tells me that his friend’s been a ‘bad boy’. My exhausted partner sits down in a corner, quite clearly longing for home and a nice cup of tea.
The two men and I move towards the doorway to the Torture Dundgeon, but take our place against a wall outside. Somehow the torture room feels too official and intimidating. I think it’s the fear of how far one might go......Safely outside the dundgeon, with no fear of pressure from professional torturers, I do the honours of punishing the man, in a rather Jewish-girl-from-Bournemouth sort of way. I think he may have been a little disappointed by my lack of vigour. The Etonian asks me if I’ve been a bad girl. I think to myself, "in for a penny, in for a pound, I might as well get a light whipping while I’m at it". After all, this will be the closest I get to sexual depravity until the tidal waves of menstruation have abated. As the curtain comes down on the mutual whipping frenzy I realise that rather more than five minutes have passed and I feel a touch of guilt abandoning my ever-patient, tantric love god. I look over and, blow me down, he’s grinning ear to ear. That’s love............
I had changed into comfy mules a few hours previously (I last about two hours in platforms and stillettos – I’m generally a Birkenstock kind of girl) and had left them under my coat. When I come to leave I can’t believe it, my beloved fuck-me shoes, which take pride of place on top of my wardrobe, annoying my prudish teenage sons, are gone! This tinged the evening with a splash of sadness for me. So, if you’re reading this, and borrowed my favourite high-rise footwear, please return them, and I’ll kiss you all over (after you get a good whipping, of course).

ANNUAL EROTIC/STRIPTEASE AWARDS

2007-05-26T00:52:00.000-07:00

You may wonder what an Erotic/Striptease award could possibly be. You might be saying to yourself, "Nah....you're not serious........they can't possibly hold Erotic/Striptease awards, not in this country....maybe in Vegas.....come on....."
Well I'm here to tell you that the Annual Erotic and Striptease Awards Evening does indeed exist - it's huge, it's awe-inspiring, and it's just south of the river!
The Leydig Trust, a reputable and altruistic charitable organisation puts on glamorous events promoting sex for the disabled and physically-challenged. They raise money by providing highly entertaining charity functions. I urge you to support their cause by actually attending! Don't be shy. I can guarantee fun, laughter and an education all round.

I dressed up. Not everyone does (some men turned up in Shetland sweaters and slacks) but seeing as I spend rather a large proportion of my life in a pinny at the kitchen sink, or trawling the supermarket aisles in order to fill up the fridge yet again (I live with two large, permanently hungry, teenage boys) I long for any opportunity to glam up and remind myself that I am a sexy, horny, juicy tantric goddess.

In order to build www.tantralink.com I sacrificed two years of my life, gathering quite a few facial wrinkles along the way and inadvertently stimulating rapid growth spurts of grey hair. It was worth it. One of the benefits of having created a tantra website is that I get to hear about off-centre, wild and kinky events like the one I shall tell you about in this month's blog. I meet all sorts of interesting characters through Tantralink.com, and one of them in particular seems to have his finger on the pulse of all erotic activity in the London area. Thank you Mr G x

So, there I am in Clapham with my partner in crime, staggering from car to venue in unspeakably high, patent, fuck-me shoes and ridiculously short PVC skirt, hoping not to bump into an old school friend or someone from the bank. We meet up with our eclectic crowd of friends, some of whom have made a real effort to dress for the occasion, others (namely the husbands) looking as though they've been forced into a clean pair of jeans and are wishing they'd been allowed to stay home to watch the finals of the Premier League.
The anticipatory buzz is catching. We all take our seats and watch the stage with baited breath as the compere announces the first act of the semi-finals. Well.......I've been to Erotica a few times, and I've been to Spearmint Rhino, but I've NEVER seen pole dancing like this! There are, in fact a few pole-dancing acts in the show, each one different and utterly unique. It's hard to believe that a human being could conjure up such a variety of entertaining moves on one pole. This strange activity is a relatively new performance art (as well as a good way to keep fit, apparently- have a look at the notice board in your local sports centre and these days you're likely to find a local pole-dancing class fairly easily ) and if you think the world of pole dancing is inhabited by anorexic, out of work actresses and dim-witted blondes, think again. We have the honour of being treated to a spectacular turn by the impossibly flexible and undeniably feminine World Champion, no less, called Ekatarina who has flown from New York especially for the event and presents a one-woman show to die for. Our jaws drop as we witness feats of superhuman strength and control performed by a beautiful, asian man who looks like he was born on a pole! I wouldn't be surprised if one day pole-dancing was an olympic sport.
Other erotic acts competing for the finals are equally impressive and creative. We stare, open-mouthed as ping-pong balls are juggled from vaginas, we cheer loudly as exotically-attired fetishists conjure and contort in complicated acts of bondage. This is all before the interval.
As I wander about the place, which seems to be full of a delicious combination of jolly hedonists, unashamed voyeurs and proud exhibitionists I come across a man selling a state-of-the-art Fuck Machine on a giant pedestal. He's selling his wares like a market stall holder and I'm expecting him to start shouting "Roll up, roll up" in a cockney accent any minute. An obliging strip-tease artist from the first half of the show is demonstrating the contraption with gay abandon. Whilst straddling the huge, vibrating, rotating mechanical cock, rather like a rodeo rider, she's grinning at the audience, encouraging the girls to "Come on up and try it. It's amazing. I'd never leave home...." Has she been paid, I wonder?
The men are looking decidedly uncomfortable as the possibility occurs to them that they might just become dispensable one of these days. Any worried men reading this, I just want to let you know you that I like the real thing best myself, and would never replace my beloved tantric lover with a mechanical stimulator......For the hygiene freaks out there (and having been raised jewish, I completely understand these concerns) I just want to reassure you that the salesman thoroughly disinfects each latex cock-cover between every ride. I'm sure my mother would be relieved......
We're so exhausted we can't even stay until the end of the show. There are so many new sights and sounds, we're like those inmates who've been let out of prison and are blinded by the sunlight. We walk back out into a rather grey and gloomy world, certainly in comparison to the Wonderland we've just been shown. On the way home I resolve to practise my kegels religiously so that I can attempt the trick with the ping pong balls for my partner. I make a pact to enroll in a pole dancing class as soon as possible, so I that I can electrify my partner, and I promise myself a new bondage kit, so that I can drive my partner wild.

It's now a few weeks since the Erotic Awards and I have to confess that I've kept none of those resolutions. I know, I know, you'll say it's just an excuse, but it is the summer holidays and I'm hopelessly resigned to my role as caterer, domestic cleaner and taxi service. Perhaps when the kids go back to school..............
The finals are on September 1st. Check it out on www.nightofthesenses.com
See you there!

TANTRIC TEA PARTY

2007-04-05T15:22:00.000-07:00

When I was growing up, tea parties were formal affairs involving cucumber sandwiches and doilies, polite conversation and porcelain tea cups. Our tantric tea party last week involved none of these things, and had my mother walked in at any point I think she would have turned pale and fainted.
The guests had been instructed to bring 'sinful' cakes and they didn't disappoint. By the time the fourteen guests had arrived we had a table full of mousses, pies, cookies and other delectable treats.
As the organiser who had spent all week eagerly plotting the afternoon's agenda, I was thrilled to see exactly seven shaktis and seven shivas. The perfect count for a trip into excess and debauchery that I had planned in my somewhat perverted and always imaginative mind. Tee hee.............(visualise wicked smile, witchy laugh and wringing of hands)
After fortifying the tantrikas with cups of tea, I led them all into the living room where I proceeded to blindfold them, while giving out soothing and encouraging hugs. I then asked them to lay down on the floor.
With an accompaniment of stimulating and provocative music, I led them on a tantalising 'journey' through varying stages of life, from birth, through to death. My slightly bemused partner Andrew helped with the Sensorial Awakening part of the journey.
Andrew's never quite sure what's coming next with me, and I must admit that I very rarely seem to get it together to let him know beforehand exactly what's going to happen. Or anyone for that matter!
When you're living life in the spiritual fast lane, it's hard for people around you to keep up sometimes.......no time for 'preparation'. If they're lucky though, they get some time after the event for 'de-briefing'. I get the occasional phone call along the lines of,
"WHAT just happened?! I can't BELIEVE what I just went through........" etc, etc.
Oh well. It's never boring hanging around a Tantric Goddess.

Back to the party-
"Here, put oils on these tissues and shove them under their noses........quick, pop this chocolate into their mouths......hey, you've missed one......whisper sweet nothings in the ears........put their fingers in your mouth....."
I whispered instructions to him like a mad professor, and before we knew it, we were into the 'movement/touch' section. The group were up - moving and touching in the most innocent, playful and curious way. It's amazing to see a group of human beings discovering each other in this way. What a way to meet!? There's no small talk or bullshit. It's a 'meeting' in the true sense of the word.
Then it was time for the 'visual' sense to be awakened. The guests removed their blindfolds and 'saw' as if for the first time. Candle flames, walls, curtains, other human beings................. Their faces were full of wonder.
We proceeded to journey together through the whole of life's experiences - the emotions, desires, disappointments, joy - we felt our 'togetherness', we went deep into our 'aloneness' - all through dance.
The guests were fired up and going for it, big time. It was a thrilling ride.
We ended in a dying process, which was a beautiful 'gateway' to the other side. People were re-framing their fears and fantasies around dying.

It was certainly a dramatic way to begin a tea party. By the time the journey was over, we were definitely ready for a nice cup of tea, and the men were sent into the kitchen to boil kettles and fill teapots, while the girls stayed behind and huddled together to plan the next extravagance.
The shaktis didn't look too sure when I described what I had in mind, but I can sell snow to eskimos, and before you could say 'Johnson Linguni' I had persuaded them to remove all traces of clothing and begin to place bits of pie, eclair and mousse over each other in creative and artistic ways. After a lot of giggling they finally spread their dessert-laden bodies over the carpet and blindfolded themselves.
What a sight met the eyes of the shivas as they were led in by Andrew to indulge in their feast.
There was only one rule - the shivas weren't allowed to use their fingers.
They could eat from any 'plate'.
The men crawled around finding bits of eclair here, puddles of mousse there, and crumbs here, there and everywhere. The shaktis moaned and groaned as they felt unidentifiable males licking and sucking in bodily places where food had never been consumed before.............
It was a teatime Bacchanalian banquet.
By the time the men had had their fill, the women were starving and, after a fun clean-up job with warm flannels, we filed out to the kitchen for our rather more civilised feast. The shivas were a little disappointed that we weren't going to munch off their naked bodies, but we only had an hour till the kids were returning home.
After a bit of a dance, we cleared up, hurriedly grabbing underwear from between the couch cushions, just in time for the host's seven and eleven year old to walk in the door.
"Did you have a nice tea party?" they asked their dad.
"It was a bit messy." he replied, and I tried my hardest not to laugh.
You may think from reading these blogs that all we do in tantra is put things in our mouths.
It's not true. It's simply that, being a compulsive foodie, it's easier for me to describe the delights of food than a lot of other activities which may occur in the pursuit of tantric enlightenment.
So, next time I shall attempt to describe the details of a tantric breathing meditation with as much enthusiasm as I seem to be able to muster for writing about food. Don't get me wrong, I love breathing as much as eating, it's just that there doesn't seem to be as large a choice of adjectives around 'breathing' in the Thesaurus as there is around 'eating'.
Have fun, be open and say 'yes' a lot.
Namaste x

TANTRA ON TV

2007-03-01T11:40:00.000-08:00

This month a Televsion company found me on Tantralink.com and asked if they could record a session involving me teaching tantra to a couple, which they would televise as part of a programme helping people to improve their sex lives. How does tantra translate to the box I wondered? Personally I haven't owned a TV for 15 years and have a rather vague idea of what goes on in the big bad world out there. The decision to throw TV out of my life was a conscious one, to avoid my brain being bombarded and brainwashed by unecessary nonsense. It was a decision that has served me well. I have no regrets (except for missing Jools Holland) and I certainly get a lot more done, like writing this blog.
I was called in as a tantric expert. It was a title that filled me with apprehension......I feel like I'm in tantric kindergarten most of the time, tantra being a life-long study and a science that is constantly unfolding and expanding. Tantra is the Great Experiment. One never really knows what's going to happen when one moves into the tantric space. My sessions with clients are full of powerful alchemy that changes peoples' lives, but I must admit to being somewhat daunted at the thought that this TV company were expecting me to pull some magic tricks out of my hat in front of a camera!
I had two days to prepare, and the first job was to find the right gear to wear. A trip to the local mall was vital, as I tend to sport a sarong for work. Or nothing. I didn't think that a naked tantric expert would go down too well with the couple who apparently had never even heard the word 'tantra' before. The crew would no doubt have been well amused.
The second job was to find a suitable teapot for the tantric tea ceremony which I was planning on opening the session with, as mine had fallen apart that week. I spent a frantic few hours, parting with a small fortune to enhance my tantric wardrobe, buying an insanely overpriced teapot and widly purchasing fancy teaspoons and strainers. One whiff of possible fame and fortune and control over my wallet vanished out of sight.
The day arrived and with it a rather scruffy looking crew, complete with the usual habit of compulsively checking in every five minutes with the answering services on their mobile phones. I imagine that this tic is due to a constant, low grade anxiety around whether or not they're going to get a job the following week, or an ever-present, neurotic expectation that their girlfriend/wife/lover is about to leave them after the last three month contract shooting some BBC drama across the other side of the planet.........For a fascinating insight into the strange life of a TV film crew read the intimate and riveting 'Sharpe Cut' by Linda Blandford.
I'm familiar with the unique behaviour of film crews as I was married to a film maker for years and spent many a jolly hour 'on set' with coffee-guzzling, bagel-devouring, chain-smoking creatures, some of whom, amazingly, live past forty..........
The couple, who I was meeting for the first time, looked like a pair of rabbits caught in the headlights as they were led into the room. I'll call them John and Jane for the sake of preserving their dignity. It was clear from the raised eyebrows that John and Jane hadn't come across a tantric altar before, complete with incense, singing bowls, a carved wooden lingam (this is the tantric word for penis, and means 'wand of light' for anyone interested) and a shiva/shakti yab yum sculpture. I asked the man if he would be prepared to take his top off for a 'sensorial awakening' meditation later in the session and he looked at me with horror. I realised, with a sinking feeling, that I had my work cut out for me if I was going to turn this couple on to the joys of tantra.
After the producer, camera man, lighting man, sound man and general-getting-in-the-way man had set up, we positioned ourselves in a suitable triangle for the tea ceremony. The cameras started rolling and the first problem reared its head. The teapot didn't pour. No matter how daintily Jane tipped the pot, it splashed puddles of tea onto the tray. A tip for budding TV Tantric Goddesses - always check your props before the shoot.
"Cut!" called the producer, and we proceeded to shoot the arm pouring but not the teapot leaking. Basically we were winging it, and not for the last time that day. Jane meditated on John's tea before handing it to him. Poor John had never drunk herb tea in his life before, and spat it out, looking like he'd been poisoned.
"Cut", said the patient producer, and we substituted tea for water after John declared it tasted like pickled gherkins.
The producer wanted to shoot the things he liked over and over a few times, to get different angles. Well, when you're doing a tantric meditation under normal circumstances you say things once or twice. When you've been asked to repeat 'Let the divine feminine essence mix and merge with the divine masculine principle within you' five times, quite honestly it begins to sound like gobbledygook. I got the giggles. The crew were sniggering. It was obvious they were loving every minute. It wasn't tantra, but it was good TV..............
The Sensorial Awakening meditation was good for a laugh too. John got blindfolded while Jane and I wafted bits of tissue perfumed with aromatherapy oils under his nose. Then we fed the poor man bits of fruit and chocolate to awaken the sense of taste. The mango didn't go down too well.
"Cut!", called the producer, and "Tea break", which meant the crew running outside to roll cigarettes and fire up their mobile phones.
After tea break I got the room ready for Jane to perform a Goddess Dance to awaken John's visual sense. (I think by this point John was wishing to switch off all senses and leave) only Jane didn't feel like it. I could understand her general resistance - the mood just wasn't quite right for dancing. Fortunately it seemed she couldn't resist a bit of James Brown though, and eventually she began to bop, embodying the Goddess in quite a sassy way I have to say, waving her feather boa enthusiastically in John's face. I was relieved, and I'm sure the producer was too.
For the finale I balanced Jane's chakras with my pendulum. This is a wonderful healing technique which involves a hand-held pendulum picking up the natural spin of each chakra (For anyone interested in the scientific explanation, a chakra is an energy vortex that lies within both the body and the aura surrounding the body. We work with seven main chakras in tantra)
I hope they show the bit where John, with his own bare hands, healed Jane's heart chakra. It was actually (yes, really) a poignant and beautiful moment.
I won't forget the interview John and Jane gave at the end. One sentence stuck out for me. It was Jane, declaring "The session was brilliant! My mind's eye was on fire!"
What is a mind's eye, you ask? I don't know. But Jane knew what she meant and that's all that matters.
Don't hold your breath for me to appear on national TV. If the session doesn't hit the edit room floor it'll be a miracle....................

RAW FOOD RAW SEX

2007-02-12T23:50:00.000-08:00

Raw foodists are a strange bunch. They're always thin, for starters. Well, ok, some are thinner than others, depending on their 'percentage' of raw to cooked, but I can guarantee you'll never find an overweight raw foodist. In fact, some are positively emaciated and look like you could knock them over with a feather (dangerous in tantric circles, where feathers are often found in abundance). But maybe the really thin ones are the Raw Food Anorexics......? I ponder this question regularly as I happen to live in a town where there's a high number of raw foodists. You'll find them in places like Totnes, Ashland and Glastonbury, where devotional groups gather in hushed reverie in the sprouting beans section of local health food shops, discussing digestible minerals, preservable enzymes and such like. I can guarantee you won't find one in Hemel Hempstead (but don't get me started on Hemel Hempstead.......)
Please don't think I'm dissing the RFs! Being a woman who begrudges spending time in the kitchen, especially trying to find room in her fridge for the weekly shopping and who randomly shoves high calorie, sugar-laden treats into her mouth in moments of stress, I have infinite respect for people who are willing to spend so much of their days in superconscious awareness around food - what they're eating, how they prepare it and where they buy it from. Wow! The thought that people can actually spend time on the phone talking about food fills me with amazement when there are so many more exciting topics to cover, like orgasms or nipple clamps.......
'Why is she telling me about raw foodists?' you're asking yourself. It's important information which leads to a sexy story of lustful, orgiastic fun which 'really, really happened in true life'. This is the kind of thing my youngest son would have said when he was four and full of enthusiasm for anything that was occuring whatsoever. I love small kids for that. They seem to just gobble up life without preference, expressing themselves with gay abandon, with no thought for what the neighbours might think.....It's very healthy spending time with toddlers who haven't yet learned how to monitor their self-epression. I pride myself on sometimes acting exactly like a four year old.
I've digressed, so back to the story - the Raw Food Blindfold Naked Party which I'm going to tell you about in great detail, took place last month, in a suburban, 30's detached house in a quiet corner of commuter-belt England, the location making it all the more surreal and all the more entertaining to relate.
The one prerequisite for being invited to this experimental food party was that you had to have previously completed a residential tantra course. (See www.tantralink.com if you wish to find such courses after reading this story.....) This was obviously intended to a) guarantee a high chance the guests would get naked and b) keep the riff raff out.
I didn't bother with my usual pre-party drama of pulling every piece of clothing out of the wardrobe, wailing to my ever-patient boyfriend, 'I've got nothing to wear!' as obviously it didn't matter, considering we would more than likely be naked by the time the food was served........
Up the quiet, unassuming, provincial road we trotted, bottled mineral water in hand. Alcohol was forbidden (as is often the case at tantric parties, guests generally preferring conscious bottom-pinching as opposed to unconscious groping) as it would 'detract from the profound effects of the refined food combining system'. These were strict instructions from the chef. 'Chef' is a term that's used loosely here, as raw food chefs tend to sprout, soak, liquidise, massage (yes massage!) their food rather than (heinous crime) fry, boil or oven bake it. Fair enough about the alcohol I thought, if he was going to spend a week before sprouting, soaking and blending for us. Apparently we were going to 'get high' from this food. One of the reasons I guess that there were ten eager couples about to descend upon this leafy suburb for a culinary knees-up, or rather forks-up.
The chef (I'll call him Francois for the purpose of this story, although in actuality he's a nice Jewish boy from North London) was in full flow upon our arrival, waxing lyrical about the aphrodisiac qualities of uncooked cacao and warning of the damage you do to a beetroot by cooking it. Surrounding him, and generally getting in the way was a rapt audience, watching him wring the liquid out of cucumbers, whilst instructing his gorgeous (thin) blonde girlfriend to painstakingly slice long strings of spaghetti-shaped courgettes for a raw broccoli soup. Francois is a passionate man, who gives a heart-felt discourse while plunging his hands into dubious looking mixtures of godknowswhat, causing a combination of laughter and awe amongst the fascinated audience. He needs his own TV show! Naked Chef move over. Here comes Tantric Chef.......
There's no bottom pinching occuring yet, as the women are too intrigued by this ornate meal being conjured up out of raw ingredients before their eyes, and the men are too hungry.
Finally, the food is ready, the feast laid out and a sight to behold. We've never seen such vibrant colours on a dining table in our lives, and many photos are taken, accompanied by the sounds of men mumbling 'Come on, I'm starving'.
We take our plates and blindfolds through to the living room which has been filled, wall to wall with mattresses and cushions. Indian music is playing softly and anticipation fills the air as the couples choose their spots. Partner A is blindfolded and reclines gracefully whilst being spoon fed. There's a moment where I'm reminded of feeding my children when they were small - images of highchairs, bibs and food being thrown on the floor, but this is not an erotic picture, so I banish those memories quickly and conjure up more exotic images of Persian princes being fed by harem girls in tents draped with embroidered fabric.........
It seems we're up the raunchy end of the room, because after three spoonfuls we, and our three neighbouring couples have removed all traces of clothing. I wish someone had taped the sounds emanating from various mattresses - 'Mmmms....' and 'Aaaaahhhhs'......and 'MYGOD'......and 'JESUS' (why does he always show up in moments of passion?)
Whenever I took my blindfold off I would notice it wasn't only forks being used...... it was impressive and creative! Fingers, penises, breasts.....goodness! the guests were creating a whole new genre of feeding utensils. If blindfold dinner parties catch on we could put Viners out of business!
If only I could find the words to describe the taste of the food. Every bite was a new continent, a new language, a new lover. Certainly a lot of the dishes didn't taste like they were raw. The textures were exquisite. There was liquidy, chewy, crunchy.....see, words just don't do it! But you could truly understand what he'd meant when he told us it was aphrodisiac food. All the senses were waking up. Bits of me I didn't even know I had were waking up! It was sensual, raunchy, inspired. Two couples disappeared between main course and dessert. You could hear from the sounds drifting down the stairway that they'd found nirvana on the first floor.
At one point I was chowing down on the most incredible concoction of sweet and savoury and felt my nipple being sucked. It must have been a neighbour because I could quite clearly tell where my boyfriend's bits were. I can't describe how perfectly natural it felt to be enjoying food in this way. The dessert was awesome. Most of it was spread over naked bodies and licked off. You can imagine how dirty the sheets were by this point. No one cared. We didn't care about anything. Just sharing food with a blindfolded partner and a few friends had led to a sartori of a kind. We were completely in the NOW. No desire..........no past........no future........transcendental...........NO MIND..........heaven on earth.........aaaaaahhhhh.......... You get the picture? Do a tantra course and I'll invite you next time :-)

FUN AT THE FETISH CLUB

2007-01-09T13:06:00.000-08:00

My question of the month - "Is Tantra present in a fetish club?"
A few weeks ago I was invited to work in the massage room (which turned out to be adjacent to the torture room) at the opening night of an 'erotic' club. I've become very spoiled if truth be told - after fifteen years of practising my various therapies at home I've become rather attached to my living room and never leave my house for work. It was a big effort to start loading the car full of oils, sheets, tissues and sexy underwear (well, I was told it was an erotic club!) for a night of massage in the far-distant continent of South London.....
From the ad posted on Tantralink.com it was easy to deduce a number of things - it was going to be full of unusually-clad human beings, the music would be good and it would all be somewhat 'fetish'.
In all my years as an urban Tantric Goddess, I've never actually visited a genuine fetish club, and have been perfectly content to try out all my goodies purchased at Erotica - rubber skirts, leather bras, cat-o-nine-tails whips, furry handcuffs, eight inch fuck-me shoes, etc. in my own bedroom. My long-suffering partner (who says yes to almost anything) and I arrived at a shabby, cold, run-down rehearsal studios in some area that I would ordinarily avoid. There had been a flood that day, they were late setting up, and I was beginning to wish I'd stayed at home...... We looked at the 'massage' room in dismay, but the guys promised that the place would be transformed in no time at all. While they were 'transforming' the room from beer-stained, cigarette-burned hellhole into welcoming, erotic, tantric temple, we went off for a wander and found someone setting up the 'torture room' next door. You may not believe me but I swear I'm not kidding. They had all the equipment. The stuff you see in porn movies but can't believe people use in real life. There was a genuine torture 'master' who promised to show me some new whipping techniques later in the night. He does this for a living, so guys, if you fancy giving up your corporate position in the city to try something more creative.........
We also came across a rather bemused security guard, who'd never done a job quite like this in his life. The poor man had been given a few instructions along the lines of "Don't let single guys into the Playroom (read Sexroom) only couples". It was quite amusing to witness a 6 foot 4 muscle-bound bouncer gazing wide-eyed at the rack, asking the 'master' if he was really going to be tying people to it later? Anyway, after a lot of dedicated work by the team, the studios had indeed become an exotic and erotic venue, sporting palm trees, red-sheeted mattresses, a well-lit stage for the live shows, ambient lighting and entertaining 'porno-erotica' projected on to the walls.
The punters started arriving. There was a changing room by the front door for those arriving in 'street wear'. People without the right gear were turned away. One poor friend of mine who thought he was coming to a 'dance your inner child' workshop showed up in African trousers and a T-shirt and was sent packing.....I was glad I'd braved Brent Cross the night before to find the right undies, bra and fishnet pull-ups.
Well, what a wonderful bunch of folk we massaged that night. It was delicious. They were all up for a good oily, full-body experience and it was very gratifying to see these enthusiastic 'sensation junkies' stripping off bits of PVC, untying straps on thigh-high boots, extricating themselves from bodices in order to plunge into sensorial heaven.
After 'working' for a couple of hours, my partner and I kitted ourselves up in rubber and off I went, whip in tow for a bit of an exploration into the underworld. I brushed up on my whipping strokes, and found quite a few guinea pigs, virtually begging for a beating. I watched with wide-eyed fascination while an erotic snake charmer performed unmentionable manouevers with a live snake. I witnessed a virtually naked, blonde goddess achieving inhuman contortions high above the stage on a metal pole. I danced till sweat dripped from every pore. I ventured into the Playroom with my partner and like a voyeur on acid, witnessed the most incredible sights that would turn my grandma in her grave.......
At two in the morning I came across the burly bouncer, sitting on a chair, head in hands, looking beyond weary. I put my lips to the top of his bald head and kissed him with love. He looked up at me and there was such gratitude in his eyes, for that little moment of intimacy and connection, it melted my heart.
At three in the morning, we all fell out again into the streets of London. Very little alcohol had been consumed, certainly by anyone I came across, and I didn't find anyone on drugs. A nicer bunch of people you couldn't have hoped of spending the evening with.
I slept like a baby that night, dreaming of legs in high heels and red lips and and and........I can't reveal my dreams to you, you might begin to think I was perverted.
But in thinking about my night at the Pleasure Lab, I have an answer to the question - Tantra is a state of consciousness. It can reside anywhere, in everything and everyone. Tantra is the mirroring of the inside on the outside. Tantra is the truth of your heart manifest in the reality of your daily life. I am as tantric in aisle seven of the supermarket as I am on a tantra course as I am in a fetish club. Tantra is the great experiment. And I'm experimenting to the max!