more ways than one

illustration: L.W.Eden, © copyright, 2015

Miss Virginia Mendes stumbles from the bourgeois bliss of her brittle marriage into the world of virtual romance, convinced that He must be out there, somewhere. Finding instead…

14.01.— Discovery 13:39:28+0100(CET)

I am a woman of my word.

When you send me one of your delicious lines, your sensual reveries, they touch something deep in the centre of me behind my navel. The heat spreads slowly. I think of sunrise. Of a sleepy beast, stirring. At the same time, my nipples, my clitoris, light up like a match. I burn, four hearts pulsating at different rhythms, at different points in my body: my nipples, my heart, my belly, my sex.

My heart is the fastest, fanned by my short, choppy breath. My nipples: throb sonorously, slowly, more than sexual, suffusing me with a gratification I recall from breastfeeding. A rhythmic, timeless tug. My sex tingles, beats like the excited heart of a child about to do something daring. I can’t wait. Desire lubricates me. I want to touch. To savour my own ripeness but I abstain. Pressing myself, hard, against the chair, I imagine it is your hand, your knee, your nose. I lift my skirt, open my legs, which part, making the sound of a kiss… In my mind, I knit your hair with my fingers as you drink me, as you bury into me with the different parts of your body as I squeeze my buttocks together, my rotating hips in barely perceptible movements.

My orgasm starts with my breasts. With a quick series of contractions, pushing down my body, like swallowing; the sensation ejaculating through me in little waterfalls. That my breasts may come alive like this is a revelation. They are not my favourite part of me. I learn, now, to acknowledge them; to take pleasure in the pleasure they give.

Sometimes my orgasm ends here, in my breasts, burnt out before descending further. On other occasions, it continues its  galloping downwards so that when I erupt, I feel like a fruit that has been squashed in the palm of your hand, juice spitting everywhere. And then there are those times I feel as if the floor beneath me has suddenly disappeared; I fly, pulverised into millions of particles. Hours it will take, before I may bring them all back together again; before I may ‘collect’ myself.

My most familiar sexual part of me, my least understood. Strange, that, in the absence of touch, energy and fantasy suffice to make me come alive. Woken up from a long winter sleep — and I’m starving! When my sex comes alive, shows her head, the tantalising warmth she releases spills down my legs. It becomes impossible for me to sit still. The slightest movement magnifies my excitement. I feel how the folds of my flesh fill with liquid desire. I know that if I put my hands there, tease back the lips, my fingers may drown, may slide around on quivering pink flesh. They may dive and probe the ridges of my inner walls. Resurface, stroke the inside of my thighs and be drawn by the obsidian throb of my clitoris. If you touch her, breeze across her, surreptitiously, she will flick a shudder through me like a whip. Do not touch her for too long. Tease her and keep her waiting. Therein lies the secret. What we both prefer is a slow, merciless rise to ecstasy. So when you excite me with your words and my desire is stirred, I do not force her; I let her dance, for I know that patience is all I need to discover the secrets of joy…

Do not misunderstand me. I can be more than satisfied without reaching a climax. An orgasm is not the hallmark of a successful sexual experience. Not for me, at least. Misrecognition of this has caused much unhappiness. When forced to an orgasm, I feel more frustrated than before. Duty, so-called, having been done, I have nonetheless been left behind. I am not a sex beast. I do not need multiple orgasms or to copulate interminably. I do need a good fuck… and I know that you know what I am talking about…

A multiple orgasm is, then, not necessarily one vaginal orgasm after another, but also, and more essentially, the (sometimes simultaneous) eruption of my key zones, of which there remains one to discover, as you know…

In trust, Gini

* *

PS 1.

noluckwiththefu@…: So is it fact or fiction?

GinImE@...: Semi-fiction.

noluckwiththefu@…: Meaning?

* *

PS 2.

noluckwiththefu@…: You get women’s hopes up with all that. You make them dissatisfied with their men. My man’s a good lover but I never had any of those other orgasms you’re talking about. You just made that bit up and that’s mean.

flow.tite.ange@…: Who said she made it up? I’ve had abdominal orgasms. I swear!

(Disbelieving snorts from the others)

kissmy@…: So who’s been giving you those inter-galactic orgasms, hey? Your husband?


* *

PS 3.

sucette.du67@…: I think it was wrong to let her tell her husband. But I like the poetry.

GinImE@...: I’m listening…

sucette.du67@…: He doesn’t need to know all the details. You’re just putting yourself in an unnecessary dilemma. I know I wouldn’t want to know all the details about my man. He comes home with a smile on his face, that’s what counts.

kissmy@….: Even if some other pussy’s putting it there?

(sucette.du67@… sucks her teeth.)

babygirl@…: Shy is right. You’re passing the parcel, if you ask me.

GinImE@...: Go on…

noluckwiththefu@…: Well, you’re absolving yourself by telling your husband, but then you get him to bear the burden. It’s a bit chicken, don’t you think?

kissmy@….: Hell! Men’ve been having their cake and eating it too all along but listen sisters, this millennium’s for the ladies! My life has improved threefold ever since I woke up to this fact, ever since I stopped listening to all those nonsense songs about letting him be king, about just how perfect I would be if only he loved me right. I’m loving myself right — got rid of the complacent swine I had educated him to be ‘oh, don’t do that, honey, I’ll do it for you’. Sign of my love? Sign of my stupidity more like. Of my mis-education. I can have my cake and eat it too, n you know what, you guys are yummy. Yum yum, more of that please, but on my own terms from now on and you all better wrap up well cos the wind is changing.

babygirl@…: C’mon, stop dragging this down…

sucette.du67@…: No, let her have her say. What’s good for the goose is good for the gander. Why do we belittle ourselves and play coy when a guy says we’re pretty? We behave as though we’re hearing it for the first time, like we don’t deserve the compliment or something, instead of saying, Thank you, I know, which we do. Cos we are. They strut into the room without a shadow of a doubt so why shouldn’t we? Get over him, Gini. You’ve got eyes in the front of your head for a reason. Move on. (Talking more to herself now) you know when you just know it’s over, but all that time it takes you to say it; all that dead time in between knowing and doing? God, I’ve got so many dead years on my account. All gone to waste through cowardice and false loyalty… (wakes up) move on!

( from Mut@tus )

Of all the books I’ve read, this has divided me against myself more than any other.’

‘Don’t know what tablets you’re taking, but do, please, keep taking them. They seem to be working wonders. If you can get them on the NHS, please let me know.’

‘This is an abridgment of a novel which pushes the boundaries of women’s literary fiction to its limits – a D.H. Lawrence type moment (…) I can’t say enough good things about this novel. This is a haunting work which will stay in my head for a long time.’



BLUEBERRY BLOG hole in the head
Photo, courtesy of Blueberry © copyright 2015

Tomi Ungerer’s description of Barbie dolls as ambiguous sexless brainless machines, without nipples or apertures: the American ideal.

and I think: iDoll???

Back firmly, formally, in the trap of naming, of bringing to life, and as such I may play God for a while. This is the place that itches, that refuses not to itch. The naming game: It is we who set the picket fences. We who move them at will. I catch myself thinking it would be a shame if God really were so arbitrary. And I scratch this itch in so many ways, as recently with my supervisor:

how to class the literary opinions of people like Toni Morrison, Salman Rushdie and others (e.g. Brossard) who not only write literature but about literature? Are they scholars? May I put them on that pedestal, or are they ‘only’ writers? I guess my question is: who is a member of the club?

I keep setting up these borders, keep being told to:

we need them for conceptual clarity

but somehow their contents won’t stay put. That’s worth remembering…

Long Time: mum, it’s someone black

Quizzical though it might at first appear, all the tenants in Beswick Road were wont to stop –

for a fraction of a second –

whatever it was they had been doing each and every time the doorbell rang.

Ding donnng… Ding… Dong???

One or two children, wrenched away from their momentary play place in the vicinity of the curtains by an imperative parental grab, unaccompanied by words, were pushed impatiently to some other corner of the room. It might be door-to-door. Or election campaigners. Worse still, it might be Immigrations. Or even the Police…? Not a soul, not even the cat-

moved –

for a fraction –

of a second.

Miss Brown had quite categorically stated that if anyone ever, hever gave the Police occasion to come knocking at her door, that person could pack them bag and she and them would have to part company. So one or two wives shot their husbands a vicious look. And one or two wives were shot back an equally vicious shut-yu-mowt-woman. The doorbell rang again. Truculent ring-a-ding, this time, on this particular, somewhat agreeably sunny London two fifteen, when all the tenants of Beswick Road, and Miss Brown’s cat, desisted from action for that fraction of a second, and Rose happened to be down at Miss Brown’s as she had got into the habit of doing. Notwithstanding her landlady’s inclination to chat-too-much, Rose welcomed the time spent in her company as a real taste from home. The two women cast reciprocal ‘is-who-dat?’ looks from beneath arched brows as the bell was molested for the third time.


Carmen emerged from behind the plastic stripey hang-up between the kitchen and the living-room door.

“If is door-to-door, me have it arlreddy. Look like him no mean fi go weh fore him run up me ‘lectricity bill, yaa. Mek haste and get rid a im.”

Carmen went over to the window. Rose and Miss Brown followed with their eyes. Miss Brown tiptoed in the direction of the tv set to turn the volume down.

“Mum, it’s someone black.”


“Yeah. Black.”

“Is who it is?” she insisted.

“How’m I supposed to know!”

“Move weh fram di curtain no mek him see yu!” Miss Brown’s whisper thundered over to the girl and cuffed her.

Carmen rolled her eyes to heaven as she moved away. “He looks like you, if you ask me,” but she had done her bit, so she now walked back to the kitchen, unwilling to perform any more favours, muttering something it was just as well Miss Brown was too preoccupied to pay attention to.

Miss Brown. Staring at Rose, then beyond her, then back at her. Eyes growing wide. Horrified.

“Roy!” She gasped.

Rose’s eyebrows said, Who?

“Car-men!” she whispered as loud as she dared.

Carmen re-appeared in the doorway with her most fed up expression on.

“You did see if him have a bag wid im, like im gwine stay long?”

Carmen shrugged her shoulders.

“Go an let im in.”

“Why me?” Carmen protested. “I don’t even know who he is!”


She got the message.

He rapped tap taptap tap tap on the living-room door as he wiped his shoes off on the doormat. Roy had not seen his sister in years. Only once or twice since they had arrived in Hinglan, first him, then her, him following his wife’s family to settle in Birmingham, her, Miss Brown, deciding in favour of London. Miss Brown, not at all partial to her sister-in-law, refused to spend her hard-earn money on a visit. And now he was here, in London. After all those years. It has to be said that Miss Brown’s brother did feel a little awkward, after all those years, so he decided: bess ting to do, hact nachurral.

“Miss B?” he greeted her with a chuckle, as with an over eager display of those immaculate teeth that had won him innumerable lady friends on both sides of the Atlantic.

“Uncle Roy,” His sister stated a fact that could not be stretched to a welcome, no matter how she try. She stood in the middle of the room. “Di door open.”

Stout, cheerful-looking man going on for fifty. Stepped like a dandy into the room. He was better looking than his sister and had helped himself to a taste of almost all of her girlfriends back home, which fact had invariably led to a mash-up of friendships, for which Miss Brown had never truly been able to forgive him. When Uncle Roy followed his wife to England, Miss Brown had hoped that the cold would put him out of action likkle bit. He only ever remembered he had a sister when his wife booted him out and he needed somewhere to put his head. Here he was now; fatter than she recollected, a few grey hairs beginning to make an appearance, and the paunch of good living pressing itself tightly against the waist of his trousers. But where was his bag?

“Come in an sit down,” Miss Brown said indifferently. But she couldn’t help herself, she had to ask, “Is where yu bag deh?”

Uncle Roy made himself comfortable on the sofa. “Marnin,” he said to Rose.

“Marnin,” Rose replied.

“Yu see dis madda a yours, her bradda kyan’t even sit down five minute rest him leg before she want to chase him out,” he stretched one hand along the length of the sofa.

“Is not me daughter dat, but is a member a di family, yu hear wat me saying to you?”

“Is what yu name, lovely…” Uncle Roy sat back. Opened his legs likkle bit.

“Emily,” Rose got politely to her feet. “Miss Brown -”

“Emily. You warng know someting, Emily? These Jamaicans don’t have no manners, you know. Nat like we British.”

“Miss Brown,” Rose tried again. “I best be going.”

“Alright, Rose,” she spoke in Rose’s direction, with her eyes fixed on her brother. “Yu gwine come down later fi a likkle a me stew peas?”

“If you sure is not too much trouble…”

“Trouble? Is no trouble whatsohever,” Miss Brown assured her.

“Well,” Rose turned to the brother on the sofa. “I best be going. Nice to see you.”

“The pleasure was all mine,” Uncle Roy replied gallantly.

Miss Brown standing in the middle of the room and Carmen in the kitchen both rolled their eyes to heaven.

“All mine,” he assured the slender young woman. Nice young gyal.

On her way up the stairs, Rose just caught Miss Brown ordering Carmen to look inna di fridge see if Daddy still got a few can a beer, and by the time she had reached the top of the landing, she could hear Miss Brown and Uncle Roy tearing up some raucous laughter about something. Or someone.

‘It’s a pity Jack never gets to meet Uncle Roy, the protagonist’s uncle-of-sorts, who knows a thing or two about food and women himself, although his greatest love seems to be for getting hold of the wrong end of British politics. Simon has been described as a wordsmith par excellence. Rightly so! Intelligent, humorous, tragic and sensual. Contemporary British literature at its best.‘ (A.A., London, U.K.)


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In a nutshell

dirty little angel

Dirty little angel. That sums me up 🙂

I’ve collected some wonderful visual data these last few days. Excellent propositions for my (long due) business card, but if I share these on FAKEBOOK before the cards are even printed, who do the images belong to? THEM, no doubt.

Daughter’s on the cross-trainer in our fitness room, heart-&-soul with Lady Gaga’s Born This Way. Could be my anthem too.  Next track: Work, Bitch (Britney Spears).

Yes, that dirt is real (not placed there for deliberate effect). No, we’re not at my place!!

Not dusting the angel. Not dusting my angel either. My thesis is getting a good spring clean, though. Reading my notes 2011-2014. (Too?) Much has lost its relevance. Let’s call this process: honing. Now the real work starts: the writing of a novel (Verses Nature) for the creative component of the thesis. And for the theoretical part: my understanding of William Faulkner’s take on authoritarian texts and how this relates to heterodoxy of voice and style (hence language and genre). If this were a song, the main background singers would be the Russian scholar Bakhtin (read in translation) and the French philosopher Jacques Derrida (sexy. dead. pity. read in original and in translation. texts often abstruse. pity). Two years of discipline ahead. Stick to my cue cards! Will I be able to complete the first draft of the novel and the first theoretical chapter by the end of the year? Should be able to manage the abstracts for three chapters (and one publishable paper?) by the summer. Glad to have my blog(s) to bring variety  – and fun! – to the task.