I am the opposite of The Hulk, in that apparently people really do like me when I’m angry. I know this because every now and then someone emails me a link to something unconscionably awful and says “get a load of this bullshit!”

A couple of months ago my sister emailed me to say “Have you ever seen The Millionaire Matchmaker? Honestly, watch it. You will shit a brick, then hurl that brick through the telly” – or words to that effect. As a lover of both shit telly, and having the excuse to write watching shit telly off as ‘research’, when it popped up the other day I refrained from turning over and settled myself in for a few minutes of relaxing, blood-boiling rage.

The premise of the programme is that millionaires are looking for partners. That’s basically it, although I should point out that on the one I watched all the millionaires were men and all the potential wives were women. I don’t know if this is the case for the entire show, so I’ll simply state that, naturally, if this is the case, then it’s sexist as well as offensively awful. But I’m not here today to talk about sexism, I’m here to talk about one of my biggest turn offs.

Look at all of my money!

I have a difficult relationship with wealth. Money’s great, of course. Without it I’d have nothing with which to purchase gin and crisps. But there are certain people who have a lot of money who seem to define not only themselves by it, but what your opinion of them should be. Wealth makes some people twats in the same way that good looks make some people arrogant. As if they are possessed of some magical, special quality over and above the contents of their wallet that will give them a headstart in your affections.

If you’re wealthy, then congratulations. You’re great, and you’re lucky, and you probably buy the gin in the fancy blue bottle rather than the stuff with the ‘Tesco’ logo on it. But above and beyond that, your wealth is nothing except a slightly awkward non-sequitur. If you got your money through talent, tell me about your talent. If you have it because of your background, tell me about your background. But waving fifty-pound notes and announcing your salary in a booming voice impresses me as much as a child who tells a roomful of adults that they’ve just done a poo in the potty.

The worst date I ever had

I got in trouble last week because I criticised The Rules, partly because one of them states that men should pay for things while women – save the occasional treat – should keep their purses firmly shut. Given my general hatred of discussing money, or having a guy’s wealth wafted in my face like it’s an enticing aphrodisiac, this advice reminded me of the worst date I ever had.

The gentleman arranged to meet me for a drink. This was at a time when I was pretty broke, and my weekly ‘beer’ budget was about a fiver, so I asked if we could go to a cheap pub I knew well, where I could guarantee I’d get at least one round in before I had to crack out my credit card. The cheapness was a condition of me agreeing to go on the date, and he agreed.

I arrived at the pub only to find him waiting outside, which struck me as a bit odd.

“It’s cold,” I informed him, pointlessly. “You could have waited inside with a pint.”

“I know,” he said. “But there’s a great cocktail bar around the corner and I wanted to take you there first.”

Like most Londoners, when I hear the words ‘cocktail bar’ I can’t help but picture a meat grinder, into which someone is stuffing ten pound notes. I told him again that I was quite broke, and that if possible I’d prefer to go somewhere I could afford to get a round in. After all, I explained, conversation is more important than cocktails, and I don’t really like being at the receiving end of someone’s redundant generosity.

“Sure,” he said. “Let’s have one cocktail then head back to the pub.”

Three cocktails later, I’d given up on asking. We had a couple of nice chats about his family, his job, my poor excuse for a life at the time, and were getting on relatively well. I’d managed to quell the panic that had hit me when I’d seen the prices on the menu, and relaxed into a fairly decent evening. Then we moved on. Not to the pub, because by that point he was pissed enough that all he could focus on was showing me exactly what he could buy. He hailed a taxi, which took us about 400 yards down the road, and into a wine bar which didn’t even have prices on the menu.

“What sort of wine do you like?” he asked, gesturing towards the bottom half of the menu.

“You know, I’m not really that fussy about wine,” I replied. “And if I’m honest, I’m a bit uncomfortable with you buying so many expensive things.”

A long pause, during which I shuffled nervously and tried not to look anxious.

“It’s OK – I’m not expecting anything in return,” he guffawed. “I just like nice things, and I’d like you to share them with me. We’ll have the [insert name of posh wine here].”

Until this point, I could have believed him. I could have thought – you know what? He’s a lovely guy, and isn’t deliberately trying to show off his money, he just wants to spend it. I should just suck it up, enjoy his company, and get over myself. I could have thought that, and I almost did. If he hadn’t followed the wine decision by proudly announcing:

“It’s only a hundred pounds a bottle!”

What are you trying to prove?

The moral of this story, if indeed there is one, is probably that I’m an uptight arsehole. One of the main things that made this the worst date of my life was that I couldn’t let go of the money factor.

But although my reaction might be a tiny bit extreme, the money factor is still a significant obstacle. Why? It’s not sexy: it feels suspicious. Filling my face with millionaire’s mojitos and one-hundred-pound wine is the equivalent of spending the entire date telling me that you do lots of charity work or that you don’t usually wear brown loafers. It makes me wonder what he’s trying to hide. Does he think he’s mean, so he needs to mention charity work to redress the balance? What’s wrong with brown loafers? Is there something innately shameful about ordering the house wine, or preferring pints to cocktails?

Look, if you’re minted and you want to buy champagne on your dates, that’s fine. If you love your money and want to find someone who will love it just as much as you do, that’s fine too. But that person is not me. If I’ve told you how much I hate pricey cocktail bars, then each time you buy something expensive you just demonstrate that you either haven’t listened or that you don’t care. What’s more, all I see is a huge flashing neon sign that says “I’m RICH! RICH! Fuck what else I might be, I’m RICH!”

It’s not that you can’t spend money on me if you want me to fancy you. It’s that I’ll struggle to fancy you if all I can see is your money. Put away your wallet and show me what you’ve really got.

Belts are fascinating and filthy in a way that makes me genuinely squirm. In my opinion they’re the best of all the hitting devices. Why? Because they are long, meaning they can be used to reach and beat places you might be out of reach for otherwise. They also come in all thicknesses, which means you can exactly graduate the level and type of pain you like, and balance it with other things that are specifically hot. The delicious ‘thud’ sound of a thick one, or the shivery ‘whish’ of a thinner one. Something thick that can be hefted with strength and inflict a dull, spread-out pain, or something lighter that must be used more delicately in case it leaves a trail of narrow red welts.

(more…)

“Nah, I’m knackered.”

I was too tired even for sleepy fucking. The kind of tired where I could barely open my eyes. Tired where I’d have been willing to pay a week’s wages just to get a day’s reprieve from work. Tired like I really didn’t want to fuck.

(more…)

When I think about pain, there’s one particular guy who comes into my head. Many of the guys I’ve been with have helped me squirm in delicious agony, but there’s one in particular who hurt me more than any other. Exquisitely.

Everything that happens in this story was heavenly. To this day, I still daydream about it when I’m horny and itching and only some hurting will do.

Softly softly

This guy was only a few years older, but light-years ahead of me in maturity. He had a neat haircut, wore suits, was chivalrous in an old-fashioned way that I’d have found adorable in someone less dominant. He had a calm, detached air – the kind that comes from knowing I’ll do exactly what he says. He treated me as if I was utterly fragile, yet still his to break.

I rang the doorbell, having refused his offer to escort me from the tube station: something about the cold walk to his house helped to focus my mind. He opened the door with a courteous smile, and ushered me inside in a way that his curtain-twitching neighbours would have approved of.

Then he closed the door with a controlled ‘click’.

“Take off your boots.”
I took off my boots.
There was silence – one beat, two beats.
I lined them up neatly next to his own shoes by the door.
Three beats. Four beats.

Then he pounced.
Grabbing me by the hair he pushed my face up against the wall, twisting my neck awkwardly so I was poised in a semi-standing crouch. Makeup smeared against the wallpaper, hands pressed against the wall to hold myself steady.

Keeping my hair firmly gripped in his hand, he used his other hand to grope me – to inspect me. His roughness didn’t outweigh his calm, though. Every movement was carefully measured – squeezing one of my tits, sliding slowly down over my waist and hips, carefully pulling up the hem of my skirt so he could run his fingers against the crotch of my knickers.

“You’re wet.”
“Yes.” I was dreading what was coming next. Please don’t make me say ‘sir’, please don’t make me say ‘sir’, please…
One beat, two beats…
“Yes what?”
“Sir.”

A few ‘sirs’ and light slaps later, and he was leading me by the hair into his bedroom. This was essentially what I’d turned up for. It’s all very well being told off in a hallway, but I wanted him to turn his controlling nature to pain.

I’ve never been much of a pain slut – I enjoy being spanked not because I like the feeling of the slaps, but because I love that the guy in question gets off on it: I like that hearing the thwack of belt on skin makes him hard. That I get to feel dirty and bad even as I’m feeling ecstatic.

He didn’t disappoint.

Stripped to the waist, with skirt hiked up around my middle, he pushed me face down on his bed.

“Knickers down.”
I wriggled out of them.
“Hands behind your head.”
Again, I did as I was told.
“Bite down on this.”
He placed a leather strap in my mouth, and I had a nervous three seconds to wonder what he was going to hit me with before he brought a slipper down onto my arse with a solid, painful thump. I twitched, and arched my back slightly for the second blow.

Thud. Ouch. On and on until my eyes watered. Each one in exactly the same place, the stinging heat growing more intense with every stroke. I could feel from the strength and impact that he wasn’t just testing me – he was drawing his arm back and whacking me with full force. Unable to see him, I pictured it in my head – his arm drawn back above his shoulder, hand holding the slipper, face placid and expressionless, then the twitch of a sadistic smile as he whipped it down again. My stomach thumped with arousal.

“Keep your head down,” he said. “Eyes closed.”

I disobeyed him – I wanted to see what he was bringing next. Through semi-open eyelids I watched him stride across the room: no rushing, still oozing calm control. He opened the wardrobe then did one of the hottest things dominant guys can do before a beating: he rolled up his sleeves. At that point I put my head down, revelling in the anticipation of the unknown. I’d told him before I arrived that I wanted him to hit me – hurt me. Push me with pain I didn’t truly like – less thudding and thick slaps, more thin whips and tingling canes. He took me at my word.

The first stroke didn’t hurt for two seconds – I just heard the whish-click as it landed across the top of my thighs. Then the sting came. Red-hot and searing through my skin, cold metal and hot coal and ice and fire and pain.

“Good,” He crooned. “Good-” whip “-girl.” smack.

He used the wire on me a few more times – each time putting a bit more swing into it, bringing it down a bit quicker, harder. I bit down on the strap and let out a muffled cry. He moved around me, no longer standing at the side but directly in front of my face. I could see his dick pushing tight and hard against the crotch of his trousers. I arched my back further and pushed my stinging arse into the air. He leant forward and hit me again – three more times, harder than he had before, until my head was swimming with pain. I dropped the strap from my mouth and groaned.

“Ow.” Once more – whish-click. “OW! Fuck. Please. It hurts too much.”

He dropped the wire and bent forward over me. I felt his hands on my arse, rubbing, kneading, pushing the pain deep into my muscles and away from the raw surface of my skin. His hands were cool, and I wanted him to keep them on me, still and calm, until the pain was over.

But he didn’t.

He stood up, unzipped his trousers, and lifted my head up so he could slide his dick into my mouth. I sucked him, hard, wanting to feel his dick twitch like I’d twitched when he hit me. When his spunk hit the back of my throat it was as warm and welcome as the stinging slaps he’d given me.