EROTIC MASSAGE

If you read my last blog you may be wondering if my relationship survived the five months I spent permanently attached to the computer writing a book on how to maintain a fulfilling relationship. It didn’t. Of course, these things are never simple, but I’ll spare you the nitty-gritty of that particular chapter. Suffice to say, I looked up from the screen to find myself single.

I’m still trying to catch up with this rather dramatic and unexpected shift in reality and I’m in what they call on twelve step programmes, ‘recovery’.
Don’t fret for me though. Being the jolly goddess I am, I’m no longer crying into my muesli every morning. Encouraged by a friendly and insightful tantric psychotherapist called Martin who was brave enough to take me on, we’ve now located my inner man, who is apparently going to take care of my inner woman so that I don’t feel compelled to keep looking for an outer one to take care of me. It’s all about balancing the inner yin and yang. I mean, come on! I know this stuff. I get paid to write about it. And yet, here I am taking baby steps into life as a peri-menopausal woman, wondering how I can best practise what I preach. They say you teach what you most need to learn. In making the decision to go into therapy I'm humbly allowing someone to point out my blind spots on a regular basis. It actually feels good, in a slightly masochistic kind of way.

Now, I’m a Tantric Goddess, and I’ve decided that what befits my title is to skip gaily into singlehood with positivity. Well, I figured I could either curl up on a sofa with a six month’s stash of Ben and Jerry’s and a few box sets of American sit-coms, or I could become a role-model for the many 40-something females who recently seem to have given up on conventional relationships.

In finding ways to please myself, I have joyfully rediscovered the purpose and power of erotic massage. Not the kind of half-hearted rub given by a sexual partner who really just wants to get to the sex, but a professional massage, given by a therapist who is sensual, erotic and present. The key to success is the fact that the masseur isn’t interested in being your lover, or if he is, possesses the rare ability to transform desire into the pure, white light of super-consciousness in the moment – and you generally won’t find one of those down the local. Ideally, he has no agenda for the outcome of the massage whatsoever.

As a woman, when you’re in a active, sexual relationship you don’t have to pay much attention to your own yoni, as someone else is generally paying all the attention for you. I have to admit that for a few weeks after finding myself single I almost forgot it was there. When I finally remembered its existence, I realised I had no desire to rush out and grab sex with any willing love god who happened to be strolling past. And let’s face it, as important as it is to indulge in bouts of creative self-pleasuring it can only go so far and can leave one feeling a trifle lonely.

Erotic massage, given with the right intentions, never leaves me feeling lonely, or empty, or wishing for more. It beats ice-cream, chocolate and shopping for new shoes. Erotic massage taps right in to the core essence of YOU. It doesn’t try and manipulate, or please, or try to‘get you in the mood’. It hits the spot (no, not that one! A more profound, emotional and spiritual spot) and heals on a cellular level every time. But - and here’s the crucial element - the erotic masseur has to be good. In fact, he has to be, without the shadow of a doubt, astoundingly accomplished, experienced, well-trained, sensitive, confident, clear, loving and emotionally intelligent. That leaves five men in England that I know of, who can successfully provide this service for women. Fortunately, I’ve managed to persuade three of them to give me regular sessions, so lucky old me barely has a week go by without a trip to Nirvana booked in to the schedule. In taking such a bold, and quite frankly what many people would consider, self-indulgent step, I inadvertently found out how a woman can stop snapping at her kids and avoid getting on her soap box to rant against the entire male race during the delicate, post-relationship phase when she’s seriously considering either turning gay or becoming a celibate nun.

In an erotic bodywork session that would be worth writing home about, the entire body is first lovingly massaged - deeply, and therapeutically. Every knot of tension has been dissolved. Toes or fingers have possibly been sucked and gentle feather strokes have softened you to your yin core. The masseur himself has done a significant amount of inner work and is so balanced and centred that he is almost transparent, barely there. He has no personal needs whatsoever - his joy is tuning in to you and the flow of your energy. By the time the maestro has turned you over and his artistic fingers have made their way to your yoni, you are already just one, big, throbbing sex organ. Suddenly you find yourself unable to distinguish between body parts. It’s not like, “Oh, he’s touching my genitals now”- you’ve been experiencing a gradual progression into the yoni part of the massage which feels absolutely right and natural. Your masseur has become the greatest man to have walked the face of the earth, and can do no wrong. Let’s be honest, he has become GOD. He touches you with the perfect amount of pressure, massages your yoni utilising a staggering number of massage techniques. You never imagined your yoni could be stimulated and pleasured in so many imaginative ways. He isn’t asking anything from you – no orgasm or climax, you’re not expected to make any particular sounds or reciprocate in any way, other than to soften and deeply receive any pleasure that happens to be alchemically generated in the fusing of his hands and your body. And a really switched on yoni masseur knows when to stop, when to do absolutely nothing. He remains still, breathing, circulating the sex energy through his body, transmuting it, his finger resting on some power point, gently tapping in to the energy and transmitting it back into the core of your volcanic body, where you simultaneously implode and expand outwards into the cosmos, erupting into molten sex lava... now you are one, long, rolling orgasmic river...now gliding on a plateau of pleasure...on and on and on you keep softening and opening and you are liquid and there is no 'I'...you are the molecules of air around your body and the trees outside the window you are the sky and the birds and the wind that carries the birds you are the ever-extending cosmos you are everything that ever moved you are life itself you are infinity...

Girls, let me tell you – if I could send my men round to knock on the door of every woman on the planet I would. If you hear of an erotic masseur in your local area, check with me to see if I'm aware of his work, and then book him! Don’t be nervous or shy. This is just an excuse to deny yourself something which will not only be good for you, but will benefit all those around you. A session with a true master will be the greatest gift you’ve ever given yourself and I guarantee you’ll be wondering how you managed all those years without it.

Begin your research on www.tantralink.com

The Most Boring Person in the World

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

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

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

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

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

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).