Archive for February, 2008

Smoke Signals

I smoke, and I smoke a lot. Not through any particular love of smoking, it seems, but more to do with my complete inability to quit. And I know it’s bad for me, and everyone around me, and I’m almost certainly going to hell for it. It will inevitably cause me and anyone who comes near me to get a bunch of horrible cancers, I know, and every time I light one up, baby Jesus cries and a fairy somewhere drops dead. You don’t need to post and tell me this. I am aware, and feel the required sense of shame and remorse, and will undoubtedly attempt to quit again soon. And fail.

Yet I find myself attracted to other smokers - not because of the smoke itself, but because of the stigma attached to smoking - it seems to, in some way, suggest that the smoker him or herself is a rebel, an imperfect being, the one who is made to stand outside the door with the other flawed, interesting outcasts and tread the path of tentative self-destruction. Entirely unbroken people are rarely as fun to talk to. During one of my brief periods as a non-smoker in my late teens, I took to pretending to go for cigarette breaks at the office, as I needed a brief soujourn from the tedious, sanctimonious lifelong non-smokers I’d found myself stuck indoors with. Just think of the difference between the dull, pastel-print Sandy at the beginning of Grease and the uninhibited, tight-trousered, chain-smoking Sandy at the end of Grease. Which would you rather be trapped in a lift with (provided that the lift was, of course, well ventilated)?

I find it reassuring when someone I admire turns out to be a smoker. I was overjoyed when I discovered that Tori Amos gets English Marlboro Lights shipped across to the States when she’s on tour. When former Liberal Democrat leader Charles Kennedy admitted to having been an alcoholic, I didn’t think there was any further up he could go in my estimation - that was, until he was fined for smoking on a train - which makes me think that he’d make an excellent Prime Minister. Somehow, when our heroes show their flaws, it makes them human, and we love them all the more for it.

Is this a part of the lure of the smoking fetish? Answers on a postcard…

Some wonderful lunatic has made an alphabetised index of female celebrity smokers, complete with photo evidence, films in which they’ve smoked, and any mention of them having smoked in interview. Click here to view.

Tough Love That Dares Not Speak Its Name

There is often an unspoken stigma attached to the idea of women dominating other women. Unlike its clear-cut vanilla counterpart, BDSM tends to spend much of its time teetering precariously on the line between sex and politics, and any consenting adult involved in the fetish of power games will be hard pushed to cum without it becoming a socio-political statement on gender and ethics.

Femdom is often seen to be solely about the empowerment of women and the degradation of men, a symbolic capsize of centuries of patriarchal rule through the medium of a PVC-clad minx dressing her boyfriend in frilly pink knickers, smacking his pallid flesh about a bit, mocking his body, kicking him the nuts, and sitting squarely on his terrified face until he apologises for the atrocities committed by his forefathers.

Which, despite being a far cry from Emeline Pankhurst and the Suffragettes, it is a lot of fun nonetheless, and rather exciting for both parties.

Yet I also dominate women. And I enjoy it immensely. There. I’ve said it. The scenes I often like to watch in porn are those where one woman overpowers another. And, bear in mind that this is not a sappy, simpering submissive woman who is being intimidated either - she will invariably be older, tougher perhaps, and be reluctantly overpowered by another female. As well as my ordinary state as a woman who dominates men, I really, really like to dominate strong, powerful women. Especially those who fight back. It turns me on to see an otherwise dominant woman in peril (see “The Prelude”). Any yet I still feel that I should somehow be ashamed of this…

Just what does this mean? I am confident in my role as Dominatrix, but are my peripheral kinks conspiring against me to contradict my ordinary urges through a desire to sexually dominate the very women I respect, admire, and adore the most? Is my involuntary arousal a subconscious betrayal of the sisterhood? Has the concept of feminism failed to reach as far as my cunt?

It’s a striking anomaly in the otherwise logical filing system of my sexual psyche. My other kinks relate, even tentatively at least, to my relationships with people in my non-sexual world. All except this one. I genuinely love women. I have no quarrel with any of the women I’ve met, and wish them no harm. Some ladies see other females as a threat, or as rivals, or as opponents in some ludicrous competition for male attention. Which, let’s face it, is pointless. I’m not like that. By default, any woman I meet is an ally and a friend.

Yet I lay my political beliefs aside, temporarily, for something that’s a massively powerful turn-on for me. My conclusion? I’m very, very shallow.

Handrolled: Smoking Fetish Video

In this 8:11 wmv smoking fetish movie, Ms Slide languishes in Her large wrought-iron bed, wearing a red silk robe. She carefully rolls and smokes a long, slim cigarette and breathes the thick, white smoke into your face.

Click here for more details.

You’re nobody until somebody loves you, huh?

Valentine’s Eve - at five thirty, the streets are filled with people swarming in and out of card shops. Their desperation is palpable. Crowds fill the pubs. Get drunk enough and you’re bound to wake up with someone, right? The panic-buying goes beyond flowers, chocolates and restaurant food - at this time of year, people feel the need to shop around to find other people to be loved by. Even when you’ve got someone, you’re convinced that there’s something better out there - someone who’s that elusive quarry known as The One. I’ve lost count of how many times I’ve been cruised by husbands with pushchairs this week. It’s Valentine’s fault - little did the martyred Saint know that, centuries later, he’d be responsible for an annual festival of insecurity and chasmic loneliness. There’s something so futile about the whole sorry lot of it. Humans only collide and stick when sentimentality forces it. As a species, they’re just histrionic primates trying to make nests, rutting, flailing, pushing out offspring in the hope of being wanted by someone, somewhere, even if they have to make that person themselves - because in the end, you just feel empty, hollow, as if you’re only half a person if you don’t have that “other half”. Doesn’t it make you want to cry?

So, on that note, happy Valentine’s Day. Buy me presents, you tragic fucker.

Anti-Valentine’s Wishes

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