Month: September 2015

To march or not to march

Tomorrow is the day that South Africans will be marching. In Pretoria, Cape Town and Durban, we’re going to come out in our thousands, hopefully even millions, to march against corruption.

I love political marches and the camaraderie that comes with them.  The singing, the toyi-toying and the feeling of being united.  It’s an old hippie activist thing.

So I’m painting my banner and digging out my shorts, walking shoes and megaphone.

The problem is, we’re in the middle of a heatwave. It’s hot. Really hot.

BB suggested I skip the march and hang out with him by the pool. And the thought of diving in headfirst, swimming, sipping cocktails and having pool sex is really tempting.

Argh. How to make a decision?

If I march, I will get sunburned, hot, tired and irritable but I will feel really good.

If I swim, I will still get sunburned and hot but I will at least have sex.

I’m remembering the last time I had pool sex.

Which actually, was completely overrated. I hate holding my breath underwater, I lose sensation, I know one of us is going to drown – probably me – and god, it all just feels rubbery.

There is nothing good about pool sex.

But there is something really good about marches.

And I don’t think BB needs me nearly as much as my country.

So that’s it. I may march in a bikini and use the water to pour over my head.  But I’m going to join the millions of South Africans and march for a better future.

And feel really good that way.

Viva South Africa, Viva.

Mood swings

I mostly love the moon. I love sitting outside staring and soaking in its beauty. I love the softness of the new moon, I love the perfect crescents and I love the moonlight that shines through my bedroom window.

I have this fantasy where I’m walking with a gorgeous man in Paris, under the light of a full moon. I’m wearing a little black dress, he has his hand on the small of my back, and it’s a perfectly sexy and delicious evening.

Except it’s never going to happen.

Because the full moon makes me moody.

Each month, as it nears full moon, I go a little mad. Mood swings, my ex-husband would call it. Craziness, my children do call it. A mystery is what I call it.

I cry more and I feel unbalanced. The moon affects me. I don’t know why, but it does.

So last night while my hippie friends were all having spiritual epiphanies about the blood moon, I sat quietly, seeing the beauty but feeling unsettled.

And as I drove home, with a few tears falling out of nowhere, I stopped at a traffic light. There was a homeless kid on the corner, barefoot, wrapped in blankets, begging.

I had nothing to give him, but I looked him straight in the eye and gave him a smile. I made direct eye contact. Not something one does with street kids too often.

He looked directly back at me. And he smiled too. His eyes lit up and he gave me a smile so huge, so warm, so enormous, that it was like the fullest moon of all.

And there was this connection.

This amazing connection, under the moonlight.

We both felt it.  It was one of those moments.  It stayed with me when I drove away.  I know it stayed with him too.

Not such a bad full moon after all.

Sex, violence, no rock and roll.

So this is what I learned from Sexpo. That I am conservative, old-fashioned and even a little bit prudish.

Yip. I am a prude.

I do not like dog masks, leather hoods or harnesses. I hate blow-up dolls and I am shocked by the blow-up asses that men can choose in either a ‘black skin’ or a ‘white skin’. Not in a politically correct black or white way but in a degrading, dehumanising let’s just fuck women up the arse way.

I found myself not only uncomfortable looking at the stuff but, as a woman, completely bloody insulted.

I am upset by the excess of strap-ons, whips, chains, ropes and complimentary floggings!

Mostly, I am overwhelmed by how seemingly violent everything was.

And if you’ve been following my blog, you will know that I am usually open to anything and it takes quite a lot to shock or offend me.

This is not a judgement on people who choose that world. A lot of my readers do and I absolutely respect their choices. (except for the dog mask, jeez guys, come on!!)

But it is a judgement on the expo itself for selling space to stands that focus so much on the kink and fetish world and not on the other world. The more gentle world. The world that is lovely and sweet and romantic and well, just sexy.

That was the problem.

Sexpo was not sexy.

It was not only disappointing but actually, downright distasteful.

And while there were the stands with the toys and the oils and creams it was all displayed in a vulgar and undesirable way.

I’m meant to be going back tonight as a voyeur at a swingers club.  Initially, I thought I’d do it.

Instead, I’m at home writing about the ‘Free The Nipple’ campaign.

And I am writing, sitting at the dining room table, with my shirt off.

See, I’m not such a prude.

But that, dear Sexpos, is about as far as I go.

Sorry SexpoSA.  I tried to like you.  I really did.


Tomorrow I can:-

Walk the dogs

Read a book

Tidy the house

Do yoga

Watch the Batchelor

Eat carbs

Go fishing

Wash my hair

Save the world


Join the swingers at Sexpo.

I think I choose the swingers.

Because I hate all that other stuff.

Violet, The Dominatrix

I should not be having sexual thoughts while I am at the licensing department.

But I just cannot help myself. I’m standing here in the queue, I have a tingling between my legs and my fantasies are making me blush.

My kinky side has exploded.

I am not dreaming about romance, candles or wine. I am not imagining French underwear, silk stockings or suspenders.

I’m going full on BDSM. S&M. Bondage. Whips. Handcuffs. Floggers.

And the harder, the rougher, the more painful the better.

My fantasy includes tying up the man who just pushed in front of me in the queue. The man who when I said ‘excuse me’, leered at me and said:-

‘Sorry sweet babe, not moving.’

I’d like to throw him in a dungeon. Tie him up. Stand over him in my heels and flog him.

Then leave him there forever.

I hate rudeness, especially when it is sexist misogynistic rudeness.

I know I should calm down. I’m finally at the front of the queue and it’s almost my turn.

I’m going to ask the clerk how he thinks I would look in latex.

Ménage à trois

‘Ooooooh I’ve been invited to Sexpo,’ I told my friend excitedly. ‘Come with me. You might win a date with a porn star.’

He rolled his eyes.

‘You don’t have to do anything,’ I chattered on. ‘Not even talk. We’ll wander around, buy a few toys, and afterwards, maybe we’ll watch something.’

I was waving my media pass for Club Poizon, a swingers lounge, in the air. ‘I can write about this place, we can join in, whatever…’

Whatever! The Poizon Lounge! Would I really join in?

‘Ever had a threesome?’ he asked, showing a little more interest.

Hmm. Not really. There was that one time on a kibbutz where I shared a bed with two Brazilians,but it was a long time ago, and that other time at a party in the bathroom with these two beautiful women but, nope, no, not really.

‘Nah.  You?’

Apparently he’d had more than he could count. Two women, one man. A lot of champagne, stockings, suspenders, legs, hands, stroking, kissing, more champagne and a lot more champagne.

That is, according to him, the way to do threesomes.

Ooooooh. Suddenly I felt that I was missing out.

Except – I know myself well. I love sex and I do quite like the idea of a ménage à trois. But hey, I do NOT want to see the man I like making out with another woman. I mean, what happens if he likes her more than me? What happens if I get left on the sidelines while they get it on?

What if I’m the one who lands up bringing them the orange juice when they get tired.

What if it’s a disaster.

I am not very good at sharing.

Perhaps I should go to the pole dancing session instead? Hang out with the porn stars? Have my body painted.

Or be brave and be a voyeur at Poizon. It might be fun.

Wanna join me? The invite is for two.

N.B. I will be at Sexpo this weekend, 24-27 Sep and live tweeting on the 25th. Follow me @violetonline1