Month: September 2016

Love me tender

Come to me this evening Violet, I have a lovely bottle of wine, nuts, the new Leonard Cohen…

Um nope, you come here.  I have whisky, veggies, ice cream in the freezer.

We both hesitated. It had been a while. We needed to redefine our territory.

We needed neutral ground.

A restaurant.

I arrived first and chose a lovely corner table. He arrived and immediately suggested we change tables.

We changed tables.

He had control.

He gave me a delicious box of chocolates. A peace offering?

I set them aside.

I took back control.

And then without waiting, I explained why I wouldn’t come to his home.

I know we’ll end up having sex, I said. And I don’t want that anymore.

He looked at me, mostly with surprise. He asked what I meant.

I mean, I do not want just sex.  It is not enough for me.  I want kindness. Gentleness too.

I said this to a man who cannot commit. Who I believe has intimacy issues.

I continued.

I want to be held. I want someone to stroke me. I want to feel fingers, gently, running down my back. I may even want to be held. And hugged.

Quite hard for me to say these words. I too have intimacy issues.

Am I not gentle Violet? I have only ever been gentle.

It’s true. He has always been a gentleman.

He is a gentleman.

It goes back to commitment, I said. You’re never going to commit to me, and…

He interrupted.

Maybe you need to tell me what you want, Violet. You’ve never told me.  Is it commitment you’re after?

I couldn’t answer that.

Because I have no clue what I want.

I don’t know, I said. But I want more than what we have.

I got up to go to the bathroom. He got up too. I thought he was being polite.

Instead, he leaned in and over and hugged me.

A very hard, tight, warm, cosy, kind and gentle hug.

And I realised that I had been getting myself rather mixed up.

That not all men have intimacy issues.

And perhaps this one is more gentle than I think.


Vaginas in the age of politics

There is something about the internet that allows people to believe they can write anything.  Comment on anything.

Which they can. It’s easy to hide behind a screen and spew hatred and prejudice without repercussion.

A reader recently told me my sex writing had become boring.

You’re always ranting Violet. You go off the topic instead of writing about sex.

That is a fair enough comment.

I replied with an Oops sorry, and sent him a link to another more exciting sex writer.

He swore at me, then blocked me.

Another reader told me I bring women’s issues into everything I write about. That if I am talking about my orgasms I bring feminism into them.

Stick to your orgasms, Violet. You screech feminism at every opportunity. We don’t care about feminism, only your vagina.

I offered to send him a picture of my vagina. That seemed to calm him down. Until I didn’t send the picture, and then guess what?

He blocked me too.

There was the gentleman who stalked me for weeks, totally outraged when he read that I masturbated. He typed furiously on almost every single blog:-

Women should never masturbate Violet, it’s a sin, just wrong, how dare you?

When I patiently explained that almost all women do, and if they don’t they don’t know what they’re missing – boom bang BLOCK.

I did not block these men. They blocked me.

I repeat, they blocked me.

And I am more outraged about being blocked than I am about being spoken to rudely.

It is a little bit like our country. Right now so many of us South Africans are scared to use our voices. We are too young, too old, too DA, too white, too black, not black enough, too ANC, too not ANC, too gay, too Jewish, too Muslim, too much and too divided.

And too intimidated.

In the same way I give advice about opening our legs, I am going to give advice about opening our mouths, our ears and our minds.

Listen well.

Speak well.

And do not be scared of words. Or of using them. Wisely.

We need to find a platform where we can come together to debate, rather than fight.

We need to find new ways to communicate.

We need to sort out our fucking problems.

And in case you think I am off brand, we need to find new ways to love.  To have great sex, great wine, brilliant friendships, lots of food, champagne, peace and oysters.

And love.

Lots and lots of free delicious love.


Arrest me

I quite like taking things that don’t belong to me. It’s not that I am greedy or a thief, although really I am both, but I like the meaning behind the stolen stuff.

It’s all a metaphor.

I used to see this guy and take a can of beans from his kitchen cupboard every time we had sex.

He knew I stole them. The theft represented a no fucks attitude from me. I could be with him, have great sex, pick up my jeans, my beans, and leave without emotion.

They were good beans by the way, Italian Cannellini, or I wouldn’t have bothered.

Today I stole a handkerchief from someone else. Actually, I was crying and he said Oh for Fucks sake please stop, please please Jesus Christ no more tears, no tears, oh come on now, all right, you’re not going to stop are you, here, take it take it, use my bloody handkerchief.

I sniffed, stopped crying, took the hanky, wiped my tears and grinned.

It was a plot.

I wanted the handkerchief.

I wanted his smell on the hanky. I wanted to keep it close, to remember it, to in actual fact never let it go.

The hanky is my giving a fuck metaphor.

It represents my feelings.  Memory.

Maybe even love.

I haven’t washed it yet. And I know that when I’ve washed it a hundred times, it will still smell of him.

But I’m not washing it.  I am in fact, still using it.

I am also feeling a bit metaphored out with beans and hankies and I  just spent the last hour sitting at a bar, drinking whisky.

I left without paying.

I have no excuse for that one.

I’m just greedy.

And a thief.

Handcuff me.



I have just eaten a meal that was so perfect;  oysters, blood beetroot, vine tomatoes, roasted shallots, garlic, fennel, freshly picked rocket, baby spinach, burnt brinjal, caramelised shallots, onion soubise, figs and cheese and oh my god a pinot noir to die for and cognac and more cheese and now we’re going to have roasted peaches with creme fraÍche and another cognac and everything is out of order but so damn good and life is about taste, explosion, adventure, experiment, drinking beautiful wines, being daring and having the biggest most wonderful insatiable never ending appetite.

That’s it.

Life is all about appetite.

Love is too.



The thing about age

I am thinking about sex
at least
writing about sex
while an older woman is looking at me chatting to me bringing me tea and cupcakes
I am laughing

and now so is she
because she has read my blog

my gosh

and fabulous

there is no shock
there is no horror

instead we are now both talking
about sex.

Apparently, it gets better as you get older.




This morning when I picked up my coffee there was a guy in front of me.  Dark glasses, shaved head, a groovy tattoo.

Very cool.

He downed his double espresso and left, leaving a waft of delicious aftershave behind him.

I breathed in deeply, downed my coffee and went to the carwash.

There was the same guy. Having his very sexy jeep washed.

Silently standing, waiting.

I waited next to him, breathing in his smell.

We didn’t say hi.

I was shy.

He was too cool.

But I felt something.  I am sure he did too.

Now I am on my way to the park to walk my dog. I’m going to sit on a bench and read a book.

If he is there I am going to kiss him.

That is all.