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The Emancipation of the MILF | The Cut


19 Minute Read

Does sexual freedom belong only to the young? Claire Dederer doesn’t think so. About six years ago, Claire Dederer realized she had a problem. The problem had to do with sex. It had to do with desire. It had to do with being a middle-aged wife and mother and needing and wanting to be seen and known by new people in a new way, maybe even by people she didn’t particularly like or love or respect all that much. Her problem had something to do with sex but didn’t stop there. It assaulted her notions of what it meant to be a grown-up woman in the world and wanting to have romantic encounters with men who were not her husband. She loved her husband. Obviously, she loved her children, her family, the life they had built together. And at the same time, a part of her wanted to step outside the boundary of the polite, middle-class domestic life they’d drawn around themselves. Or, to put it more crudely, she wanted to fuck around.

Read the full story here: The Emancipation of the MILF

Herstory of the Hot Tub


4 Minute Read

“You’re not planning on getting another hot tub, are you?” my two boys asked me. In unison. It was not so much a question as a plea. You have to understand, my hot tub, or the hot tub I once owned, had a reputation. If that hot tub could talk, oh lord, the stories it could tell. Back in my hedonistic 40s, my hot tub was the scene of more than a few orgies. A round cedar tub of the type you rarely find outside of Southern California, it sat in the corner of my back garden in West Hampstead, overlooked by thirteen windows. That the neighbours used to steal a glance while I was getting it on with two or more men was never in doubt. As an exhibitionist, it was all part of the fun.

Aside from sex, the tub was a place for confessionals. I recall sitting in the hot water with two close girlfriends, crying over a guy who had been cheating on me, while we watched his old jeans burn to a crisp over the BBQ. I wanted to see them go up in smoke just like our relationship.

During my sons’ teenage years, the hot tub was the place we would retreat for difficult discussions. Sitting in hot water definitely helped soften the blow as my boys let off steam and their feelings of anger, often directed towards me.

While for most men I met, being covered by four feet of water, almost always gave them a hard on, despite all academic evidence pointing to the contrary. Not that I minded most of the time.

It was a move to a new flat that prompted the question from my kids. Without asking it directly, what they were really saying was: “Are you ready to give up your crazy life?” I wasn’t sure.

Then the decision was made for me. It was six months after I’d moved into the new flat, on my boyfriend’s birthday. We were at a local pub, getting drunk. I picked up my phone, typing ‘Hot Tub’ into EBay. And there it was, a brand new four seater Jacuzzi, with flashing lights, speakers, a waterfall and loads of jets. The description mentioned something about being shipped from China. The auction was five minutes away from closing and it was £850. I pressed, “buy” and a few minutes later it was mine.

“What are you doing?” he said.

“I just bought a new Jacuzzi,” I replied.

“On my birthday??” he said, as if that special day was somehow reserved only for him.

“Does it really matter what day it is? It’s a Jacuzzi and it was £850!”

As it turned out, it wasn’t really £850. The price did not include installation, something I only thought about when the truck driver dumped it off in my front garden. “How am I going to get it in the back?” I asked him.

“I only have instructions to drop it off. You’ll probably need a crane.”

Meanwhile, the Eastern European builder, working on the flat upstairs was looking at me, taking it all in.

“£200 to move it to the garden?” I said.

“You’re having a laugh. More like £500!” he replied.

“No thanks,” I said.

What then ensued was a week of phone calls. One company told me I’d need to lift it over the house, shut down the road and get a license. The cost? A cool £3,500.

The hot tub supplier said it would be an additional £350 to plumb it in. My cheap hot tub was starting to look like a very reckless and expensive purchase. Eventually I relented, paid the builders £450 and then took a walk while eight of them lifted it over a brick wall into my garden. My friend Anne put it best when I told her: “Third world solutions to first world problems.”

As it turned out my new, modern hot tub, is on its way to acquiring the same mythic status as its predecessor, albeit without the sexual overtones. It turns out shagging while sitting in a plastic bucket seat isn’t easy. (Well, I had to try, didn’t I?) It is the place where Advantages of Age was conceived during one of my monthly gatherings of local girlfriends. Most recently Rose and I held a Hot Tub Salon about Death that we recorded using Facebook Live that has reached almost 3k views. And now that my boys are no longer children, they have come to understand its magnetic pull when attracting the opposite sex or just a bunch of their mates.

The old hot tub was a lot of fun and holds some great memories for me but I have a feeling this new one is pretty special. To the hot tub and all that goes on there. Long may it continue!

A Post-Menopausal Woman’s Perspective on Viagra


1 Minute Read

Take one middle-aged guy with a decent understanding of the female anatomy, one postmenopausal woman and add a dash of Viagra and what do you have? A recipe for red-hot sex that goes on and on and on. Age and experience combined with the stamina of a twenty-five year old. Ah Viagra, I do enjoy you from time to time.

I’m one of those women that really do love cock. I love the way a guy adorned with a cock ring is basically announcing he’s ready to play. And I adore the way I don’t really know how a cock is going to behave until I’ve got my mouth around its head or until it’s fully inside me. Every cock is different and part of the fun of sex is discovering how a man likes his cock handled.

A recent lover, who favoured a multi-ringed cock ring aptly named Gates of Hell, liked everything very slow and sensuous. He was also a lover of Viagra, something I hadn’t had much experience of in my forties. When I did have an encounter with a man on the stuff, I recall thinking after a half hour or more: “I wish he’d just hurry up and finish.” Viagra isn’t really meant for the younger man, in my opinion or those for whom erections come easily. It makes their dick almost too hard and can make it challenging to come.

Fast-forward ten years, however, and it’s a different story. As a woman who can take a while to achieve orgasm, it’s relaxing to know that the guy I’m with isn’t going to ’pop’ in a few minutes. I can take my time, content in the knowledge that we’re not on the clock and my lover can relax too knowing that he can look after my needs without having to worry about his own erection.

Viagra is discriminating. If there’s no chemistry, it doesn’t work. I have known men to take Viagra and they still couldn’t get it up because the situation wasn’t right. I like that about Viagra, if you’re not turned on it doesn’t work. It can make choices. I’ve heard women say: “Oh, the guy I’m with doesn’t need any help” but they’re missing the point. Sure, I understand that some guys take it because they really do need a little help. While for others it enhances what they already have going for them. I don’t have a problem with an older guy who desires the stamina of his younger self from time to time.

Mr. Xtra Hard, 54, told me: “Viagra takes away the worry. Put worry and sex together and it’s not a good combo. Some hedonistic males like taking recreationals that give you great ideas but affect your performance. Like the soliloquy of the wine keeper in Macbeth, it provoketh yet it takes it away. Using Viagra, I can be creative without having to worry about whether my dick is going to behave!”

Now, before you go accusing me of advocating drug use, here’s a warning. Viagra isn’t for everyone and may have side effects. which can include nausea, facial flushing and hot flushes. Some men also complain of indigestion, nasal congestion and dizziness after taking their tablet. For those who don’t actually need it, overuse can lead to erectile dysfunction.

To all the rest of the men out there who might need a little bit of help, I say, lose the shame, celebrate the wonder that is your cock and enjoy the experience!

The Erotic Guide to London: Torture Garden


1 Minute Read

I’m standing in a queue at least 100 yards long leading to the doorway of a club opposite Victoria Station. In front of me is a man, 6’7” or thereabouts, dressed in a latex black catsuit and matching thigh length high heel boots. The woman next to him is Japanese and sporting an itsy bitsy white rubber bikini that barely covers her breasts and bum.  As for me, I’ve gone all out and am wearing a knee length A-Line skirt of my own creation crafted from a clear vinyl, gold sparkle shower curtain, a bronze lace embossed rubber bra, black vintage waist cincher, fishnet stockings and 6” high heels.  I’m about to enter Torture Garden, the most famous fetish club in the world, where the torture for the majority of attendees comes in the form of the fashion police on the door.

Just in case you think I’m joking, here’s what was written on the ticket to the event, the TG London Fetish Weekend Ball, leaving me in no doubt as to what I could expect on the night:

“TG is an extreme event with an extreme dress code, General no’s include: camo, suits (yes, even with a hat), denim (even black), cotton shirts, and regular trousers or normal party dresses or cotton underwear. Our dress code is FULL FETISH FANTASY, outfits must be head to toe effort, not just a gesture towards the dress code. You can email info@torturegarden.com before the night to check your outfit is ok.”

My two friends, visiting from NYC, are accompanying me. “Do you think they’ll let me in?” says Selina. She’s braless, except for some rope arranged ‘Shibari’ style over and under her humongous breasts. A black sheer long skirt covers her lower half incorporating a corset around her midriff. Black knee length biker boots complete her ensemble. “I don’t think it’s going to be a problem,” I reply, not entirely sarcastic.

We enter the club where, once again, we join another queue, this one for the cloakroom. The line is winding its way up the staircase, where men and women are in various stages of undress while waiting to check in their duffel bags and coats. Off comes the daywear to be replaced by skimpy latex shorts or trousers, rubber dresses, uniforms or, occasionally nothing except some strategically placed electrical tape or a bit of cling film. Twenty minutes later, we’re finally inside the club where two separate sound systems are competing for their own dominance across the venue’s two floors.

Torture Garden is a rotating club, meaning they don’t have a permanent venue. Tonight we’re at the former home of Pasha in Victoria but we could have just as easily been at the Coronet in Elephant and Castle where the club often resides. There the former cinema’s space, featuring half a dozen rooms of various sizes along with a seated balcony overlooking a stage, lend themselves to the performances and BDSM play for which the club has become known - that and dancing, drinking and general debauchery. At Pasha one of the dungeon areas nearly backs onto the bar. The ‘couples’ area is not so much an area as a walkway along which some sofas have been positioned, perfect for the exhibitionists, not so great for those who prefer somewhere a little more discreet to shag. To top it all off, we’re packed like rubber clad sardines into the place. This is not my idea of fun.

The club is full to overflowing with over a thousand people of various ages and sexes. Despite the endless queuing and the club's name, the vibe is friendly and fun. In my ten years on the scene, I've yet to see a drunken fight at TG. Spotting a spare sofa on the periphery of one of the ‘dungeon areas,’ we take a seat. I’m relieved. My feet feel as if I’ve been walking over hot coals. Lori, my femme Domme companion, with a penchant for flogging subservient men, has brought her club bag, a mock leather tripod roll filled with her favourite instruments of pain. My own Dom, who is absent on this occasion, has requested that I abstain from any activity unless it’s with his permission. So it’s up to Selina and whoever else volunteers to take up a position on one of the spanking benches to satisfy Lori’s desire. There is no shortage of willing subs. Lori is in her element.

Between the rubber and leather-clad audience gathering around the dungeon area and those on the various pieces of equipment within the space, it’s hard to know where to look. If you’re into people watching, Torture Garden is an orgy of visual treats. For those who think their clubbing days are well behind them, it’s comforting to see so many who are well past their clubbing heyday enjoying themselves.

For the next two hours, Lori has a ball trying out her new lilac vinyl flogger on Selina along with a sixty-something man dressed in an ankle length tutu and, yes, me. It turns out my Dom doesn’t mind me being flogged as long as the person holding the flogger doesn’t have a dick.

The only genuine torture of the night turns out to be when we leave and encounter yet another long queue leading to the cloakroom. The attendants are unused to so many customers with quite so much baggage. Well, that’s Torture Garden. My advice: if you go, leave your baggage behind.

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