The dying art of Indecent Exposure

  • or flashing, as we used to call it back in the days when fun was allowed.
  • But not any more: drivers actually complained about this

I had wives and girlfriends who adored flashing. It made them unbelievably wet and horny, and it had a similar effect on most of the men lucky enough to catch a glimpse of the holy grail. Some got more than a good look, and ended up with a good fuck.

None of them complained when they were showing off their knickers, mostly because they didn’t want it to stop, and absolutely none of them called the police. It was flashing back then, not indecent exposure.

I had a wife who was better at it than the others, mostly because she enjoyed it more than all the others, and also because she had nerves of steel. She would flash her knickers anywhere. The more public and crowded it was, or the more unlikely the location, the more she liked doing it, and the wetter she got.

Standing in a crowded bar, you only had to say ‘show me your knickers’ and she’d lift her skirt and do a twirl. Always. She flashed on trains, planes and automobiles. She’d sit opposite a guy on a commuter train and visibly dribble into her knickers for half an hour while he covered himself with a newspaper and tried to hide the effect she was having. She did it in bars and cafes, restaurants and of course nightclubs, where being half-naked was expected of a girl, so she had to go further than usual and further than all the rest. This is a girl who sat in a London nightclub with her legs apart and her knickers in her handbag, fingering herself vigorously, while disbelieving guys gawped. ‘I want everyone to see what I’ve got,’ she said.

I think that worked.

We never stood on a motorway bridge but we did commute up and down the M1 every weekday for about five years, me driving and her with her skirt up, stockings and suspenders on show and of course her knickers on the dashboard, so lorry drivers in particular got a great view of her pussy while she played with it. My expertise was getting the car positioned just right, and matching speed with the lorry beside us.

It was her idea to fuck herself with the carphone. Good job it was long and thin, and on a long piece of curly wire, or we might never have got it back.

I suppose it’s no wonder she ended up fucking half the men at work. She arrived every day in a state of maximum arousal, and all that sexual energy had to go somewhere. Shame she didn’t tell me though; she knew I wouldn’t have minded and then it wouldn’t have been just one more of the dirty secrets that led to divorce.

Honesty is always the best policy, even if you’re fucking all your husband’s friends.

Yes, she did.

Here’s a link to her story:

As ever, here’s a link to the full newpaper story:

Sex Toy Fit For a King

… and so it should be.

It was designed by a King, for his own personal use.

In fact Bertie had the love seat built when he was still Prince of Wales, in the days when he had a room at the most famous brothel in Paris permanently reservBd for his use. There were 200 registered brothels in the city, so La Chabanais had to be special to be the best.

Bertie had a golden bathtub installed in his room , in which he and his paramous allegedly bathed in champagne, and also commission the love chair, which remained in his room until all Parisian brothels were closed by law in 1946.

The love chair may have survived but there’s a replica in a Prague museum if you need to see it.

Its purpose was to provide the King access to two young ladies at once, in ways limited only by your imagination. Or his.

He must have been a pussy connoisseur by then. Known as Dirty Bertie when he was younger, and Edward the Caresser after his coronation in 1901, he had a string of mostly married lovers throughout his life, including Lillie Langtry and Sarah Bernhardt, as well as Winston Churchill’s mother and Lady Alice Keppel, grandmother of Camilla Shand, later Parker-Bowles and latterly Duchess of Cornwall. Lady Keppel described her duties as the king’s mistress as “curtsy, then jump into bed.”

In fact he had so many Society mistresses that there was a special pew reserved for them at Westminster Abbey during his coronation service. The King’s loosebox, it was referred to by some. Wikipedia even has a page for them :

Disposable Sex Toys

No, not this one. This one is actually indispensable and irreplaceable, according to Mrs Q, and can never be disposed of, only replaced, like for like. And she does like it..

But the one below seems to have been thrown away – in the street.

It was found in Manchester by a woman out walking her dog; her young son saw it, and liked the colour, but she wouldn’t let him bring it home…

It’s an odd place to toss a sexual device; it’s not like the ex’s Clackers which had a tendency to fall out in the street, in bars, or shops or even the offfice, once.

You couldn’t lose something like a double-ended dildo without noticing. Could you?

I saved you the bother of Googling for yourselves. There are countless stories from all over the country about people who appear to have chucked vibrators away in the street – possibly from a parked car or even a hotel bedroom window, Here are some links:

But the best one is a whole carrier-bag full of the things, left outside Farmfoods in – yep, Manchester again.

Either the woman owner has replaced them with a new relationship, or she’s ended a relationship that was largely based on the abilities of dildos and vibes.

Which do you think it was?

Hotpants or Hot Pants?

By the time Catherine Bach slipped on the tiny shorts that became Daisy Duke’s hallmark, hotpants as a fashion item had been and gone at least five years earlier, maybe longer.

In the early seventies my wife wore hers as short and tight as anyone, probably shorter, and tighter. She was a girl for whom the word cameltoe had been invented. Sadly all those pictures were lost when we split up, along with so much else.

Including her hot pants.

These are different to hotpants, which are just an item of clothing.

Hot pants is a condition affecting girls who are eager to fuck. That was her all right, and I obviously loved it. I also liked the fact that she was keen enough to enjoy swinging, or wife-swapping, as we used to call it in those days.

Until I discovered that her idea of swapping was more like the modern take on wife sharing. It meant she fucked other guys, and it didn’t bother her if they didn’t have a wife for me to enjoy. After a while it didn’t even bother her if I was there at the time, and that was my first experience of a girl with hot pants – they’re often not too bothered who they get into bed with.

Or up against a wall with.

Lucky me, I remembered almost all of it in pin-sharp detail, so although you can’t see her pictures, you can definitely read her story:


The sixties – the sexual revolution.

It wasn’t just miniskirts, or even The Pill, though both played a fundamental role.

It was the first time that sex toys became widely available. A dildo that looked like a banana was a novelty, as was the Polaroid camera.

The electric vibrator had been around for at least 50 years, bringing much needed relief to frustrated housewives – and the doctors who’d been curing their “hysteria” with massage for over a hundred years before that. It was the first domestic electrical product to go on sale, before washing-machines or vacuum cleaners. And of course women had been using all kinds of objects to pleasure themselves since the beginning of time. Anything that fits, fits.

During WW2 the invention of new plastics and the method of moulding them into intricate shapes allowed the creation of increasingly realistic dildos, at a cost most people could afford. In the UK the first Ann Summers shop opened in London in 1970, riding the crest of the wave of sexual liberation that had begun in the sixties.

Among its early customers was my then girlfriend. She was petite and pretty and she was one of those lucky girls who could cum quickly and easily – and repeatedly – from being fucked. By anything. There was nothing she wouldn’t put in her pussy and everything produced the desired result. Unsurprisingly she loved the enormous black dildo we bought tiogether in Ann Summers, though it marked the beginning of the end of our life together. She always said that no object was a better fuck than a real live cock, but once she discovered London was full of young men with enormous and very alive black cocks, she was hot to trot, in every sense of the word.

But it wasn’t her favourite toy. This was – or rather these were: Love Balls.

It’s like having a cock inside you everywhere you go, apparently, being gently fucked every time you move. And since she was a girl who came every time she was fucked, the results were amazing – and continual. She could wriggle gently and make herself cum watching the BBC news. Walking up the stairs almost always made her cum too. And the entertainment value shot up dramatically once she was out of the house.

Obviously she tried them everywhere – at her office desk, in the cinema, in the car or walking down the street. That’s when we found out how much noise they made. Inside the big plastic ball is a smaller metal ball, and the vibrations that makes in response to movement are what makes this device come alive – and made her cum over and over again.

But the rattling noise coming from between her legs attracted all kind of attention, which is why she named them after the toy that was currently popular for lots of other reasons, supposedly.

But the best use of her clackers was in the clubs we went to in the evening. Dancing made her cum so fast and so often that she needed a rest in between records. She left a wake of baffled young men who couldn’t believe the effect they were having on her. She did her best to hide it, but you didn’t have to be a genius to see that she was in the throes of intense sexual arousal, no matter who she danced with or what they said and did.

The only drawback was that she had to wear jeans or trousers. She couldn’t be that excited without getting very wet, and in the Ra-Ra’s and puffball skirts of the day, one tiny movement could pop the clackers out on the carpet, even with the fairly big knickers that were about all you could buy back then. No thongs or G-strings, anyway.

And that meant no flashing on clackers nights, and she loved to flash. She’d show her knickers to anyone who asked, and plenty that hadn’t. But once they’d seen, they wanted what they’d been looking at, and she wanted to let them have it – usually up against a wall outside. But that’s all in her book.

Arise, Sir Will

Has Will Smith just reclaimed the right for every man to be a knight in shining armour for his wife?

Or has he damaged the right to free speech by making all future presenters at awards night back off from making jokes about people who might throw punches?

One thing is certain. He highlighted the way our culture regards people in the spotlight of fame. They’re our property, and we can laugh at them if we want to, and they just have to smile and take it.

Will Smith started to do that, until he saw that his wife was taking it badly. Then he slapped Chris Rock, a man whose comedy has never struck a chord with me. Does that means he should be struck?

Probably if Mrs Smith had done it the world would still be applauding. Every feminist in the land would be making approving comments about the way she stood up to a bully and took control of a situation that was not of her making and was forced on her by Rock.

And she had every right to feel wounded by such a crass “joke”. In Hollywood of all places, where appearancce is everything, a simple illness like alopecia is a career-ending moment. Would it have been funny if Rock had joked about an actress with anorexia? Would it have been cool to laugh at an actress with a weight gain? He would never have dared to call her out for being fat, if that had been her problem. But hair loss? That’s funny, right?

She had every right to feel wounded, and Rock has every right to feel ashamed of such a cheap shot.

And Will Smith had every right to stand up for his wife. Because if she’d slapped the man herself, we’d all know how much that joke hurt her feelings, and she’d be laying herself open to a lot more of the same next time, and the time after. And at times like that we’d all like it if there was someone on our side, someone who could speak for us. Especially a husband.

If a comedian in a pub started making jokes like that about women in the audience he’d get slapped a lot sooner and a lot harder, and never get invited back.

But instead of disbarring Rock from presenting anything ever again, there’s a growing call for taking away the Oscar Will Smith accepted later that night, on the grounds that he’s the one bringing the Academy into disrepute.

On the contrary. One small blow for a man, one giant leap back towards a chivalrous time, when every lady has a true champion, and a gentleman could stand up and defend his wife. Especially in public.

Arise, Sir Will.

Nothing New Under the Sun

The always desirable Helen Mirren photographed outside the Old Vic where she was appearing in Anthony and Cleopatra in 1965. She played Cleopatra, as you can almost tell from the picture.

Joanna Lumley, promoting her role as Purdey in The Avengers, 1976.

Madonna, promoting her new book, 1992.

Miley, promoting Wrecking Ball, 2013.

Nowadays on tour Miley shows fans her pussy, plays with it herself and sometimes lets fans touch it.

The art of being semi-naked in public

She should know. She’s spent a lifetime revealing almost all to fans and paps alike.

It’s a style and and attitude you’ll find most widely adopted by the adorable Miley Cyrus, who (like Cher) can also sing.

And before her was the undisputed queen of pop, glam and soft porn, Madonna herself, who knew everything there is to know about revealing almost everything and touching the bits you can’t see.

But the girl who started it all, and made female pop stars into sultry, sexy, tabloid sensations was restricted by the attitudes of her time, and was able to show very little by comparison, though she still managed to flash her knickers fairly regularly.

young Debbie Harry

It says a lot for the brooding sexuality of Debbie Harry that we got the message every bit as loud and clear as we do with her moden counterparts who let it all hang out. She herself recently said she admired the antics – and wardrobes – of Miley and Madonna, and wished she’d had the same freedom. She’s not the only one. Can you imagine what she would have looked like?

Lucky me, I didn’t have to.

I was married to a girl who copied the styles and fashions of her heroine Madonna, who went commando under skin-tight white Lycra cycle shorts as daywear, and appeared in bars and clubs where we lived wearing dresses so short they barely reached low enough to cover her knickers, never mind the tops of her stockings. Her most outrageous outfit was my black DJ with velvet lapels, black suspenders, black stockings and black fuck-me heels. That was it. No blouse, no bra, no skirt, no knickers. You could see everything. She got quite a lot of attention, even in posh London clubs where girls dressed to be seen and admired.

On the nights when she did dress more conventionally she would happily lift her skirt and show her knickers to anyone who asked, and often gave them to admirers, taking them off in bars and clubs and just handing them over, warm and damp.

One night we were in a West End club and she was in a chair facing the surging dancefloor with her skirt hiked up round her waist, her legs wide apart and her knickers pulled to one side in one hand while she finger-fucked herself with the other. ‘I want everyone to see what I’ve got,’ she said, and they certainly could.

Sadly there were no digital cameras in thiose days, and no smartphones either, so all of that was lost for ever, except for the parts imprinted on my memory. And a few pictures we took in the privacy of our own home.

I had to have them developed in a local processing shop, and the manager was always pleased to see me with a new roll of film to be done. Obviously he was even more pleased to see my wife, and he saw a lot more of her than anyone else, except people who’d actually fucked her. And there were lots of those…

If you want to read about that, and the nights out that were never photographed, it’s all here in her book:

When Big Black Cock was still taboo – even in porn movies

I’ve got a lot of reasons to be grateful to VHS porn, but several good ones for being less than positive.

The good ones you all know.

The bad ones – well, bad one really – was the effect those black boxes had on my girlfriend.

My sexually adventurous, voracious, demanding, insatiable girlfriend.

In the beginning her overwhelming desire to try every sexual experience available was a revelation, and we hoovered it all up together. Part of our experimentation included a growing collection of porn magazines brought back from Europe. It was the first time either of us had seen a black guy fucking a white woman. It wasn’t part of American porn culture, where the segregationist society was only gradually being dismantled. A white actress could ruin her career by appearing in a scene like that.

Then, as now, European tastes were far more liberated, and magazines with several pages of Dutch or Swedish girls with eight or nine inches of big black cock in their mouth and pussy were one of our bedroom favourites. Hers, anyway, though I didn’t really notice it. I was too busy enjoying the body of a fit young girl who loved sex at least as much as I did and didn’t mind admitting that porn magazines turned her on. This was groundbreaking stuff at the time.

When VHS tapes arrived, the story was the same – lots of Dutch and Swedish movies featured girls being
fucked silly by black guys, but none from the US. When the taboo was finally broken, even the groundbreaking Behind the Green Door, the first US porn movie to feature interracial sex, was still hamstrung by American attitudes. It starred Marilyn Chambers, an actor widely known for her role as a young adult who was the magazine and TV face of the Ivory Snow brand of soap. The main scene of the movie was the quintessential white blonde being fucked by a black man – boxer Johnny Keyes, complete with mock tribal face paint.

Even though the scene lasted 45 minutes, Keyes never ejaculated in her or on her. That would have been too much for American tastes. After he’d had enough of her white pussy, the movie ended with Chambers being fucked by a dozen different guys, all white, and the final scene was just slow-motion ejaculations, seven minutes of flying spunk. All white, if you see what I mean.

We must have watched it a hundred times, that film, her with one hand in her knickers the whole time, cumming repeatedly, but even then I didn’t realise that my greedy, eclectic, try-anything girlfriend had found her grail, the one thing she craved above all else – until we went shopping together one lunchtime for one of the newly-available vibrators, a first for both of us. I let her choose, on the basis that it was her it needed to please, and she hardly hesitated, walking briskly to the till with a huge plastic shaft that was nine inches long. And black.

‘You like black cocks?’ I asked rather stupidly.

‘Oh yes,’ she said, and didn’t so much smile as glow.

She liked them so much that she’d already tried it out for size in the Ladies at work before she went home, but any sense of deprivation I felt at missing its first outing (or inning, to be completely accurate) was wiped out by the hundreds of times I watched and helped her with it over the next year or so. On balance, I really liked watching best of all. She was a horny sight, small, tight body, pussy neatly trimmed in the approved fashion of the day, and Big John, and she decided to call him, slithering in and out. Then ramming in and out, She teased herself with it for a short while, slow, lascivious and rude, but within a few minutes it had raised her excitement and desires way beyond teasing, and she fucked herself hard and fast, cumming hard and fast in no time at all. Over and over again.

So it was no surprise that thing came out of its drawer every night and went straight into her pussy. Even when newer and more sophisticated buzzy things were available, her hand always went straight for Big John when it was her turn to choose what to fuck herself with tonight.

It’s no wonder that when I laid hands on my first VHS camera the first thing I filmed was her and Big John
having sex for 30 minutes on the sofa. The tape ran out before she did, and she’d cum half a dozen times by then, pretty little pussy clenching around Big John every time, big powerful orgasms that seemed to lead into the next one with hardly a pause.

She was always like that, whatever she was fucking, cumming fast and often, but the camera makes you
stand back and watch, and you see things you hadn’t noticed before. She was like it with other guys too.

We’d started sharing at about the same time as we bought Big John, picking up guys in bars and clubs , sometimes letting them fuck her outside in a car park, and sometimes bringing them home so she could be fucked all night by the two of us, me and whoever she’d chosen, and the power of her need amazed almost everyone who was privileged to see it and share it, and the speed and frequency of her orgasms
raised their surprise to another level – complete shock.

But she hadn’t reached her peak, nor had she forgotten her black cock obsession, and when she discovered that certain clubs in London were full of young black guys in a way that most local clubs weren’t, we had to try one out. And then she had to try one out, up against the wall outside. After that there was no turning back. She was addicted, and everything else was irrelevant.

And everyone else too, which was a shame from my point of view, because I was one of them.

Her extraordinary story, in a lot more detail and a lot more extraordinaryness is here:

Meanwhile, on Twitter

While other sites are closing their amateur contributions down, Twitter is still with us. Support your local porn community while it’s still there