Fifty Shades Finished ...

Evening, 

Sitting in the cinema, work colleagues surrounding me I felt emotional as the last few scenes played out on the big screen. This was a massive part of my life. It had been here for so long. I had read the books, Imagined my Christian and I his Ana. I had witnessed the terrible first movie and how, hooked and in need of a giggle I continued onto the Box Office for the second and third instalment. But now it was over. The end of an era and time maybe to say goodbye once and for all. 

Back in 2012, admits a gut-wrenchingly messy break-up with Mr. Workaholic I took complete solace in reading the trilogy of books by E. L James; 'Fifty Shades of Grey', 'Fifty Shades Darker' and 'Fifty Shades Freed'. It seems like so long ago I struggle to remember what it was like reading them, although I know already a part of me is hesitant to return to such a dark place in my past. Those books shaped my being, gave me structure and when everything else failed helped me realise that there was life after heart-break, even if it was sleazy and smutty. 

After being gifted 'Fifty Shades of Grey by Miss Tweedle-Dee I began reading a matter of weeks after Mr. Workaholic left what was to be our family home one day. I was hooked. It was my escape and at every given opportunity I would dive straight back into it. I couldn't put it down. On the Bus. On the Train. In the Weight Watchers Class. At work and At home. Like the rest of the nation, I was enraptured by Christian and his Red Room of Pain! Written as part of an original Twilight fan fiction I soon completely immersed myself in the world of Mr. Christian Grey and Miss Anastasia Steele. When I wasn't found drinking away my sorrows with friends of a weekend back home in Dunstable and Luton, or at sneaking out of work on a break to call Mr. Woof just to get him off, I would be found with my head in those books; escaping in any way I could from my own reality. 

As things got easier with my break-up with Mr. Workaholic, I soon rekindled a somewhat telephonic and long-distance relationship with Mr. Woof, (to which he has now earned his name) and in a round about way, gave me back some power and control I had since lost. In past blog posts I have written about how control and domination has been something of interest for me since I was a teenager, with rough play and borderline BDSM being a sticking point in many of my previous relationships. When E. L. James hit the big time with the trilogy of clit-flicks Fifty Shade of Grey, Fifty Shades Darker and Fifty Shades Freed, I was left wanting more. So when the films were announced to be released in cinemas I like many a red-blooded women was screaming in pleasure and joy at seeing Willies on the size on iMAX screens. Since then however, some idiot decided to turn the whole thing into a shoddily thrown together movie of the first book whereby we learnt that the cast hate each other, the director and the author hate each other and how much tits, bums and fannies get airtime in films that were made for women who like cock. 

Anyway that was Media Student me popping out to say hello, One minute whilst I beat her back into her fluffy-handcuffs. 

I suppose in a way the concept of BDSM had always been in the back of my mind, a taboo idea reserved only for a trusting relationship of which I found myself without. But I always liked the thought of being in control and in charge. I tried it once. Once! 

Cast your minds back everyone to my post entitled "A Midsummer Night's Disaster!" in which I truly thought that this would be a good time to implement my inner dominatrix. Suffice to say that attempting kinky sex with a drunk man whom you do not know the name of and have brought home for the night is not a good idea at all. My excuse was that I was a lost little soul who had just found out the love of her life was not reciprocating the feeling. I think we all know the ending to that story so I shall not relive it again. Looking back now it was a step too far and one which was taken in hast with the prospect of getting over my first and possibly only true love, at least that is what I thought at the time, unbeknownst to me that I would meet the quirky Mr. Cheese, The flash-in-the-pan that was Mr. Coffee and oh-so lovable Mr. Warehouse not to mention some of the other odd-balls I dated. 

Needless to say that I was happy with the (NSA) No Strings Attached heated phone-calls I received in the dead of the night from Mr. Woof. Some of them were when he was stoned. Some of them were when he was drunk. Some of them were even when he was at work himself. When I talk about it like that it seems as though he was using me to the highest of advantages; abusing the trust and vulnerability of an old friend. But I was as much to blame in that as Mr. Woof was. I wanted and needed attention. I craved it. I was lacking from all areas of life and was bruised by recent events, so I did what any normal girl would in that scenario and go back to what was familiar and comforting to me and that was Mr. Woof. Yes we had an odd relationship from the moments we would sneak off to a quiet corridor in school or the after school stolen sessions on the meadow fooling around in the sun. I was always his secret and now I didn't mind that so much as I wasn't ready for commitment but still needed that yearning attention and to get back some sort of control on my life. Even to this day I don't think that Mr. Woof really knew the power he had over me and how he made everything seem better in those stormy, cloudy days. I needed a little something I could dip into as and when I wanted. My honey pot of self-discovery and self-obsession. A confidence boost that extended far further than sexual gratification. Ahh yes, it was "A Dogs Life" after all. 

And as I left that cinema seat, another film over and done with, I felt sad for the ending of something that had brought me such fun, laughter and naughtiness over the last six or so years. And all for seeing a crumby movie about bondage. 


'Til next time, Love A.Lou xx

Is It Money Or Love That Makes The World Go Round Again?!

Hi Ya'll, 

What a difference a year makes right? I mean this time last year, pretty much to the day I was in the middle of the Las Vegas holiday of a lifetime and boy is the holiday-blues strong with this one. Never have I ever wanted to go on holiday or go back to a time as with my all american dream holiday - Even if I did argue with Miss Tweedle-Dee and Miss Tweedle-Dumb. 

Booking our holiday in January this year, my Tweedles and I are thoroughly looking forward to sunning ourselves on the beaches of Lanzarote and sipping cocktails by the pool. But it just seems so far away! Even the wedding Mr. Warehouse and I are attending in Newquay in Cornwall isn't until a week before my girls holibobs! With the years passing quicker than ever before I think myself and my friends have been severely bitten by the travel bug. Not going to lie - Slightly envious of Miss Tweedle-Dumb and her trips, city-breaks and holidays to Portugal and Paris all planned, I can feel myself turning into a little brat yelling in my head whilst having a tantrum every time someone mentions when they're going on their travels. The green-eyed monster is a-lurking, just what am I going to do! 

Scouring the holiday websites, desperate for some last minute cheap deal, a budget flight or even an offer on a train ticket, I will take whatever I can get so I can make the most of the upcoming Easter bank holiday. But everything is so expensive. And whilst on the one hand I need to pay for my driving lessons and save for a car, a little part of me will always be in search for my next arrival destination! I need more money! I need a pay-rise! I suppose I could work my second part-time job, but the hours aren't that great and its sucky walking home in the cold and dark, even if it is starting to get a little lighter each night. 

"Maybe I should whore myself out?!" I jokingly said to a male work colleague today in the canteen. 
"Yeah you should become one of those phone sex girls, talking dirty and stuff on the phone like you do to some of the customers?!" He replied. 
Slightly taken aback I had always thought about it, ever since my teenage years and even more-so after I separated from Mr. Workaholic and my late-night phone-calls with Mr. Woof started. I recall watching a programme on Channel 4, of all places, called "My Phone Sex Secrets" which opened my mind to the world of possibilities and just how much money can be made from pretending to be filthy, when in actual fact you have your feet up watching Corrie and sipping on tea in your Tigger onesie. 

On looking further into this it seems as though you could make a right little side earner from it, portraying yourself as a strong dominant female who demands you to beg for mercy or a sweet, innocent little something that bright eyed and bushy-tailed straight out of college, and everything in between. Whilst on the one hand I think about some of the kinds of people that call these Phone Sex chat-lines and wonder if their wives of bosses knew of their naughty affairs over the Dog and Bone that cost them upwards of a pound a minute, there is not much that would not make me blush. For example, I do not personally see the appeal of Water Sports, however this is not to say that I would not, or should I say, have not, told someone to drink their own excretions and on occasions even demanded them too, all in the knowledge that whilst I certainly don't get off on them doing it to themselves, a little part of me does enjoy overpowering others. 

Domination has been something of interest for me since I was a teenager, with rough play and borderline BDSM being a sticking point in many if not all of my previous relationships. It thrills me to think that I can have control over someone, just as much sometimes - if not more, that they can have over me. When E. L. James hit the big time with the trilogy of clit-flicks Fifty Shade of Grey, Fifty Shades Darker and Fifty Shades Freed, I was hooked from the moment Miss Tweedle-Dee introduced me to Christian and his Red Room of Pain! Since then however, some idiot decided to turn the whole thing into a shoddily thrown together movie of the first book whereby we learnt that the cast hate each other, the director and the author hate each other and my fanny has just swallowed itself for how shockingly poor that film was. Anyway that was Media Student me popping out to say hello, One minute whilst I beat her back into her fluffy-handcuffs. 

Now where was I? Ahh, yes - Odd arousals! Now you would think that for a women wanting to make a extra bit of cash on the side I would have thought about eBay and other bidding websites. Yes, whilst you can purchase most things from me including Sleepover kits, clothing and make-up, most popular of all seems to be footwear - most of which I have not worn in a while, if ever at all. A shoe enthusiast through and through, and with a growing collection of Sandals, Stilettos and Slip-on's; I would be mad to keep them all when I only have one pair of feet! Strangely though, I have more men buy my foot-houses than women. Peculiar as that may sound, foot fetish is still something of a taboo subject and whilst I have no qualms about foot and/or shoe fetishes, it is not something I find myself able to relate to. But if your willing to pay the price, I don't think there is much I would not sell - Well worn shoes, used brassieres and my silky, sensual tones. Just don't forget the P&P!

'Til next time, Love A.Lou xx

No Pain, No Gain!

Hey Ya'll, 

Ever wondered what its like to be a lady who lunches all the time. An unemployed busy-body whose husband is always working away, you probably have children in private school, and a friend circle which including the names Pippa, Harriet and Felicity. A wonderfully luxurious cocktail of Pilate's, Champagne afternoon tea and sneaky Tuesday afternoons stolen with a gardener whom tends to not only your roses but you as well, right after Murder She Wrote. Ahh yes, and the husband doesn't even know a thing! 

One thing that posh ladies who are unemployed do is go for spa days and massages on a regular basis, and as a wanna-be-posho, I try to keep up with this trend by booking in a massage every couple of months or so to relieve all the tension that builds up through people generally just getting on my fucking wick! However, my normal salon, which is college based training new, upcoming college-grad's on the best techniques and methods, was closed for the summer break and so I booked in with somewhere new. And so, walking into the new Chiropractic Surgery and taking a seat I glanced round the converted 19th Century waiting room. As the pre-twenty-something receptionist handed me a clipboard I read through the registration form before filling it out as best I could. After a quick pop to the little girls room I was ready to be rubbed down and have all the tension of the past few weeks eased away. 

Soon I was greeted by a tall gentleman, softly spoken with a wonderfully smooth and relaxing voice, possibly even sexy to an extent. He welcomed me into the small but airy consulting room and ushered me to sit on the massage table. Seating myself we talked for a few minute about my specific areas of tension and 'tight areas'. But with such a chocolatey-velvet voice I struggled not to imagine this as a weird porno whereby I would have added extras to complete my "treatment". To look at the poor man he wasn't that much of a painting, or at least not for me. He was no Mr. Warehouse put it that way. But Mr. Masseuse was very calming and relaxed in his attitude, especially given the fact he was sat bouncing softly on a Pregnancy Ball. Fairly young, probably no older than early-thirties, blonde hair - short but messy and with a twang in his husky voice that seemed European, or at the very least well travelled I listened carefully as he grilled me on not drinking enough water. 

As he got up and left the room, I undressed down to my panties as I usually would and did that odd shuffle you do when trying to get onto the massage table whilst attempting to keep my dignity and not look like a dead seal by the time the Masseuse comes back, which is always milliseconds after they initially leave. Placing my head in the doughnut I saw two feet appear, clad in a socks and sandals combo. 
"Yes, that's defiantly got 'home-schooled in Prague' written all over it!" I thought to myself as he lubed - I mean oiled up! Getting cringier by the minute he awkwardly asked if he could undo my bra and after saying yes politely it was unclasped quicker than you could say 'Playaaa'. 

As he started to work on my shoulders I winced at the pain. 
"This is meant to be relaxing not punishing?!" I pondered, gritting my teeth through the searing sting. "Or maybe that's what he wanted?!" my mind said, altering what was a normal visit to the Chiropractors into something much seedier. 
"Wouldn't it be hilarious if there was a mirror on the floor so you can see your face crumple when you are kneaded within an inch of your life by a smooth talking, beardy European man with no clear sense of sandal-etiquette" I chuckled to myself as I braced once more for his powerful push. 

As time went on I wondered if it would ever end and I will just get a nice smooth caress. No. The pain and struggle continued as Mr. Masseuse stretched, pulled and pushed my back like he was making a loaf of bread. 
"I will pay for my kindness and inability to saying ease up on the pressure tomorrow" I thought to myself wrenching once more as he Mr. Masseuse bore into my spine once more with his knuckles. It was almost laughable in some instances, especially when he went up round the back of my neck, a sensitive, sweet-spot anyway. I think the fact that he was discussing a "friend" of his whom enjoyed the feel of ladies walking on his back didn't help to stifle the sniggers and in all fairness I was just waiting to feel something oddly shaped and sticky on my back. 

But again and again I watched those socked-up, granddad-trainer-sandals pace in front and to the sides of me ready to deliver the sharp pinch of back-fat. Suddenly, as if the pain in my shoulders and spinal column wasn't enough to leave me paralysed, I felt a sharp jab on my Love-handle. And again, this time rolling the burn from my tail-bone to my hip. This had gone from what I envisaged as an oddly erotic, 1980's style porno, to a full blown BDSM, bondage sesh with zero safe-word. No longer could I contain my torture and out escaped a little "Eeeep"!

"What was that?!" I scolded myself, wondering if Mr. Masseuse though he may have stepped on a mouse. But alas, the agony had somewhat eased. I was tender in a spot I never even knew was tender! I was more sore their than anywhere else on my body. But after a few more 'oohs', 'ahhs' and "Eeeeps", the agonising manoeuvres were met with some reassuring 'hmms' from Mr. Masseuse. Kindly he said that my sides and the bottom of my back was seized up and needed to be released. Listening to his creamy tones I soaked up the moments of painlessness. But then a jab. Right to the buttocks. And then the other. Right in the middle of each Arse-cheek. Under my bum. On the sides of my bum  and back to the middle of each cheek again. "That hurt. That really hurt!" I squealed in my head. Agreeing with my pain he pokes some more along my thighs and concludes that whilst they are not the problem, my derrière, love-handles and calves were all seized up and needed to be "worked on". 

Facial distortion over with I was finished off (No Pun Intended!) with a firm rub to the nape of my neck to which made me squirm with a cold mixture of delight, tickles and the gratefulness that my hour-long ordeal with Mr. Masseuse was nearly over with. But then, just as I had contained my giggles so far he came out with the phrase "Mmm, yes. Your neck is spasticated." And oh dear. It had slipped out in a pure gaffeur of excitement and hilarity. Laughing and chuckling away to myself, imagining partly the look on my Mr. Masseuse's face and also reliving those words in my head I tried to excuse my behaviour by stating that I was ticklish their. I mean how old was I - Four!? 

With a buttery-smooth response, slightly sexy in a way from Mr. Masseuse saying that "it's be its OK to be ticklish" I was brought back into the room, in my imagination now with red and black walls, dimly lit and smelling of candle wax; When in reality it was still light outside and with a cool but warm breeze through the third floor sash window. Slowly and rather gently wiping off the excess oils Mr. Masseuse exited the room and I swiftly shot up and snatched at my clothes, shoving them on as quickly as I could, knowing Mr. Masseuse was waiting behind the frosted glass door. After I was dressed I invited him back into his room and listened to all the things he had to say about my body and how to try and alleviate some of the stresses in it. 

Granted I have probably over-exaggerated the whole BDSM, rough and ready, porno vibe but in my mind it sounds better than a whitewashed Chiropractic Surgery in which a Professional well-educated man with a slight accent massages the aches and pains of an overly excited twenty-three-year-old. Nevertheless I left the Treatment room, glad to be home safe in the knowledge that I will not be signing up to a life-time of luxurious mani's, pedi's and massages any time soon, and certainly not to the sado-masochistic Mr. Masseuse with his dulcet tones, heavy handed nature and odd footwear choices

'Til next time, Love A.Lou xx

Fifty Shades of Dismay!

Hello one and all, 

So last week was Valentines day and suffice to say that the loving nature of things came to a crashing blow mid-week. One reason being an altercation with a colleague but another was my absolute dismay at how shockingly poor the hotly anticipated blockbuster 'Fifty Shades of Grey' was. 

In 2012, admits a gut-wrenchingly messy break-up with Mr. Workaholic I took complete solace in reading the trilogy of books by E. L James; 'Fifty Shades of Grey', 'Fifty Shades Darker' and 'Fifty Shades Freed'. It seems like so long ago I struggle to remember what it was like reading them, although I know already a part of me is hesitant to return to such a dark place in my past. Those books shaped my being, gave me structure and when everything else failed helped me realise that there was life after heart-break. I soon rekindled a somewhat telephonic and long-distance relationship with Mr. Woof, (to which he has now earned his name) and in a round about way, gave me back some power and control I had since lost. Written as part of an original Twilight fan fiction I soon completely immersed myself in the world of Mr. Christian Grey and Miss Anastasia Steele. When I wasn't found drinking away my sorrows with friends of a weekend back home in Dunstable and Luton, or at sneaking out of work on a break to call Mr. Woof just to get him off, I would be found with my head in those books; escaping in any way I could from my own reality. 

I suppose in a way the concept of BDSM had always been in the back of my mind, a taboo idea reserved only for a trusting relationship of which I found myself without. But I always liked the thought of being in control and in charge. I tried it once. Once! Cast your minds back everyone to my post entitled "A Midsummer Night's Disaster!" in which I truly thought that this would be a good time to implement my inner dominatrix. Suffice to say that attempting kinky sex with a drunk man whom you do not know the name of and have brought home for the night is not a good idea at all. I think we all know the ending to that story so I shall not relive it again. Looking back now it was a step too far and one which was taken in hast with the prospect of getting over my first and possibly only true love. Needless to say that I should have been happy with the No Strings Attached heated phone-calls I received in the dead of the night from Mr. Woof. Some of them were when he was stoned. Some of them were when he was drunk. Some of them were even when he was at work himself. When I talk about it like that it seems as though he was using me to the highest of advantages; abusing the trust and vulnerability of an old friend. But I was as much to blame in that as Mr. Woof was. I wanted and needed attention. I was lacking it both in my job as well as friends and family who lived far from my door. I needed a little something I could dip into as and when I wanted. My honey pot of self-discovery and self-obsession. A confidence boost that extended far further than sexual gratification. Ahh yes, it was "A Dogs Life" after all. 

As for the film though I was disappointed to say the least. With the media hyping it up as they usually do with these things I tried to take it all with a pinch of salt and with a level head told myself I would judge when I had seen it not through another persons version of events and retelling. Once seated in the cinema with our sneaky snacks from outside the establishment brought in we awaited the film in high anticipation along with other eager viewers, most of them women and over the age of thirty-three. 

Rolling titles beginning it started as I had hoped and expected. the long drawn out scenes were everything that I hoped Hollywood would create. But obviously anyone whose anyone read the book in their own special way, imagining how Christian would look and what he would sound like as well as the timid Ana. I always thought of Anastasia being a brunette, yes, with an unfamiliar and uninteresting face, something you could so easily miss in the corridor to your office or in the halls at college. I never imagined her attitude being so open to such shocking and horrific mistreatment in the bedroom. Always thinking of her as a mouse and Grey as a calculated lion ready to pounce at any moment. Speaking of which, in my minds eye I saw my Christian as taller, broader, more chiselled and strangely more tanned. He had stubble for me and was more of a darker grey-eyed than anything else. 

Cinematically the colours were completely off. Far too much grey. We got the picture. Its 'Fifty Shades of Grey', we weren't expecting a bright technicolour rainbow on our screens, but neither did we expect to be sitting here wondering if this is what the world is like to dogs. Grey. Scenery was on point, not perfect but OK. Christians Apartment was what I expected from my head, as was Anastasia's flat-share with BFF Kate. Audibly I don't think they come better than Danny Elfman. The mastermind behind the music for TV Show 'The Simpsons', The award winning 'Silver Linings Playbook' starring Jennifer Lawrence and Bradley Cooper and my personal favourite of creating the brilliant theme song for 'Desperate Housewives' (God Rest In Television Peace - You are sorely missed!). 

Ahh yes, and so my film critic has come to a close. I would in all fairness urge you to go. Unless your a raging feminist and then of which probably don't go; You'll be scowling at the screen like Miss Tweedle-Dee wondering if consent was ever given or not and whether this all constitutes as rape. But that my friends is another story. All in all it wasn't the worst film. Very, very rushed, poorly made, shoddily thrown together with little nudity or sexual engagement or enlightenment yes. But not a whole waste of time. For as I left that cinema seat, another little part of my heart healed from where my first love had broken it. And all for seeing a crumby movie about bondage. 

'Til next time, Love A.Lou xx