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The same circular spinning end and with a nice range of attachments to slip onto it. But, the most important point to stress is the POWER.
At only about eight inches long and an inch in diameter, pound for pound, this little fellow packs a mighty punch.
The thing about the Hitachi is that, even in my menopausal state where my nerve endings are just not so sensitive down there, it can be just too damn strong… and that’s on the lower of the two settings.
With the Fairy Wand, that power is controlled with a variable speed/power dial that you can scroll with your thumb for less or, indeed, more. It has all the oomph of its bigger sister but delivers the control to the operator. So, it can satisfy those of us of a certain age who sometimes need extra intense, clitoral stimulation as well as catering for the needs of the younger woman.
The flexible neck makes the device incredibly versatile, following the body’s curves and contours during all over erotic massage, but also allowing pinpoint accuracy in more intimate areas.
Because I’m not in the States, it was suggested that it would be better to use the battery pack rather than the mains power lead. So I popped in all six AA batteries… which probably should have given me the biggest clue as to how much more I was going to get than with a standard vibrator. Surprisingly, it was not that noisy. I would say considerably less than some of the vibrators I have tested recently although, obviously not in the Lelo league for silent operation.
Riding Ruf in reverse cowgirl, it was light and easy to hold with one hand and compact enough that there was plenty of room for penetration as I attacked my clit with it in that position. We later discovered that it also works in both doggie and when on my back with my leg on his shoulder. It produced a truly fabulous clitoral orgasm for Ruf to ride as his penetration took me over the edge with a gspot double whammy.
Definitely worthy of a regular slot in the toybox for when we are together.
Obviously, I took it home with me to give it a proper test on its own with the intriguing attachments. These are made of silicon so I remembered to use a water-based lube on both me and them.
I awoke one Saturday morning with the urge upon me. Some particularly stimulating thoughts of Ruf securing me spreadeagled on the dining room table and systematically testing the contents of the toybox, if you must know! I pulled out the Wand and slid on attachment number one. This is a dimpled flat leaf-shaped piece of silicone. It’s about two inches long and an inch and a half wide and is designed to fit neatly inside your labia so that your vulva and clit are nicely covered. Switch on and feel the vibration gradually increase by scrolling the button. When I finally reached maximum, I could feel every muscle in my pelvic floor contracting tighter and tighter until, with a great sigh, everything released and the orgasm hit.
After a brief respite, I changed to the other ‘head’. This has a little penis-type shape about two inches long by an inch in diameter with a smaller version of the dimpled leaf-shape at the front. Slipping the little cock inside me, I positioned the clit stimulator as before and whacked up the power dial. I’m sure my face must have been a picture in reaction to the effect of this little beauty. Following so quickly upon the previous event, everything was still very aroused and so my innards were really motoring in response to this one. The simultaneous stimulation of both the clit and that sensitive area just inside the entrance to my vagina… well, words fail me!
So, three distinctly different methods to orgasm – the spinning wheel, the large flat head and the cock/clit combi. Not too loud. Loads of oomph. The only downside is the heavy battery pack and the lead extending from the end of the wand to it. But it’s a longish lead and there were far too many other distractions to really make it worth complaining about.
This is definitely a regular and will be making the journey with me to Ruf’s on a regular basis. It’s far too useful as a solo implement to leave there permanently.
I would say this is probably my favourite toy of the year and comes highly recommended!
Damp and drizzly with the prospect of an hour in Church coming face to face with God for the first time since I walked away from the vows I had made, followed by the cremation and tears. Not the sort of day anyone would really relish.
Add in my impending homelessness and the fact that one of my toes had swollen up to twice it’s normal size through some fungal complaint that is directly related to stress… none of these things is conducive to a healthy appetite.
In my new-found independence, I hadn’t taken account of the huge role played by my flat in giving me a solid foundation from which to build. This unforeseen insecurity has knocked me for six. I don’t like uncertainty at the best of times but not knowing where I’m going to be living in six weeks time…
I’m a very proactive person. I don’t tend to sit back and think it through, I want answers and I want them now. If these are not forthcoming, things start to ferment inside my head causing a thick soup of fog that clouds my better judgement. With dire consequences.
It’s all very well saying that I am no longer anorexic but my mind has other ideas. It’s not that I physically stop myself from eating, more that I don’t feel hungry.
I know that I should eat but, if I try, it doesn’t taste of anything. I just go through the motions of chewing and swallowing – there is no real pleasure in it or indeed incentive to think of food. And, without Ruf to physically cook the food and put it on the plate in front of me…? Well, it’s a slippery slope.
I guess the one good thing is that I can recognise the problem and write about it. Force myself to acknowledge and own the fact that I am not cured at all – only in rehab.
I was reading about true anorexia rehab and this is dealt with in three stages – treatment of the physical effects of not eating enough, counselling to help ascertain the psychological cause and then working with a dietician to develop a proper eating plan. I had hoped I had accomplished all three and was well on the way to normality, but the truth is that I will probably never be fully recovered.
This mental illness will lurk in the darkest recesses of my mind, no matter how hard I try to root it out. Waiting to strike when I am emotionally unstable. But I cannot live my life with a guarantee that things will always go according to plan.
I have to accept that shit happens and learn to deal with such upsets more productively.
Not just for the fabulous body and pretty face of Hugh Jackman and the many action scenes, but because of his relationship with Kayla.
There are two or three moments which just stop me in my tracks with breathlessness. I get that echoy, tight feeling in my chest that signifies a strong emotion and the almost irresistible desire to cry.
I love the way this relationship is depicted.
Complete intimacy mixed with a total lack of inhibition about public displays of affection, as evidenced in the scene when she drops him off at work.
He gets out of the car and starts to walk away but then turns suddenly. In response to a look from her, irrespective of the catcalls of his friends, he makes his way back and kisses her passionately. The smile that passes between them as they move apart is just priceless.
There is something so compelling about all that caged masculinity showing its softer contrast. I guess he reminds me of Ruf a little. That rough, tough exterior covering a heart so desperately in need of a woman’s love.
And then, later, after lots of trials and tribulations (which I won’t give away because I don’t want to spoil the plot), when Kayla thinks he must hate her, Logan suddenly holds out his hand to her, waiting for her to resume her normal place, her fingers intertwined in his.
That moment gets me every time. He stands there, all mean and muscly and stretches out his hand to cover the distance between them. Almost an olive branch of peace that shows just how deeply he still cares for her. I have to hold back the tears.
I tried for ages to find a picture of that moment but google (and an extraordinarily flakey internet connection) let me down.
Of course, it is the tragedy of the denouement, as he looks down at her and has no recollection of who she is and what she has meant to him…
The epitome of the perfect tragic ending.
Alternatively, you can rent it from LOVEFILM LISTING??
But it is very hard to get around the way that he treats me when he has been drinking.
Or when he is being selfish about something else that he might want to do.
I was trying to indulge my inner six year old. To try to find out why I have the issues that I do about injustice and insecurity.
And then my mother put in her two pennorth.
“Of course, when you were small, your father would work until late all week and then at weekends would go bait digging on Saturday and fishing on Sunday.
You would sit and the window sobbing, waiting for him to come home.”
“And he used to hit your cuddly toys, just to make you cry”
Now, obviously, my mother has an axe to grind in this area. He treated her incredibly badly. He threatened to put her in a mental institution because he could not understand that she did not want to have a drink with him.
Eventually she had to leave.
And she needs some help dealing with the guilt of leaving her three children in the care of an alcoholic father.
As the oldest, I am the one who bore the brunt of that decision.
It did not help that I was the one who looks and behaves the most like my mother. There is no doubt in my mind that I took some of the punishment he could not deliver to her.
He never abused me physically but there was a lot of emotional torture, especially when he had been drinking.
He joined my siblings in ganging up on me when I tried to keep our home together by cleaning and cooking and got upset when people did not pitch in or just did not turn up for food I had cooked.
As the six year old would cry and become withdrawn, the sixteen year old me dealt with this by becoming anorexic.
But it’s all in the past, surely.
No, it’s not.
My father in his seventies is a very generous man with his financial support.
But he is developing a habit of breaking our appointments in favour of drink-related opportunities.
This week, he did not even bother to make an excuse. Just did not turn up.
I know where he is because I can see him on Facebook in my sister’s pictures.
It’s hard to deal with the fact that your father would rather be with a sibling because she encourages him to have a drink and party.
But it helps me to understand some of the reasons for my six year old’s obsession with injustice and feeling insecure.
My father is never there for me emotionally.
He never has been.
I have to learn to process this in a way that does not allow me to be continually disappointed.
I love the way your smiles depress the dimple in your cheek The way you kiss me roughly leaves me trembling and weak I love the way your stubble prickles rough against my chin And how your fingers softly stroke their way across my skin
I love the way you wake me with an early morning gift I could never disappoint you by responding with short shrift I love to snuggle backwards, feel the strength of your desire Your body pressing closer til my nipples are on fire
I love the way Soduko makes your forehead crease and frown The way you hold me tightly when my hormones make me drown I love it when I lick your cock and listen to you moan And suck at the last dribbles til your sighs become a groan
I love the way you pull me close when sleeping in our bed The way you kiss me softly on my neck or on my head I love the way we both ensure we’re wrapped up warm and tight Unless we’re naked wrestling – which will end up in a fight
I love the way you mock me, saying ‘class’ don’t rhyme with ‘farce’ I’m surprised how much I loved it when you took me up the arse I love it when you say my tits and bum are mighty fine But most of all I love it cos I know that you’re all mine
It was this speech in the first series of Borgen that made me realise how much the world needs real Birgitte Nyborgs
There is a terrible and increasing difference between the rich and the poor.
And the politicians have just joined the rich and are contributing to the increase of their wealth.
It’s all about what’s in it for me and how can I feather my nest for when the electorate see through me and don’t vote for me any more.
Which palms can I grease, which arses can I lick to get me a well paid job with a protected pension in a few years’ time?
Conservative or Labour or Lib Dem. And don’t even get me started on UKIP, who will just try to blame everything on people with a different skin colour, no matter how much they contribute to our economy.
Politicians disgust me. But so do trade unionists. They are diametric opposites. But they both have the same long term goals.
Likewise the civil servants.
How can any country run effectively if its leaders are supporting business owners who take advantage of our tax laws but employ the cheap labour forces in the third world?
How can any country run effectively if its democratically elected leaders can go against the will of the population and frack underneath the homes of those people? Not their own homes of course!
There is no answer. There is no Robin Hood who will come to rescue us.
I start to wonder if for how long we can talk about the future.
“I’m a fully grown women. I have two children, I have a job, I’m studying. I’m a sensible person so why do I do this when nobody is around? And Im so terribly ashamed of it, so ashamed of it.”
On BBC1 this week and currently available on iPlayer was the programme Desperately Hungry Housewives. The story of several women and their eating disorders which showed up when they were adults rather than teenagers.
Two in every 100 women are bulimic but there are not the same support networks as for anorexics because they are not going to starve themselves to death. The sight of the speaker above Dettoxing the walls and floor of her bathroom in case she should leave any sign of her affliction for her children to find and her shame in so doing was very upsetting.
The woman who recounted her struggle with anorexia, which developed whilst she was pregnant with her second child was also very distressing, as were the accompanying pictures. Her terror that she might have affected her child through her actions but was totally unable to control was heartbreaking. But, even though he was born and grew up perfectly healthily, she still felt the need to starve herself, snacking on a single cashew nut. Through cognitive therapy, this woman seemed to be recovering but it was still clearly touch and go, judging from the charts she was keeping of her BMI, which put her dangerously close to anorexia again.
The third subject used bulimic methods to further her anorexia and her children had all gone to boarding school because she had been unable to look after them when she weighed so little. Her doctor saw her regularly and had threatened to take away her driving licence if she went below a certain weight. Her reaction to the news that she had put on a few pounds was very familiar as was watching her feeding everyone but herself or ‘binge’ on a some snacks before disappearing off to get rid of them.
In most of these cases, their husbands were oblivious to the problem for many years. This is part of the problem. The secrecy. The deceit. And the fact that it is often allowed to continue “unnoticed” when the spouse does know because it is too difficult to have a confrontation on the subject.
I know from my own experience that, if my husband did suspect, he ignored it rather than have to deal with it because he just didn’t know how. He couldn’t link my emotional unhappiness with this physical manifestation. He would cook me food but he was unable to empathise with my inability to eat much of it. It was totally beyond his comprehension to equate an unconscious decision to starve myself with a lack of affection.
But, also, family and friends. If they did question me about my decreasing size, I fobbed them off with some tale of how I was eating but working out a lot or that I’d had a stomach upset or some such. People are scared to push the matter for fear of making it worse.
From the stories showcased, it is clear that anorexia is often not about body image per se but about control in the face of difficult emotional times. Control is the key word. But it’s about self-control too. Almost a cry for help. A plea that the people closest to you will notice and give you some attention, perhaps?
Treatment is difficult. Forcing people to eat is not really the way to do it because all these women equate full with fat.
For me, it was someone separate from my family taking the time and showing the care to stay on the phone whilst I ate some soup. The first day, it took almost two hours to finish the cup but he stayed on the line until it was gone. The second day was almost as long. The third day, I managed a piece of bread as well. It was the first step on a long road back to understanding the reasons why I did this thing.
Acknowledging and addressing the causes through talking about it openly on this blog was also hugely important. And then an even harder path to try to resolve those causes which, five years on, I am just putting into practice. It is a very frightening thing because, suppose I’m wrong and the actions that I’m taking now prove to be incorrect and I fixated my complete recovery on a fallacy? Unfortunately, the only way to find out is to take that first step and hope that it turns out to be upwards rather than downhill again.
It was a difficult programme to watch, even for a recovering anorexic like myself, because in the cold light of day, it seems such a stupid thing to do. Whether it be not eating all day and then stuffing yourself with a whole packet of Frosties and another of biscuits, washed down with lots of liquid ‘because it’s easier to throw it up when it’s wet. When it’s dry, it can get stuck.‘ Or just not eating at all and trying to pretend that everything is ok, even when you look like one of the survivors of a concentration camp in the Second World War.
I just wonder why it is that we start doing it in the first place? Is it a twisted gene that makes some susceptible? Or some misplaced synapse within the brain?
It is a wasteful and thoroughly horrible thing and I’m sure there were lots of people shouting ‘Just eat something’ at the television.
Eating disorders that require starvation or purging are just beyond the comprehension of most normal individuals.
I have to admit that I thought something very unkind when the news first hit about Angelina Jolie’s double mastectomy.
Yes, I admit it, the words ‘that woman will do anything for publicity’ really did go through my head.
However, further perusal of the Guardian app on my phone reveals the importance of celebrity involvement for many issues. Recently, she accompanies our Foreign Secretary, William Hague to the Democratic Republic of Congo in Africa, to campaign against rape in conflict zones. The trip acquired a lot more press coverage than it might have received if Hague had gone alone.
I have now read her report about the operation and the thought processes behind it. But I am very concerned that she and other women like her are not in full possession of all the facts.
The stats that she quoted have actually been doubted by some eminent experts as being from ‘old data’. So, in fact, the likelihood of her getting breast cancer may well have been more like 59% than 87%. Still the wrong side of maybe but not quite so close to definitely.
To her credit, she talked about how many women with the same family history are not able to afford the cost of the test that will determine the percentage of risk because it costs $3000. The really sad part about that is the fact that there is only one company who are able to perform this test.
And that is because, when all the scientific discovery about the genome was taking place, Myriad Genetics was busy taking out patents on the individual genes themselves. This means that no one is even allowed to do any research on those genes without the permission of this company.
As I understand it, this BRCA1 gene is what controls the likelihood of a cell within the breast mutating into a cancer cell. In some women, it is faulty and the test ascertains whether you have a normal gene or one that is defective.
Before the end of next month, the US Supreme Court will issue a landmark decision in a case brought by the Association for Molecular Pathology against Myriad Genetics. However, following Angelina Jolie’s announcement the share price shot up to claims that delays in issuing a ruling meant that other carriers of the gene were being denied the chance to test because the price was being kept too high.
Since their decision earlier this month to support Monsanto, the agricultural giant over its soy bean patent, the chances of the Supreme Court ruling against allowing a big corporation to control a natural substance looks unlikely.
Whether Ms Jolie made the right decision or not will probably never be known for sure since she will have received the best pharmaceutical and surgical treatment that money can buy.
“Does my wife love me? She certainly doesn’t understand me?”
It’s the perennial cry of the unhappy and frustrated husband. And, in many cases, they’re right.
She doesn’t understand that continual ‘little boy’ need for attention in the form of sexual relations.
“Love me, love my cock!” is a phrase that underlies the psyche of most males and if, for whatever reason, his wife refrains from such congress, then the relationship starts to hit rocky ground.
For some husbands, it’s more than that. His wife may well put out regularly but if the sex has become staid and boring, it can be almost worse than none at all.
He wants that hot chick who used to inhabit his bed, the one who used to drag him to the bedroom for sex on demand or flaunt herself around the house in sexy lingerie when he got home from work. He wants to experiment with toys and light bondage and maybe even a bit of pain but she’s too tired or too vanilla to want to join in.
The truth is that he loves his wife, loves the life they have built together and certainly doesn’t want to lose it.
But he is unhappy at a most basic and primal level, a distress which begins to permeate his whole being. That’s when the hour-glass figure of the secretary in his office, that woman in stockings and high heels in accounts, the sandwich delivery girl with her fabulous cleavage, who flirts with him as her eyes take in his body, whenever she brings his lunch – casual observations which once were merely that, suddenly these become all encompassing passions.
He starts to fantasise about what it would be like to take any or all of them to bed, dreams that have him waking up in a hot sweat of guilt as he lies next to his much loved but seemingly uninterested wife.
Good sex is so intrinsically necessary to many guys that its lack can pollute the best relationship with the desire to stray, purely to satisfy that need.
That’s where the newest type of online ‘dating’ agency comes into its own. Specifically designed for those men who need more fulfilling sex but don’t want to jeopardise their marriages. These websites introduce unhappily married people to each other and allow them permission to stray without putting their marital status at risk.
He doesn’t have to say the ubiquitous words ‘my wife doesn’t understand me’ because, more often than not, he will be with a woman who feels similarly about her own husband.
For men who wonder ‘does my wife love me?’, illicit encounters that won’t jeopardise their relationship
Sometimes it’s Sydney, sometimes Melbourne, but, on this particular occasion, Perth was the location for a three week stay.
Three weeks without Cake on tap can be a long time. The company that we collaborate with in Australia have found it in their hearts to include nocturnal distractions as part of his expenses. And, in most cases, the guys that we visit have their own personal favourite establishment.
Oh, I hear you cry! Joanna, how could you?
Because I trust him. And so Ruf has my permission to seek out female company, providing I get to choose the lady and there is no penetration.
It adds a frisson to our relationship and, trust me, when he returns, he is reminded that there is no one who fits him mentally and physically quite like Joanna Cake!
Sometimes I am unkind and select him a buxom escort, knowing full well that Ruf finds it hard to deal with more than a handful of flesh.
However, my favourite treat is to find someone who shares my name. It was Joanna in Sydney and in Perth it was Jojo.
Once again, she was half my age and looked nothing like me, being of a different ethnicity. She had brown eyes and long dark hair.
But she had a similar size 6 frame with pert boobies. Ok, ok, her boobies may have been a little perter than mine but, hey, I’ve had two kids and they’re fighting the good fight against gravity on a daily basis.
But I digress!
After drinks and dinner, Jojo and Ruf left our business partners to their own companions and returned to his hotel room.
With glasses of champagne from the mini bar, they decamped to the balcony to take in the twinkling lights of the Perth skyline.
It was a warm evening and so Ruf was not surprised when Jojo removed her frock without any pre-emption on his part.
He leaned back against the wall and watched her as, dressed in a red bustier, stockings and high heels she refilled his glass and kissed his cheek.
Ruf loves sexy underwear.
He particularly loves lacy-topped hold up stockings.
He told me that he sighed because he missed me so much.
And then there was no time for sad thoughts because she was kneeling down in front of him and unzipping his fly.
In an instant, his body had jumped to attention and the important part required no persuading as she liberated it with her mouth.
Licking and sucking to produce a physical reaction so intense that he almost crushed his champagne flute.
This is the part where I always wish he would pay more attention. ‘But you were working with a professional! What did she do?’ I repeatedly ask him in exasperation.
He just looks at me with a beatific smile, reminiscent of the Mona Lisa.