Extreme Stupidity Put into Law

As a blogger, pervert and a keen admirer of the liberty of tastes and pursuits, it saddens me to note that as of today "possession of extreme pornographic images" is illegal in the United Kingdom.

This is worrying news for those of us who think that government does not have any business snooping around the bedrooms and hard drives of consenting adults.

Even more worrying is the fact, already reported back in April 2008, that this law has raised relatively little interest in mainstream media, and critical coverage has been scant. That's not encouraging, given most professional journalists' sensitivities about any attempts to nibble away at our freedoms of expression. But this one is difficult to mobilize public opinion against. After all, which politician is brave enough to argue against a law that will (at first) only affect a sexual minority? Taking a stand with the perverts is not the way to scoop up the votes in most constituencies, so kudos to Baroness Miller for trying her best to scupper the law from the undemocratic safety of the House of Lords.

Backlash and CAAN are mobilizing kinksters and right-thinking people in general against this law. Check out their sites, and link to them if you can.

The Register has just published a sensible overview of the law, implications and how to avoid getting one's face splashed across the Daily Mail's front page. And if you want a chuckle along with your indignation, try Luka's take on the extreme porn law. Just hang on to the indignation - we're in for a long ride on this one, I fear.

Update: Here's another good piece on the debate and the problems of this law, from politics.co.uk: "Extreme porn becomes illegal" - thanks to JD for the link.

Up

We had met 10 minutes earlier, and now we were at a crowded West End bar, going up a steep, narrow staircase. I was enjoying the full curve of her bottom, encased in a tight skirt. With each step she took, I could glimpse a stocking top and the outline of the suspenders underneath when the cream fabric stretched with her movement.

She felt me looking at her - stopped, turned half-around and smiled. "Didn't your mother teach you that it's rude to walk behind women like that?"

"I know. I'm being rude. What did you expect?"

Later, in a quiet corner of a beer-scented pub she waited while I fetched drinks. When I returned and put the glasses down, she turned to me, smiling like she did back on the stairs.

"Would you like a proper look?" she asked, the dark skin of her hands contrasting beautifully with the paleness of the skirt when she stroked the tops of her thighs, fingertips moving teasingly towards the hem.

She pulled her skirt up her thighs, exposing herself to me with a look of shy expectation in her eyes.

Sticky fingers

"Frustration is good for you" Jill said over the phone. I could hear her smiling into the receiver. "Besides, you get lots of pussy." She was disappointed, despite the teasing. For a couple of weeks I'd been planning to visit her and her husband again, possibly just to watch them, possibly something more...

"That's not true - all my funbuddies have moved out of London, looking for glamorous jobs and happiness on the Continent and the other side of the world. I'm bereft!"

She didn't seem to have much sympathy. "Right. You'll be having a quiet winter, then?"

"Seems like it."

I was interrupted by a wet, lip-smacking sound from the other end.

"Um, what are you up to?"

"Nothing." Slurp.

"Doesn't sound like nothing. Is Jack there?" I could hear a quiet moan from a full mouth.

"Hello?" it was Jack. "Just saying hi. Listen..." He put the receiver right next to his cock while his wife went down on him. She was sucking him hard, I could hear breathing, her little noises of pleasure.

"Mon?" It was Jill. "Did you hear that?"

"Yes."

"His cock is so hard... He's going to fuck me. Would you like to hear him fuck me?"

"Damn... yes!" I could hear them moving around, the swish of fabric and the unmistakable sound of his hand slapping her arse a couple of times like I'd seen him do when I watched him take her from behind, bent over the sofa in their living room, a few feet away from me.

"Aaaaaahhh..." she sighed over the phone. "Yes...." I imagined his long-fingered hands spreading her buttocks, easing his cock inside her. They'd put the phone somewhere close - I could hear the rhythmic slap of him slamming into her.

After a while I could hear Jack, faintly. "Take it." Then Jill's voice on the phone. "Mon?"

"Mmhmm..." I mumbled.

"I'm going to  come."

She did. Loudly. I listened to them until she picked the receiver up again, giggling. "My hands are soooo sticky!"

January

The first month of the year has a bad rep. It's a scheduled hangover combined with an extended moment for contemplating your personal morass of debt. It's the month for looking in the mirror, locking bleary eyes with the unsightly reflection greeting you there and loudly proclaiming "We're fucked!"

Or not.

There's something sexy about the dullness of this month. When you have recreational sex in January it's made all the sweeter by the thought of all the poor souls out there doing penance for their Xmas overindulgence, joining gyms and reconfiguring their diet to include at least one item of virtuous unpleasantness for breakfast, lunch or both - as if starting the day in the depths of winter is made any easier by scoffing nonfat yogurt and wholegrain crispbread before having your toes frozen off at the bus stop.

For a hedonist, reading the London papers in January feels like a call to arms against the puritan hordes bearing down on this sinful city, ready to shove us all into vast, smelly gyms where we'll run on treadmills and be fed flavourless protein shakes until we submit or lose the will to live. Every morning the Metro seems to shout at me: Now's the time to eat well, enjoy a drink now and then, take enjoyable exercise (find a park, walk around in it) and get laid a lot.

Now, get out there and find some more lovers of the pleasures of the flesh...