Eroticon Meet & Greet 2019

NAME (and Twitter if you have one)

Hannah Lockhardt but please call me by my human name as it makes me much less nervous. Every time someone calls me Hannah I get this weird, pulling, guilty feeling in my chest like I’m taking credit for something someone else has done.

Tell us 3 things you are most looking forward to at Eroticon 2019

I think it’s just going to be inevitable that I spend the run-up to eroticon dreading it. I’ll be fine once I get there, but right now I am most looking forward to travelling home on Sunday night. Which has nothing to do with anyone but me. I’m very excited to introduce my friend Charlie to the wonderful sex blogger community, and to share a room with Joy.

We are creating a play list of songs for the Friday Night Meet and Greet. Nominate one song that you would like us to add to the play list and tell us why you picked that song.

Paul Heaton & Jackie Abbott – I Gotta Praise

It really sums up how I feel about submission (something the friendships I’ve made related to eroticon are definitely linked with) plus it’s catchy as hell.

What is your favourite item or book you’ve purchased so far this year?

This year I’ve bought a lot of erotic art, and whilst this is an ongoing endeavour, this print by spunk rock is probably at the top.

You can have an unlimited supply of one thing for the rest of your life, what is it? Sushi? Scotch Tape?

Naughty Alice by Vivienne Westwood – it’s been discontinued and I’m down to my last bottle. It’s the scent of my cute and squishy persona.

What is your favourite quote from a movie?

Mrs. Lintott : Actually I wouldn’t have said he was sad. I would have said he was cunt-struck.

Hector : Dorothy!

Mrs. Lintott : I’d have thought you’d have liked that. It’s a compound adjective. You like compound adjectives.

What is your word suggestion to next years Eroticon anthology?

History

Complete the sentence:

I feel…

tired. So tired.

Read everyone else’s much better meet & greets here!

Histrionics

I want to delete my twitter account.

Two days ago I went through the steps of deleting everything but the tweets and content of the past year, but my finger hovered too long over the accept button and the moment was lost. Something made me think of all the history of the past four years, slivers of myself I probably can’t be bothered to seek out but remain there still, indelible for now. I lost my nerve.

Two weeks ago I suspended the account and this lasted seven days, or just over. You get a month to decide if you want to stay deleted, but can sign in again at any time, and everything will be back to normal. And I lasted a week.

When I came back I found I still didn’t want to communicate with people. I thought with time the feeling would shift again. Usually a few hours to recalibrate and you cringe at your overreaction.

Still waiting for the cringe.

Still waiting for it to feel normal again.

It should feel normal by now. Why doesn’t it feel normal?

I still wrote. I still write. The word vomit has to go somewhere.

When you go, do you signal it, or slip away into the night?

It feels polite to say that you are leaving but you’re happy, you’re fine, in case there are people who might worry or wonder after you. It also feels like showing off, fishing for admirers to fall on you and beg you to stay.

You don’t want to be asked to stay.

You don’t want to be asked to reconsider. You want to let go of the ties, rather than sever them. Watch the friendships float away peacefully like so many helium-filled balloons.

Maybe this persona has run its course.

Maybe

Educate.

Initially recorded as spoken word, listen to the original here

 

I want you to tell me things. I want you to challenge me.

Beat me at Scrabble – cross triple words, double letters, a hundred points scored in a single go and know it makes me shivery to see you do so.

I like it when you make me feel small, when you protect me.

When you educate me.

Explain things that I don’t understand – the mysteries of football, and how to make stuffing from scratch and that a griddle pan is not the best choice for frying an egg.

Smile ruefully when I get things wrong, on purpose. When I demand a bacon sandwich but won’t release you from my caress, but still demand breakfast sweetly in your ear as my arm holds fast around your waist.

Instruct me in my own independence. Send me on errands, with shopping lists and the money in my pocket. Trust me as you want me to trust myself when I fear I can’t. Etch tiny kisses at the bottom of the note for me to catch when I check I’m doing ok.

Teach me things about you – How you take your tea (milky, no sugar), how to grill bacon so it doesn’t curl at the edges, and how you like to be touched.

Let me take mental notes on how you touched yourself before you knew me – please let me watch you. I will never be as good as you but I can try, I can try to be good and do my best for you. Hold my fingers around you so I can hear the catch in your breath, the release of your moan and replicate them without your guidance.

Guide me in my own pleasure. Handle me gently and roughly and gently again. Shape me and test me. Soothe me to the brink of pleasure and finish me.

Teach me my beauty.

My worth.

Hold up the glass and make me stare at myself as you do; I want to see what you see. To understand what you know.

Your knowledge is my nourishment.

 

10 adventures I’m going to have after Eroticon

Eroticon is an amazing conference for sex writers and creatives of all kinds, an inclusive space to learn, network, feel inspired and express gratitude for the amazing community we have found ourselves in. This year was my first experience and certainly, hopefully, won’t be my last.
I am grateful for everyone who helped me have the best weekend possible, and here are ten things I am excited for in the future, as a direct result:

A dinosaur photography adventure with Exposing40

A transgressive writing adventure after Remittance Girl’s Taboo talk

A sleepover adventure to visit Molly & Signs

A slippery adventure with my box of slube and my GOTN mug

A lunch adventure with Missy

A photography adventure using the tips from Molly’s talk

A Smuthathon adventure masterminded by Amy

A science is fun, not using them for sex adventure with Hex condoms

A Bank Holiday adventure with my bathroom comrades

A loving, caring and listening adventure with myself

 

Scenes of an Adult Nature

I wrote this a couple of years ago, but after reading Isabelle’s post on sex and violence, I thought I’d stick it up on my blog too. It was originally a facebook note, and written before I started blogging in earnest.
Rant.
In the last week, whilst I have been trying to increase/streamline/provide evidence of my web presence as a writer, I started worrying. Yes, the book we do not speak of has made erotica – and specifically BDSM flavoured erotica – more culturally acceptable as a genre, up to a point. We read these books in public and no one bats an eyelid, even though most of them know someone is getting something eye-smartingly painful done to them within those pages at any given time. And yet, when I link my extracts of works in progress, I feel resistance within myself. For this is dirty work, in anyone’s language. This is wet and sticky and I am very proud of my words, but there is still that kernel of doubt that I am going too far.

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Bringing Home The Bacon

On Sunday morning, I am wrapped around you like a blanket, drawing a smiley face in your chest hair.
“I’m hungry.” I say. It’s 10am, at 9.30am I was spread-eagled on the sheet, your face nestled between my thighs with my fingers knotted in your hair.
“Hmmmm. I’m hungry too.”
“Bacon sandwich?”
“I ate the last of the bacon yesterday.” At 9.45am I was riding you, the mains-powered wand grinding my clit and you were using me in my favourite way as I came for a second time and you flooded my cunt.
“Hmmmm.” I frowned. “So, you’ll go and get the bacon?”
He laughed and held me tighter. “Yes, kitten – I will go and buy some bacon.”
“Good.” but as he tried to pull away and sit upright I threw my legs over his.
“But you stay here where it’s warm.”
“Ok…..” He lay back down. I bit into the flesh of his bicep.
“But where’s the bacon?”
“In the shop.”
“Ok you go and get the bacon. But also stay here.”
“Kitten……”
“Where’s the bacon?”
There was a pause.
“In the shop.”
“Ok. You go and get the bacon but also stay here where it’s warm and I can cuddle you. Ok?”
“Ok, I’ll stay here but also get out of bed and go to the shop where the bacon is and you can stay here and keep the bed warm for me and then I will come back and cook the bacon and get back into bed for the cuddles to continue. Ok?”
“But….You stay here?”
“How much do you want a bacon sandwich?”

In his defence, it was a very good bacon sandwich.

Blah Blah, end of year post, Blah

It feels disingenuous to write an end of year post highlighting the authors and creators I have enjoyed this year – as when those people have become friends, confidantes and so much more over the past 12 months, it looks cliquey and insular.

But the majority of these friendships were borne through our writing – mutual interests and taste similarities. Looking at one whose work emulates everything you wish to be, or writes about engagements that had never crossed your mind, or even actively repulsed you until you took the time to read about the subject and suddenly your horizons were widened and the world looked like a much different, slightly more magical place.

So I am unashamedly a fan of the work of so many people I think I am allowed to call my friends – some of whom I am certainly afraid to ask for confirmation in case they look at me askance – which has largely facilitated our friendships/’friendships’.

Anyway, here is my year roundup, faves, whatevers:

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I welcome Winter

My body in winter is so much more than the sum of its summer parts.

In winter, the exposure of my body is not a necessity. It is a desire. An aching, disturbing need.

All summer long we remove layers like so many sheaves of paper from an untidy stack, relishing each moment of cool reprieve before the endless swirling heat of even the most British summers returns. I loathe it. The constant film of sweat on skin, seeping into my hair and clothes and making me wretched.

Winter is the shivering pleasure I cannot wait for.

On misty workday mornings, I glance down at myself approvingly. My coat is thick and a scarf is wound about my neck, but here, between the coiling wool and the shiny brass buttons, is a thick wedge of my own chubby décolletage, a display of sensual flesh for any casual observer to enjoy, and for me to take sinful pride in.

I wear my flimsiest bra, anticipating the moment the chill northern winds permeate the many many layers of clothes I am wrapped in, and my nipples stand to attention, desperate for visibility.

I enjoy the feel of them, their painful stiffness when the temperature drops. The way their colour shifts from milky coffee to a deeper, almost reddish brown as the skin contracts and the texture shifts from soft and meek to stern and unforgiving

I lie on my winter bed, refusing to relinquish my summer sheets – revelling in my goose flesh skin, the persistent teasing lick of the icy breeze on my inner thighs and cunt.

If the summer is my tiring, consuming job of work, the winter is my lover, for whom I wait in eager, panting anticipation, and give myself to them when December arrives.

More Kink of the Week below!

A letter to Myself

Four weeks ago my world imploded as my M decided he could not continue to be with me, after some familial intrusion into our personal lives that some of you will be aware of.
Ten days later, nursing my poor, shredded heart, I wrote this letter to myself.
I have since reread it twice, and though it still makes me weep, it also calms me enough to press on.

Some minor things have been changed, names omitted (the copy I have in my file uses my real name), but other than that, it’s as it was then.

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