Today I'm lucky to be joined by author Monique Roffey, who has dropped by to talk about her new novel The Tryst.
Ten Things I Know About Sex Guest blog by Monique Roffey
Author of The Tryst (Dodo Ink) £8.99
1.
Women don’t beg for sex because
we’re hard to please and we’re hard to please because our sexuality calls for a
more intimate way of relating during sexual lovemaking. Sure, a hard fuck can
clear the air, can be exciting, but generally, we need a heart connection
during sex. Head, heart and yoni are connected, in most women. We aren’t split
off. We don’t compartmentalize sex and love.
2. Women are genernally monogamous. Sure bone fide poly women exist, and I admire them greatly, in their ethics and their ardour. But most, of us, I’d say, have a heart that’s made for loving only one other, or at least one at a time.
3. PIV (penis in vagina) sex, as a means of pleasing women, is a lie. A woman’s centre of pleasure lies in her clitoris, not in the walls of her vagina. To be on the receiving end of a man thrusting a way for many minutes can be not only painful, but boring.
4. Men really want to please women. They mostly need a woman who really knows herself to show them how.
5. One significant, and little discussed, difference between men and women is sleep. We all go through several sleep patterns every night, which includes REM (rapid eye movement) in which we dream and are paralysed. During REM, men, all men, get an erection. Yes, several times a night, sleep arouses them. Hence men, most men, wake up with a boner, a cockstand; every morning. This can be welcome or unwelcome for most women. It’s a big difference in our sexuality. Men want to fuck first thing in the morning, every morning. Do we?
6. Oxytocin. Don’t get me started. This is the chemical which bonds families and couples. We women secrete more of it than men. It’s the reason why, after an intimate encounter, we already feel loved and up men don’t. Because we secrete this chemical in much great quantities. Women need to know this, and take note. It is the biggest reason why the playing field around sex isn’t even. Oxytocin. We tend to love more and openly and easily than men and we need to take care of ourselves if we wish to be successful lovers and be successfully promiscuous.
7. Bliss. We seek sex for moments of bliss. And moments of bliss elevate us and we touch the Divine. Sexual seekers, like me, aren’t necessarily seeking sex, but a connection to the Divine.
8. A great erotic love can strike at any time in our lives. I know, now, that it also takes a great amount of skill and maturity to maintain and withstand this type of love.
9. Eros is a trickster. You are stuffed if he strikes you with his arrow. Reason is left behind. You will be in for a bumpy ride. Get help.
10. You will love again after a great love has passed. You will heal, get over it, and learn, and the next time your heart opens and you sex again, you will be a little more careful. We get better and managing sexual love affairs, not worse. We grow, we learn, and we are always ready to do it again.
The Tryst, (Dodo Ink)
extract
Before lunch we had sex again on the kitchen floor. Quickly, this time,
me riding him. Oh, I like to be on top, to be the domina, the one who hostesses the show, who stages all the stunts
with human males. I am the party thrower, the orgy mistress. I gave him a good
fuck, massaging his cock with the muscles of my cunt, and the energy of him
rose upwards through me and lit me up. This Bill was made to fit me and I was
made to fit him; somehow I’d stumbled across him, this Adam. At first glance he
was just a primary model: Husband, Father, the Average White English Male. Homme Vanille. Marks and Spencer Man.
Nothing remarkable. Nicely castrated by the middle class feminists, cured of
any alpha tendencies. He had been trained not to be dominant. Isn’t that what
feminism has done, it has laughed the alpha males out of town. Masculinity is in crisis, say the clever
ones these days. Feminism equalised women in the workplace and put men in the
shed, where I found Bill. The male alpha doms went underground, thousands of
them, to Internet fetish sites and their private dungeons and the like. There,
many of my sistren operate, daemon-killers like me. Professional Dommes.
Strangulators, ball kickers. Experts in humiliation, bestiality, fucking men up
the ass with their strap-ons. Torturing testicles till they turn blue. We
Lilatha exist in the shadows, in the twilight; we are around if you look for
us. Many men do, those who like to submit. And they keep quiet when they find
us. Few imps, like me, stalk the pavements in full view. That’s my kink, to
fuck The Innocents, men like Bill. I like to dominate Mr Everyday.
And yet, as I had happily
discovered, Bill had secret charms and abilities after all. My assessment had
been wrong. I rode Bill hard, forging a twinned ecstasy between us. We groaned
and writhed, both of us dying afterwards. I laughed with glee, at how Bill
gasped for breath. “You’re lovely,” he gasped. I licked my fingers, tasting his
bitter-salt cum. “So are you,” I winked. “Feed me now, I’m starving.”
Lunch was delicious and
replenishing. We fell on fruit and gooey chocolate cake and ice cream and
opened a bottle of red wine. I put on one of his vinyl jazz records and danced
around naked. I’ll stay one more hour, I
told myself. One more hour, just one. Janey-Wife has gone, this house is mine
and we still want to fuck. I am not yet sated. Greedy thing I was, greedy
for his cock. Bill couldn’t keep his eyes off me, he was entangled – miserably
unsure of himself. Distant and yet high on that fuck-chemical of serotonin. It
was coursing through him. It was like watching a new drug addict and any minute
I might have to catch him from slumping to the floor. He was lust-drunk. But I
wasn’t. I’d provoked this altered state in men many times before; I had left
many husbands in this condition. Usually I fled well before this point. But I
was still enjoying myself, still very much the sprite.
I danced naked for a
while. Human men love to watch women dance in the nude and very few modern
human women do. It is a dead art, relegated to the dim caverns and glossy
tables of the lap dancing club. Burlesque strip-joints. Once, it was an art of
the courtly harem and the well-paid hetaera; once it was part of Bohemia, of a
social stratum of free thinkers and free lovers. Men have danced naked too, for
women and other men. There is a long tradition of the Lust Arts. I find this an
omission on the part of modern womankind as naked dancing puts men in a state
of awe and gratitude. The Wife won’t do it, never did. Oh, human women divide
their nature. Mother. Wife. Whore. They do not integrate. Good girls and bad.
Few celebrate that they are both. So there I was rubbing myself and licking my
lips, caressing my breasts, my hips, sliding my hand down between my legs. It
was an act, a naked tease. This was one of my many carnival tricks. I have
worked in burlesque clubs, learnt the art of grinding and wriggling, stripping
off stockings, gloves. Doing what American strippers call ‘ass work’, removing
strings of pearls from my pussy. I have a strong muscular vagina, able to pulse
and milk my men. But I do not possess the agility of hookers in the bars and
lap dancing clubs of the Orient. I cannot shoot ping-pong balls across the
room. I surprised Bill with three small but succulent beetroot I had found in
the fridge, already peeled and boiled. I dripped the purple ink over my quim,
inserting them one by one, dancing them up and in. He laughed out loud and
clapped for me and I took a bow. He knelt for me and ate as I released each
soft warm beet into his mouth.
More, he whispered.
And I complied, oh, with
cucumbers and carrots and the like. Bill was rock hard throughout. I loved his
cock, thick and uncircumcised. The tip glistened. At one point, I knelt in
front of Bill and took his balls into my mouth and swirled them round. He
trusted me more with his jewels this time. He poured wine over my face and I
drank and sucked and his cock was huge and solid and he stroked himself and
dripped cum over my face, rubbed it into my hair. Then he was sitting on a
counter top, his jeans unbuckled, his thighs bare, his cock like a tower. Me on
tiptoe, with my mouth all over him, my head bobbing, all the while kneading his
scrotum and his hand reaching down, stroking me, catching the drips. Then, his
body juddered, as if Aphrodite herself was stroking the kundalini up from his
genitals and up his back. His cum flew in hot spurts, white and pearly,
splattering his stomach, the fruit bowl, everywhere. And I came too, my cum
cascaded like a torrent to the floor, not a cupful, as usual, but a warm wave
fell from that secret reservoir. Like I had urinated, except it was translucent
and salt-sweet to taste. And with this release, I began to feel altered. I shouldn’t be here; I should have left.
Bill reached down and cupped the small of my back as I shuddered. My orgasm
swamped us both. I looked up at Bill and saw his eyes glittering. Oh Christ, he whispered. I could see
that he had recognised me. I was Wife No 1. My cover was blown. It was then I whispered my real name to him in my
language and he nodded.
The Tryst By Monique Roffey
Blurb
London, midsummer night. Jane and Bill
meet the mysterious Lilah in a bar. She entrances the couple with half-true,
mixed up tales about her life. At closing time, Jane makes an impulsive
decision to invite Lilah back to their home. But Jane has made a catastrophic
error of judgment, for Lilah is a skilled and ruthless predator, the likes of
which few encounter in a lifetime. Isolated and cursed, Jane and Bill are
forced to fight for each other, and, in doing so, discover their covert
desires.
Part psychological thriller, part
contemporary magical realism, The Tryst
revisits the tale of Adam’s first wife, Lilith, to examine the secrets of an
everyday marriage.
Praise for The Tryst
“What makes The Tryst an unexploded
virus isn’t just the quality and brightness of Roffey’s writing on sex, even as
it uncovers inner glades between flesh and fantasy where sex resides – but the
taunting clarity of why those glades stay covered. A throbbing homewrecker of a
tale, too late to call Fifty Shades of Red.”
DBC Pierre, Booker Prize winner
BIOG
Monique Roffey is an award-winning Trinidadian-born writer. Her novels have been
translated into five languages and short-listed for major awards including
the Orange Prize, Costa Fiction
Award, Encore Award, Orion Award and the OCM Bocas Award for Caribbean
Literature. In 2013, Archipelago won the OCM BOCAS Award for Caribbean
Literature. Her memoir, With the Kisses of his Mouth, was published in
2011. She is a Lecturer on the MFA in the Novel at Manchester Metropolitan
University. She divides her time between the East end of London and Port of
Spain, Trinidad.
Buy at
Amazon:
Book
trailer: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=esSTfsbP3P4&sns=em
Twitter: @MoniqueRoffey13
Facebook: @MoniqueRoffeyAuthor
Instagram: @MoniqueRoffey
Website: www.moniqueroffey.com
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