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Whisper #26 – C(ondom)atastrophe

Author: Uzumaki

I’m going to say it straight off: Japanese guys have smaller cocks.

I confess that my evidence could be more reliable as I haven’t actually seen any. Japanese guys really don’t do it for me. I’m a tragic yet common victim of the Electra complex, and I really like my men to be 6ft plus.

So how dare I make such a statement?

The condoms. The girth is small enough to be docking penises like lambs’ tails.

The story takes place in Tokyo, when I met another international student on a study trip. Tall, pale, scruffily dressed, with ugly, retro glasses, a paint-stained cap, and a sparse moustache. In that first impression, I struggled between finding him incredibly fascinating and writing him off as a complete dick.

We didn’t really speak again until we ended up seated next to one another at a group social occasion. He wasn’t very forthcoming with conversation. But at some point, he turned and threw some short answer over his shoulder, and it hit me. Attraction button was now switched on.

During the next month and a half, he preoccupied my mind as I danced invisibly before him. Then suddenly, he started showing an interest. Within a few days, it became apparent where we were heading.

We left a party early to “make food.” Food eaten, eye-contact avoidance, and twenty awkward moments later we kissed. Not with great passion, but with the cautiousness of two people who aren’t really sure what the other one wants.

After a while, he said goodnight and went back to his room.

The next night, to his surprise and reticence(!), I invited him to stay over. The next few days involved some passionate encounters sans full-on sex, as neither of us had any condoms.

One afternoon, highly frustrated, I ordered him to get dressed and marched him to the local convenience store. Which turned out not to be very convenient at all.

Thus began the longest and most expensive condom quest the world has ever known.

We first found a rack at a local drugstore, where glitzy boxes laughed at us in their sparkling glory. Having heard the rumours about Japanese men being smaller, we settled on “Super Big Boy – Size L” with a picture of a stallion adorning the front. It seemed a sensible choice, given that he is average in size. Twelve of these beauties cost us £17.

We returned home and somewhat artificially reinitiated our love-making session. We ripped open the packet, pulled out a condom and tried, to no avail, to squash it onto his cock.

We eventually rammed it on to his poor, tortured member and attempted sex. However, Super Big Boys aren’t made of nice and stretchy latex like Durex. Oh no. It feels like being shagged by a plastic bag. And it sounds like it too.

Another fruitless quest meant that we resorted to “Mega Big Boy – XL”, once again adorned with fearsome animal imagery, so the man can boast about his “elephant” size.

These proved a little better, but fitting them was still a struggle. And if there’s one way to kill an erection, ramming a condom onto it certainly works. The passion dies too.

Nevertheless, we persevered. Until one split.

My reaction in one word: FUCK.

Desperate Google searching revealed that emergency contraception cannot be bought over the counter in Japan.

Turns out you have to go to a women’s clinic for one of these little life-savers, or rather, baby-blockers.

So we rushed to a place that will haunt my nightmares for years…

We step into a small waiting room area. All the walls are a nauseating baby pink and a giant painting of an incredibly ugly baby leers out over the seats.  Plinky-plonky music, no doubt intended to sooth, is on a loop, giving the setting video-game surrealism. Women are sitting quietly holding their babies, or playing with them on a mat. There is not another man in sight.

We are given a form to fill out and perch awkwardly on the edge of the chairs. He scans the form and starts translating for me.

Him: “They need the date of your first period.”

Me: “My first ever period?! Are you sure they don’t want to know the date of my last period?”

Him: “No. Your first period.”

Me:  “I don’t know. Sometime when I was 12, I think…… What have you written?”

Him: “I made it up. It’s actually my birthday.”

Me:  “I first menstruated on your 15th birthday?!”

Him: “Yes.”

We hand the form in. After a while, the secretary comes over to us and makes some urgent enquiries in a low voice. I only have beginner Japanese. But I know the word for period.

Seiri, seiri….” she repeats, getting louder and louder.

He quickly mutters something. They both turn to stare at me and confer some more. She leaves.

Him: “I read the kanji wrong – it was your last period they wanted. She wanted to know if you had been pregnant during the past 8 years. ”

Me: “So she thought I got pregnant when I was 13 and stayed pregnant forever after?!”

Him: “I don’t know.”

Me: “I wish they’d turn that music off!”

We return to staring at our feet. The lady approaches us once again. More conferring. I get the gist. She’s asking what we need. This should be no problem. We looked up the word on the Internet. You just have to say “Morning After Pill” like you’re yawning: “moningu afuta piru.”

He repeats and repeats, and she gets more and more confused. In the end, red-faced, he mutters something and her eyes widen in understanding. With another quick glance at me, she retreats.

Me: “What did you say?”

Him: “Pill. Make the baby stop.”

Eventually, we are called in to the consulting room to meet the doctor. Surrounded by female assistants and treating only women, apparently this is the only male that works in this “women’s clinic.”

The doctor proceeds to ask lots of questions.  I squirm in my seat.  Then I hear a word I recognise: “shippai.” Failure.  Yes, damn right it was a failure! If you’re condoms weren’t so fucking small!

I am given two pills to be taken at a twelve-hour interval.  We pay over £30 and scarper as fast as we can.

Back at the apartment, by unspoken agreement, we throw ourselves into frantic sex. Over an hour of pounding. Part de-stressing. And part, “We don’t have to use a god-awful condom for this round!”

Exhausted and sore, we sleep. Then we shower and head out for an evening of eating and drinking with the group.

I love food. I eat more than my fill and greedily hoover up any leftovers. Stomach bulging, I discretely take Pill Number 1.

We return home, and sleep. Until I wake up at 2am feeling extremely sick. A hamster is using my stomach as an exercise wheel.

I promptly vomit up my food. Try to sleep. Vomit some more. And the pattern repeats throughout the night, with him comforting me all the while.  At 10am, I just hope I can keep Pill Number 2 inside me.

Fortunately, the pill worked despite the horrible side-effects. After this incident, we paid a visit to the friendly Condomania chain across Tokyo and found ourselves some reliable Durex. That was another £17!

We’ve since continued our international relationship. But wherever and whenever we end up meeting, a packet of Durex is sure to be in our suitcases.


This piece is not meant to be offensive to Japan or the Japanese. I love Japan and I plan on living there next year. Yes, I am aware of the current crisis. I have donated to the cause. Have you? If not go here:

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Whisper #25 – Bloody Sunday

Author: Lucy at Literary Friction

My mother said that marriages were like trees. You nourished them, you let them breathe, and they grew solid and far-reaching. Circles within circles; spiralled roots in the soil.

My teacher said that if you cut through the trunk, you could count the rings to see how old it was. Circles within circles; legends soaked in sap.

All by myself, I figured that no matter how old it is, there are only two rings in a marriage. Circle within a circle; his and mine.

I hope we’re not made of wood. I hope we’re up there on Mars, awaiting the marvel of the men who think they know everything and who bleed for knowing nothing at all.


It’s always the same.

He creeps through the shadows of our bedroom forged in twilight, and his shirt rustles as it falls. Then there is a world of warm flesh at my spine; teeth at my earlobe; a stubbled jaw at my neck.

A husband.

He smells like four hours of driving. Polo mints. Whisps of aftershave. Earthy sweat. His palms are cool as they mould to me and his voice is a thirsty breath.

“It’s Sunday, baby.”

I come alive beneath him. I become myself all over again. In the early hours of Tuesday morning, he will slip away as he always does and these are the times that keep my blood pumping. When he’s here, I have everything; when he’s gone, all I have is a ring.

Being married, I think, is about the memories you share together. Making love is about crafting new ones in sighs and gasps and smiles, and on this newborn Sunday, we are conjuring.

I wake up wet for him. My dreams turn me buttery in anticipation of the fingers that know me best. No disappointment, not here; he drags my thighs apart with the lazy swagger of his knee, and he sinks in to find the spots that swell for him. Rubs my flesh to echoes. Deftly skims the bud.

God, I’ve missed the taste of his collarbone and the weighty curve of his hips.

“Kiss me…”

It is the one thing I always have the beg for; I tear chalky paths along his shoulders until he relents, and then his teeth close round my bottom lip in a sucking welt of a pucker. I am teased for five long nights each week — this is the masochist in him, the one that thinks pain is like love.

And it is, isn’t it? They both crack you open. You feel every second of the meandering knit of the wound.

He lifts my legs to his shoulders. I want to kiss him while he fucks me, to feel his breath steam in the hollows of my neck; he wants to watch me come. A hand circles my throat and holds me firm against the pillows. He likes the way I moan his name with the climax half crushed in my lungs.

Circles spill out into my belly, hot and tight and ebbing. He doesn’t stop and I crash, crash, crash. Fold in on myself. OhpleasepleaseyesGodIloveitowwowwoooow.

I suck on his fingers as we slow together. He feeds his spoiled little girl. That’s what he calls me, when he’s hard and wants my surrender. Or when he’s mad. He’s usually both at the same time.

“Happy Sunday, Scarlet.”

His kiss is light, sated, though no delight casts his cheeks to apples. No smile; he never smiles when he takes me. There are nights when I am lonely and I worry about that, but for now the thought is buried because he is so painfully present, and I never know when that will slip away.

I put my arms around him and whisper in his ear.

“Luke. I love you.”

“Shut up.” He always says this. Hates hearing the words. When he leaves for work again, he’ll bend and murmur love you, baby because he thinks I’m still asleep. He’ll brush his lips to the blond waves swept across my forehead, trace the jut of my pout with a fingertip and then drag his suitcase out on to the landing. Launch himself back into the world.

Right now, though, he belongs to me; me and the rings that bind us. Feels transient.

I wonder if love is supposed to behave like a God with a hot temper.


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Whisper #24 – The Tart and the Tavernkeeper

Author: Anonadomme


We deal in a common currency, my love and I. We smile at clients, put them at ease, deliver up experiences to them for a reasonable price, a bit of pleasure which they could get at home but is sweeter for being enjoyed elsewhere. We understand that much about each other: that it’s a good day when you can improve someone’s mood, give them a lift for a few hours. We each have a our regulars, with comfortingly predictable habits and easy-open wallets. You might say we were in the hospitality trade. He is a bartender, and I am a dominatrix.

You have questions, I’m sure.

Q: Is he kinky, this barman of yours? Does he kneel at your feet after closing time, rapt on the sticky pub floor, blissfully licking your boots? Is it a seedy salon of a bar he runs, populated by perverts?

Well, no. Certainly not the business with the boots. He is a very hygienic man. He likes a bit of a swat from a soft suede flogger, once in a while, but he wouldn’t miss it if I didn’t offer. As for the pub, no, it’s a perfectly unremarkable London boozer – and as to whether the customers are perves, you’ll have to ask them yourself. (Good luck getting a response).

Given that my love is not a fetishy type, I count myself as doubly, trebly lucky that he is so unfussed by my choice of job. It’s not always easy for sex workers to find understanding partners who support what they do, and the fact that I make my rent money swinging a cane would put a lot of people off. Not him, though: he seems to think it more amusing than anything.

Q: Well then, what about you? Are you a kinky lady by natural inclination, or are you just in it for the money?

A: Understandable question, if a little cheeky. I am, in civilian life, a bit of a deviant, but a job has to be based on more than an inclination: I love baking cakes but I don’t want to be a confectioner.

Spanking bottom for a living was never on the list my careers advisers showed me, but it pays more and offers more immediate job satisfaction than anything behind a computer screen. Something in me atrophies when I sit too still, stay silent too long. I have the kind of energy that needs to be given to someone, that cannot be subsumed into long hours or intense thought, but can set a one-on-one session on fire with tension, power and warmth. I see the same fidgeting warmth in my lover’s calloused hands and broad chest: the need to be up and doing, the need to feel oneself physically in the world, changing it. He hauls casks and cleans cellars: I flick floggers and buckle cuffs. And as part of almost every shift, we sit with a drink and listen to our customers talk about their families, their jobs, their fears and desires. It is part of our job to know the backstory and to smile along or nod gravely, never arguing, never criticising.

They come to us for time out and physical release, whether through a pint of beer or a post-caning endorphin rush, and in our soft-lit spaces they can forget a little of the world outside and focus on the stimulation and pleasure of a good pub chat – or of fingernails carving half-moons of searing pain into the tender skin between thigh and buttock. For a scant couple of hours, the focus is all on them.

It is never wise to let customers forget, though, that the place is ours. In a session, I control the timing of events as well as the body of my submissive: makeup and clothing in place by 5 minutes in, adequate warmups to ensure no tell-tale marks give the game away to Mrs Client, a switcharound of furniture, postures and implements so as not to strain anything (their hamstrings, my caning arm), time to sit and chat and then an easy margin to ‘come up’, re-clothe, clean up and leave. Of course, negotiation runs like background music throughout our sessions, sometimes clear and explicit, sometimes turned right down so that my clients can enjoy giving me (temporary) power over them and their defenceless behinds, but some things are not up for discussion: I do not perform sexual acts (all respect to those who do, but I am not one of them), I do not do anything that makes me uncomfortable, I do not extend scheduled appointments without further payment.

My love has similar limits placed on his hospitality by the licensing board and the need to make money. Fine, we are all friends together, what’ll it be, good to see you again. But we all know the rules structuring the camaraderie: he does not allow smoking inside, he cannot allow drinkers to linger after closing time and you can be sure that he will not serve you a drink without payment. Like me, he steers a succession of happy, buzzing people out of his door as the hour demands, gracefully and without fuss: they know the rules.

This is what we do, when we put on our work clothes at 2pm and head out to see our clients. We build warmth. We make welcome. We provide a brief escape, and most importantly, we stay in charge. And when we come home, a little drained and fuzzy but high on other people’s happiness, we hug and kiss and sit contented, quiet, and ask each other, ‘So how was your evening?’


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Whisper #23 – Ice

Author: Rose George

I feel special.  Most women will have only one menopause, and they will hate it. I will have two, and when the second one comes, I will know what is coming.

I am having my extra menopause as a cure. I have stage 4 endometriosis. Lots of women have endometriosis – 22 out of 100! – but even more women have never heard of it, though some of them undoubtedly have it. I didn’t know I had it until I began to get bloated. My mother, because she is a mother, thought it was ovarian cancer. I thought it was diet. My diagnosis took a year to come, and not before I’d spent £70 on a kinesiology test from a woman from Huddersfield whose other job was providing hog roasts for weddings. I want that £70 back, because there is no way I’m allergic to coriander, and she didn’t mention that I am riddled and diseased.

I also started the NHS investigations: two ultrasounds, two times they found the same cyst on my ovary, which grew no bigger after several weeks. That was a good sign. Then a diagnostic laparoscopy, for which I had to travel to the other side of my car park, having the fortune to live next to a hospital (not so good when the ambulance helicopter does landing practice). In the recovery room afterwards, the consultant came in and said, it’s good news. It’s not cancer. But it is stage 4 endometriosis. I’m not sure where I found the presence of mind or even any mind at all, when it was whoozing round the room, but I said, ‘how many stages are there?’ Oh. He smiled laconically (he’s Edinburgh and laconic). “Four.” Later, he had a much better description of it: “Your abdomen,” he said, “is a fiery furnace.”

I am riddled. Diseased and ravage; strafed and clawed; ransacked by my own body. Every month, for at least ten years, the endometrial lining of my womb has, rather than be totally discharged as a period, gone for a wander around the rest of my body. It has attached itself to my bowel. It has glued together my uterus and rectum. It is all over my pelvis. And it has placed a cyst – the chocolate kind, as endometriomal cysts are called, sweetly – on each of my ovaries.

So I have my menopause. Really. The drug is called Prostap or leuprorelin (a word that neither I nor the hospital pharmacist could pronounce with ease). It is a gonadorelin (LHRH) analogue which switches off my oestrogen production. The way it does this is slightly odd: first it overloads my pituitary gland with the hormones that create oestrogen, then my pituitary gland thinks it needn’t bother making any more, and then the drug-supplied oestrogen runs out, my ovaries switch off and there you are: I’m 41 years old and menopausal.

That I do know. I know that they think switching off oestrogen will calm the inflammation and the fiery furnace. But the rest of it, the destabilising, depressing, enraging side-effects? A medical mystery. It is unsettling how often you hear this, because the list includes: what causes endometriosis; why oestrogen-blocking, menopause-inducing drugs seem to reduce its inflammation; and why all the horrible side-effects of the menopause drugs happen.

The hot flushes, that make me feel desperate to run into my freezer for several minutes at a time, dozens of times a day. What causes them? They don’t know.

The insomnia and night sweats so that when I’m not awake because I’m kicking off the bedclothes, I’m awake because I’m cold and covered in cold sweat and putting them on again, and other than that, I’m awake, my eyes closed but so wide awake behind my eyelids, they feel propped with needles. What causes it? They don’t know.

And the libido-destruction. Oh yes. I used to have a sex life. Actually they do know what causes that. They just forgot to tell me how soul-changing it would be, how my sexual soul would be frozen, how I would become ice.

How can I describe my asexual nature? Sex is a distant memory, like an unreachable shimmer on a horizon. The trouble is, destroying your libido means you don’t want to reach that shimmer. Suddenly sex seems like a foreign language, spoken by foreign people, and one that you have never spoken, for all your body reacts to anything.

I feel de-animated, passionless, desireless. Kissing is for greeting only. When my monthly injections wear off in the fourth week, I get a flicker. Sometimes I manage to have sex. But most of the time, my spectacularly patient boyfriend and I don’t make love. We make chaste affection. I wear pyjamas where we used to be naked. I don’t want to kiss. I want comfort. It’s like I’m 85 years old, or a child. All my adultness is gone, all those fertile, romping middle years of life. This must be what castration feels like.

But I am lucky. Endometriosis can cause awful pain, and I have never had that, beyond the two painkiller-dependent days a month I thought were normal. (They are not.) The treatment is finite (three more months to go); and the menopausal effects supposedly reversible. But I feel messed with. I am a woman being experimented on by men (my consultant is male, of course: the nurses are women. They give different advice, consistently).

A friend who took a libido-smashing drug too said, “I felt liberated. Like I didn’t have to make all that effort any more.” I don’t feel liberated. I have always been a lazy lover, because who decided sex had to be at night-time, when I want to sleep? And now I can’t sleep anyway but nor do I have the faintest, slightest, lightest need or desire or regard for sex. But I used to like it. I used to want it. I want to want it again.

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Whisper #22 – Whip Me

Author: Quiet Riot Girl (there’s a NSFW pic on the front page); on Twitter as @quietriot_girl

I would.  Whip you. If I really had to. I have tried to imagine hurting someone, consensually, picking up some implement a crop or a whip or a cane. And even in my imagination I find it hard. My hand gets heavy and when I pull my arm up everything slows down and I can’t bring myself to strike the blow. And I think of how I have found it so easy to be the recipient, whether or not it was my choice or my agreement it was still easy. It is easier in a way not to consent to violence. The responsibility is totally taken out of your hands. But I can’t even then remember the other person and what they did the moment they moved and aimed and struck. I only remember the sound and the pain. I don’t think I will ever manage to do it the other way round. Unless someone makes me. But that defeats the object.


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Whisper #21 – Hello, stranger

Author: Gabriela

I was drunk. Thank the gods for alcohol, that bottle of rum my (two) friends and I emptied chatting about those very significant nonsenses that make life worth living. I was wearing my very high white heels, black eyeliner and a cheeky attitude to go with it. It was too early to be late, way too late to be early. I had heard about him only a few hours before.

My friend introduced him to me, and we started with smalltalk. I’d lie if I say I remember a decent amount of the things we said. All I knew is that he comes from London and he’s backpacking his way through South America. He has an eyebrow piercing and a piercingly deep voice. Not necessarily an Adonis, as I am not a sylph either. There was something that drew me in, maybe it was his gaze, maybe his tone. I actually like not to remember exactly. All I know is that after that I got sick.

Yes, I got sick. My stomach simply rejected the industrial amounts of rum I had so needlessly poured in. I locked myself in the bathroom and washed my mouth obsessively. Ever noticed that alcohol lowers one self inhibitions? I got out of that bathroom with one purpose, and one purpose only. I was going to get a goodnight kiss no matter what. I only had to rehydrate first. My pierced recent acquaintance sat next to me, as I looked into his eyes. “Can you give me a goodnight kiss?”, I said. “I’ll go wash my teeth and come down to give you a goodnight kiss”

When he came back he sat back on his seat and looked at me in the eyes. I just remember he said something about my goodnight kiss, and we went upstairs. He closed the door, I laid down on the couch. We started kissing, the absence of light making everything easier. I didn’t have to pretend I’m a good girl, he didn’t have to ask what he could do. My weeps were shameless and accurate, as a deep seeded part of my brain had been released. He mastered the way to make me feel excruciating pleasure, squeezing and caressing, touching and kissing around. I couldn’t stop my hips from moving against him, his fingers inside me, my hands around him. There was nothing else but the moment, the undeniable truth of enjoying myself. I was, for the first time in months, having fun.

I asked him if he had a condom, he said he had one. He also said he was not going to have sex with me being so drunk. Had I stumbled with one of the legendary English gentlemen? He walked me home, I kissed him goodnight. Went (that day) alone to bed.

We agreed on meeting again, but I was too late and he was nowhere to be found. I walked all the way to his hostel to find him writing me an inbox about how long had he waited for me. Our talk resumed, me telling him about my day, he telling me about his life. He’s trouble, that I know. We’re not talking misdemeanors here; he’s a self-acknowledged bad boy. And boy, do I fancy him. He’s almost everything that I’m not, and he lives the life I only dare to dream off. He stirred some really deep things inside me, regarding my own wishes, my own freedom, the responsibility I hold for my own happiness. The responsibility I hold for my own pleasure.

Facebook inbox comes, Facebook inbox goes, a date was set to finally set the score. I was jumpy all day, thinking about what would, could or might happen. It took a while for us to meet at the pizza parlor; SMS goes, SMS comes, an hour later than the one we had previously agreed we were sitting down, ordering a pizza and some wine. It was a nice talk, a really honest one. We walked back home… we knew what we wanted to do. My mom was upstairs, but (eventually) he didn’t care.

We scratched and bit and squeezed and thrust. We kissed and whispered, trying to stay undercover, trying not to be so loud. He went deep, I went mad. His fingers caressed me while he moved inside. I came, he came, we both came around. He drank some lemonade and we kissed goodbye.

Tomorrow we’ll go out. Next Tuesday he’ll be gone. Today, I lived my life.


If you’d like to write your own Whisper, we’d love to read it! The submission guidelines are here.

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Whisper #20 – Breaking a new boundary…

Author: Anonymous

I’m writing this, partly to see whether I can convince myself by the end and partly to take advantage of the wealth of experience, tips and advice that Betty’s readers can offer. So, the dilemma is whether or not to have anal sex? (Answers on a postcard/ in the comments at the bottom of this post please.)

I’ve been with my boyfriend for the past one and a half years, and before that we were friends for a long time, so we’re pretty solid now. He knows me inside out and vice versa, so there are no worries about embarrassment, as we’ve pretty much crossed all boundaries with each other. Apart from this one.

The thought was first voiced, post-sex during a particularly rampant Christmas-spell, and whilst he suggested it, I have to admit I was already wondering silently to myself. We didn’t commit to anything, but both thought anal sex might be something we’d like to try. Almost like oysters, in the sense that you feel obliged to try them just in case you’re one of the people who’s mad about them and missing out, but fully prepared to be absolutely disgusted by the experience.

After seeing Yes lube in Betty’s object of desires, I’m thinking of getting some for my boyfriend as a Valentine’s Day present, however, this will seal the deal, so first I need to be sure that it’s for me.

I’ve not done any research, don’t know if there are techniques and rules to the game, but definitely don’t want to enter into it as a complete novice. Worries include immense pain, and physical damage, neither of which I’m a fan of. Attractions include a whole new realm of pleasure, and a new shared experience with my boyfriend. He’s obviously less concerned about pain or damage, and in theory looks set to gain a whole lot more from it, apart from a potentially traumatised girlfriend.

So what I’d like to know is: What’s in it for girls? How should I prepare? What’s the best/ worst that can happen? Is it worth it?

If we do decide to, I’ll write again after the event to let you know how it goes…

If you’d like to write your own Whisper, we’d love to read it! The submission guidelines are here.

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