Its All Arse-Backwards!

2008-06-16, 9:00 p.m.
Hellooooo! I�m back! Thank you all so much for all the lovely messages you sent us for our wedding, you are truly a jolly splendid bunch. As we didn�t have an �official� photographer for the wedding, Im still collecting in pics from all the friends and relations who were snapping away during the proceedings so, if its OK with you lot, I�ll save the �wedding photo entry� until Ive got a few more pics to show you.

In the meantime, I thought I�d bung up a few snaps of our honeymoon destination; San Stefanos, Corfu.

San Stefanos

San Stef looking towards the nudey beach

While we were there (in between �shagging like two zoo monkeys whose cage is being visited by a classroom full of 10 year olds�, �getting horribly drunk� and �frying to a crisp on the beach�) I bought myself a little notebook and did a couple of little essays, just as and when I had something I wanted to get down on paper. I�m posting them here, in no particular order (and typed up verbatim with no �benefit-of-hindsight� editing!), for your delectation and/or ridicule. I�ll shoehorn in as many photos as I think appropriate and hope that it keep y�all busy enough until a) something more interesting happens or b) I get the Wedding Entry finished.


Why do only ugly people go on nudey beaches? It�s not that I think they should be filled with muscular gods with rippling six packs and tumble-tressed beauties whose tits point skywards but just now and then it would be nice to have a break from over-hairy, pot bellied, acorn-dicked weebles and mahogany narwhals whose pendulous breasts point forlornly at frazzled thatches of grizzled pubes.

One hapless maiden of indeterminate age, but I�d guess around my own early 40�s, was wearing a turquoise thong of such miniscule proportions that the only part of her which we couldn�t see when she bent over (which she did a LOT) was the very * of her arsehole. At that point you surely have to ask �Why bother?� Admittedly it did coordinate nicely with the scrunchie corralling her weedy tresses into an insipid pineapple on top of her beach-ball head. She was 18 stone if she was an ounce.



In the morning it was overcast so we took a walk across the cliffs to Arillas.
ridge between San Stef and Arillas

The upward climb out of San Stefanos was on a half-made concrete road, passing the usual collection of half-built houses, half-starved cats and half-asleep locals. As we reached the top of the incline the thunderclouds sat over us like a miserable grey hat. A ring of bright blue sky at sea level and then a tumbling seething lid, grumbling and shifting and growing ever darker.

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From the clifftops, the views of San Stefanos and Arillas made the almost vertical climb worthwhile and when we started to feel the odd spit and spot of rain while we looked over the bay, we weren�t overly concerned. An older couple who had reached the top before us were sheltering under the portico of a part constructed villa, grumbling about the weather (even tho they had an umbrella) and trying to decide whether or not to turn back.

With a certain gung-ho-ness we carried on. The sky overhead was purple-grey. We made a few stabs at which way we thought the wind was blowing and whether or not it would just blow over.

Starting down a winding track (constructed, it seemed, entirely of sand and compacted goat shit) between the bushes (gorse? Broom? Beautiful bright yellow flowers and a heady jasminey honey perfume), we marvelled at the Greek safety railings; white painted stakes, no more than 6� high, jabbed into the ground at random spots where the sheer drop over the crumbing precipice exceeded, say, 150�. Anything less than that seemed to be entirely at the mercies of the walker. You wanna look over the edge? Go ahead! The entire cliff might suddenly crumble into the Aegean, taking you and your sensible walking shoes flip flops with it but, hey, whatever.

corfu road surface provider

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Picking our way down the slope with the gap between each crackle of lightning and each rumble of thunder growing ever smaller, our stupid sandals collecting damp mud until it looked like we were wearing giant goatshitmud snow shoes, it finally started to rain in earnest.

We could see the main promenade of Arillas below us and as our clothes started to drip and I finally had to concede that it might not be necessary for me to be wearing sunglasses, the skies truly opened and the gods dumped a big bucketful of warm rain right over our heads.

We ran the last 500 metres, squealing and splashing and trying not to fall over. �A bar! Find a bar!� we called to each other as we ran.

At the Portofino Caf� we dried off, wringing the water out of our clothes, giggling at the ferocity of the storm. I bought a coffee but before I could finish it, the rain had stopped, the dark clouds had pushed along the coast and the sky was bright and blue again. The caf� owner came out with a long, hooked pole to raise the remaining shutters. �Aaah! Back to the bizzy-ness�, he said.

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Another day in Arillas.

Arillas (after the storm)

Thank the Gods for mirror sunglasses! There�s no kind way to say it. Arillas has abetter class of naked people than San Stefanos. Breasts are plumper, nipples jut pleasingly. Buttocks are firmer and jigglier, chests are classically proportioned with aesthetically symmetrical chest-hair configurations. Cocks, whilst not porn-movie hard, certainly have the air of a �lazy-on�; about them and hinted tantalisingly at what they might become, given the right encouragement. Thighs and claves are smoother and leaner.

As we strolled hand in hand along the damp sand, a young woman stood ion the sea. The waves were, if not breaking, then certainly rippling over her quim. Her hands were in the water and she splashed the occasional spray over her tanned stomach and breasts, her nipples contracted to tight buttons as the cool water ran over her. Recreating the same pose and hour or so later (with bikini bottoms ON, I am ENGLISH, after all!), I must admit it felt fucking fantastic, waves lapping at my girl-bits like a lover�s tongue after a swig of ice-cold beer (!)

As we got level with her, she turned and RAN through the breakers back to her partner. With every part of her in motion, she was, undoubtedly, the most beautiful creature on God�s earth. I didn�t notice what her face was like. Maybe L noticed if she was pretty or not. I doubt it.

We scrambled and slid over the jumble of rocks and seaweed at the end of the beach proper and found another bay � utterly deserted, a breezeless suntrap.

Arillas

deserted!

We lay on towels on the sand, swigging from a shared water bottle and joking about getting cut off by the tide. I couldn�t keep my eyes off L and within 10 minutes his cock was in my mouth, a sweaty tangle of limbs, tongues, suntan oil, sand and desire. I love my husband.

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More on Corfu soon�..

Later
S
x

Pssssst! Wanna quick fix of weddingy fabulosity? Aaaaah, G�wan then!

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