Booby’s Debut: Aelph Edgewood creates a YouTube Video of Ali reading aloud…

Gorge, my dears, on this succulent dish, the one and only Booby Fellatio – a fine figure of several women!

This has been a real labour of love and friendship – and I feel very warmed, supported and encouraged as I write these words.

A while back, my lovely friend, Aelph Edgewood, filmed me reading three extracts from my humorously naughty book, ‘Come Laughing!’ Usually, I am very self-conscious about anything which involves cameras – but, because I trust Aelph implicitly – and know how talented she is – I was able to relax and just be me…or should that be: Just come out as Booby Fellatio?!

Aelph also managed, as I have mentioned before, to capture a snippet of Booby’s debut at the recent Shadow of the Tor Variety Evening and ‘The Amortal’ premiere, and this she has very cleverly added to the end of the video.

With a combination of visionary magic and the technical brilliance she uses in Edgewood Studios, Aelph spliced it all together, pruning and cutting and so forthing (says Ali, running very speedily out of appropriate words!) until she had the three sections smoothly gliding into one whole – and all the other bits and bobs in place.

Bless her, she spent hours and days on this – and the combination of meticulous attention to detail, wonderful artistic vision, humour and knowledge has left me gob-smacked and breath-taken. Watching, as she tweaked our three favourite Booby photos and put them together, had me reaching for my brain as it leaked out of my ears (my having completely failed to ascend the ladder of understanding by this time and having, instead, slid ignominiously down the snake of technological ineptness!) – and yet also vastly impressed by the apparent ease (misleading, I know!) of it all!

I am thrilled and delighted with the final product – and so touched by all the care and commitment that went into it.

On a serious note now – and something many may not realise – I start from a baseline of NO CONFIDENCE in myself as a woman. I am aware that I cover this up fairly well – and that the persona I adopted as a teacher can see me through most situations, at least on the surface – but the last few years have taken a massive toll upon my sense of any kind of attractiveness, let alone desirability, and, therefore, this has all been very confronting – though also liberating and enjoyable.

This video-making project has been healing on all sorts of levels – as was the chance to strut Booby’s stuff on stage three weeks ago.

Booby Fellatio, as a fully-formed alter ego, came to me three years ago when, lonely, scared and trapped, I felt utterly powerless. She seemed to have a strength and certainty I lacked – and her utter indifference to what anyone else thought was refreshingly different to my own terror of annoying or hurting or disagreeing with ANYONE.

She made me laugh, which was even better in a way – and reassured me that, somewhere deep inside, there was a version of her, no matter how watered down. But, and I’ll be honest here, I was too frightened – and, oddly, inhibited – to bring her out by myself; I needed to be sure, I suppose, that she was ridiculous in a controlled, deliberate and self-mocking way – and that it wasn’t just a case of me, Ali, making a complete and unaware fool of myself.

She is my creation – and her words are mine, as, indeed, are the phrases and descriptions, funny moments and lyrical ones, in the other two stories – but she is not me. She is, perhaps, a phase I never went through -or maybe one yet to come: Who knows?

But to bring her out in this way is a major step forward.

Thank you, dear Aelph!

Auntie Booby Fellatio’s Solutions…

Well, darlings!

I nibbled the most scrummy little morsel the other day.  Mind you, and between ourselves, I am not convinced that he was, in the strictest sense, legal. I did ask  -before you leap upon me and threaten me with the Ducking Stool – but you know how very taciturn youth can be, and, when I queried his provenance, this particular one – Gary, for those who really wish to know – muttered into his bum-fluff an indistinct number which ended in the syllable ‘teen‘!

The wonderful thing about young men is their utter and unashamed rampancy! Delectable! Irresistible! They go at it, my dears, like stoats rampaging through the hottest stoatesses – but, of course, it being just little old me, well, need I say more?!

However – and, obviously, this must remain confidential – there are a couple of teensy-weensy little obstacles to overcome when it comes to the sub-twenties. The first is their laughable, and completely mysterious, identification of myself with their mothers (and, in some speedily ejected little toads, their grandmothers) and a correspondingly lamentable need to confide in me as if I were some kind of Agony Aunt (which I quite clearly am not).

Gary, for example – having performed the Splayed Stallion, the Grandfather Clock and that one on Page 448 which most men over thirty claim to be impossible and highly injurious – settled down for a post-bonk fag (as he so indelicately put it) and, I kid you not, a thorough-going whinge about his mother’s overly zealous attempts to control him via a curfew (about which, frankly, I gave not a toss).  I booted the little blighter out pretty damn sharpish when he started to complain about his Chemistry teacher!

Really! I ask you! Do I look like a counsellor?

But do feel free to hold that thought because it leads me very nicely into my second small problem with the inexperienced and dewily young. Their Inter-vaginal Ballistic Missiles (IVBMs), though splendidly wrought and firm to the nth degree, tend to go Boom in mere seconds…

And – let us be brutally frank here, ladies – that last can be a real turn-off: The tendency of the mechanism to go off half-cocked at the first sight of minge can, for any woman anticipating a sexual triathlon, be a bitter disappointment. Gnashing of teeth and rending of Basque are both to be expected at such a moment. As is defenestration of wilting swain from nearest available window!

Many a woman has come to me in absolute despair concerning this little matter, and my tried-and-tested suggestions have, I hope, provided relief in all but the most obdurate cases.

So here, fresh from the lips of Miss Fellatio herself, I give you BOOBY’S TIPS!

The first, and most obvious, ploy is the immediate adoption of the Corpse Pose: Cease all movement up to – and including if necessary – respiration until the missile has stabilized and is, once more, in Long Range Mode.

Secondly, go for Literary or Biblical attack: An ecclesiastically droning voice, allied with a few yards of The Old Testament or, far worse, a chapter of Dickens, tends to discourage most cases of Premature Rocket Launch.

However, there are always those few young blades for whom sterner measures are needed – and, for these, I find the adoption of the Motherly Tone of Voice effective, especially if it is allied with the well-trodden paths of Parental Complaint: Hours of allowed egress and re-entry, state of bedroom, homework completion, rankness of socks, facial pustules – all of the above can be used in order to keep the cork in the bottle until the female part of the equation is ready for an explosive bang and fizz.

Now I must shove off: Helga is pawing at the ground and snorting – and, let’s face it, a really good masseuse is worth two in the topiary.


Film Premiere/Variety Evening – and, a big hand (or something!) for…Ms Booby Fellatio!

Tomorrow evening, at the Assembly Rooms, Glastonbury, Shadow of the Tor will be holding ‘The Amortal’ film premiere and a Variety Evening. Doors open at 7 pm, and it promises to be a most entertaining few hours.

My plug, on this occasion, comes from Booby Fellatio, the character whose words of wisdom I shall be reading out loud to the audience!

If you live in the area, do come along! Loads to see!

Well, Darlings, my moment of fame has, finally, arrived – and, tomorrow night, I shall step upon the stage of some provincial hellhole – The Assembly Rooms in Glastonbury, to be precise – in order to strut my stuff and bow down to the repeated requests for a personal visitation from my hordes of fans!

My dears, I quiver in anticipation! Unfortunately, my luck ran out when it came to those interviewing me – and, scraping the barrel, I fetched up with that ghastly raddled old hag, Minerva Strumpette (who gave the lovely Emmerdale Winceyette so gruelling a time over her award-winning novel ‘Swan Sex’) and her revoltingly androgynous side-kick, Hilary Accrington-Hole.

Minerva, as we all know, is always at least three sheets to the wind (having, in all probability, segued from Gin to Aviation Fuel by now) and has all the sartorial style of a clown on Acid.

I shall be addressing myself to the following question: What luxury would you struggle to give up? So sweet! Such an opportunity for little old me to rhapsodize upon my predilection for gorgeous young men! So many chances for me to add to my testosterone-rich collection! Why, who knows what might not occur on the Paddington to Bristol, Temple Meads, train? The taxi between Bristol and Glastonbury; the hotel I shall honour with my custom that night; the venue itself…

The last time I was given this opportunity, I ended up with a ripplingly muscular rough diamond called Rod – and, my word, did he live up to his name?! – who, no slouch when it came to banging his tools into the wainscotting, gave me as thorough a going-over as any man in recent months!

I have been hired, on this occasion, by the dearest little local theatrical, and general media, group named Shadow of the Tor. Largely comprising young men (Whoar! Let me at ’em!), this chocolate box collection of potential treats has all the hallmarks I require for an out-of-town sampling session! I lick my lips in anticipation!

There will, of course, be other acts and not just moi! A film premiere too! What more could a body want, eh?!

Now, I must love and leave you. My beauty regime is, as we all know, rigorous and unforgiving in the extreme – and Helga (she of the ham-like paws), my masseuse, gets decidedly shirty if I am so much as a second late for her ministration!

Besides, I am expecting a special delivery – name of Tarquin, tongue like an anteater! – in an hour’s time and must ready myself for a jolly roger ‘ere the doorbell rings!


Sail away, sail away…


I sail away from you. Your figure, tiny now, blurs in tears. Moon Goddess catches in my sails, leaving a brief gift of translucent pearls.

We sail, my craft and I, over sunrise-warmed blue, tempestuous seething grey; in and out of countless settings of the sun and risings of stars and planetary bodies.

Without true choice, I had to go. It hurt more than I can say – a knife, without balm’s benefit, to the soul; a savage wound which bleeds still, dripping salty red spheres on to the weathered wood of the boat.

But the next phase of my training as Priestess meant this gash, this gout and grief, was inevitable. In order to sail towards, I also had to sail away from: Leaving you standing upon that familiar shoreline – not knowing whether I would ever see you again in this life – was almost beyond bearing.

Watching you shrink, seeing you become Lilliputian (in size, though never in regard), as freshening wind beat hollow requiems upon the canvas, forced the jagged rocks of unknown territory and accepted risk into painful prominence.

I loved you, friend of my soul, lover in all but act. I welcomed the plaiting of vibrations that connected us; relished the remote-control tuning-in that made physical proximity irrelevant. I bathed in the delicate dipping mechanism of your regard, your gentle strokes to the soul, your knowing who and what I was.

But I had to go. Destinies, like oceans, are vast and powerful – and can be blades of separation, even finite endings.

That, my more-than-friend, was the true leap of faith the silver-haired priestess had to make as she, as I, set sail in the loneliness of a sun-cured animal-skin coracle upon the unimaginable seascape of the Mother’s womb – which will, all being well, labour and then birth me, safe and sound, upon dry land within the nine months of a human gestation; this was the ultimate, if unimportant in the wider sense, sacrifice necessary to appease the gods of unavoidable moving on.

And so it is, now, with hands sun-chafed and brine-flayed; with clothing faded and worn to rags; with hair uncombed and claggy to the touch; with salt-reddened eyes and heart over-flowing with love’s most dreadful gift, grief; so it is that I, though tempted to turn oar and retreat, sail on, ever on, towards the remote black-etching (currently seen only in dream) that heralds my new life.

Sail away, Amgel; sail away…

Fierce : Eagle

Weißkopf-Seeadler auf der Jagd nach Lachsen

Fierce I am, in my natural state, a wild and fierce bird. Highly-sexed too, always have been. We are, our band of tattered and beautiful eyrie-dwelling creatures. But, for all that the surges of lust, and rapacious hunger, are mighty in my veins, I don’t want to be caught and tamed in the process: Don’t want the ragged pieces of bloody meat to lead me to net or trap.

Eagle myself, I need another eagle to mate with. It’s not what the humans would call racism, or desire only to stick to one type; it’s more that I want a mate as fierce and wild and unconventional, as red in beak and claw, as I.

I want a mate who, like me, cannot wait to reach the nest and is happy, indeed exultant, to dive lustily on the wing; to soar, coupled, above woods, streams, the Full Moon; to scream and caw out raptor joy through madly-silvered skies.

I would sooner be ripped apart by ferocious hounds than submit to pinioning; would rather feel the agony of hot metal piercing my body than be tethered and ringed round the leg; would prefer the wicked scarlet spurts and agonising pains of battle high up in the air to being perched and hooded in castle or bird sanctuary.

I am fierce, though not, in my own eagle way, unmannerly. I abide by the rules of the wind and tides, the laws, and lore, of my kind.

On fields of battle, I will pluck out the eyes of the dead for my chicks, or tease out the strands of blood-stiffened hair to line my nest; I will feast on flesh whose owner has long gone, and rend the sinews of small rodents still pumping and squealing and running.

I am a force. I am power. I am fierce.

I am Eagle.

Note: This was what I call a guided piece, in that the voice appeared spontaneously and wrote its own words! Inaccuracies concerning eagles and their habits may annoy some, therefore!