PASHA DU VALENTINE

News, views and unspeakable truths from head of design at Goddamn Media ĐØΜƗŇΔŘŦƗŞŦ

Thursday, 26 April 2018

Sex Therapy 1 by Pasha du Valentine for Goddamn media Available at Saatchi


Another of my open edition prints available at Saatchi today.
Also available signed and from my studio as a giant wall hanging canvas.



Zing Zang Zu by Pasha du Valentine for Goddamn Media at Saatchi


I can make this on giant wall canvas direct from my studio or
you get an unsigned version at Saatchi on line.





Sex Therapy and Sexpods



I am enjoying my roll as sex therapist more than any other position I have held, other than being an artist of course which is more of a reflex than a desire.

I find the subject fascinating and already have a waiting list for after my theses is handed in.

My specialist subjects are

Post Operative Couple Relations
Pleasure and Disability
Erotica for Couples
Safety in Sexual Practices

If you would like a consultation do get in touch.

Also I am launching the Sexpods which are mini podcasts with sexual therapy at the core. They will be on YouTube and on the video page of the site later today.

www.goddamnmedia.com/video





Tuesday, 24 April 2018

Instagram and Me

As a woman of certain years my Instagram should probably be about me in mature fashion. There is an older woman stereotype developing. She is the over 50 grey haired fashion icon with a bob. She wears high end designer clothes photographed in flattering light usually from above.

(Never fuck a man on top unless he is blindfolded or you are wearing scaffolding...you will look like shit as gravity pulls down all the excess flesh from half a century of overwork, child birth, shagging on all fours and housework.)

Anyway, where was I? Ah yes. I am not about to fall into the Stannah Stair Lady paradigm of mature perfection and social acceptance.

Follow my Instagram for a better take....grainy granny smut...way better!



Me and my scar
#cancer #survivor #stockings #gilf 





Monday, 23 April 2018

The Travelling Bug


with thanks 


It was time to go home. I missed my electric toothbrush and I had not had a good meal in days.

But I felt great. Ignited by a wanderlust. 
I was a traveller, a cow-gal, a woman who did stuff with fearless abandon.

I had done Brighton and it had no doubt done me. It had been a mutual liaison in the sun.

I arrived at the station with the spring in my step to be confronted with the normally devastating news that there were no trains to Portsmouth. But there was a shuttle bus service, how kind. I bought an emmental croissant and a gigantic coffee, my drug of choice, and got on the bus.

The driver was what we call in the UK, 'a gobshite'. But I had coffee. I was a maverick roamer of lands. I was alive and free. Just me 'n my backpack, my gold designer one that cost more than a week's benefit.

We were off to pastures new, Littlehampton, circumnavigating engineering works.

The driver began as he meant to go on with several hours of abuse and road rage. He drove as I imagine my 24 year old son would drive if ever he was left in charge of a vehicle. Worryingly and  with drunken neglect. At one point the driver actually drove over a pavement shouting at someone who was simply being careful.

But I was stuffed on the emmental croissant and the caffeine had kicked in. I had the urge to travel the world because me and trains and buses and back packs were made for each other. Discovery was my middle name.

We collected many young women (I am unsure of the group noun that is appropriate here) at the following stop. They were suitably dressed for summer, their vaginas seemingly eating their shorts. At one point I felt like I was trapped in a teen porn flick. Perhaps I should sit at the back.
But cool young women in skimpy clothes ALWAYS go upstairs. I was probably sitting in the perverts' seat but it was too late to move now. I thought nostalgically back to the days before my own vagina started eating men. But life moves on and so did the bus.

The next stop was fat man stop. Sigh....
I am not going to be politically correct, you have been warned. The British summer undresses men indiscriminately, we know this. The dude ran for the bus topless and I could see the sweat rash under his belly as it flew left to right in slow motion. My life flashed before me. I think he sat behind me but I was brave. He wasn't on the bus long but as he got off he started coughing. The driver commented, probably equally incensed, 'you need to see a doctor'. The dude explained he had been infected for weeks and we all held our breath. Then he alighted the bus and emptied his cavities of the mucous. I thought of Calcutta.

Then there was the phone call. No, more than one, I counted three. 
The bus is not your fucking office thought I. My coffee was still hot, those cups keep you going till Worthing. But I still nearly said something after his third domineering phone call in a loud voice with stuff that should be left till Monday.

When he got off I was surprised to see that he wasn't dressed in a suit as I had suspected. He was a bearded gamer type. I know you know what I mean and I will not apologise for blatant stereotyping, this is my blog after all. Worn shabby clothes and a cheap back pack in dark colours so they don't show the dirt from a 48 hour gaming bender is a type of uniform. I wondered if he hadn't been talking about work at all....maybe he was on his way to an enactment, I hadn't listened to details. Maybe there was a costume in the backpack, it was pretty big. Maybe it was his PlayStation. 

It was a protracted journey as we visited 'all the houses' between Brighton and Littlehampton. I wondered if we would ever get there.

My coffee lasted well, those cups are good. But what with all the camel toes and sweaty fat blokes I was getting stressed.

Then a couple got on. They broke my resolve.
It wasn't that she was so big I was concerned about the seat. It wasn't that he was so small that I was concerned about their sex life. (Remember I am a sex therapist and I now think in terms of solutions.)
It wasn't the stains on his plimsolls or the dirty push chair.

It was the smell. It was one notch off  'Eae du Vagrant'.
At the risk of sounding sexist, why didn't she just shove him in the bath with the kid?

By the time I got my connecting train and boat to the sanctuary of my house the wanderlust had passed. I was a homegal. A recluse. Agoraphobic. I may stay in bed for a week.





Monday Mood Swings, Femdom and finding the Art Groove






My Monday Google search to save you doing it yourselves.
Keeping things arty as always.








Grandma duties and cameras, paradise in a weekend.

I spent a wonderful weekend in Brighton with my beautiful Romeo who wore me out aplenty.
I may have been over zealous on the seesaw as he bounced slightly too high at one point and I thought he may have hurtled off into Preston Park!
What would his mother say, what would I tell his pa?
My legs feel like they have done a massive workout today and I proved that 
I am back to pre op fitness, nothing popped and there was hardly any twinging.
My new camera arrived and I love it already so I will be out and about this week with my 
'bigger than my dick' lenses making some art.
My love hate relationship with Brighton continues as it was amazing to hang out out in a mate's garden with G n T's and probe political dilemmas.
But I was very glad to get home to my Honey who had clearly missed me.










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