Category Archives: True Life

Here you can find all that is true about May More.

ivy and may more wearing be seen in green true life

Boob Confusion: True Tale

This blog has always been about my sex life and life experiences in general.

Recently, I wrote a memoir on Medium about an incident that happened to me when I was in my 20s. When a doctor abused his position of power.

The whole situation was demeaning, and so I never forget what happened.

Here’s a précis of the start of the story:


Boob Confusion

I love my breasts — and yours probably — but in a different way. What I mean is I am a fan of this particular part of the anatomy… Over the years, I have thoroughly enjoyed mine. However, on a couple of occasions I became boob-confused when I was duped into showing off more than I would have liked.


As a teenager, I was in and out of the Doctor’s surgery on a regular basis. This was because I suffered — and still do now and then — with eczema.

In those days — the early 80s — there was no such thing as a repeat prescription. This meant that each time I ran out of ointment for my skin, I would have to make a doctor’s appointment, where I would receive the note which said I was entitled to the cream.

When I left the family home at twenty-one and moved into a flat with some friends, I had to change surgeries. It was important to be connected to a Dr from the neighbourhood.

My eczema had flared up slightly. I only had patches, but they were irritating in more ways than one, so I made an appointment with my new doctor.

I was called into a large room and sat at a desk opposite a man around forty years of age. He looked at my quite extensive notes, asking a few pertinent questions. I showed him the patches on my wrists and elbow creases. Which he examined. Dry and scaly. Yep Eczema.

He then asked if the patches extended elsewhere, and thinking it was important to be honest with a professional, I said,

“Yes, behind my knees, on my shoulder blades and the side of my breasts.”

I continued by mentioning they were all similar to look at, and places where I had been inflicted before.

When he requested that I show him the skin on my legs I was not yet concerned. It was summer and I had a skirt on. It was easy to stand and lift my skirt hem slightly, so he could see…

Continue with this free friends link…


So why do I keep offering you links to my medium work? Because I get paid for views – the small amount of money I get each month enables me to continue writing stories on this blog and on other platforms.

Thank you to everyone who has supported my work over the years…

Boob Confusion

Exposed: What goes on Behind the Story

I have found that an excellent tool when writing fiction is to take some of your own experience and put it in a story. I do this a lot. Usually it may be that I base a character on someone I once knew, or I fictionalise a story that I have been told by a friend. It happened to them, but I jazz it up a bit. Call it artistic licence if you will.

Over on Medium I have made an area for all my personal fictionalised stories that actually are very near the truth. I may make the setting slightly different and sensationalise the scene somewhat. But on the whole they are a true representation of something that happened to me during my lifetime.

Today I am going to share one – Exposed: It Only Takes a Minutewhich is a little uncomfortable… If you have suffered from unwanted sexual advances, you may wish to leave now.


Exposed – It Only Takes a Minute

The best thing about working in the city was being near to all the coolest bars and clubs in the West End. On a Friday night my workmates and I would head off to the pub then, on to a tiny club we’d found round the side of Dean Street. To be honest it was verging on seedy, but on occasions it hosted excellent live music. Bands that would make it — but hadn’t quite got there.

The worst thing about working in the city was having to catch the last train home. There was the ever present fear that you’d actually miss it, not to mention travelling alone isn’t always the best thing to do at midnight. But living to the max in those days meant taking a few risks.

One night I hopped on with minutes to spare, making sure it was not a small carriage. I can’t think why they were ever put into circulation. Asking for trouble. In fact, one day a friend of mine…

Hang on, I am digressing. That story can wait for another time. Where was I?

I just made the last train. Banged the door shut on a large carriage and slumped into my seat, a little tipsy. I briefly glanced ahead, along the centre aisle, and couldn’t see any other passengers.

The train attendant blew his whistle as a sign of imminent departure, and behind me, I heard the sound of someone else getting on the train and slamming the door. Only the two of us then. Still, the next station was five minutes away, and it was a busy one. Thames side. I was certain others would join us there. Nothing to worry about. Was there?

Five minutes is all it takes… To feel exposed.

As the train left the station, I glanced out my window. Being as it was dark outside and there were lights in the compartment, the most I got to see was my reflection… But then — I saw his.

The late arrival.

He’d moved and was seated to my left, diagonally over the other side, so I had a perfect view of him in the glass.

Long hair, denim jacket. Just a guy on his way home?

Five minutes, nothing to worry about.

Five minutes is all it takes… To feel vulnerable.

His eyes on me.

I did not want to look directly at him. I had two choices, close my lids and have no control, or glance out the window. Trouble was, when I did the latter, I saw his mirror image.

Fly undone. Long, thin and upright. Exposed. Hand, back and forth… Eyes on me.

Five minutes is a long time.

and is all it takes to feel threatened by what someone else is doing.

Three hundred seconds of my heart beating faster.

Three hundred seconds of being scared of what he may do next…

Moments before the train came into the next station… so did he.

As soon as it was safe, I leapt out of the carriage, ran along the platform and chose another, containing laughing, smiling people.

Time to breathe… Five minutes was all it took.


If you would like to read more of my fiction, then here’s a link to over 175 stories from me. You are allowed to read 3 every month for free – but if you pay just $5 a month, That’s about £1 a week… you can read EVERYTHING on Medium. Clicking this link to join, helps support me and other writers you like.


Exposed : Scary Stuff

Header image from Pixabay

Sexology ~ The Psychology of Sex

There is a great meme that has been going years called Too Much Information Tuesday. This post was originally posted for that meme in 2017, but I have read through and updated it in places. I found it was still very relevant, so have republished. TMI is still around today. You will find the link below…

Continue reading Sexology ~ The Psychology of Sex

Space for Someone like Me


Before Covid my man and I worked together all over the UK. Our home was a beloved bolt-hole where we recharged our batteries before going back to our job.

The first lockdown trapped us in a city, so we were determined not to be caught out by the second one in2021. We made sure we were already in our own place when the restrictions were enforced. However, we found ourselves in an impossible situation. Our wonderful home, which we adored, had developed toxic mold. Because of the nature of our work, we had never needed to be there for more than a few weeks at a time. The mold had literally crept up on us. It was a very painful experience for many reasons. Mentally and physically. So much so, that I have chosen to write about it here in an abstract manner.

My Story — My Space

I had a space. Paradise. I lived in that space. Loved in that space and loved that space.

Then in a few short months it turned on me, outside and in, clawed at my body and soul. Destroying my spirit and eating away my insides. Scarring my skin and my self esteem. This all sounds far fetched but it happened — not long ago.

My space was natural and bright. Wooded and green. About a hundred meters from the backdoor a river roared as it went on its way.

Before my space showed it’s forked tongue the virus had imprisoned me in another place where I pined for my woodland paradise. Instead, I was cooped up in a tiny urban square, feeling I didn’t belong and wasn’t wanted. I searched for the others but they didn’t reply. And all the while I longed to see green rather than grey. Finally, happy was the day when I returned and embraced my woodland home.

When lockdown two arrived, I dug my heels into the mud and refused to budge from my personal heaven — even though I was ordered to stay inside, except for one walk a day after dusk. But as I sat my ground, watching the birds swoop from branch to post, the arborists came and cut down the trees. Right in front of my eyes. Massive kings that had welcomed the spring for centuries. As if they were worthless, but of course they were not. So the men chopped them into logs and sold them for firewood. My soul screamed inside. Totally scarred by the indignity and unnecessary rape of the land. And while the injustice outside tore at my sensibility, inside became physically toxic and began to attack my health.

I could see things were not right. But the memories and expectations of my space would not let me give up. So, my nails tore into my tingling, itching skin and I fed the birds on the decking — as they stayed even though the trees were gone.

But there is only so much that a being can stand. But stand it you can, until shown something else you knew before — life without the hardship or having to swim in the toxic soil.

That’s when the flag was raised and I was told enough is enough. No matter how I protested he said, “no more — it’s making us sick!”

The space I loved… Turned in on itself so there wasn’t clarity within for me to enjoy. Only poisonous air where once love had been. So I left it behind in search of another space, one to help me mend, where the air would be clear and the trees and I could breath.

I never thought I’d find one but good fortune was on my side. Karma if you will. And now each day, as I hear the waves crash on the shore, I praise the universe for creating other spaces that heal and do not harm.

Plus, the knowledge that there is more than one space for man — or a woman like me.


Toxic Mold

Toxic mold or black mold is a fungus. It can grow in your home in dark, damp places that perhaps you don’t even realise exist until too late. That is exactly what happened in my home. Not everyone is badly affected by mold spores. However, some people may be more sensitive to them than others, such as those with allergies or long term eczema sufferers (me). People who are susceptible to the fungus can then develop respiratory symptoms, and other problems, after inhaling just a small number of spores.

Fungal spores are ubiquitous in indoor environments, and the growth of mould in buildings can often lead to negative health effects such as skin rashes, headaches, dizziness and chronic fatigue of the occupants.

The National Center for Biotechnology

Once mold damage has occurred to walls, furniture or clothes it is very difficult to reverse. Some use bleach which only masks the stain. Concoctions of white vinegar, lemon juice and grapefruit seed extract are better at killing the spores.

Thankfully, my story has a happy ending. Even though we had to move and dispose of a lot of personal effects, we have now found a happy space, and

after hardship life in general tastes sweeter.


Find out other information about black mold here — if you really want to…

This story first appeared on my Medium profile last year.

Header Image copyright – May More

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