Saturday, 11 August 2018

Lick

So here's something I've never mentioned before.

Sometimes, when I'm bored during moments of nocturnal insomnia, I envision myself giving oral sex, from a first-person perspective. That is to say, every single second of it.

I take myself through the process. Taking hold of the thighs, or hips, or sides, to steady myself. I breathe in, her scent all around me, and then touch my tongue lightly against her engorged pussy lips, my breath warm against her slit. I feel how wet she is... and then I start. All of this takes me a few seconds, but it's very vivid in my mind, like I don't want to miss a moment. Yes, in my imagination I can replay it over and over again, but it still feels like something I could miss.

I like to live every single lick. Small, darting movements from side to side, all the way up, from her perineum to her clitoral hood... and then back down again. Tiny laps, upwards with the tip of my tongue, tracing the same route, but this time taking in more of her slick opening. Small circles, maybe. Tongue over, under, and around her hard clit. If she's wet enough, and keen enough, I could slide myself inside her, my tongue surrounded by her inner walls, feeling them beat in time with her heart.

I'd bring her to orgasm, of course. But then that just gives me more to lick.

All of this I imagine. In the half-sleep, I often - almost every time - find myself unconsciously doing the movements - my lips and tongue practising with the air, almost. If I'm lost in the rĂªverie, I can practically taste it. I can lose a lot of time doing this - if I concentrate on every single beat.

It's not the real thing, and it never will be. There are things missing - the heat of her thighs either side of my head; her quickening breath, her moans, her gasps. I can't feel her hands wending their way through my hair, holding my head in place; I miss the spreading sensation when she starts to near her climax, and the shake, the arching back, and the release when she comes. I don't get real girlcum fillling my mouth and spilling down my chin, and I don't genuinely feel my nose pressing against her clit as it throbs and pulses. I don't feel the tickle of her pubic hair. I can't roam my hands around her soft skin, or caress her tits as I lick her.

These things, yes, are missing.

But it is a wonderful thought nonetheless.

Friday, 10 August 2018

Tardy

[It's 7am, and I've just called my girlfriend's workplace to tell them she's sick today.]

"Do you remember that time when I was late for work at my old job and...?"
"Vaguely. Remind me?"
"We had good sex. Like, really good sex."
"Oh, yes..."
"And I was late because of all the sex. I said I'd overslept."

[Lightbulb. Now I remember.]

"You could have said, 'sorry I'm late; I was underneath my boyfriend'..."
"Or, 'sorry I'm late; I was busy getting pounded'..."
"Something like that..."
"Yeah..."

Simpler times.

Tuesday, 7 August 2018

Pulsar

I lay down on the bed last night and pulsed.

Throughout the day, I'd been in a number of varying states of wakefulness. I was unbelievably tired when I left for work in the morning, and during the break (it was a split shift, so I had a long break), I was so exhausted I practically passed out. I woke up stressed, got back to work feeling nervous, and by the time I got into the swing of things, my energy made a sudden and unexpected re-emergence.

I'm not sure early starts are the best thing for me.

Anyway, by the time I got home, I wasn't tired any more. Hungry, yes - but there was pizza. I certainly wasn't tired. I sat in the lounge (WE HAVE A LOUNGE!) on the sofa (WE HAVE A SOFA!) watching American Dad!, and idly wondered - ironically, considering how I felt a few hours prior - how I was going to get to sleep. Anyone would have seen that I clearly needed it.

I turned the television off, stripped, and picked my way to the bathroom. Sitting there, I felt the urge, and something told me the time was right. I put Justice League International Vol. 3 away, took a deep breath in, then ran a hand down the skin of my chest and through the hair on my belly, feeling myself beginning to stir and grow and...

*

Twenty minutes later. I stumbled my way through the pitch-black bedroom (it has a curtain: a luxury the lounge has yet to procure), lying on the bed in the sleepy haze of post-orgasmic fog.

Thud. Thud. Thud. My ear, pressed to the pillow, filled with the sound of an incredibly heavy heartbeat. As I began to pay more attention to the rhythm (I am a nervous man with an easily-distracted brain), I gradually became more aware that my entire body, not just my heart (and my penis), was pulsing. Blood was coursing through me at a rapid rate - the orgasm having increased my hearrt rate and not yet settled down - and my body, naturally quite sensitive anyway but more so now, was throbbing powerfully in time with every single heartbeat.

And I do mean powerfully. I wasn't moving a muscle, and yet I was still moving. Each beat was like a tiny jump; my body was shaking, my hands balled into fists and my forehead beaded with sweat. I felt vulnerable, but in a safe place - like a layer had been peeled back. Raw, exposed, and lying there, rhythmically pulsing. It was as if all of me had decided to be as one - and, at that moment, I realised that I wouldn't be moving any more during the night. I was just to lie there - my throb and I - until sleep managed to take me.

And finally, after a day of uncertainty and restless tiredness, I slept well last night.

Thursday, 2 August 2018

Clima

I think it's no real secret that sex dreams are odd. I mean, sometimes they're good, sometimes bad, sometimes they get you off... but that doesn't mean they aren't odd. They are, so it's said, quite a healthy thing to happen - shows that your important bits are working and are a symptom of your brain expressing sexual desire in a way unlikely to cause stress or harm.

I'm not going to be so presumptuous as to assume anyone's ever had a sex dream about me. That's not a question I'm going to ask.

Anyway, I had a dream last night in which I almost had sex, and would have done if my dad hadn't walked in.

It's not the first time my dad has interrupted my dreams. There's a memorable time when I was enjoying an incredibly long dream in which I found out I was Jesus (don't ask), and was enjoying a pint in a pub with a talking crocodile (because of course) when my dad appeared and told me it was time to wake up. As it turned out, he was in my bedroom telling me it was time to wake up. I probably shouldn't have told my RS teacher that I dreamed I was Jesus. I got sick of people bowing to me that day.

[NB. This wasn't the first time I'd dreamed about being Jesus. The first time I had such a dream, I was 8. I used my Jesus powers to transform myself into a purple dinosaur. Neither dream was particularly realistic, although now I know what God looks like.]

The problem is that this isn't the first interrupted sex dream I've had. In the past couple of weeks, I've had a few. They don't all feature my dad - thankfully - but there have been lots of dreams in which I've been almost having sex. Almost. Just not quite getting there, or even been about to do so when I'm interrupted - father or not.

Last night's dream had a huge build-up. A narrative, in fact - although something slightly nonsensical; it was at least easy to follow - and it was fairly clear from the midpoint exactly where it was going. I was returning to the same place day after day, each time getting closer and closer to the LARGE AMOUNTS OF SEX I was almost certain to be having. Lining up the dominos, shall we say... just ready for the push.

Until my dad walked in and interrupted me.

Why are you doing this to me, brain?

Tuesday, 31 July 2018

It'd be nice...

When I look back at my generation, I have some very peculiar sex-related memories (as you may have gathered, gentle reader[s]!). Delighted as I may be to share some of them with you, there's one thing I can't. I'm all for talking about the first time I had sex... but I can't tell you who, among my peers, was the first of us to have sex.

I can't tell you, because I don't know. My first inclination, just off the bat, might be to say it was Esque... but then there's one more person. And he may well be our candidate.

We were 14, or thereabouts. I had become, for want of a better word, friends with a number of schoolmates of an old friend of mine who had moved halfway across the borough. We had stayed friends, and with very few other people to talk to online, he had introduced me (virtually) to a few of them. Every day for a couple of years, I'd be in regular online contact with boys my age from North London's Jewish community. I never really met any of them until years later.

Although my mother tells me that most girls of that age are desperate for a boyfriend and will have basically anyone who asks (which may explain why Lightsinthesky was so successful), I didn't see it. There was one of these guys, however - one who I quite liked but was somewhat unscrupulous, and incredibly fixated on making money - who managed to get himself a girlfriend by the age of 13, and a few months later, had managed to lose his flashing V.

Or so he said.

Do I trust people too much? Probably. I've got too much faith in humanity sometimes. I shouldn't have trusted this guy, either - his friends told me as much, and besides, the first time he contacted me, he had convinced me that his name was "John McDonald" and was so close to my old friend that he shared the same e-mail address (he had, in fact, hacked into his AOL). It was "John" that later told me he had a girlfriend named Roxanne (put on the red light).

Trusting though I may be, I was a little suspicious. Mind you, having a girlfriend wasn't something I, or anyone else my age in my peer group, had managed to do, so I was suitably impressed. The existence of Roxanne (put on the red light) was, in fact, corroborated by my old friend ("she looks a bit like a triangle..."), and I had no reason not to believe his bragging... even though I was a little sickened by exactly how explicit his bragging was.

"BJ's my personal favourite," he said once, matter-of-factly.

In the succeeding months, I walked the line between curiosity, jealousy, and disgust. Running the gauntlet between remaining friendly and dodging his constant get-rick-quick schemes and low-level homophobia was a trial, but I didn't want to seem unapproachable. I was certainly one more person to brag to, but when he finally told me that he was going to spend an evening alone with Roxanne (put on the red light) and that they were both "up 4 it", then my confidence in him started to slip.

Surely not? At the age of 14, or thereabouts? I'd heard of such things, but only in hushed tones and what constituted a dire warning: I'd never assumed it would happen to one of us... and certainly not him!

As it turned out, I wasn't the only one "John" told. Lots of people knew, including my old friend and practically all the other people I'd added on ICQ. In less than a week, the entire community was aware that "John" and Roxanne (put on the red light) were on the verge of having sex. The fact that "John" went mysteriously silent in the next couple of days was somewhat suspicious, but me being me, I just figured that he was busy. I didn't need to know any more, either... I'm not sure my stomach could have taken it.

A week later...

"How was it?" I asked him, nonchalantly (I hope).
"Hot," he replied, "wet, and juicy."

I didn't enquire any further, since it sounded more like he was describing a warm smoothie than an act of love. They broke up a couple of weeks down the line, seemingly just because he "went off her", although he didn't seem very keen on elaborating upon the subject. I was very much of the opinion that someone you have had sex with should a mate for life, so I struggled with my feelings for a while. Eventually, and probably wisely on my part, I let it go. His business, really, even if he seemed happy to tell everyone everything.

So if "John" is to be believed, he was, in fact, The First One. Whether or not I still believe him is a matter of debate. I kind of want to, but I also don't trust him.

One thing still stands as self-evident, though. It may have been his personal favourite, but it's never been mine... although, right now, I would really like a blowjob.

Thursday, 26 July 2018

Jumping to Conclusions

So I'm perched on the edge of the bed. Hunched over. Trousers open, bunched on the floor. T-shirt off. The window is open, but the curtains are drawn. I take in a long, breathy sigh. I've been off work due to sickness. I feel fine at the moment, though.

"Are you wanking?"

I barely heard her come into the room. I should be shocked by her brazen attitude, but I'm not. I know her too well.

The thing is, I'm not wanking. It's far too hot for clothes, and anyway, I was considering taking a shower. It's pretty evident that I need one. But she's come in to find me half-naked and hunched over something in my hand. I know what it looks like... and she knows me too well.

"No! No, I'm not!" I say, a little too defensively, as if she had caught me in the act. "I'm talking to my boss!" I explain further, holding up my 'phone as a half-composed text message glows softly on the screen.
"You're talking to your boss without any trousers on?"

Yeah... there's no getting out of that one. Still, it's not like she needed to know how dressed I was in order to text me. I've worked from home before and sometimes done worky things while naked. It's easier to be naked when you're in a flat of your own, I have recently discovered. Once we get curtains, it might even be achievable.

"If I was wanking, would you have minded?"
"Over your boss?"
"Over anything?"
"...No, not at all."

Good. Although I can be fairly confident that I won't be wanking over my boss any time soon, it's nice to know that I have the privacy that has been sorely lacking up until recently.

Although, with the job for the aforementioned boss, I may have privacy... but I most sincerely lack time.

Thursday, 19 July 2018

OAP

When I was in my late teens, I used to talk to a girl who saw me at a music event, developed a crush on me, found out my MSN contact from somewhere and added me. (I only knew about the whole fancying-me thing years later, though. One of the many reasons I kept saying girls should be more proactive with this.) I thought she was pretty cool, and we had a similar taste in music, which helped. We stayed in contact through university - that is to say, I was at university. She dropped out midway through her second year, which is understandable; university's not for everyone. Stayed where she was, though, because by that time she'd found a boyfriend.

Which is the abridged version of things. She had the same boyfriend basically since she moved there; she'd gotten pregnant by him once, had an abortion, supported him financially via her student loan, and taken lots of proto-selfies alongside him with the contrast turned up. The effect - and the brightness - was slightly dazzling.

The defining characteristic, though, seemed to be that her boyfriend was almost a decade older than her. This shouldn't have mattered, I knew, but that was also the reason she touted for the fact that he was, apparently, not very good at sex.

Which is also the abridged version of things. He wouldn't have sex with her, except for the times when he wanted to (without asking consent first). He wasn't very receptive to her needs, and wasn't particularly open to doing anything out of the ordinary (even oral sex, which she said he was good at; he just didn't do it much). The fact that she talked about it so much, and that she spent a lot of her time downloading porn (...also guilty...) even though she said she didn't like porn, was - to my mind - an indication that she wasn't happy with her sex life, and to a larger extent, with her much older boyfriend.

"The problem is," she said once, "is that he's 28, and his peepee isn't what it used to be."
I cringed myself inside out at her use of the word "peepee". It was like something my great-gran would have said.
"That's not an excuse," I should have said, "men reach their sexual maturity in their late teens, but there's no reason for interest or activity to decrease over time. There are some men who are still achieving healthy and potent erections into their eighties."
Only I didn't say any of that. I went with something like, "well, that sucks. I'm sorry."

Pause.

"Hey, what's your favourite sex position?"
"I like classic fuck."


I don't know either, but I've been trying to use that phrase ever since. If it's good, it's a classic fuck.

Anyway, it's becoming more and more apparent that my own sex life is slowing down. I haven't had full-on penetrative sex for years, and although I occasionally have other forms of sex, the whole "being an adult" thing - and the fact that I have a full-time job, and the fact that we both work shifts (and I think that there's a nervousness factor to it as well) means that I don't get to spend as much time with my sex princess as I would like to. When I do, I'm just... exhausted. I'm hoping that this all evens out, of course, and that I'm not just suffering from the fact that I'm now over the age of 28 and thus having a defunct peepee.

According to my diary, however, I have had ninety-four orgasms this year so far, three "!!!" ones (whatever that means - thanks for clarifying, Past ILB), and several days where I have had more than one, often in quite quick succession.

I'm trying to convince myself, with varying degrees of success, that it's not just my age. In fact, it isn't, because I certainly haven't lost interest. The fact that I haven't been having sex certainly doesn't mean I'm broken. It's time, I've been telling myself, that I have a lack of, not sex drive. In fact, I'm kidding myself even more, not convinced (as the public are) that the sex-positive community are all busy with orgies, and that we are constantly in a world of erections the size of One Canada Square and constantly wet vaginas. Except me.

And it's summer. In summer, everybody's hot.

But I'm aware of this. And being aware is the first step towards recovery. I'm sure my peepee, despite my incredibly advanced age, is absolutely fine.

Sunday, 15 July 2018

Soft Porn Sunday: Krista Allen & Paul Michael Robinson (again!)

Throughout my life, one of the things that I've looked for in a sex scene is the sex itself is fast, fun, frisky and involves a lot of movement (and possibly some other things that start with F). It's no secret that a lot of my very favourite scenes have a fair amount of brisker, lustier, harder sex - it's probably less realistic, but then I'm not really looking for realism in soft porn,* and if it works for me, then it works for me.

So why I keep coming back to this one is a mystery.

Which is to say that it was a mystery. I think I've managed to solve it.

*(no, seriously, I'm not)

Appearance: Emmanuelle in Space 4: Concealed Fantasy, aka There's More to Love than Sex (1994)
Characters: Emmanuelle & Haffron

This is one of the more "romantic" sex scenes in the franchise, which in layman's terms means that it
Sing, baby, sing.
is SLOW. In fact, it's one of the "filler" sex scenes, which in the Emmanuelle films means that it isn't one of the big show numbers filmed in 3D with the merry-go-round effect. It happens beforehand, early on in the film (episode four of seven), and is in many ways a starting block for the gradual shift towards a love story, as opposed to the sexperimentation aspect of the first three.


There isn't much to talk about in terms of positioning. The entire thing takes place on a bed in nondescript surroundings, and it's all done in the spoons position. That's basically it.

So... the mystery!

Why do I like this more and more every time I see it, even though I used to skip it? Why does it come to my mind when I'm trying to masturbate, or drift up when I'm riffling through my collection for something to effect the change? It's not my usual thing, and that leads me to eliminate certain things.

It can't be the actors. I love both Krista Allen and Paul Michael Robinson, and I love Emmanuelle and Haffron. But there are numerous sex scenes featuring these two and so many more of them that offer almost instant gratification for me. It's not like I'm looking specifically for this pairing in this one scene because, as I've said... seven films!

It can't be the music. It's fairly iconic music, but there's nothing special about it. It's not like it really fits the scene, like the following sex with Pamela or the subsequent "feature" sex with Emmanuelle. I mean, it works and everything - there's nothing wrong with it - but it's just fairly standard softcore music. Good music can make or break a scene for me, but that just isn't it.

"I told you it was better without the rain." I wish I could finish like that.

It can't be the cinematography. It's fine camera work, but then again, it always is - this series is directed well - this, however, is a series of mix and cut shots and there's very little to distinguish it. There are some very nice bird's-eye views of the pair, and some front-on shots of Emmanuelle (who's wearing some very nice earrings, which I've noticed because shut up), so it's well done and everything, but that's nothing new here.

So what is it?

I've had a think, and a wank, and a watch. Many watches. And my conclusion? It must be... the closeness.

During this scene, Emmanuelle and Haffron are very close. I mean, I know he's meant to be inside her
Body hair doesn't exist in this world.
and everything, but there's more than that. Their bodies are so pressed together that they are almost "as one". They're certainly moving as one - initial gentle rocks back and forth increasing in intensity (not speed - but intensity) as they go on. Even their moans are in sync - the little sighs of pleasure and whispered gasps of delight are done simultaneously. They move together, they orgasm together, and even during the comedown at the end ("I told you it was better throughout the rain..."), there is an undeniable intimacy to it, almost like their bodies are magnetically drawn together.


I don't know if there's a point to this, or if that's just the way it is filmed. Maybe it's intended to be romantic, almost to the point of ridiculousness, or perhaps it's just a style they're messing with and managed to get right. It could even be seen to represent warmth, as opposed to the cold rain they have just managed to escape... but I'm not sure even I would go that far.

For whatever reason, though, this has really grown on me. It's very sweet, it's incredibly sexy, and it's close, as I said. And, with the prior knowledge of what comes up afterwards, it always gives my heart a little squeeze too.

Tuesday, 10 July 2018

Consent

"We can play a bit," she said, "but only touching. Sexy stuff. I don't want to have sex tonight."
"Okay," I said.

Kisses.
More than kisses.

"You look horny," I whispered in the gathering darkness.

I slid a finger into her, feeling her warm, and wet, and inviting. My rock-hard cock gave a little twitch of longing.

"You feel horny," I continued. "Are you sure you don't want to have sex?"
"It feels good," she breathed, "but no. I don't want to have sex."
"Okay," I said, and I stopped and rolled onto my back.

Now that genuinely isn't difficult... so why do so many people have a problem with it?

Sunday, 8 July 2018

Bring it on now...

A few days ago, I found myself sitting on the big squashy sofa at work idly browsing through tweets on my 'phone when I received an unexpected ping. Nobody ever really texts me, so this confused me... the fact that it was from an international number confused me even more. I dithered for a while before deciding to actually, you know, read the text.

As it turned out, it was from someone I knew: an ex-colleague of mine, who (as I suddenly realised with a jolt) had previously sent me an incredibly nebulous e-mail basically consisting of "I want to ask you something. What is your 'phone number?". This text was no more informative - "can i call u now?" - and, of course, I said it was fine. Not like I was at work or anything. I even turned down the sound on Love Island in order to respond to this clearly very important call.

My 'phone rang almost the instant I send the text back. I answered with a trilled "hello?" and was answered with...

...DEATHLY SILENCE.

"Hello...?"

DEATHLY SILENCE.

"...uhm...?"

At which point the line went dead.

One of my colleagues came through at this point, looking curiously in my direction. I opened my mouth to explain what had happened, before realising that I couldn't really explain a DEATHLY SILENCE.

My 'phone jumped into life suddenly, and I swore so badly that my colleague cocked an eyebrow.

"Hello! I couldn't hear anything last time, is there anything wrong with your 'phone anyway hello how are you what did you want to ask me?" I gabbled into the mouthpiece.

DEATHLY SILENCE.

Trepidatiously, I concealed my 'phone in its carry case, and dropped it into my pocket, keeping a hand on it in case my ex-coworker decided to gift me with any more moments of complete absence. Making my way back to the kitchen (where I leave my stuff), I retrieved my bag, found my wallet and my iPod, slung the satchel over my shoulder, and was just about to walk out of the door when...

Ring ring! Ring ring! Ring ring!

By this point, however, I had begun to be more concerned about exactly what it is she wanted to ask me, as opposed to the fact she didn't appear to have a voice. We were civil when we used to work together - friendly, even. She had been taking on the job I used to do, and there was plenty to talk about then... but now? What was so important that she needed to ask me at 10pm?

And then the realisation hit me like a ton of bricks.

It's a booty call! That must be what it is! Why else would you 'phone someone at this time of night?

I pulled my 'phone from my pocket and slipped off its carry case.

Okay, stay calm, ILB. You need to let this lady know that you're flattered, but not interested. I mean, you like her as a person, but this is just far too much. I think she said she was married, as well. You've got a girlfriend; you'd be on your way back to her if you hadn't stopped to answer this call. Just hear the question, say no politely, and move on.

I hit the "answer call" button and braced myself for the DEATHLY SILENCE. I almost dropped the 'phone when I actually heard, for the first time in months, her voice.

She wanted to thank me for the lovely thank-you card I left her, she said. It had touched her very much. She was also sad to see me leave and wanted to wish me well for the future, and hoped to see me soon. And she had something to ask me, although she felt a bit embarrassed about it.

Here it comes. Just say no, and move on.

"I wanted to ask you about Brexit."

...

Brexit?! 

I'd rather have answered a booty call.