Wednesday, 7 October 2015

Fiction: Impassioned

I don't know how to dance.

This is what people tell me. My feet don't do what they are expected to do. I can't hold a rose in my mouth without the thorns drawing blood. I use my arms too much. Sometimes I just stand in the middle of the dancefloor slowly rotating, lost in my own world, the music and the movement helping me retreat into my glorious visions and imaginings.

I dream a lot when I dance.

And yet people say I don't know how to dance. That I just move randomly. Well, I do. I let the music take me where it wants to take me. I throw shapes that haven't been invented yet, slide when I'm not meant to slide, and jump when I'm not meant to jump. Sometimes I roar into the air, sometimes I fall on my back and spring back up. I am a marionette, dancing with broken strings.

I don't know the reason why people say I can't dance. I'm not doing what they expect me to do being. I'm certainly not doing what they're doing. I'm doing my thing, the thing I don't know how to do. Dancing grabs me and holds me. It takes me. When I dance, I feel nothing else. No burn. No malaise. No hurt. I am lost into the ether and the only thing I think is to myself. I think:

You are beautiful.

That's passion. That's love. That's art. And if that isn't dancing, what is?

I get some odd looks when I'm thrashing around on the dancefloor - some of amusement, mostly of disapproval... and it's only when I stop to get some water that I notice her.

Standing at the side, following my every move with an eyebrow cocked. Her eyes sparkle mischievously at me as I glance over. There's no mistaking her small grin and her little nod at me as a signal of approval. I may not know how to dance... but she likes it.

I respond by losing myself in the movements one more time. I dance like nobody's watching, even if I know deep down inside that at least one person is. I whirl like a dervish, pop like corn, and leap like a frog. And it's only when the lights come back on and the club starts to filter out that I bring myself out of the frenzy.

And she's gone.


As an entry for Charlie Powell's lipstick competition. I know nothing about lipstick, but this was fun!.

Monday, 5 October 2015

Addiction XX: Hope

[This post has been removed due to Reasons.

If you would like a copy, please ask me via e-mail or Twitter and I can send you one.

Comments also removed For Great Justice.]

Sunday, 4 October 2015

How To Masturbate Like a Horse on Steroids
A Guide for Lads


❤️ The Ultimate Male Sex Blog, Honest ❤️

Coming soon:
 - YouTube video of me reading this post out verbatim
- List of reasons why I know more about sex than everyone else in the world
- How to win a lock of my hair
- "Dear Glod please vote for me on Kinkly!" button

 Okay, so here's how I masturbate. Obviously, this is the only way to do so, so read this word for word and do exactly what I do, because this is the ultimate masturbation manual. I've had sex a few times, so clearly I'm the one who knows. Aren't you lucky that I'm sharing my worldly knowledge with you?

So what you need to do is this:
1. Masturbate
2. Er...
3. ...that's it.

I don't actually care how you masturbate. It doesn't matter to me what your gender, sexual orientation or preferred pronoun is. I don't know the methods you use to masturbate and, were I not as curious as I am, I probably wouldn't want to know (because, really, it's none of my business). It makes no difference to me whether or not you use an implement or just your fingers; I'm not keeping a tape measure at the ready in order to measure how far your cum flies or a super-absorbent paper towel to see how wet you are.

I'm fairly certain that you may have masturbated more than once. It's not likely that you've done it the same time on every single occasion. You may have done so hunched in a darkened corner of your bedroom [my amazing guide is here]; or possibly lying on your back [my incredible guide is here]; in a public place because you are a daring rebel [my guide is here, it kicks arse]; before looking at yourself in the mirror [do you want to know how? here's a guide!] or with Olympian results [ZOMG! GU1DE!!!!].

But if it works, then that's how to masturbate.

I have friends who talk about masturbation as something quick - an illicit fumble once or twice a day (certain young ravers set times for it, so I hear). Some people take a lot of time over it, spending entire afternoons making love to themselves, getting to know their body intimately and very au fait with what works. There are those who hold off for a while and then have explosive orgasms until their entire existense dissolves into a gentle hum of low-level pleasure. Some people don't do it at all.


Because it's entirely, uniquely, totally, completely, and ultimately your call.

I just wish I had more time to do it myself!

Wednesday, 30 September 2015


"Item three on the agenda - er... no item three?"
"Who wrote that?"

Everyone looked at me. As the secretary, I had - of course - written that. Incredibly pleased with myself, I smirked and attempted a whistle. I've always found it difficult to whistle, so all I ended up with was a "shh" sound. Not as convincing.

"Item four. Fresher's Week next year. Who's still here?"

I didn't raise my hand. A few people did - those of us who were staying on for MAs or who hadn't finished their degree courses yet. I made a quick Zsasz-like tally on my notes and joined in the general banter that followed, which quickly degenerated into mocking the habit my university had of putting strange nicknames onto the back of fresher representatives' T-shirts - ranging from WOT-WOT! (for a posh girl) to GIANT (for a sexual boy) to PLAYMATE (for the least original girl in the world) to CAT (not a cat). Being a fresher rep never appealed to me, and we assumed that - although our society appeared to be providing most of the entertainment - none of us would take up that mantle.

"Oh... I may be a fresher rep next year," chirped the small blonde girl who played the piano. "So I'm not sure if I'm going to... why are you all looking at me like that?"

I held my pen at the ready.

"What's your name going to be?"
"Er... MOUTH?" she suggested.
"It's what my friends call me..."

"None of us call you MOUTH," I pointed out.
"To be fair, you didn't ask."
"Good point," I said, adding that to the minutes and then sketching a bass clef.


I got home after the meeting and the post-meeting drinks, threw my bag of percussion (with a sonorous crash) into the corner and logged onto my computer in order to write up the minutes. However, just before I did so, I decided to check out MySpace (yes, really, that's how long ago this was) and, among the assorted friends and people-I'd-added-just-because, I noticed "Mouth" popping up. I'd never actually been to her page. I clicked.

There was a link to one of those quizzes. Click.

Do your parents know about the people you sleep with?
umm... the important ones i guess lol

I laughed.

How many one-night stands did you have last year?
2... and there were 2 that were 2 night stands lol

This one both amused and troubled me. I'd been at university for three years and not had sex myself once. I knew it was happening - of course; I even have my own stories of sex destroying things in the first year - but I'd never really seen any particular evidence that my university was one of those hotbeds of promiscuity that the right-wing press and two years of horny sixth form would have one believe. Still, these were one- (or two-) night stands; no biggie, really.

Do you have a crush on anyone and do they know about it?
umm... yeah a few people... and i am sleeping with some of them lol

Some of them.

Some of them.

More than one person.

Not a poly relationship. Not someone sleeping around. Not even somebody cheating. But somebody single who was having sex with some of the people she had a crush on. On a regular basis.

My imagination, before I could slam on the brakes, spiralled out of control faster than Billy Whizz on steroids. This girl, this small blonde girl who played the piano and whose friends may or may not have referred to her as "Mouth", was openly sexual. She had one- (and two-) night stands that happened more than once in the same academic year. She was having sexual intercourse with more than one person regularly.

My brain filled in the blanks. She had sex every night. She had a little book (or possibly a Rolodex), in which she juggled the people with whom she slept. She had sex for every single reason possible, whether it was for affection or for lust, or just because she was angry or needed to blow off steam. She was probably having sex right now, as I was reading her MySpace, as a way to decompress after a committee meeting of the society she was part of.

And she was freely admitting to it on MySpace. In three simple Q&As, this blonde mouth-related piano player transitioned from somebody who I always found unassuming to be a cheerful, playful paragon of everything that the reckless promiscuous lifestyle of university students stood for. Here she sat, gleeful in the knowledge that she was freely delivering and receiving pleasure most divine at her own liberty, and there I was at the other end, watching all of this via the little window in my brain that wouldn't. shut. up.

As you can imagine, I didn't get around to typing up the minutes that night.


Almost ten years on and that idea still excites me. I can hardly remember what "Mouth" looked like, or even what she was studying, but that's not important. What tittilates me, intrigues and beguiles me, and even brings me to orgasm at some points (more than I'd like to admit, actually, but I've just done so, so more fool me), is the idea that somebody could be so comfortable, so self-assured and so at one with her sexuality... that she could not only have casual sex, but also a number of short-term sexual partners at the same time, possibly even on rotation, simply because she liked to have sex.

Having seen what I've seen since then, this should no longer be surprising.

And it isn't.

But I still think it's hot.

Sunday, 27 September 2015


Tonight we fly
Over the chimneytops, skylights and slates
Looking into all your lives and wondering why
Happiness is so hard to find

Sometimes I just want to let go.

Of everything.

Just let go and float away. Away from all the pain and the hurt.

Of myself and other people. I want to cope - I really do. I want to be there, I want to be the caring, supportive one. The rock that one can cling to. That's me. That's what I do.

But it's not just that. There are so many other things. Little things. Domestic duties, which seem so monumental but are really just less than a speck of dust in the vast ocean of all the people and all the things in al the worlds of all the galaxies in the universe. The strain I feel in my back as I sit up for a long perios of time or the list of food I need to buy.

It all seems so inconsequential.

Some friends are having babies, some are hurting badly. I want to scream - whether in joy or sorrow, I don't know. It doesn't seem to matter any more. My throat hurts too much to scream.

I want to let go.

So why do I cling?

Monday, 21 September 2015

Jungle Hijinxs

As it turns out, in less than an hour I can get through the majority of Donkey Kong Country in one sitting - and probably would have completed it by now, in the same sitting, had I not been roused from my videogaming haze by the need to go to the library - and, come to that, the girl who was rousing me from said haze in order to convey the need to go to the library.

I was playing Donkey Kong Country simply because I had very little else to do. Despite occasional forays into other "offline" pursuits such as reading at Dirty Sexy Words last night (hi, all!) and the accompanied attempts at writing erotica - some of which, I've noticed, is actually quite explicit when you consider I've just been basing most of it on the principles of cybersex - there's a surprising lack of motivation to do much when the internet - your main distraction - isn't actually there to distract you. The stuff I'm meant to be doing (looking for jobs, begging the council for benefit, etc.) isn't even available with a lack of internet, and (of course) I can't really write blog posts (well, I can; I just can't post 'em), which has thrown the entire crux of my existence out of kilter.


Okay, that's a slight exaggeration. There are things in my life that don't centre around writing my blog and aren't Donkey Kong Country. But, until we get the internet back  in our room (and with such a low bank balance I've no idea how we're going to manage that), there's actually precious little I can do - and before you say the obvious thing, yes, I've read most of them already and I have a pile on the nightstand; don't rush me!

So what do you do without internet access when most of the things you like to do are dependent upon it and you can't go outside for fear of being rained upon?

Answers on a postcard...?

Friday, 18 September 2015

Shake It Off

My thick white jumper hung from my frame, slightly overlong for me, each side drooping over opposite ends of the chair. Trousers, as is the custom, lay in a heap around my ankles, pants (not the fertility-protecting kind) resting in the same space. I'd left my socks on... for I like my feet warm.

My right thumb and forefinger were curled around my cock as it pulsed and twitched in my hand. Masturbating with the curtains open in the middle of the day may seem a little inappropriate to the casual observer, but there's no way of anyone seeing me, considering the position of our flat and what or window looks on. There weren't going to be any casual observers.

I'd been going for a while, coaxing my penis up into the slightly curved, thick shaft that I'm so familiar with, every contour brushing against my palm - warm, inviting; comforting, almost. Hours of intense frustration and repetition, even without a working internet as an effective distraction. I needed this. This was my relief. I leaned back as far as I could in my chair, ready for the orgasm.

It was building up in my stomach. I could feel the rush, feel my balls tighten up and pulse, everything coming to a head. I steadied myself, ready to lose control.

My sleeve started to snake its way down towards my hand...

...instinctively, I removed my hand to shake the sleeve back, lest it get marked by errant cum...

...and them the orgasm hit.

My body didn't know what to do with such a sudden loss of stimulus at the point of climax. With more of a whimper than a bang, I came, but with much less jizz than there usually is. One or two pulsations, but less than satisfying ones, and by the time I got my hand back around my shaft, it was over. I'd lost my stimulus and had an orgasm nothing more than functional.

I was still in the room. I hadn't even managed to let go of my surroundings, as I so often do. My penis lay, useless, limp, in my lap, my body beating with anxiety and my head screaming in frustrated despair. And all because of one second where I let go, for the sake of my jumper.

My dreams overnight were full of grasping at the air trying to reach something that I couldn't quite catch and locked doors that wouldn't quite open for me to get through...

...but at least my jumper's still clean.

Sunday, 13 September 2015

Review: Wireless Armour

Richard Branson describing a product as "underpants for superheroes" really does give you a lot of insight into things: one, that superheroes wear pants too (often on the outside, as I'm sure you know); two, that Richard Branson uses Americanisms in his quotes, when (as a British inventor) he should have actually said "pants". I'll forgive him for that, as he probably doesn't know what this product actually is. I'm wearing it right now, so I can tell you.

Wireless Armour is marketed as underwear for men, integrating a fabric called "Radiatex" (which, in
layman's terms, is a mixture of cotton, polyester and silver - yes, actual silver, 35%), which is designed to block "more than 99.9%" of the electromagnetic radiation emanating from things we use a lot, like Wi-Fi enabled computers, mobile 'phone signals, Bluetooth, microwaves, and that leaky nuclear reactor core I've got lying about in my back garden. The idea, as the multitude of buff male torsos on the website will show you, is for the pants themselves to be stylish and comfortable while protecting your testicles from dangerous electromagnetic radiation, which can kill sperm and thus reduce your fertility.


With added garden table.
My pants came in a little plactic packet inside another little plastic packet, complete with bumph about its ball-protecting capabilities and washing instructions (Wireless Armour pants are machine washable, but only if your machine is gentle, as they're "high tech kit"). Upon further inspection, I found the pants to be a vaguely triangular garment, made with three holes in the fabric - two smaller holes for each leg, and one larger one which fits around your hips or waist, or trouser belt, if you happen to be John Major.

The first thing I noticed about these pants is that, although they look quite good, they don't actually feel that nice. I was a little worried, upon inspection, about how these - big as they were - would be able to accommodate my bulky frame, wide hips and UNUSUALLY LARGE PENIS. Most of my pants are elasticated around the waist, and so stretch to whatever size is needed. Wireless Armour works on the same design, only the elastic doesn't actually appear to be that stretchy, so the pants felt unusually tight, even on my otherwise-naked body. Even now, with the rest of my clothes on, I am still very "aware" that I'm wearing pants - which isn't really something I want to be concentrating on.

I initially found it difficult to decipher where to put these things on.

Every now and again, the pants appear to be riding slightly down my bum, meaning that a pleasant breeze blows down my arse crack. I don't know if this is a feature or not. I doubt it has anything to do with fertility.

In any case, these do go on, and they stay on, so in terms of pants, they do the job well enough. You can't actually feel the silver in the Radiatex material, but it is there, to provide protection from pathogenic bacteria, ambush by wild Pokémon for 200 steps, and werewolves, in addition to spermicidal radiation. Silver particles in fabrics do tend to get washed off after a while, but these pants are designed to keep the precious metal in place.

However, the main feature of the pants - and effectively what they are marketed for - is the increase in fertility as a result of the silver mesh blocking out harmful electromagnetic waves. I've been wearing these pants for about ten hours now and still haven't made anyone pregnant. Without any indications to the contrary, I wouldn't call that a success!

For all that Wireless Armour has to offer, I'm totally at a loss as to whether or not to recommend these things or not. You can get a multipack of pants from Marks & Spencer for the same price as one of these bad boys, and although they don't have fancy argentous material with a nebulous name for promotional purposes, they're probably a lot more comfortable and elasticated, and fit more snugly around your hips. I've got briefs from when I was 14 which give my penis more space to move around in. And there's absolutely no way to actually test the "fertility" thing without applying SCIENCE, to which I have no access as a home reviewer.


[TL;DR? They're pants.]

Wireless Armour pants are available directly from the manufacturers for prices ranging from £24 to £35. 
I was provided with a Medium-sized black pair for my honest review.

Thursday, 10 September 2015

HornyHour: Journey to the New World

This shall be for a bond between us
That we are of one blood, you and I
That he have cried peace to all
And claimed kinship with every living thing
That we hate war, sloth and greed
And love fellowship
And that we will go singing to the fashioning of a new world

It's one of the first things you learn. Bookended as it usually is with "ish... ash... osh..." (we used to say "HOW" as well, before that was banned for political correctness; I still say it, though!), the Envoi is one of the first things you learn. Throughout Woodcraft's history, including the last 24 years of my life since I got involved as a young ILB, this idea of the fashioning of a new world comes up again and again. It's an admirable thing - even for someone who isn't an idealist.

Where's our new world? And, crucially, what makes it new?

I was advised, in my first year of university, to seek out Woodcraft as a way of (re)connecting with something that would make me happy (as if that's a thing, somehow). I didn't find any groups near where I was, but I did make that connection, and finding that there was something there I'd lost, I dived in headfirst - so far into the red, yellow and green pool that it rapidly provided the points of the clock around which the year revolved - a spring event, a summer one, an autumn one and one filling in the pointless void between Christmas and New Year. I loved every second of it.

It's only after looking back on it that I realise.

My friends showed me the way in. I ate dumplings made with too much flour, sang in Danish about how there wouldn't be enough pussy for me, and played card games with rules I didn't understand. I was a living statue, paid in coffee beans, and got my trousers stitched up after falling into a ditch and ripping them. I sang songs about bestiality and romantic zombies next to a flickering bonfire. I left romantic notes for the girl I had a crush on, hoping she'd work out that it was me. I wrapped duct tape around a guy's mouth and demanded more tape once I realised I could still hear his voice. I wrote things down, took photos, wrote about bits that I remembered, and leapt to my feet, yelling, "GO JOHNNY GO GO GO GO CLUBS!"

And the sex.

I didn't have any sex. I wasn't brave enough (or attractive enough). I only ever kissed one person, and she was drunk. But, amongst it all, I was both stunned and gleeful at how liberated everyone seemed. Lots of people were having sex. There were couples, of course; couples form in all sorts of social circles and Woodcraft is no exception to that - you can fashion a new world better together. But then there were the random hookups - the bits where you walk into a room and find your mate hanging onto the pipe on the wall laughing because he's walked in on two people going at it in a sleeping bag. The bit where everyone's on the dance floor to Boulevard of Broken Dreams and a very hot, very drunk girl starts throwing herself at the guy with the floppy blonde hair; they're not seen again until next morning.

It's safe to say that this is where my fantasy about having sex in a tent comes from.

When I look back at those days, it comes to me like a bolt out of the green. I spent those times in a kind of euphoria, surrounded by friends who weren't just friends, but friends who shared with me their world of liberation - spiritual, cultural, physical, ideological and sexual. And, without that, I wouldn't have felt open enough about sex to start talking about it as freely as I am now.

We weren't just fashioning a new world. We were living in it. 
click the image for this week's prompt

Sunday, 6 September 2015

Please don't leave me on hold...

As the little shuttle minibus started to pick up speed, my iPod did a little skip and a jump and shuffled to a sparkly, ethereal song by a friend of mine - a female singer - about being stuck on hold. Very apt for how I was feeling - sparkly, ethereal... and waiting.

I've never understood Heathrow Airport. I have flown from there a few times - it's the easiest to get to, and the cheapest too, being as it is on the end of the Piccadilly Line. But I still have yet to understand its subtle intricacies; I don't know the difference between all five terminals, why three warrant one combined tube station and the other two get one each. I don't know why they are so far apart yet seem so close together. And I oppose a third runway on principle, although I have no idea at all why there are only two runways but five terminals.

I don't know anything about 'planes. But I do like airports. And, as I finally boarded the shuttle bus, I knew I was getting closer and closer to my destination.

I was going to have sex.

And so the sparkly, ethereal song about being on hold became my odd anthem as the heroic little minibus drove me towards the hotel that I'm sure one could have gotten to on foot - it served the airport, after all - and I switched the iPod off after that. I wanted that song in my head until I met the girl I'd been romancing online for all of a day and a half.

I'd done my research - exchanged a few e-mails and even 'phone numbers. I'd Googled her e-mail address and it seemed like a legit one, being used on a number of user accounts on Facebook and the like - not failing to notice that her first initial and surname were a bit like those of my sister, so it was good to check I wasn't being punk'd - and I even knew where she was going the following day. I was going there to be bon voyage sex. Nothing too serious, just a thorough seeing-to before she jet-setted off. I was even going to buy her dinner first so we could chat and get the chemistry right.

And, oh, the things I'd planned to do to her. I was going to eat her out until she came - preferably twice. I'd make sure she was wet, very wet - and then I'd make sure she was ready. I'd slip the condom on, and play with her body a bit. Lots of kissing, nibbling and rubbing. I'd adore her body like a worshipper at a shrine... and then, only then, I'd slide myself into her, and keep going until we were both spent, until she couldn't take any more. I'd spend the following day grinning to myself, imagining her still buzzing from the experience on the 'plane, slipping into fantasies about what we'd done throughout the rest of her holiday.

I'd planned all this. And, yet, until this moment, I'd been on hold. It takes a long time to get there, the Piccadilly Line. Surely I'd get a little something for my effort... I hadn't even taken a book with me.

The minibus pulled up to the hotel and I leapt off, surprisingly full of energy for such a late hour. I'd arrived a bit earlier than planned - I tend to do that - but, I reasoned, she might be here; I'd just give her a call and check.

Music greeted me on the other end of the line. For one wild moment, I thought I'd been put on hold... and then I heard her voice. She had one of those irritating answerphone messages with music in the background. I thought only teenage chavs had those... and, worse, I didn't even recognise the song.

Fine, I thought, she's not here yet. I'll go and ask the hotel staff. I didn't fancy being on hold for much longer.

I approached the hotel staff, giving them my name and her name, telling them I was meeting her for a drink (which was, of course, true) and that I'd be waiting in the bar for her (also true). I left out the part that I was expecting to go up to her room and spend the rest of the night making love to her, but they didn't need to know everything. To my surprise, the receptionist took my story without question, looked her up on the system and confirmed she was staying there that night, had booked but not checked in yet, and that she'd tell her about my presence when she arrived. I was free to wait in the bar if I wanted.

Back on hold, I bought myself a small drink, and sat graciously at the table, half-watching the political programme on BBC One, silent but subtitled, my 'phone on the table in front of me - I kept glancing at that, waiting for the call to come. Other guests - the usual cast of misfits waiting to fly on a 'plane - were chatting, but nobody noticed me: the boy sitting in the corner, watching the TV, waiting to get laid.

As the seconds trickled into minutes, and minutes turned into quarters of hours, the hold music - now a general babble from guests and the clinks of glasses - started to intensify. 15 minutes passed, then 30, then 45. One hour. One hour fifteen.

At this point I texted.

In the bar, waiting for you. Are you OK? I heard some trains were delayed. x

No response. One hour thirty.

At one hour forty-five I called. One hour fifty-five. Two hours. Five. Seven. Ten. Eleven. Maybe her 'phone's out of battery. And every time I called, the same music - the same message - the same beep inviting me to record a message. Every time I hung up. Was I being a creepy stalker? No, of course not, I rationalised. I'm just waiting for her. I'm on hold. She'll come and take me off hold. I've been waiting for ages - I can continue to do so, surely!

At two hours thirty my head was on the table in front of me, my arms crossed, forming a kind of pillow. I was aroused from my slumber eventually by the text message alert - at which I reacted like a startled gazelle. I snatched my 'phone like it was a precious gem fading from my grasp and blitzed through to the message screen.

Took a later train gotta be there at 2am anyway. Sorry. Was never definate.

I was aghast, mostly at the fact that she'd spelled "definite" incorrectly.

One hour later. Heathrow was silent. There were a few early-morning travellers sleeping on the floor, slumped against walls tapping aimlessly at smartphones or demanding coffee from lazy machines. Nobody was making a sound. And there I was, meandering through the halls, trying to find meaning in my day.

I'd texted her, offering the dinner I was going to buy even if we didn't end up going any further. There was still no reply. I wasn't going to get a reply. I was never going to.

I'd known for a while.

With nothing else to do, I returned to the Underground. Sat down as the train pulled away. Plugged my iPod back in. Tried not to feel like I'd been on hold music all the time.

As I left Heathrow, I saw a 'plane fly off into the distance. Maybe she was sitting on it, heading off to her destination. Perhaps she was excited, or sleepy, or full of anticipation or apprehension. I would be - probably all of those things. To me, airports mean the start of a great adventure - something new, and thrilling, and the feeling of travel - ending in another place entirely. Different language. Different culture. Different climate. I wondered, as I watched it fly off through the carriage window, if she was feeling the way I would, were I in her position.

Down on the ground, the tube train started to snake back to London, just as rain began to fall.