Tuesday, 27 January 2015

TMI Tuesday: Retrospecticus

For want of something to do to wake me up, I've decided to have a crack at TMI Tuesday - not something I've done for a while. Allegedly, these questions are about the past; I was slightly worried about this, since my past is pretty horrendous at some points - however, the questions didn't bring anything too bad up.

And some of them I don't even understand, so there's that, too.

 
*
 
1. What is the nickname a lover had for you that made you cringe?

The drinking girl occasionally called me "my Mister", which I didn't like very much, although I wouldn't say "cringe" is the adequate term.
In Batman: The Widening Gyre, Bruce's girlfriend (later fiancée), Silver St. Cloud, calls him "Deedee", which apparently stands for "Double Digits" - work it out - which might make me cringe, although Bruce seems to take it in good humour. If he had a sense of humour he would, anyway.


2. Where do you most often toss or keep your excess change (coins)?

I keep them - pennies, tuppence pieces and five-pence-pieces go into a little plastic tray I have on my desk (which once contained baklava, which I disposed of into my mouth). I've also got a supply of those little bags, which I shovel the coins into, until one of them reaches £1, at which point I put it into a paper bag inside another paper bag.
I've no idea how much I've got through this method. It's probably not as much as it seems.


3. If someone wrote a book about your past lovers and past sex life, which category fits best?:
a. Abnormal psychology book
b. Steamy romance novel
c. Sad, sad story


I'd like to add a category D - attempted satire mixed with flighty unreal situations. (Of course, I'd be the one writing it.)


4. Some say sex is like driving. Pretend you are a car. Are you: rear, front or all-wheel drive?

Seriously, though, what the fuck is this question trying to achieve?
I don't have a car, don't know how to drive and have very little knowledge of the controls or terms, so I have no idea how to answer this question.
I'm more like a Segway, anyway: difficult to control, rarely seen in action, and very few people have had me.


5. What is it that you do daily that you would like to stop doing?

Stressing - either about money or health, neither of which I have in abundance. I'd also like to collapse onto my bed less; I appear to be doing that more than I should, since I'm getting more tired these days.


6. What is the biggest lie you ever told to get someone into bed or the biggest lie you ever told in bed?

I think I once told the aforementioned drinking girl that the number of times I've had sex in the course of one night was three. In reality, it was much higher. I can't quite remember the number exactly, but I'm pretty certain that it may well have earned me the nickname "Deedee".

Sunday, 25 January 2015

Innocent Loverbuoy

"Do you travel on boats a lot, then?" she said.
"Not really," I admitted. "I've been on a ferry a few times. And on some smaller boats. Once up the Thames, and then on one of those party disco boats at the end of school."
I paused, before continuing with, "oh... and I've got one of those One Star Canoe certificates. I did that with Woodcraft."
"So would you want to go on a boat ride with me?"
I licked my lips. "Only if we can have sex on the boat."

I waited for her response. It was difficult to gauge what her reaction would be, seeing as how she wasn't actually there and, with no facial response, I had no visual clue. Still, if I knew her as well as I thought I did, she'd take what I said in good humour.

The little window flashed orange. "Hee, okay," she said. "But you're bringing protection."
At which I took a little glance, unseen, towards the little blue drawer unit on my bedroom windowsill. The free condoms I'd gotten from the university doctor were probably still in there. It wasn't until years later that I realised they'd expired and threw them away, replacing them with more condoms from a different doctor at a different university.
"Check."

There was another pause.

"Brings a whole new meaning to the phrase rocking the boat."

I had no idea where this was going until I checked her LJ the following day. A fairly standard entry for her, full of fandom and bizarre shipping crossovers that I never believed anyone had, albeit ending with:

I didn't sleep well last night. Someone made me dream about boatsex.

"Whoops," I murmured softly to myself, with a rather large grin.

We're still friends now. We never did have sex on a boat. I've never actually had sex on a boat. I'm sure it happens, if Titanic is anything to go by, but it's never happened to me. As for her, well, she moved on to Oodsex.

For two very obvious reasons, apparently.

They'll do anything you want. And they have tentacles.

Tuesday, 20 January 2015

Koala

I held my girlfiend last night when she came. It was an interesting, if unusual, experience.

Okay, maybe not that unusual. I mean, I'm usually in contact with her during orgasm. Especially if we're having sex, during which there is, technically, some sort of holding going on, whether it involves arms, legs or any other sex-related anatomical paraphernalia. And since we usually masturbate, when that happens, on the bed next to each other, there's at least some contact.

But last night I was lazy tired, and she wanted to have an orgasm, and I wanted to make her do so, and she suggested that she wanted to bring herself to orgasm, and I wanted to watch her (because I like doing that), but I was also sleepy and warm and contented with the heavy duvet shielding me from the cold.

"I want you to have an orgasm," I mumbled drowsily into her hair, "but I want to hold you while you do so."
"Mmmmmmruhhhh?" she replied.
"I like holding you in bed," I explained sleepily, "it's my favourite part of the day." (This was, in fact, the truth - there are very few pleasures in my life matching that of holding a warm girl in bed after a cold day - except maybe lunch). And besides, I didn't want to move.

And so she brought herself to orgasm with me holding her. At least, part of me was holding her. Before I knew it, my mouth was otherwise engaged with her boobs, and my left hand - the one that usually does the holding - was between her legs, stroking her perineum gently as she fingered her clit, little staccato breaths coming from her as she neared her tipping point.

I could feel her coming closer and closer, her nipples (under the careful ministrations of my mouth) hardening up and forming the Twin Beacons of Truth and Justice that they so effortlessly become, and my fingers becoming more and more slippery as her wetness grew and came sliding down from her vagina... but my body stayed where it was: still, patient, calm, with my one perineum-free arm continuing to hold her.

As her climax took hold, she waved me away. I stopped paying attention to her breasts and labia, and withdrew myself to the position I'd been in before we started, my arms wrapped around her as she rode out the throes of her orgasmic bliss.

And I smiled. I was still warm and comfortable, after all.

Sunday, 18 January 2015

Soft Porn Sunday: Holly Sampson & Danny Pape

Did you say pink? I love pink!
An Italian gentleman once told me that, while red is the colour of passion and white is the colour of peace, pink is the colour of love. He stopped talking after that, mostly because he was talking about roses, but also partially because I told him that white wasn't a colour. In order to recover from the subsequent wounds, I thought about this.

I quite like pink - you know, as a concept. I've got a number of pink clothes hidden among my general mulch of grey jumpers that I add to every Christmas, and although it doesn't work in a few different colour combinations, there's something to be said for pink, as long as - you know - you don't use it in anything ever.

Especially backgrounds.

Appearance: Platinum Blonde (2001) - not the one from 1931 by Frank Capra
Characters: Angela & Tony

You know, it's only just hit me why the main character in this piece of candyfloss-flavoured pap (played by former Emmanuelle Holly Sampson) is named "Angela" - I genuinely thought it was just Surrender falling back on its well-worn trick of "pull a random female name out of the ether, there, that'll do." But, no, she's an angel, of sorts, so they've called her Angela. I'd suggest THROKHTAR, HEAVEN'S BRINGER OF DOOMSDAY TIDINGS, but they went with Angela, so I'll stick with that. In any case, she's not just an angel, she's a Cupid - yes, a Cupid, apparently there's more than one; fuck you, established mythology. Her rôle, as apparently dictated by the Judeo-Christian heavenly host but seriously who cares?, is to help people achieve their romantic and/or sexual desires easily... oh, and her homeworld is pink.

Well, I say "homeworld". It's not much of a world, or a home, even; it's just an average-sized bed floating in a sea of pink. From the very start of this film, when the opening credits fade in and out over a weird montage of Angela masturbating aimlessly on her bed while it rotates slowly through the RETINA SHATTERING NEON BACKGROUND, you can kind of tell what this is going to be. So, hey, whatever, let's go.

Get used to it.
Platinum Blonde is a series of little vignettes using Angela and her incredibly arbitrary purpose as an easy wraparound. They all follow the same formula and employ the usual cast of Surrender misfits - Micah Bradshaw, Shannan Leigh, Susan Hale, et ceterl - in unusual situations where sex isn't happening and therefore love isn't happening either. Angela gets "involved", without anyone's permission, and then everything's okay, because banging commences.

So, yeah, anyway, she doesn't have a lot of sex herself, except with Tony (Danny Pape), whose storyline focuses entirely on the fact that he's not confident enough to reveal that he has feelings for someone - it matters not who - and Angela's solution is to have sex with him on her floating bed, because that is certain to cure his every insecurity. At least, I think that's the point. I wasn't really paying attention.

The first thing that catches my attention about this is the music. It's an odd fusion of Muzak with a snare sound on every beat of a 4/4 time signature, with a string bass playing some jazz in the background and a brassy instrument over the top, which makes it sound like whomsoever's playing this has escaped from an early-'90s softcore movie starring Shannon Tweed and decided to pitch in. And for the first half minute or so, the actors have about as much to do as the synth player, who gets about one chord every two bars - there's some casual disrobing and smiles from Sampson and... well, lots of pink, really.

It occurs to me throughout the clothes-off-section that there's a bit of tinsel draped "artfully" across
For Bunny, obviously.
the top of her bed, and that her undergarments also have tinsel attached. And why is this? Is this an attempt to make things look more heavenly, or was this just filmed in a rush immediately following Christmas? It's an odd choice, because it doesn't have a lot of effect, apart from eliciting thoughts about how scratchy the tinsel might be if he decides to kiss her underwear. He doesn't really end up doing that; rather, her lets her sit on him and chews on her nipples for a bit...


...oh, thank Glod the electric guitar player turned up.

BOOM! Exploding shoe!
At one minute thirty since the start of this scene, Angela finally gets Tony's jeans off and gives him one of those soft porn blowjobs which involves more hair than is strictly necessary. Two minutes in and they get down to having sex with her on top. They haven't fully disrobed, though; he's wearing some weird wooden necklace thing (and his watch) and she still has her exploding shoes on (yes, really), but that appears to be no barrier to some fairly middle-of-the-road astride sex, which mixes swiftly into something approaching doggie style (giving us more exploding shoes at one point). It's all rather rudimentary, which makes the following decapitation rather unnecessary.

It took me a while to screencap this, but after a pan upwards, there's a mix to a wider shot, and in the half-second that takes, the pink background (which I think is a Chromakey shot, either green or blue) somehow jumps in front of the aforementioned necklace - SFX have keyed it out a little too early - leaving Tony effectively decapitated by pink.

MIX SHOTS KILL. Just say no, kids.

"Decapitated by pink". Three words I never thought I'd ever have to type in sequence. And probably never will again.

I'm so happy right now.

Anyway, so yeah, there's a small amount of sex to finish off and then a kind of semi-kiss until we fade to black. Yes, to black - not even to pink, which is fully what I was expecting, considering the theme we have going on here. In fact, the last few seconds are the best, as the music score finishes, all the other instruments finish and we get quite a pretty acoustic guitar outro that I'd love to be able to play myself, actually. Really does say something when the music is the most interesting bit about a sex scene.

Very pretty, but there's far too much makeup!
Okay, well, what do I like about this? Well, I like Holly Sampson - she doesn't quite fit the part of Emmanuelle very well, but she's okay as Angela, and this is her only sex scene in the movie, so she gets to do a bit of her patented bump'n'grind, so good for her, I guess - and she's a very sexy woman in her own special way - nice hair, nice smile, well-shaped body. I can't say too much for Danny Pape as I don't know much about him; he looks a bit lost in this scene, really, but then I suppose Tony is meant to be thinking he's dreaming, or something. The sex is nothing special - it's "seen it all before" sex to a massive degree, and would probably only make you orgasm if you'd been building up to it for a while and this was the final push.

But it's not a bad scene. And, although it's executed quite poorly (and, in one case, looks lethal), I quite like the otherwordly element they're trying to bring into this: it's not brilliant, and they could have gone with much more than just pink, but at least they are trying something different, and if you're going to sacrifice your eyes, then there may as well be sex involved.

Holly Sampson was, apparently, one of the women with whom Tiger Woods had sex. I wonder if he, too, is into pink.

Hah, you thought I was going to make a "hole in one" joke there, didn't you? Psych!

Saturday, 17 January 2015

Lady Laid Bare

One of the things I miss about sleeping with someone is the feeling of bare skin on more bare skin. My girlfriend has the tendency to wear something in bed - whether it's a T-shirt or some fluffy pyjamas (they are very fluffy, mind you) - whereas I've slept naked since I was about 12 and own a pair of pyjamas which I've had for approximately the same period, given how little wear they endure. Of the small comforts I have at bedtime (such as a couple of chapters from the book at the top of the pile, a mug of hot chocolate, and the gnawing insecurity that comes with the knowledge that my life is an inexorable spiral towards a hideous death), one of the best is the warm, soft feeling of naked skin. I don't often get that as much as I'd like.

This week, things have been different... somehow.

It started on Monday. We had been kissing in the rain while waiting for a bus to take us back home from the Cinema of Dreams.* It was an evening fraught with a mess of confused thoughts and feelings, and I'd no idea how it would go, until she suggested we have sex just as it was nearing midnight. The first sex of 2015, in fact. And it was - dare I say it? - glorious. Heavy, slow, measured, and long. Like, incredibly long. There were some orgasms. There were some kisses. And then possibly some glasses of water to cool off. And she remained naked for the rest of the night.

So I held her, the warmth of her body and the soft smoothness of her skin radiating through my arms and chest, making my back jealous. I didn't really get a lot of sleep - I never do, really - but in terms of rest, that one's a winner. As is the other night, where there was more sex and nudity. Or the nights where I cup her breasts with a hand to feel the relaxation. Or the ones where I kiss her neck and feel the skin there.

But I sometimes just want more.

[*Cineworld. I felt like I needed to give it a name.]

Friday, 16 January 2015

Boombastic

"Okay, get into pairs," said my pretentious year 7 English teacher, "and we're going to look at a poem together." Predictably, I was left partnerless; I silently declared to do poetry analysis on my own - yet again.

She handed out the poem, which was named Two Shaggy Trainers - it was, of course, illustrated with two shaggy trainers, but since most people didn't get past the title, it was a bit of a pointless illustration. There was a general titter running its way through the classroom, stopping with my bully for the year, who took it upon himself to stand up - either temporarily forgetting the accepted convention of raising one's hand to attract the teacher's attention, or just wanting to be subversive. At the other end of the classroom, somebody who may have been a friend at one point (had he not been absolutely crazy) also stood up, just because he could.

"Miss," said my bully, "could you read out the title of this poem?"
"Uhm, it's right there," said my teacher, "Two Shaggy Trainers."

My bully sat down, laughing a little too much for someone whose crowning achievement was getting a teacher to say the word "shag". Our geography teacher said "shit" a lot, and the deputy head was heard to say "fuck" a few times too. But everyone was about 12 at this point - "shag" was probably the funniest word IN THE WHOLE WORLD.

"Miss," said somebody else, raising his hand, "what does the word 'shaggy' mean?"
"Zoinks!" said somebody else, in a passable imitation of Casey Kalem.
"Does anyone want to explain?" she replied, keeping her cool. I diligently raised my hand to give what I thought was a reasonable definition.

"Okay? Enough chit-chat. Discuss what the author of this poem's focus is and how the words he chose work together. In pairs. Go."

The crazy one threw himself headlong into a stack of lockers in the corner of the room.

Eighteen years later and I'm still struggling to remember an occasion upon which I've used the word "shag" to refer to sex. I've used almost every other euphemism under the sun and I once made a list of them with about 49 other people - it filled two pages of A1, and would have gone on had we not been running out of time. But saying "shag" doesn't really appeal to me. It doesn't feel right in my mouth. I've no objection to the word, really; I just think there are better ways to refer to sex.

I mean, shag is also a type of carpet or loose tobacco. Or a bird also known as a cormorant. And, as an adjective, "shaggy" can be applied to trainers.

Not that anyone stopped laughing enough to do any poetry analysis.

Except me. I'd finished already.

Monday, 12 January 2015

Only a ninja can sneak up on another ninja

Today is, as @spacecheetos will tell you, "International Kiss a Ginger Day".

Hmmm.

One of the things that Lightsinthesky and I agreed about (and probably still do, although I haven't spoken to him for a few years now, so who knows?) was the concept that redheaded girls are attractive. I've firmly held this belief for a long time, so much so as to tell my former landlady this when she asked me what my type was, despite actually being in a relationship with someone who isn't of that hair colour.

In fact, I don't think I've ever so much as touched a redhead, aside from the occasional hug. Go, me.

When I think of red hair, I often think of preconceived ideas, and they're not all good ones, either, although there also appears to be a split between several genders there. One of my friends wrote a blog post entitled "Hairism", in which he responded to being called "a big ginger twat", with "ginger" used as a pejorative term. Another friend referred sneakily to having "a visual feature that is hard to ignore" - he was referring to being a redhead, although I thought it was the fact that he was Jewish, for some reason! - and the question was once posed to a redheaded vegan as to what you get if you cross a ginger with a vegan.

Gingervegan cosine theta, apparently.

And yet when you mention redheaded girls, one can't move for people rhapsodising about how hot they are. It's often also a trait equated with having a fiery temper, although there's no evidence of that besides the hair colour looking a little bit like fire (although literature doesn't help, giving this quality to ginger characters with alarming regularity) - "ooh, she's a redhead, must be a spirited woman," as Lightsinthesky once said.

I am guilty myself, of course; a lot of my characters - often the positive ones - are redheads. My favourite, Louise, often pushes the fact that she has red hair, besides other qualities she has...

...and, the big thing is, it shouldn't matter.

It shouldn't. We all know it shouldn't. It's just one more physical quality and we all know deep down that it shouldn't change anything one iota. It's like being tall or having blue eyes or there being a mole on the small of your back or... whatever. Being a "ginger", however you want to pigeonhole it, merely defines you as having red hair, and that's it. But there's something about the hair itself that I find attractive.

I find glasses and a well-shaped nose attractive too, in case you were wondering. And eyelids. I've got a strange thing about eyelids.

I suppose that what I'm trying to get at here, in a rather meandering way with far too many tangents, is that I find redheaded girls to be very attractive by virtue of their hair colour, although I probably should be considering other things but often don't; redheaded boys tend to get more stick about it for reasons unknown; there are many ideas about "ginger people" that probably aren't true; and I have weird sexual tastes including girls who have nice eyelids.

I'm weird.

In any case, since I have a girlfriend and she is only a redhead insofar as a small amount of her hair is dyed red, I don't think I'll be kissing any gingers today...

...although...

Sunday, 11 January 2015

Fiction

I am a love-a-holic.

I read voraciously through all seven Harry Potters on the days they came out (well, the last four - my mother read us the first three) keeping mental tabs on the developing relationship between Ron and Hermione... although I wasn't really too bothered who Harry ended up with.

Among the things I was disappointed about as regards The Amber Spyglass was the heartrending "going separate ways" bit with Will and Lyra. I saw that one coming from the second Will was introduced.

I've made charts. Yes, charts. Charts about the various pairings in Glee, since that changes pretty much every episode and it's hard enough to keep up with.

I was dismayed at the final fate of Syrah in the Septimus Heap books, since there's clearly something there between her and Septimus, and with her in a coma, there's basically nothing resolved there, and the series has finished now, so how do I get any sort of closure on that?

And I've always been very keen on Katniss and Peeta.

So I'm reading Allegiant at the moment, and there's a lot of stuff going on between Tris and Four, and I'm finding myself sort of blanking out over those bits, because - as much as this stuff matters to me in every other sort of YA thing I've read - all my brain is doing is shouting at me, "Dude! This is irrelevant! What the fuck happens to CALEB?!"

This sort of thing is why I'm not on Tumblr.

Wednesday, 7 January 2015

The Adoration of Cock

On Monday morning I put my girlfriend on a coach at around 8:00 am, and I haven't seen her since. She is, of course, coming back - should be here by midnight, and if I'm asleep - well - she has a key.

I've been wanking a lot.

And I mean a lot. No more than I used to when I was alone by virtue of being single - that is to say, once every night - but it's not just a quick one-off-the-wrist with an indecent thought and a sneaky perch on the toilet seat or the edge of my bed. This is the full thing - curtains closed, radiator turned up to full, with me reclining completely naked in the middle of a bed and a pile of DVDs next to me. I'm flicking at random through scenes to watch, of course - I'm not that patient - but, still, I'm taking my time.

This is a long, protracted masturbate - not setting myself any time limit. This was particularly evident on Monday, with my parents out of the house doing something unfathomable, affording me not only the luxury of wanking myself silly but also the opportunity to strut around the place nude whenever I wanted a drink or a snack. Tonight is the same deal, although with my parents out earlier, I started wanking earlier.

...I'm a terrible person.

Anyway, this has been glorious. I haven't done this for ages, because I haven't had the chance to - or the wherewithal. Last summer, when I was in the wilds, my room was relatively small, and for the first week or so I was sharing it. With just me in this room, cramped as it is, it seems a lot bigger, especially if I'm concentrating on a small screen (there's no TV in here) and tenderly grasping my penis for what is - and I do mean this literally - hours on end.

Hours.

Takes me a while to orgasm at the best of times. Now, it's taking an incredibly long time and I am loving every single second of it.

I'll still be very pleased when my girlfriend gets back, though. If last night's dream was any indication of something, it's that I really need somebody to hold.

Monday, 5 January 2015

Sexque

i do not talk about sex as often as i think about it.

I read through that sentence three times before managing to get the inference. Esque's blogging was perhaps a little more bombastic than what the rest of us were writing in our own LiveJournals, but then it was common knowledge that she'd managed to do what most of us hadn't - she had sex. In fact, she mentioned it, often in a rather blasé fashion:

we had sex last night.

To my slightly younger mind, this was both hot and confusing. I told Esque, although this was a lie, that I wasn't as fixated on sex as most 16-year-old boys were. What I meant was that I didn't masturbate - which was totally true. Esque informed me that she'd been having sex since the age of about 13, that most of her early sexual partners were in their 20s while she was 14, and that half the people in her peer group were sleeping around before sex education happened in their school.

Needless to say, I was dubious. But also possibly a bit jealous.

Okay, really jealous.

Esque mentioned sex enough times to make it exciting, particularly for me (to whom sexual contact of any kind - even kisses - was an unknown quantity), although maybe that wasn't her intention. She never went into graphic detail, as you'll see on the sex blogs these days, but it was what she didn't say that was more tantalising - they had sex. Fill in the blanks, My Brain.

So it was a little confusing to see her say that she didn't talk about sex. She did. The fact that there was probably some sort of mention of sex in every single LiveJournal post (barring a few, which were about suicide) wasn't enough for her. as she put it herself, her "current mood" may change regularly, but her "constant mood" - which she eventually implemented onto the LJ itself - remained at 'horny'.

From that point on, she began to mention sex more often. i really really want sex right now, she said once while watching SATC, really really. About a party she once wrote that at some points i really felt like i needed a penis inside me. (That last one nearly made me pass out the first time I read it.) And, although now I've been a member of a community in which everyone writes openly about sex in every way imaginable (and have done so for over seven years), I still feel the occasional surge of respect for the brazen way she mentioned sex as something she did for fun, with a number of different people, whereas it had been presented to us on my side of the country as something you only ever did twice, to have children, and even then, reluctantly and using seven condoms.

She's since made her LiveJournal private, but those occasional snatches of phrase stay in my mind, like they've been burned there with a firebrand. Ay, but the memory is a strange thing.

Do I need to mention that she now has two children? No, thought not.