Thursday, 19 July 2018


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."


"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


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

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...





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.


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."



I'd rather have answered a booty call.

Wednesday, 4 July 2018

It's fun to share, it's fun to share

She: "So you're not American? Where do you live?"
Me: "I'm in North London. I live and work here, but I've worked all over London at various points."
She: "Gotcha! When I visited London, my airbnb was in South London."
Me: "From what I hear, it's cheaper there. But, on a completely biased and unfair view... North London has hotter girls."

I wasn't expecting her to agree.

She: "Oh, I know; I kept going across the river to party!"
Me: "You did...?"
She: "I went to the Winter Wonderland thing and picked up so many birds. A Tower Bridge kiss was my finishing move!"

I was torn between questioning her use of the term "birds" and wondering how she knew it, considering how I don't think it's part of American English. But then again, there was one far more urgent question to be asked.

Me: "Sneaky girl! Did you get very far with any of them?"

Stop it, ILB.

She: "Two of them came back to my airbnb! And I had mindblowing British-accented double-dildo lickfests with them!"

Okay, sure, tell me more. 

Saturday, 30 June 2018


We are moving into a new flat on Monday. It doesn't have any furniture (except, scavenging as we have been from family and friends, we have more than enough); realising the relative urgency of the situation, yesterday my parents took us to IKEA in order to buy a bed.

I don't think I've ever actually owned a bed. All the things I've slept on have either technically belonged to my parents, or whichever letting agent I've been working with who has bought the cheapest, most uncomfortable bed alternative they can get and thrown it at me. The room we are moving out of currently actually has a bed frame, which is a novelty by this point. It's still not in the least comfortable, which is why we spent quite a while sitting/lying on the beds in IKEA to make sure they weren't going to snap my spine in two, or something.

One of the things I wanted to get was a bedhead with slats, because I liked the look and feel of such a thing... or so I said.

You see, I actually wanted something to grip with my hands, taking the strain and providing both balance and stamina for my top half, while my hips work rhythmically back and forth as she lies spread underneath me. I could, of course, grip something else, but what else is there?

Another of the things I wanted to get was a bed with a foot, because I liked the complete idea of a bed framed at both ends... or so I said.

You see, I actually wanted something to press against with my feet, shifting my entire body forwards and penetrating her deeper, that extra half an inch buried further inside her, feeling her warm and wet around the entire length of my shaft. I could, of course, press my feet off something else, but what else is there?

In the end, of course, we ended up buying a bed with neither of these things - one with a completely solid bedhead and nothing at the foot... but, at the very least, a more comfortable mattress.

It's time to start training my hips.

Sunday, 24 June 2018


I'm hungry.

I raise myself from my chair, pick up a plate, and totter unsteadily to the door, which I open. On the left is the kitchen. It's unusually quiet.

This is unexpected. I wasn't expecting anyone to be here.

The two new housemates are in the kitchen. Neither of them are speaking. I don't know their names, or anything about them; all I know is that they both speak French and they are staying here for a week. I am moving out in a week. My packed boxes are littering the corridor.

What do I say to them? I have to be civil. They're new. I can't just stand here making food, just after my... my...

And then a realisation hits me.

Oh God! Do they know?

I start to feel more self-conscious.

Maybe I'm giving off some sort of signal. I'm certainly feeling that post-orgasm glow. I'm walking unsteadily, I must look slightly unfocused. And I've said it's quiet - maybe that's just the buzz you get after climax. I must look flushed. I'm going red. I'm giving off all the signals, I just know it.

Panicked slightly, I hurriedly wash up my plate and start piling random bits of food onto it. One old wrap. Peanut butter. Jam. I'll grab a Pepsi once I'm back in my room.

Nothing more. If I'm in here any longer then my new housemates will know I've just had an orgasm.

I'm not even sure why that's bad, but it most certainly is.

Oh God! My Eroticon mug is on the draining board! What if they Google me? What if they then see this post?

I practically run the metre and a half to my door and sit back down in a state of nervous collapse.

It was a very good orgasm, though.

Friday, 22 June 2018


It's there. Not always obvious, but it is. It hangs there, right in front of me, tantalising like the Golden Fleece. Fruit to be plucked from a tree. Sometimes I can reach out and take it... and sometimes it just remains where it is - solidly, resolutely intangible. A faint, uneasy smudge in the air. A mistake waiting to be corrected. It floats above me, and it is all I can do to hope to connect with it.

My identity. It eludes me, and it has for a few weeks now. In some moments, it comes to me in stark realisation - rememberance - of who I am. I laugh at something my girlfriend innocuously says that reminds me of soft porn. I scribble keywords into my diary that I think I may be able to spin out into posts of hundreds of words. I spend my time on the bus trying to think of things I may write. I sit in an armchair with the heat beating down on me from outside and drift into half-sleep, feeling my erection grow.

A swirl of memories comes and goes - colours and sound and occasional pictures. Can I mention these? Are they relevant? I don't know. I can't write about Shannan Leigh's growl, or the naked picture my friend send me which turned out to be Photoshopped. Maybe there's something to be said about the album art I used which was a naked photo of myself, or one which is a tracing of a still from a hentai game. Perhaps there's even something to be said about the track I once put together which has a sample in it I recorded from an anal sex animation.

There was a cajón being played on Lorraine this morning. I like the pleasant rumble when sitting on a cajón. There's something sexual, even, in that.

There is a disconnect, you see, between my identity and I. We dance around each other like those circles in the Battery visualisations of Windows Media Player. I am unreasonably busy. I pack clothes; I wash plates. I go through interminable paperwork. Admin. Money. Packing. Walking. Commuting. Music. Packing. Cooking... cleaning... organising... resting. Rest. Rest. Rest.

Reset. Start again. I need to take a shower. I haven't done so for days. I don't have the time. The energy. The wherewithal...

It all escapes me. I know, from experience, that I will get it back. All of it. It comes and it goes, and I know - I'm not that far gone - and I can't wait for The Muse to strike. She is a flighty bitch. I need to push myself forwards. Get myself in order. Rediscover myself and reconnect.

I can do this. I can. I can and I will.

There's too much to do at the moment. But I just wrote this. And, if I can write a post in these times, I can do just about anything.

Thursday, 14 June 2018


I shouldn't be watching Love Island; it's too triggering.

That's blatantly untrue - while it is triggering, in some ways, the complete escapism it presents it too big a draw, and the fact that I have a lot of shifts at work which offer an hour of nothing between 9 and 10pm (the 'dead but you are rota'd in' period) contributes to the fact that I will, in fact, be watching Love Island, so sue me.

Eyal can go suck a fuck, though.

I say this from a completely neutral standpoint, which is a much bigger lie than the one I told above. It's happened three times, and possibly more (I haven't yet watched the episode tonight), that there's a slightly forced, unnecessarily messy, and incredibly public kiss between Eyal and Megan - and, seemingly, almost always in the presence of Alex, who doesn't need to see that, because he fancies Megan.

It happened three times, and possibly more (I didn't keep as accurate a count as she did),that there was a slightly drunk, unnecessarily messy, and incredibly public kiss between Leaf and whoever - and, seemingly, always in the presence of me, who didn't need to see that, because I fancied Leaf. I mean, initially I didn't mind so much, because one of those drunken kisses was me!

The issue is, of course, that with this community, and the age range, and the complete freedom of expression when it comes to sexuality which we espoused (and the amount of alcohol), kisses appeared to be the norm. I, of course, didn't get many - a few on the cheek, maybe, and one very brief one from a friend who was in a competition to pull as many people as possible on the night. And then Leaf. Because she was drunk.

The issue was that I'd been fairly smitten with Leaf since I first met her. I was 19; she was 16, and into indie music, and cute. And she wore glasses and she was a drummer, which is always something I find attractive. I met her in London during a brief event, and every time I found that memory fading, I'd go to another event, and she'd also be there, looking even more attractive every time. I knew, of course, that this would never go anywhere - it never did with me so I wasn't going to entertain any fantasies - but I had a crush, bordering at times on obsession (half the songs on three of my self-produced albums are about her).

Of course, she was clueless. I think. I left her a lot of hints, up to and including "I Have Never... had a secret admirer" (nobody drank); I didn't really want her to solve the puzzle, however.

All of this would be a fonder memory if I hadn't been one of only three Innocent™ bystanders on one of the last nights at an event, when she engaged in a long, drunken, incredibly messy and very public (although, as I said, only three of us were there - me... and the other two members of the geek clique) with another incredibly attractive girl who was there for her first event and had swiftly become fairly well-acquainted with several pairs of lips. I don't really know what I was expecting, really - I'd snogged her at a previous event; was I genuinely expecting another one? Undoubtedly it meant moe to me than it did to her, but then again, I knew that too!

What I don't think anyone was expecting (myself included) was how explosive my reaction to the sight of seeing Leaf kiss someone else (let's call her... Chloé) was. I was upset, of course I was - although I'm still not sure why; she was completely within her right to kiss Chloé - but what I wasn't expecting was for me to dissolve almost instantly into uncontrollable, grief-infused tears. My geek friends, one of whom helpfully said "you know, it's what teenage girls do...", practically carried me outside to console me. I got one final glimpse of Leaf and Chloé in a corner before we exited the building - they sat me by the fireside, got me a drink from somewhere, and hardly said a word.

They didn't need to ask why I was upset. They just knew.

I'm still surprised by my reaction, and I still don't know what else I could have done (although, when one reflects upon it, it wasn't upon me to do anything... Leaf and Chloé probably didn't even clock that I was there!). It had been a good event, really - I'd been sleeping well, in between one of my geek friends and one of the incredibly sexually active girls who was always relatively chaste at these events but whatever this isn't about her it's about Leaf this is a completely different subject shut up ILB, and I'd been feeling quite down at home, so this was all making me feel refreshed. These trips did that for me.

I woke up the next day making sure that I said goodbye to everyone, including Leaf, and made my way (with fellow stragglers) back to the train station. I didn't know what to say to anyone by the end of the day - nobody ever wanted to leave these events. Those that had coupled up throughout the weekend were going home together. If I hadn't been so tired, it would have made me feel a little more melancholy.

And that's why Eyal can fuck off. Because if it hurts that much to watch someone you fancy snogging someone else, then how much it hurts to watch the same when both participants know you're there and that you fancy one of them is something I genuinely can't imagine.

Although I've had dreams about it. So obviously I can imagine it.

I hate my brain.

Sunday, 10 June 2018


At 11, I was of the opinion that I was too young for love.

Despite my Nan's assertion that I was incredibly good-looking "it must be something in your demeanour that puts them off...", and my mother's equally saccharine comparisons to Leonardo DiCaprio (which I actually found insulting; I've never really seen the attraction), I've never thought of myself as particularly attractive. Besides, at this point I was 11. That's far too young, I told myself, and I was going to wait until I was a teenager before I even started thinking about it (lies; I got a crush almost immediately after starting year 7, and even sent her a flower).

Nevertheless, I was certain that nothing was going to happen at that time, and I assumed a kind of aloof position, just to make it clear that I was both (i) intelligent; (ii) unattainable. I didn't have any friends at that point (Robinson and my friend-who-is-a-midwife, who had been my Ron and Hermione at primary, had gone to the local selective grammar; I was at the mixed-ability comprehensive), and as an immediate outsider, I developed a kind of mystique, firmly insisting that I wasn't interested in love, I would never be interested in sex, and that "nobody fancies me and gets away with it".

Uninterested as I may have said I was, the same can't be said for a couple of girls. There's the one I wrote about here, of course... and then there's one more, as well.

This girl was in my class. I knew who she was, but I hardly ever talked to her. We worked together a couple of times, but she hardly ever said a word ("je suis timide", as she put it in a French lesson). Quite a few people in the class were quite cruel to her for her unassuming nature, withdrawn personality and unflattering body shape, so I tried to be as courteous as possible to her, as a fellow victim of bullying.

It didn't take long for people to matchmake, although their reasons were, as far as I was aware, very loose at best. "You two suit," one of the girls in my class pointed out, although I thought she may have also fancied me (she had my name written on her pencil case). "You both read books," pointed out one of the boys, as if that was a pastime nobody else had ever considered. "You both like going to school," pointed out yet another, "and anyway, I thought you two got on well together."

I wasn't convinced, and in the end, I went to talk to my Head of Year about it. He, rather gallantly, talked to the class, without naming names, and after that it eased off a little. But only a little. (I remember missing the lesson when he did that and hanging in his office for a while. I didn't need French; I could, at that point, already speak French).

The problem was, however, that she did in fact have a crush on me. She tried to confide it in someone, which was probably a mistake, as it made its way back to me.
"I don't care," I said coolly to whichever rumourmonger it was who told me. "You shouldn't be telling me that sort of stuff. I'm not sure it's even true," I finished, even though I knew it was, in fact, true. I could have talked for a while about the nature of human attraction, and how not disliking someone doesn't automatically indicate true love, but I didn't (and, in the first two years of secondary school, this kind of binary opposition seemed to be the norm). And I didn't mention it at all, because if she was pining, then I didn't want to prolong her suffering.

The worst thing was that I couldn't do anything about it. I started to hesitate when going to school, and made absolutely sure to stay away from her, lest I would be seen talking to her and it being mistaken, yet again, for a relationship. I felt awful about it - it seemed to me like I was being cold and distant - but everyone, including my Head of Year, said that this was the right course of action. I continued to feel, though, that this was entirely out of my control, and eventually she sort of asked me on a date, although I wasn't entirely sure she was talking to me at first.

She asked me if I wanted to go for a walk. I told her, politely I hope, that I didn't want to - a sort of "hmmm... no, thank you" deal - and was both impressed by her courage and incredibly guilty at having disappointed her. We barely exchanged words after that, although in year 8 we were library monitors together, and it was brought up within earshot of both of us that "she used to fancy you, but it's okay, she hates you now" (binary opposition again!). Eventually, of course, things seemed to thaw, and by year 13, when I'd evolved into a floppy-haired, quick-witted, guitar-playing alternative music fan, I found myself in the same class as her again, and was quite cordial to her - warm, even. I felt she deserved to do well, as her first couple of years hadn't been her happiest.

She denied having ever had a crush on me. I suppose that's for the best. It wouldn't have dragged up good memories.

And that's the first time I've ever been asked out. Hardly one of my best moments, and although I think I handled it well enough, I didn't like the fact that it was almost competely out of my control. The mocking cruelty of my classmates, my oddball outsider status, and her faltering start - even though, academically, she was doing well - was completely new to me. I didn't like it one bit... but what could I have done? And, as I said, I was 11. I really was too young for love.

The next time someone asked me out, of course, I was 17. And I was ready. I said yes.