What with all the shenanigans and the goings-on, I forgot the right word.

A Colleague: "He's kind of... zoned out. He's just..."
ILB: "...Not there?"
A Colleague: "Right."
ILB: "Yeah."
A Colleague: "Although I sort of envy him. I'd like to do that, just go to another place."
ILB: "I thought you liked it here."
A Colleague: "No, I don't mean here! I mean just sort of... go somewhere else."
Another Colleague: "Leave this world, go to another world, even."
ILB: "That's a nice way of putting it."
A Colleague: "Yes, I want to do that."
ILB: "I've got a friend who does something that works for her to escape this world, and something that I've tried too... masturbation."
[A Colleague and Another Colleague stare.]
ILB: "Meditation! I mean, meditation!!"
[All laugh.]

Giving the Cold Shoulder Warmth

...also known as: "On the Hard Shoulder". It's a sign of the times when thinking up the entry titles is more fun than writing the entry.

Last night, feeling rather too ill for much else, I was snuggling the lovely drinking girl quite intimately (read: warmly), and - having nothing else to do - I kissed her shoulder. This got more of a reaction than I was expecting, but it was an appreciated reaction. In fact, she thinks that shoulder kisses are the most intimate kiss that can happen. A strange thought, perhaps, but not one that's largely unfounded. Let's have a think about this:

Cheek: Well, anyone can kiss your cheek. I mean, you can do that to your friends, or your mother. It's pleasant, but not too special (except if it's your significant other who you're kissing, natch).

Lips: This is an odd one, considering you can peck someone on the lips or have a full-on snog. And the second of these things - wonderfully intimate as it can be - can happen randomly (although I guess so can sex, but you know what I mean...). TD says that you're more likely to get snogs from prostitutes than you are a shoulder kiss. I'm more inclined to say that drunk girls will give snogs, although I don't really have that much personal experience... anyway, it doesn't have to be intimate.

Stomach: I'm not allowed to kiss this bit. But it's closer to...

Downstairs: Very intimate. Of course it is. But I guess prostitutes will kiss you, or let you kiss, there too. Plus, although I hate to admit it, you're more likely to do this with someone you're simply having sex with than you would with a lover you happen to be snuggling from behind. Plus, do you count it as a kiss? I love oral sex, but does it count as a long kiss with style, or a form of sex? Argh, the debating hurts my brain!

Back: Well, I like to kiss the back, actually. I'm not sure whether this is more intimate than the shoulder to kiss. It's unlikely that you're going to spend a long amount of time kissing anyone's back if they're not your lover, hence why I think it's intimate. Strangely, despite the amount of nerve endings there, you don't feel back kisses as much as you would in other areas (unless, like me, you are hypersensitive), so although it's a more 'lover' thing to do, it may not work for you (hint: experiment, damn it!) - but it's a contender.

Ears: An erogenous zone. And licking behind the ears is also very intimate. Something you can spend a lot of time on, as well. Another candidate.

Feet: Not something I've ever really gotten into, but then again, I did put a picture of my own up at one point.

Shoulder: So, is it? Well, it's certainly not something that would occur to you to kiss (unless you are 'aware') if you're just having random sex. But it's an erogenous zone, like the ear; it's a lover's advantage (especally during spooning), like the back, it's exciting, like the lady garden - and it's pleasant, like the cheek. It's also clearly not something that's designed to be kissed, which makes it unexpected. And that's naughty. Yep, all the boxes ticked there. We have a winner!

Or do we? Does anyone have anything else they like to kiss? The possibilities are... well, not endless, but there are a lot of them...

London, Dating, Camgirls, and Utter Stupidity

So, there's been a shocking revelation via the letters page in the Metro this morning. Some girl can't find a boyfriend in London and therefore every boy in London doesn't actually want a girlfriend and is automatically after one thing. And, let's face it, so am I. I want it now - it's the best feeling when you know it's coming, and whoever you get it from, it's all the same really. That's right: money. I don't have any and therefore I'd like some. Damn you, whoever invented money (Romans? Or beforehand? I don't really know, or care). But anyway, back to the post.

I'm assuming that this girl is referring to sex, which is the thing that automatically all the boys in London are after. Why, yes, of course they are, my dear. Because girls don't really like sex, do they? Boys get erections and chase skirt, and girls end up forced into an act they absolutely hate.

With an attitude like that you're not likely to get any sex yourself, never mind the boyfriend you claim to be looking for.

Having said that, it is - of course - painfully obvious that this girl is deluded. She just happens to have met some wankers. But girls in London (those you can meet over the internet, anyway) sometimes don't do themselves any favours. The majority of girls on sex dating websites and listing services are camgirls, who will attempt to scam you out of some money (but won't get any of mine... because I'm too smart, and don't have any anyway!) by promising you sex, and may not even be girls in the first place. It's likely to put you off any sort of Internet dating, not that match.com or Guardian Soulmates or... any of the others... seem to work that well either.

And what if you are a real girl looking for love, or even simple honest-to-god sex? You're going to be extremely difficult to find among the sea of camgirls. Sex bloggers are a lot more reliable. I met my lovely girlfriend through writing a sex blog and she's not even from London.

Anyway, this girl who took it upon herself to text Metro deriding all the males in London is wrong. I'm willing to bet any amount of money (don't take me up on that, you'll be sorely disappointed) that truckloads of lovely boys have texted in to correct her by pointing out that they, in fact, are looking for girlfriends, rather than That One Thing. From my experience, anyway, boys are more inclined towards romantic endeavours than girls are. Or is that just cynicism?

Oh, also, you can have sex with your girlfriend if you want. Did anyone point that bit out...?

Blabbermouth

"What do you write?"

"I write articles about sex," I said cheerfully to the doctor. Check me out, talking casually to a doctor I just met casually wandering about. I hadn't even checked to see if there were any children around. Bad ILB. Don't mention the fact that you're a sex blogger - even a veiled hint at it - and always check for children. Not that there were any. Phew.

"Fantastic!" ejaculated the doctor, a bit like the Ninth Doctor in fact. "Where do you write these things?"

"Um, uh." Talk your way out of this one, ILB. "On the Internet." No, no, no. Do not say that.

"I also write poetry... and plays and... er, I write songs. I'm in a rock band!" Nice recovery. "And, er, er, I did a degree in English, and I wrote half a novella for my dissertation..."

Fortunately, that did the trick. We talked about rock bands for a bit and the doctor, distracted by the witty banter, didn't mention sex any more.

But I really shouldn't get carried away like that. After all the stuff with Belle that seems to have happened during one weekend in which I've been absent from the glorious Internet(s), you can't be too paranoid careful. Note to self, ILB: read your own stuff.

Adequate product placement

So, I was at this... court today. Nothng to do with me, of course (I haven't been "court" yet... ho, ho!) - I was just a casual observer. At some points a bored observer, at others a sleeping observer. When the court was in session it was actually more interesting. Anyway, so my mind wandered at points, and you know what happens when my mind wanders. No, I thought, definitely not. You don't want to be getting hard in the middle of a legal trial. That makes you even more confusing than before. So I tried to stop thinking about making the lurve, and concentrate on something else. Clearly, I needed help.

Suddenly, the door burst open.

"Hi there, BARRY SCOTT HERE! Do you have problems with FEMALES, LUST, or MIND IN DIRT? They're a challenge for some bloggers, but not for CILLIT I-L-BANG!"

The results were apparent immediately.

"Simply get out your phone, and engage in flirty texts. Look what it does to your willy! Good as new!"

That didn't make any sense. Surely sending flirty texts for a while would have enhanced my turned-on-status, but it worked. I think that I was concentrating more on the grin slowly unfurling on my face, and the act of texting, than thinking about sexytimes. (Don't worry, I'm better now. I can easily equate the two.)

I am a convert.

"CILLIT I-L-BANG cleans up your MIND!"

Bang! And the flirt is on...

I suck in other ways, obviously...

Hey. Hello there.

I'm sorry I've been a bit rubbish lately. I mean, I've still been writing posts but there hasn't been anything of discernible quality for a bit (well, not since this anyway). I haven't exactly run dry, but I haven't been feeling good about myself for a while and therefore I lack the energy to write anything on the preconception that it's going to be bad writing. Like Bad Science, but with words.

Why don't I feel good about myself? Well, I'm not sure. I mean, I have a very poor self-image anyway, despite indication to the contrary - my girlfriend, evidently, is still pleased that I am me, my supervisor at work called me a genius the other day (why, yes; yes, I am) and I've made it onto the Top 100 Sex Bloggers of 2009 (at a paltry #97, but at least I made it onto the list this year, along with other people of whom I approve). But still, I'm feeling a sense of dissatisfaction with whatever I do at the moment, and I've little idea why.

I just think I'm comparing myself to other people and that's not something anyone should really be doing. I should be planning my Christmas gig, but I'm not, because part of me is convinced that nobody will turn up - despite the fact that people did turn up last year, 4 to be exact, but it was one of the best gigs I've ever done - yet still I rehearse, in my front room, in front of a crowd of 20 imaginary people. I was in An Education, but you can't see me, apart from a blurry few seconds, and I've had some positive feedback from the tiny book I wrote (mostly from LS, to whom my thanks are due) and yet I'm still a little annoyed at myself for writing it.

I just feel inadequate. I feel like I've tried to do all these things and yet I'm not-quite-there and never-will-be. Ironically, like I'm one of the last few on the list. Within reach, but slipping, perhaps?

Evidently this will pass. I just can't make that happen myself.

My favourite season, autumn, didn't come. We skipped straight from spring to winter this year with an extremely short Indian summer in between the two, but it was hardly much of a break. I'm trudging to my work placement in the cold and I'm returning in the dark, despite sometimes finishing at 3. It's weighing rather heavily on me, this end-of-year.

It's going to be a long, long, long, long Sunday afternoon...

How to look good naked

I mean, clearly she's naked. It's obvious. I know there are two windows between me and her, and that she's in the house on the other side of the road. But I'm sure she's naked. Either that or she's wearing a skin-coloured, skintight top with fake nipples, and so far I've only ever known one person to wear one of them, and that's Brüno. Yeah, she's naked. I can tell it by the way her boobs move.

And this begs the question, exactly what the fuck does she think she's doing? I don't even know if those are net curtains, it's probably just slightly dirty glass. And she's... dusting? She's cleaning her house? Naked? I'm all for freedom and liberation, and the human body's a wonderful thing, but... but... does she know what sort of people are over here? Here, in my workplace? Does she know the kind of people I work for? It's just not... well... appropriate!

And yet, there she goes, merrily flicking away with her dusting cloth, cool as you please, tits out for the world to see (or any curious ILBs that happen to be at the wrong window at the wrong time). This isn't even vaguely arousing. It's just... confusing. I mean, there are kids around here and yet she's...

...ah. She's gone.

Damn it. I was enjoying the confusion.