Tuesday, 30 September 2014

Having a stroke

"Are you collared?"

The girl didn't answer, partially because she was paying lots of attention to her boyfriend (or, as I assumed, her Dom - or possibly both, of course), but mostly because I said it very quietly, mostly to myself.

I was standing on Oxford Street handing out leaflets and talking to clients outside while enjoying the last of the summer sunshine through a slightly autumnal haze. Yesterday I passed my time by monologuing to myself, mooting the idea of an Erotic Independent Film Club (EIFC) and actually made a list of films, because I am that cool. Today, street life was slightly more entertaining and, crucially, I was doing this for less time.

The girl turned and walked away, upon which I noticed that what I had assumed to be a collar was probably just a fashion statement - wire mesh worn around her neck - but you never know. I was so concerned with amusing myself regarding this concept that I almost completely missed the second girl walking directly towards me. Accompanied by a couple of friends, she looked purposeful. Hot black girl with long curly hair and unreasonably large chest. Okay, I can cope with that.

I prepared to step aside. I've been doing this extra thing for work for the past couple of weeks and, since it's Oxford Street, I've spent most of my time sidestepping people like I'm a confused Knightmare contestant. This girl was no exception, I stepped to the right and...

...she stroked me on the left arm.

And I don't mean a brush, or even the brusque shove I get from Londoners who are too important to deviate an inch from their intended route. It was a full-on stroke, from my shoulder to my elbow, firm and smooth, with the palm of her hand. Without so much as a glance at her strokee, she continued on her way, eventually becoming swallowed by the throng in the distance towards Centre Point.

I stood there in shock, with no idea what just happened, not sure whether to feel violated or flattered. People coming by have taken pictures of me, hurled verbal abuse, claimed to be a poet named Zoltar, even taken a flyer every now and again... but actual physical contact is something I had just never expected - especially not a stroke! Especially not from someone I don't know! And especially someone who didn't even look at me!

And so I did the only thing that made sense in that situation.

Coffee.

Sunday, 28 September 2014

I have the weirdest ideas sometimes...

When you imagine something, do you find it easier to do so with your eyes open or closed?

Okay, so it's an odd question. But it's also something that's been confusing to me for a long time. Technically speaking, I'm pretty sure that if you do have your eyes closed, it's easier to slip into visions and imaginings because there's no outside distraction, such as shapes and colours; however, I've always found it easier to daydream with my eyes open - as do most people, I'm sure, with the slightly glazed expression and unfathomable mouth shape. Even in bed, where I tend to concoct a superhero-based storyline to keep myself entertained, then it's much easier to do so with my eyes open - not very conducive to going to sleep, of course.

But then again, it shouldn't matter anyway; if your imagination is strong enough you're seeing what's inside your head, and your body doesn't have to obey any silly "what it should look like on the outside" rules. I certainly didn't care when I was at work and slipped off into a fantasy Zelda-inspired world halfway through writing important notes, nor in year 7 when I was fighting Galgamort the Destroyer in the middle of the playground and must have been attracting some funny looks.

Which brought me, in one of my more lucid moments, so the subject of sexual fantasies. Everyone - or nearly everyone - has sexual fantasies, I reasoned. Some of which have tangible results (even if stretching does the same, for some reason). So what if I put this to the test? Could I concentrate on sexual fantasies for a long period of time with my eyes open and remain erect, without aid such as soft porn or written erotica or hot blog posts?

So I put on my computer and pulled down my trousers...

This bit takes a bit of imagination, so keep your eyes open for this bit. My desktop background (made, incidentally, by a professional model when she rediscovered Microsoft Paint) is royal blue with yellow stars on it (not as painful at it sounds...), so I focused my gaze on the star that's most central (to give myself a focal point to start from, not that I stayed there) and fired up my brainbox.

It sounds excruciating, keeping an erection without any visual stimulus or touching - I also reasoned that, as this wasn't masturbation, I didn't need to touch - but it wasn't difficult, nor painful. I just drifted through sexy visions generated in my mind palace and sat there with a massive hard penis and a silly grin on my face. This is, after all, what I used to do during my teenage years when I felt horny but had no will to masturbate, and I can't remember any need to have eyes shut then either.

And so I sat there. And I sat there. And I sat there.

Originally my aim was to keep staring into middle distance thinking about sex until it was too irresistible and I had to take matters in hand, or needed to go to the toilet - but, to be frank, neither of those happened. I just sat in my chair for about an hour or so and then found myself getting bored. I hadn't been up until that point, as it was just an unspecified time of pleasure sitting there with a pulsing erection and no distractions to my wandering dreamscape. But then, eventually, I got a jolt back to Earth and realigned myself to the mundanity of real life, although with no mess to clean up this time, so there's that.

Later in the day, when I was going through my earlier experiment, I had one final realisation: I hadn't really achieved anything. I'd gotten an erection, but I have lots of those, so that wasn't anything new; I'd been daydreaming with my eyes open, which I always do. Sometimes the two happen simultaneously, so that wasn't new either. The only difference here was that I had my pants down.

But no complaints here.

Thursday, 25 September 2014

Sex after midnight

We were, for the first time in far too long, both naked under the covers. I always sleep naked - I have since I was about 12, although I do own pyjamas for special occasions (pyjama days, social trips with sleepovers and so on...) - but my girlfriend hardly ever does, so her being naked (even though she is, by admission, a lady laid bare) is something of a novelty. I didn't even know, at the time, why she had taken all her clothes off, because I am exceedingly dim sometimes and didn't even notice her nipples were pert until I put one of them in my mouth...

...because she asked me to, I didn't just do it out of boredom or somesuch.

It didn't take too long, though. She was horny and, although I wasn't to begin with, I certainly was after a few minutes' fumble in the dark. Feeling my hands all over her while I continued to play with her breasts, her own hands doing their fair share of touching as well, until she was more than just a little wet; in fact, I haven't felt her this wet for a long time, either. I continued stimulating her by just stroking a finger over her pussy lips - never putting one in, just a gentle caress.

She reached over and pulled me on top of her. I was, frankly, amazed at how hard I could get after a couple of minutes' gentle stimulation with very little light. I eased myself forward and felt her guiding my cock into her, sliding the whole thing in while her vagina contracted around my shaft.

I stated moving, and then continued - nothing special; nothing frantic; nothing unusual, even; just repetitive movement: steady, broad, long strokes, each one firm, each one deep, each one accompanied by a twitch or a breath or a regal purr. On and on I went, keeping the steady rhythm going while she curled her own legs around my bum and clutched at my back with grabbing hands. I didn't get a yelp, a gasp or a scream - that wasn't even the aim. I wanted us to enjoy each other, and so we did, every second accompanied by a smooth, measured push from the hips.

Eventually, just before it all became too much, I slowed down to a halt. I didn't want to miss this moment.

I lay there on top of her, feeling the rush of air and the rhythm of a heartbeat, forestalling the inevitable climax for just a little longer.

Sunday, 21 September 2014

Shotgun!

"We need to think of a name for our team."
"FRIENDS?" I suggested. "Not because of the TV show, but because we're friends?"
"Naw, that sounds lame. I hate you."
"Nice. Mature. Okay, you suggest one then."
"How about KILL 'EM ALL?"
"Like the Metallica album?"
"Yeah...?"
"Okay, go ahead."

Lightsinthesky typed KILLEMALL carefully into the box.

"Okay."
"Okay."
"Now we need four names."
Lightsinthesky typed three variations of his name into the first three spaces. He looked at me.
"You can control these two," he said, indicating two, "and I'll control this other one, and..."
"..."
"...the last one, who I'll call..."
"..."
"...Emma."
"Why don't you go all out?" I suggested, one eyebrow raised. "You can throw in some adjectives to indicate how you feel about Emma. Fit, sexy, fun, that sort of thing...?"

"Yeah!" he ejaculated. "Great idea!" And he slowly tapped FIT CHICK EMMA S into the remaining slot. I could practically hear his brain whirring as he quickly held backspace to clear the letters, then replaced it with SEXY CHICK EMMA. "Perfect," he explained, before following it up with, "hey, we can pretend she's my fiancée, right? Because..." (he lowered his voice to a conspiratorial whisper) "...a fiancée's better to make love to."

I wasn't going to question how, at the age of twelve, Lightsinthesky had come across this vital piece of information. Mind you, this is the guy who ended up becoming a bassist in a band specifically to seduce young girls. He's the one who ended up drinking absinthe and having an orgy one New Year's party, because his brother suggested it for a laugh. He's also the guy who starting going out with a girl who looked a bit like a Magikarp, because he thought he had more of a chance with her.

Twice.

I had turned thirteen a month or so ago, and now that I was in my teens, Lightsinthesky had decided that it was his life's mission to find me a girlfriend. In fact, I already had a crush on someone, but since he appeared to have a crush on the same person and she had had a crush on me the previous year, I deemed it prudent not to mention any of that, since it was far too complicated. Coming up blank with names for girls in the school whom he had no designs on himself (and discounting Einstein et al. as potential matches), he came up with Emma, someone of whom I had no knowledge.

Whom he later decided (about a week later) he wanted for himself anyway. Not that she reciprocated, really; she ended up with my bully-turned-ally three years later, upon which he gave up the chase. (Or said he did. He then took up the bass.)

And so she ended up as our fourth Worm. Not that it made a difference - she could have been named anything, that's how the game works - but Lightsinthesky was absolutely adamant that she was the fiancée - not wife, not girlfriend but the one that's best to make love to because apparently you automatically know that at twelve - of the Worm named after him.

"Lightsinthesky," I asked halfway through the game, "if SEXY CHICK EMMA is the fiancée of your own Worm, which one, seeing as all the other Worms in the team are named after you?"
There was a pause.
"God, I love her," he replied.

Thursday, 18 September 2014

...and I liked it

I've never kissed a Scot.

My second ever kiss happened in Scotland - immediately following my first ever sexual experience, both with Esque. But she's a girl from Durham; we were holidaying along with 47 for the Edinburgh Fringe. On my frequent sojourns to Scotland, for bizarre holidays in the rain and family visiting purposes, I don't have any memories of kissing anyone even remotely Scottish.

But then again, I haven't kissed many people. Unlike my Scottish cousin, who is a footballer and spent his year in London snogging the hottest girls in bars and then showing me pictures of them on his phone.


...Yeah.

My memories of Scotland are scattered and mixed. For those of you who don't know, I'm part Scottish myself - my Dad is from Edinburgh and I was partially brought up by my Gran, who had her Borders accent until she died last year. I've been taken north of the Border to visit my ever-diminishing family on a few occasions, the types to say things like "the last time I saw you, you were a little short-arse".

Very Scottish.

With the exception of the Edinburgh debacle above, my mind highlights visiting my Great-Gran in a Home and shouting at her (because my dad had told me to speak "loudly and slowly"), listening to James in the car and recognising the band name and the song but not really clocking it for a while, a holiday near a beach where I got a crush on a girl my age and asked her to be my pen-pal (I was 9), and - most recently - a journey to and from Glasgow in 2007 to see James (again!) with 47 (again!), with ten-hour coach trips spent mainly discussing 4chan and reading Moby-Dick. For whatever reason, my memory doesn't work too well when it comes to the country my family's from, and that's weird. I can pick out bits, but only bits.

But I can't remember kissing any Scots. My memory being intact, I can pick out twelve people I've kissed - that's more than I thought! - and not one of them claimed to have any Scottish blood whatsoever. Certainly none of them actually lived in Scotland. I even once had a conversation with a friend who was slightly put out that she'd never slept with a Scot - the closest being her St. Andrew's-attending boyfriend, who was actually a Mackem.

So maybe I can't contribute to the #ikissedascot hashtag. But, considering the fact that I've masturbated a few times, I've most certainly had sex with one.

Monday, 15 September 2014

Reconciliation

I was lazily crossing the road where a condom was once thrown at me on my way to pizza, DVDs and possibly something I eventually spun into a blog post at the flat of my friend-who-is-a-teacher when a car with windows that weren't tinted pulled up beside me, evidently wanting to get my attention. Before I could see who was behind the wheel, the window wound down to reveal the Dynamo-like features of someone I'd never expected to see again: my bully from year 7.

"Hey!" he said, cheerfully as if greeting an old friend. "How are you?"
"Hi!" I said, just as cheerfully. "I'm just fine, what are you doing?"

This is the guy who tried to choke me with my own necktie. This is the guy who spread it around the school that I was gay because a boy once sat down on my hand. The guy who told everyone who my crush was, causing more pain and anguish to her than it did to me. He who once compared sex with Britney Spears to spending a week with Dwayne "The Rock" Johnson, on whom he appeared to have some sort of psychosexual fixation. The one I should have never, ever, ever told about the causes of my erections.

We eventually bonded over how ridiculous the Warhammer character "Orion, King in the Woods" looked and the fact that we shared a table during GCSE Science, although this is because he was told to find a table with people who are likely to help him and chose the one with three eggheads on it.

In any case, this was not the person I had expected to see driving a car in my neighbourhood.

"Oh, I'm..." He paused, managing to look shifty. "I've just come back from seeing my... girlfriend."
"You've got a girlfriend?"
"Well, she was my... is... was... yeah."
Oh, so she's a fuck buddy? I thought, and from a look at him, I could tell that he was thinking the same thing.
"Have fun?"
"Yeah..."
"Good. Well, I expect you'll want to be off..."
"Yeah..."
"Well, good to see you."
"Yeah, you too." And I felt that he genuinely meant that.

He drove off, with me looking on.

Good to see that he's keeping the end up.

Sunday, 14 September 2014

Pearl bracelet

I am sorry to report, as if it made any difference to you, gentle reader, that my orgasms of late have been fewer and further between than usual of late, other factors getting in the way such as marvelling at exactly the amount of healthy and ebullient glow exuded by Robinson and wondering how to make green buttercream icing that actually stays on the top of cakes.

This doesn't excuse the behaviour of my last two orgasms, although I forget when they were exactly, both self-induced (because I'm good at that, yo), after both of which a ring of semen managed to form in an almost perfect circular formation around not just one side, but both sides of my right forearm, giving the curious impression that I am in fact wearing a bangle made out of semi-colloid milk.

It was so geometrically aligned that I almost felt it a shame to wash off, although I can't go Through Life with a cum bracelet on my wrist - it'd be a talking point, I suppose - although exactly where to put the tissue also caused an issue. Wherever it went, there would be some left, and (dextrous as my left hand may be) it would be difficult to circle 360 degrees around my wrist and make sure I got it all off.

So in the end I grabbed some toilet tissue and wrapped it wound my arm like some soft of emergency bandage, and then pulled it off in one fell swoop...

...which kind of worked well enough, at least until next time I came, when exactly the same phenomenon happened, and I was both satiated and dumbfounded at the same time. Not a condition to be in if you're meant to be puzzling out exactly how gravity works in this situation.

But next time, I think I'll use my other hand. And we'll see how that works!

Tuesday, 9 September 2014

Extramuralisation

My mother is trying to "help" me look for jobs at the moment, as my current job isn't doing very well as the usual "paying me any wages" lark, but her method of bustling in with her iPad and shoving something vague under my nose isn't too effective. Part of me thinks she's genuinely trying to help, but most of me assumes she's just showing off her iPad.

She's also been giving me vague jobseeking advice, as if I've never done it before. One of the things she said today was, "get yourself out there."

I don't know either.

Assuming this refers to direct contact outside, as opposed to behind a screen like most people tend to do, I've no idea if that's the way to go. With anything, rather than jobs. Even with... well, you can see where I'm going with this...

A number of times I've seen those "horny slutty naughty dirty girl" types on Twitter - the ones that probably don't exist - claiming to have had sex in the past three minutes with a guy randomly plucked off the street, who - as it turns out - happens to be an ex-lumberjack who's turned his hand to being a marine, firefighter, policeman, professional bodybuilder and The Rock. Forgive my touch of cynicism, but I'm doubting the veracity of all these claims (although I'm pretty sure it may be easier for a girl to push for sex in this manner...).

Easier to believe (although I've never actually seen it happen) is the idea of picking someone up in a bar, club or pub - although all three seem too loud, in my opinion, to flirt with anyone without having to shout in their ear. I don't know about you, but yelling "I LIKE YOUR HAIR!" into somebody's ear may lead to a restraining order rather than rampant sex. In any case, this - I believe - is "getting yourself out there".

The young raver told us a story recently where a random bloke in a park came up to him with an iPhone. If it were me, I'd assume he'd have found me a job to apply for, but instead, he asked the young raver to list the colour of three little boxes at the bottom of the screen.
"Red, yellow and blue," the young raver nervously reeled off, painfully aware that this bloke had his hand on his thigh.
"And what's the colour in between the boxes?"
"Erm... a sort of off-white..." squeaked the young raver.
"Okay, thanks!" said the man, and ran off.

Amusing though this may be, it got a few of us thinking (and laughing). Perhaps this is a version of "getting yourself out there". After a little bit of searching, I'm fairly convinced that this was an iVersion of the Hanky Code, and indeed there is even an app, which may well be what this guy in the park was using - assuming, perhaps, that our young raver friend, as he has a quiff and had just been doing yoga, is gay. He isn't.

I relayed this story to H at her house, at which point she reminded me of Grindr, which - one may assume - is a slightly safer way to look for gay hookups. But then, I reminded myself, despite its geosocial aspect, using a dating app doesn't really constitute "getting yourself out there" in the traditional sense. I've never done either, really.

But I do suppose that using colours on an iPhone to hit on the young raver in the park was just the kind of direct approach that my mother thinks I need to get involved with. So do please excuse me while I go for a jog, and if I stop you and show you some colours on my 'phone, kindly offer me a job. That is obviously what I'm searching for.

Friday, 5 September 2014

Toodaloo

"It's not going to go away, you know."
"What isn't?"
"The water around the toilet. The leak or whatever it is. It's been there for a while."
"What? When did you first notice it?"
"Last week."

My parents threw me an exasperated look. To be fair, I hadn't given much thought to the microscopic amount of water on the bathroom floor which I'd found to be easily dealt with via a bit of paper towel. Indeed, as it was the bathroom, I'd expect it to be slightly damp, what with sink and toilet and weird space-age shower capsule thingy and everything that one may expect when one wishes to achieve wetness.

Or have wetness thrust upon them, but I'm not going to make that joke.

Half a day later, all the water was turned off and Mane's mum appeared at the front door brandishing a chemical toilet of the type one uses at camp. Cheerfully aware of exactly how to use one of these, I stomped through the garden to place it in the shed, which (in the absence of a perfectly rectangular tent pinched from the Scouts when they weren't looking) seemed like the perfect place to put it. The shed is out of the way, not inside a building (other than itself), and it's at the end of a stretch of grass - so you'll get dew on your cold, tired feet walking to it first thing in the morning (or in the middle of the night, which always seems to happen to me).

My dad wasn't keen on this idea, so he relocated it to the bathroom and sat it next to the real toilet.

I have a certain affection - if you can call it that - for chemical toilets, although they are essentially just a combination of bucket and Jeyes fluid, I've always found them something of a necessity if one wishes for a bit of self-induced sexual relief while at camp. However, I could tell that my parents weren't particularly happy with the (temporary) solution, so some genius hit upon the idea of using the toilet at my grandparents' house, which is about two minutes' walk away. The same genius also reminded everyone within earshot that he often needs to use the toilet, and that since there's only one key, he may as well be there to let people in.

So, yes, I did end up housesitting for my grandparents after all. For a day or so. Better than nothing, right?

We now have a toilet which doesn't leak (the reason, it turns out, was something to do with hungry rats) and a de-humidifier, which appears to be having zero effect on the bathroom floor but making everything in there toasty warm, on constantly, which'll be nice in the winter but perhaps not so much for the environment. Whether or not this, as opposed to a toilet tent on a campsite in Essex, is an adequate place to masturbate in is not exactly clear, but I'm certain that it's perfectly adequate.

However, I'm not particularly keen on exhausting myself in front of a dehumidifier. So, for the time being, I think I'll stick with my chair.

Tuesday, 2 September 2014

Look and Read

What's the best kind of masturbation?

From my own point of view, I like it long and drawn-out. Years of bashing myself about have given me a certain amount of stamina (at least, that's what I call it) which allows for a lot of time taken during sexual indulgence. This also involves sex, of course, but it's more apparent during masturbation.

So I like to take my time, building myself up and letting myself fall back down again, then rebuilding. While all this is going places, my mind opens up, a cataclysm of glorious visions and imaginings constantly forming and reforming according to where my body, my mind, by throbbing piercing cock, want me to go. Not so much a merry wanderer of the night as an explosion of sound, colour and - more often than not - words. Even a single word can get me going if it's used in the right way.

Sunday night was an example. I'd just finished getting my girlfriend off with my hands. She lay there recovering, curled in a little ball of cute, when I felt myself twitch with long-unsatiated need. Wrapping my thumb and forefinger around my shaft, I felt the gentle throb, its size and weight in my hand, and as I began to masturbate, I fell into fantasy once more.

My girlfriend revived, went to get a drink and sat there reading a magazine for a while - naked - while I lay supine, not really concentrating on the task at hand as much as losing myself in the moment. Certainly a rather protracted moment, I realised afterwards, but I still hadn't brought myself over the edge, and I was almost giddy with the speed at which my mind flicked through words and pictures, the increasing beat of my heart willing to burst out of my chest, and the thunder in my ears as I was brought closer and closer.

As orgasms go, it was quick. But then the destination is just one part of the journey. I'd taken my time, as only I know how, and that made it all the more pleasurable when I felt my warm, sticky mess shoot all over my stomach and chest.

And as I lay there breathing shallowly and steadily slipping away, I reflected on how I'd gotten there.

That's the best kind of masturbation.