Tuesday, 3 May 2016

Unbreakable

He. Was. Still. Hard.
- Alice Clayton, Wallbanger

There are rare occasions when I get a couple of hours to myself. I have a fairly regular working pattern, while hers is a little irregular; the result of this is that - every now and again - one of us finds themself in the room on their own. You may have noticed her confirming that she is masturbating more these days, although I've never seen it. But, then again, I'm at work a lot of the time.

Guess when I masturbate?

This morning was one of those occasions when she went to work before me. 5:15 am and she was out of the door, leaving me dozing in the bed with more space to myself. I hadn't slept well (again...), and sometimes I use the three hours until my alarm goes off to take a concentrated nap, well aware that it's likely to be the only sleep I'm getting that night.

This morning wasn't one of those times.

It took me a while to coax my body into a recumbent supine position, and even longer to co-ordinate my hand, mind and penis, but I did it eventually. Getting hard wasn't a problem - yes, I am getting old, but there aren't any problems here - but getting to orgasm was a bit of an uphill struggle. I was dreamy and unfocused, pausing every now and again to run a hand through my unkempt hair or shift my body back into position, pull my foreskin back further and get back to the task at hand. Not having really woken up, I was unsure what to think of as I did so, and when, after a while, I finally did orgasm, it was the most satisfaction I've felt in a while; I lay there on my back, gasping for breath, as my cum dripped lazily down my sides from the pool collected on my stomach.

It's always the ones that take a bit more effort...

I've no idea how I did so, but I managed to clean up and then managed to slip off to about half an hour of sleep (it's better than nothing) before my alarm woke me up and I tried not to throw my BlackBerry at the wall too strongly. I grabbed a pair of pants, pulled them up and...

I was still hard.

Rock solid. Not just hard, but really hard - perhaps even more so than I'd been before when I actually was masturbating. There I was, staring at my UNUSUALLY LARGE PENIS with something between amusement and bemusement, and even laughing a little as it proved to be too big to fit into my underpants (I ended up manipulating them around it - also not an easy task). I wasn't even that turned on... I was just really, really, ball-achingly, earth-shatteringly hard.

I did a cowboy walk to the bus stop and resolved to get some coffee once I'd arrived at work... because, I reasoned, if there's one thing I needed at that moment, it was sex.

Coffee. I mean coffee. Honest.

Sunday, 1 May 2016

Crack squad

I was having trouble sleeping.

Nothing new there - I often have a lot of trouble sleeping; it's my primary complaint, along with IBS, nausea, malaise, loss of hair, weight gain, and the propensity to write long lists with Oxford commas. The amount of work I've been doing recently is frankly ludicrous, and the few coming weeks show no sign of slowing up, what with moving house next week and all the related shenanigans, seeing James, watching Eurovision and going to Eroticon all providing regular distractions - plus the large project I have going on at work and my new, painful exercise régime. I barely have time to sleep, and when I try, I don't have the wherewithal.

I was naked. I always sleep naked - I have since I was about 12. I do own pyjamas, but as far as I'm aware I've only worn them a few times, like Christmas mornings and school pyjama days; I also own a second pair, which I've worn twice over a two-day period when I was sharing a room with KW in Blackpool. I was naked, as is the way. So was my girlfriend, which is unusual - she tends to sleep in T-shirts (sometimes hers, sometimes mine), despite being a lady laid bare. I prefer her naked - much softer and warmer. Easier to sleep with.

I lay there with my eyes closed, trying to pretend I was asleep and ignoring the potential situations which tend to play out in my head 24 hours a day. In her sleep, she gave a little sigh and rolled over, her hand drifting downwards and coming to rest in...

My eyes snapped open. The very edge of her hand, for whatever reason, had come to rest in my arse crack. Not really inside - this wasn't accidental anal play - but her little finger had managed to squirrel itself into the little groove at the end of my backthat leads down towards my arse itself. A feather-light touch, perhaps, as she slept... but that was more than enough.

I do like my backside being touched, sensitive as it is, and - aware that this was accidental - I tried to take advantage of it while I could. Not really wanting to move too much - I was moderately comfortable and didn't want to wake her up; a light touch will do so, light sleeper as she is - I tried to shift my body a little so that I could be as relaxed as possible while her hand rested on my bum. (Her thumb, at one point, brushed against a cheek, which nearly set me off.) The sensation - the lightest of touches - brought some ideas to light, although nothing too realisable. I could bring myself to orgasm like this. The release would be good for me. I'd sleep better. I could...

...dawn chorus?

It was morning. Both her hands were on her side of the bed. She was still asleep. I was still hard. My arse, now free of all foreign digits, was back to its relaxed state. The alarm went off after a while and I swore loudly at it.

"Did you sleep?" she said, as I tried to contemplate how difficult it might be to make it through another day.
"No."
"Not at all?"

I paused for contemplation.

"Maybe a little."

Sunday, 24 April 2016

Forest Fresh

"Am I wet?"

Did she... did she want me to check? I mean, I could, but I'd just kind of... assumed she'd know. I have, after all, heard many girls - realistically, quite a large number - saying "I'm wet" without visually confirming this, taking a glance between their nether regions.

Since I'd spent the last few minutes being quite indecent to her boobs - at her request, of course, I'm not a total vagabond - and we had both slept naked throughout the preceding night (which is, sadly, an anomaly; I always sleep naked, while she rarely does), I'd guess that she was at least a little wet. She'd been making all the right noises while I had her nipple in my mouth, so to be frank, were she not wet, I'd have been a little disappointed.

I ran a finger across her slit.

"Yes, you're wet. Very," I confirmed, running the finger over her thigh, both showing that she was wet and wiping the moisture off my hand. Surely you should know?"
"I'm going to make you late for work," she moaned.

"Sounds like a challenge," I said, only I didn't say that.

However it happened after that, this is how I ended up with my fingers inside my girlfriend that morning, two gently pushing into her vagina while my thumb pressed against her clit, my ring finger curled up against her perineum while my little finger teased her anus. I wouldn't go so far as to say either of us was particularly awake, but I kind of knew what I was doing. And my head didn't even have to leave the pillow, so I count that as a win.

I made it to work on time, having channeled my inner Barry Allen to get down to the bus stop. I even had time to go and get a coffee from the café before setting up at work, which was even better.

And then I sneezed.

Raising my handkerchief to my nose, the distinct scent of sex was impossible to ignore. It was there. There, on my hand, all the way through work, like a badge of honour and a stone of shame all in one. My hand had the scent of sex, and it was my dirty secret...

...and then I managed to get ink on it, so I had to wash.

Monday, 18 April 2016

/me

For my final two months at university, I lived in a small room about the size of the CBBC Broom Cupboard. Evicted from the share house I'd been living in throughout second year (as I was the only resident left and the landlord didn't think that was financially viable), I struggled to think of a solution, and was on the cusp of sleeping on my dissertation tutor's office floor when I found - via an internet forum - a tiny room in another share house. I got an extension on two essays, moved all my stuff in a weekend, put my new room into some semblance of order, and then did the essays, getting a couple of high 2:1s as a result.

Hey, if it works...

This being the end of the final year, I didn't spend a lot of time at home. I went to band practice three times a week, spent one evening learning Japanese (it was my minor subject) in the city, and - in addition to my socialising commitments - I sat in the library taking notes, exhuming long-dead journal articles and dusty tomes of forgotten lore. Oh, and Julia Kristeva.

Weekends were spent writing this stuff up. Despite the fact that I was starting to enjoy university after the incredibly dull first two years, I'd never felt so disconnected in my life.

The late evening hours, those that came after hours of hitting things and scratching paper with pencils, were a blessing. In the confines of my little room, I sat at my laptop and dwelt on sex chatrooms.

Initially - and I mean very initially, we're talking about 16 or 17 here - I went on chatrooms looking for some semblance of sex. I mean, I wasn't really aiming to have actual sex (that was beyond the realms of imagination; it'd never happen to me), but I did manage to have cybersex a few times, and found that (as it is a matter of prose style) I was quite good at it. Armed with my gender-neutral handle, open and willing attitude and some terrible attempts at humour (and the fact that I didn't DM without asking), I waded in, and discovered over time that there was an entire subculture, and by extension community, based around this concept. I started to make - dare I say it? - friends.

Although it took me a while to rediscover the chat server and rooms a few years down the line, I reconnected in my first year. Some of the same people were still there, and by the time I ended up in my final-year shoebox, it was my nightly ritual - log in, say hi, chat for a couple of hours and go to bed satisfied. Sometimes - often at weekends, as the right people tended to be there - I had cybersex, although that had become secondary to the community, of which I had become an integral part. I wasn't an addict... I was a member.

And so that's what my third year became. Lectures and seminars and workshops and lessons; study and music and meet-ups and excursions; take-away meals and long walks to burn it all off; hot scening and sly humour, in-jokes and flirting and sexual discourse. It was a mess, but an enjoyable one: even in my darkest hours, knowing that this community was there was like carrying a light in my heart without letting on to anyone. It was my secret, turning up late to things with a silly grin and flushed cheeks, feeling well-fucked without actually having been touched in years.

GOTN's excellent post on the subject (which I found via random links last night, hence my reflections today) highlights the idea of finding someone real online (it happens, strangely enough) and the multitude of horny guys (they were everywhere!). But then there were guys like me, there because it was part of my life, there because I liked it, there because it was a safe space to laugh, to chat, to wank, to flirt. At the end of the day, I kept going back because I wanted to talk.

And so I talked.

And if I did end up having cybersex with some very attractive, very adventurous, very available young ladies who were just at chatty as I was... well then, that was the virtual cherry on top, wasn't it?

Thursday, 14 April 2016

Now get back down there, and finish what you started!

Hooray, hooray, hooray, hooray.
It's Cake and Cunnilingus Day.

Except for the fact that this day only exists as much as its more sexist (and presumptive) counterpart, "Steak and a Blowjob Day", does. I like both cake and cunnilingus, and I'm not even at the receiving end of the latter; I'd rather lick someone out and then eat cake (or vice versa, but I think the order is important) than eat steak and get a blowjob.

I don't eat steak and don't orgasm from blowjobs, so what's the point anyway?

There's a post on the CACD site about why we need this day more than ever, and for the most part, I agree with it. I'm not entirely sure that we need a day, but as for the idea of making cunnilingus more "visible" - yeah, I'm all over that. The phrase "oral sex", for what it's worth, usually - in my experience - becomes synonymous with "fellatio" - it really shouldn't, but it does. This kind of phallacy works in a number of ways, including the idea that fellatio is de rigueur where oral sex is concerned (the go-to, if you like). Cunnilingus involves fanny farts and period blood, it's messy and sticky, and is only really done by lesbians (and yet when lesbians do it, it's suddenly beautiful).

This is, of course, untrue. I'm hyperbolising, anyway; I don't know anyone who actually thinks that. But then again, I mostly know people with brains.

There is, however, the prevailing idea that cunnilingus isn't present in a lot of porn, which I'm not too sure about. Most of the straight porn I've got - and I have quite a bit - does involve at least a little cunnilingus. It's not good, and it's certainly not as in-your-face as all the blowjobs, but it is there. Sometimes it involves spitting (which I actually find disgusting); it always happens before sex, as opposed to after (blowjobs happen on both ends), and once again, the only people who put a lot of thought into it are lesbians (and I don't really like lesbian porn); it is severely under-represented, but it is there.

Because it's probably relatively easy to apply a thin layer of latex to one's nether regions and stick a head between the attached thighs, there's a lot of cunnilingus in soft porn (for which I am eternally grateful). The amount that there is varies from series to series, but Bedtime Stories (to name one notable example) seems to thrive on simulated cunnilingus; I genuinely can't remember many - if any - scenes from Bedtime Stories which don't feature cunnilingus as essential foreplay. Passion & Romance (which is apparently aimed at women) has a lot in it, and even some scenes from Surrender - although they do the soft porn blowjobs too - show it (insofar as soft porn can show it).

In any case, I'm pretty sure the most demonstrative illustration of cunnilingus comes from real life - out of the eight people I've had sex with, I've given all eight cunnilingus (and they've all had orgasms as a result). I like it; I like it a lot - even if I didn't, I'd probably do it anyway; there's so much you can do with your tongue, plus you can get your fingers, your nose, lips, cheeks and teeth involved - and more, creatively. If you're going to have penetrative sex, it can serve as a precursor or epilogue to the main even (or both), and I always leave a little kiss right at the end, as well.

Like a signature.

I'm suddenly not too concerned about the cake. Nor am I going anywhere with this post any more - I just wanted to write about cunnilingus, because I don't think I'm going to give any today, even though I want to, now I'm thinking about it... and that pisses me off!

Saturday, 9 April 2016

Bitch

I'm in love with the freedom of speech
Bleached white driftwood washed up on a beach
Rude health, electricity
My life is rich and full

So why'd I bitch, bitch, bitch, bitch, bitch?


My life is neither rich nor full. I am not rich; resources I have, but seldom use; friends I have, but seldom see; love I have, but seldom appreciate. My movements seem slow and stilted; my brain - though moving rapidly as it always has - is never settled. Blessed though I may have been with "time off" over the past two weeks, it barely seems enough. Aware as I am that I have, by some measure, achieved something, it hardly seems to be of much value. There has been no reward - financial or otherwise.

I do not demand much. I've always had problems convincing myself that I am deserving of anything positive. When I ask - and it takes strength to do so - I almost always get a no.

So why try?

Overweight though I am, and aware of the heat emitting from my body, I do not feel full. I feel as a hollow shell may - moving, breathing, talking, eating, heart beating - but with an absence of sense of purpose or the fabled light at the end of the tunnel. I have yet to even enter a tunnel. I am merely floating in the void, suspended in light and unwilling to descend and let my feet touch the ground. I'm not ready.

I am plagued, constantly, by the idea that there is much left to do that has yet to be done. I am becoming impatient. I need to be told what is to happen, what it is that I am meant to do. For every slice of a Hydra's head, two grow in its place. The notion that there will never come a day when I can do "nothing" disturbs me. A spectre of unfinished tasks hangs overhead without definition of what tasks those are.

If I can't specify, how can I do them?

When I awake, I wish myself asleep. When trying to sleep, I remain awake. I'm not ready for work next week; it seems fruitless, vague understanding of timing and goals to be achieved stymied by a rush forwards, propelled by assumed knowledge (of which I have precious little). I wish to socialise, to contribute, to belong, yet I fear groups of people in which I feel I have no place or am unwelcome. I have dreams in which people who I once considered dear friends are cold and disassociating. I haven't willingly burned any bridges, so why do I fear?

I am wasting time.

There is something beyond my grasp and I have no knowledge of what it is... so I don't reach for it.

Wednesday, 6 April 2016

Girl at the end of the world

Walking through my local town centre the other day, looking up at the dusky sky, I began to remember how it used to be in the warm summer evenings - even after nightfall. True though it may be that it has changed - half of the shopping centre has been rebuilt, and I'm pretty sure that those high-end flats weren't there - the basic layout's always been the same. My gran had a picture of the area around the marketplace in 1910, and that's hardly changed at all. There's a McDonald's there now, but I can let that go.

Just after dusk, an odd youth subculture had a tendency to emerge. I don't see any signs of it now - but, then again, I'm not really looking. It was easier to see when I was part of it; church youth heading off to Bible study clutching McFlurries or other comestibles (bought, of course, on a Sabbath), sixth formers herding into Pizza Hut and demanding a table for nine, Woodcrafters lazily slumming under the shade of a huge tree as the balmy summer nights closed in. I did a lot in my youth for someone who didn't really do much.

One evening, I was out for a walk by myself and (after about an hour or so) found myself getting into the town park (through one of the ways in; they close the park at night, but everyone knows there are methods other than gates; this entrance didn't even have a gate). I wasn't the only one: there were small gangs of young people congregated in the open spaces, a few with guitars or boomboxes playing the sort of popular music I don't enjoy. I belive, of course, that I was listening to James. On a cassette. Those were the days.

I made my way through the park (which took a while; it's a big park) and emerged into the town centre, rounding the library and down the high street, when - quite by chance - I spotted a collection of girls who I'd noticed in the park. One of them called out to me, and we got chatting - for the next hour or so, I was the token boy, and found myself actually having quite a good time. I casually mentioned my e-mail address to one of them, and the following day, I found that she'd not only remembered it, but added me on MSN.

"Random girls you met in the town?" was her prompt.

And so that's what they became. Random girls. They showed up more often than I'd originally thought - once at the Battle of the Bands organised by our local arts service (they were a band - I didn't know!), once again in the park, once on the main escalator of Oxford Circus station, once in the queue for Harry Potter, and all over what passed for social media back then. The friendliest one - short with black hair and an Offspring fixation - I even kissed once.

Once.

I was at a gig in Wood Green featuring a local band who were all friends from school (Music Man and a couple of others). Most of the people from school in my little clique were there (Einstein notwithstanding; he never came to these things); we went mental to Longview by Green Day and applauded wildly for Music Man as he was brought to his knees playing the final solo. It was, frankly, a great night.

The random girls were there. Throughout the evening, they began to trickle away steadily, until - I noticed it; she was sitting on her own in the corner - was the friendly, short, black-haired Offspring fan. I went over to enquire how she was and where all her friends were, which proved to be a mistake; they'd all had other places to be and had left her on her own, meaning that she was to make her own way back to the tube station. Not a long walk, nor a dangerous one, really, but a much nicer journey to make with someone, especially following a gig.

After the encore finished I found her sitting on the steps outside the pub and offered to walk her to the station. After the obligatory "no, you really don't have to" / "no, I want to, really" exchange typical of middle-class Londoners, we set off, Lightsinthesky fixing me with a sparkling eye and mouthing, Good one.

We made it there without incident. She thanked me for my consideration, said she'd probably see me at one of these things in the future, and gave me a hug (she came up to about my waist). I bent down, kissed her on the very top of her head, and waved her off. She left. Smiling.

I walked back to the pub, where the band were packing away their instruments and my friends were still milling about. Lightsinthesky, who had spent the weekend hitting on - and failing to get - the cousin of the Manics fan with whom I wanted to have sex, basically pounced on me as soon as I re-appeared. What was he expecting: that I would go home with her? (As it turns out... that's exactly what he was expecting.) We headed for the bus stop, Lightsinthesky torn between his final attempts to lay my friend's cousin and get a story out of me that didn't actually exist.

The following day, I headed into town, at the same time as two years prior, when I'd first met the random girls.

"What's going on between you and this girl?" said Lightsinthesky, appearing out of nowhere.
"We're friends," I said truthfully, not even having considered any particular alternative.
"Oh," he said, appearing disappointed.

There was a pause.

"Can I have her...?"
"No!"

And off I walked, back into town, always ready for a new adventure.

Sunday, 3 April 2016

Soft Porn Sunday Special: I Found It!

Almost four years ago, I was bugged by the (possible) existence of one particular series shown on UK TV featuring Kira Reed, blending documentary-style footage with softcore sex: something I always liked, for whatever odd reason.

I quite like the idea that, while discussing a sexy thing to do, the participants in the discourse may
This appears for a few seconds for no apparent reason.
get a little hot under the collar, and instantly decide to take their sexual feelings out on the nearest thing - namely, each other - and that was indeed the general idea in this particular series; Kira wasn't actually meant to have sex with anyone, but she did because she was horny and they were always there doing (vaguely) sexy things. The rest of the episodes I saw (and I only saw two or three) were more of a build-up to the inevitable sex scene at the end, with some vague, nebulous attempt at getting a more serious discussion of the subject at hand in there somewhere.


My familiarity with the programme being ephemeral at best, details were too sketchy to do too much research into it - and, not having a title, I was at a loss as to what to search for. Kira herself believed it to be called Fantasies, but Googling "Kira Reed Fantasies" yields about 426,000 results and I doubt any of them are related to the programme at hand.

In fact, what it's actually called is


and there's one episode available online (on YouTube, of all places).

It is, indeed, as I remembered, albeit with a seemingly lower budget than I had originally assumed (or that memory served). Kira (in quasi-Sexcetera, quasi-YouTuber mode) provides both fourth-wall-shattering commentary to camera and voiceover work, invariably discussing the sexual topic at hand, and often naked while she does so (or near to it, anyway). There is, as I remembered, a sex scene at the end, with occasional inoffensive nudity placed throughout at scene breaks. It's all quite chaste, with some bizarre synthy light jazz as incidental music.

And it's a British series, so it's all relatively understated. There's none of the glitz and glamour of an American show, and (sex scene aside) there isn't any real indication that anything is overblown. It's not good, but it's not done with the typical American hyperbole, despite Kira herself being an American. She even says, in her opening monologue, that she's aiming to dispel the myth of the "British reserve".

Basically, she's in London to prove that British people have sex. Who knew?

Most of the episode involves nude fridge action.
The episode that I now have as part of my collection of random softcore shit that I doubt anyone else is interested in is, alas, focused on food play, which is something that I'm genuinely not interested in. One spray of whipped cream over a nipple aside, I've never done food play. I'm midly nauseated at the noise my mother makes when eating food and have never eaten a single grape after something I read in the Battle Royale manga put me off them forever. I certainly know a lot of people who are into it, but it's never appealed to me at all, unless I feel like taking 47 showers afterwards.

As a result, I'm really not into the episode. There are some amusing escapades, involving things like chocolate willies and being served rudely-named food by a robot butler with tits. Everyone does seem to be having fun with this, but as it's not my kink, I'm having trouble with watching it all the way through (even if it never actually gets all that messy).

Anyway, the sex scene at the end (lesbian, threesome, involves fruit and chocolate) is - as ever - shoehorned in, but about as seamlessly as they can make it, and it's not really that bad, either;
See? No food!
everyone's making the right noises and Kira's hair body looks great. There's even a cheesy end line ("I think that I've bitten off more than I can chew with my fruit fantasy!"), to really hammer home how similar this is to the other simulated sex you've seen Kira Reed do for all those years. If you're going to do something gratuitous, it may as well be this.


I just wish there were more episodes around... but, with no DVD release, no US release and UK Living having been bought up by Sky and rebranded as "Sky Living" in the intervening years, I've no idea where to find any more!

So I suppose my memories will have to do for now...

Friday, 1 April 2016

Wallbanger

I knocked on my housemates' door, bag in hand, coat hanging on my frame, a hastily-found piece of paper clutched in my fist. They usually didn't take too long to answer, and we'd be leaving the house at any minute; this shouldn't really delay our egress to quieter climes.

There was a muffled "just a minute!" from the male half.

I don't think I've ever heard him say that before. Both of them are architects - and Eastern European, to boot - a good mix leading to things like "punctuality" and "work ethic". Why they get on well with me is beyond comprehension. Nevertheless, I'm glad they do.

Just as I was thinking about returning to my room, the door opened. Hastily closing it behind him, and dressed - evidently in a hurry, and only in pyjamas (this being the middle of the day), stood the male half of my housemate duo.

"Sorry to have interrupted you," I said, smiling benignly. "We're going away for a week - looking after my auntie and uncle's cats until next Sunday..."
"Okay."
"And we're supposed to be looking for flats together?"
"Yes."
"So I'll give you my e-mail address, and my phone number, in case there are any developments of any kind..."
"Okay, thanks."
"Okay?"
"Okay thanks I'll keep you updated on anything bye!" And he was gone.


I stood at the door. Not listening. No. Not at all.

"Did you give it to him?" my girlfriend asked, as I walked back into our room and continued packing.
"Yeah. I mean, they were having sex, so I didn't want to interrupt too much..."

Pause.

"They were having sex?"
"I assume so."


It's hardly a surprise. I have, in fact, heard them having sex before (or, at least, I think it was them; it could have been Five watching porn, but I do somehow doubt that - it was too quiet for anything at all that Five does, since he doesn't appear to have a volume control on his TV). They're also both in their early thirties and hot. And he works all week with long hours. I'd have been having sex too.

Which makes me wonder if they've heard us.

If we're going to be sharing a flat, it's pretty much a prerequisite.

Wednesday, 30 March 2016

Backspace!

"I'd better get on with editing this stuff," I said to the guy I talk to, "or I'll never get it finished."

I'm still not finished.

I've been editing my way through some - frankly quite turgid and worryingly a little racist - stories, apparently designed for the 8-to-14 age bracket (but I privately think that the only child who would like them would be about 4, and even then, they'd need to be edited severely down a bit), which may well be written with the best of intentions, but tend to lean too heavily upon repetitive moralising and "side stories" (read: completely irrelevant tangets not cohesive enough to constitute a B-plot).

I wouldn't be doing this, but it earns me money and I want to be able to afford an Eroticon ticket.

Editing erotica for anthologies like this is often quite fun when I get around to it. This is a chore. I realise that I'm not meant to enjoy it, but still, I'd appreciate something slightly better. The guy who wrote it appears to have not even tried with basic things like spelling, punctuation, grammar, or even consistent indents. It hurts, and reminds me why I didn't go into editing professionally. It'd break me.

I haven't stopped giggling for about 20 minutes, though, because of a section of the story which conjures up something completely different in my mind:

“There’s nothing we can do but wait for the rain to stop,” replied Stuart.
“I wonder what he’s doing?” said Carl, looking over at Sheldon’s house.
“I can only think of one thing,” replied Stuart confidently. “It's that thing that everyone loves to do. The best way to pass the time!”
“Ah, yes!” said Carl.

You know... for kids!