Sunday, 7 February 2016

Heart 106.5

There was a streak of red painting its way through the grey clouds in the distance. As the sun began to dip its way past the horizon, my sister's head lolled against the seat next to her and she fell into one of her strange deep sleeps.

The car ground to a halt somewhere in the middle of the M1 behind a queue of traffic. We'd known there was going to be such a queue; there was, however, no way to avoid it. It was a bit like being a lemming. And I was worried.

"Are we... are we getting near to London?" I asked, my voice rusty from misuse.
"Oh, well, maybe," came my mother's helpful and certain answer. "Are you wondering if we're close enough to get Heart 106.2 on the radio?" And she started twiddling the dial.
"Yes!" I said, a little too eagerly, pleased at being handed this convenient excuse. I wasn't, of course, overly concerned that we weren't listening to Heart 106.2 - we had it on in the car all the time and I'd heard every song on its playlist about four bzillion times. I was more concerned about getting home for 10:00. It was about 8, but our journeys from Grantham took hours, hence my slight worry.

It was half-term. I was in my late teens at the time, and I'd taken to - at that point - checking Radio Times every week to see which adult film Channel 5 was showing in the Friday evening slot. More often than not, it was something I'd seen before on L!VE or Bravo - something starring Shannon Tweed or made in the early nineties (or both) called something like Lap Dancer, Warm Texas Rain or Sins of the Night 7. They played, on rotation, '70s sex comedies like the Confessions series or Rosie Dixon: Night Nurse. Occasionally they had a Surrender flick or something by Russ Meyer. Whatever it was, I was going to watch it anyway.

But that evening I really wanted to get home to watch. It was something I hadn't seen before which had Lisa Boyle in it. And I'd recently managed to get an old TV in my room which has my SNES hooked up to it (I didn't use it for anything else) - before we went, I'd spent about half an hour attempting to get a clear enough picture of Channel 5. There was still a bit of snow, but it was watchable. I reasoned that I didn't care; I no longer needed to go downstairs to watch Gran's cable TV and using the little one in the lounge next to my room necessitated movement. I'd already seen Dangerous Touch on BBC2 using my TV, so that would be okay.

My mother managed to find a vague but discernable version of Heart 106.2 on the radio.

"Good call," she said. "Back in Heart country."
"We'll be home in about half an hour," my dad responded.
I breathed a sigh of relief.

A few hours later I was sitting in my pyjamas watching the film. It wasn't actually spectacular, but there was bound to be something that happened at some point.

The first sex scene with Lisa Boyle started...

...and I ran to the lounge to get a better picture.

Friday, 5 February 2016

Tina's doing her dance

Paul's getting down on the floor
While Hannah's screaming out for more

Between the ages of about 21 and 23, I did the Craigslist thing. I can't say I'm proud of it, or even that it was particularly successful (here and here are two situations in which it was far from successful...), but - being short of cash for adult dating sites and really, really, really wanting to have sex - I occasionally used to have a quick look through Craigslist's (in)famous "casual encounters" section. Since then, it's been taken over by people seeking payment for their services (a result of Craigslist removing their "adult services" section) - a similar fate befell Gumtree's section before they, too, removed that.

I wasn't really a shark. I'm not "that guy" who sends the same message to a large number of girls on the site with a badly-written sentence and unsolicited cock shot and I never was. I did, occasionally, send a missive which, I hoped, was carefully thought out and correctly written (without a cock shot), but never really got much of a response - despite trying my very hardest.

And then there was something that piqued my interest.

There was an ad under the w4m tag claiming to be from a man acting as an intermediary from a very famous person looking for anonymous sex. This person, he claimed, was a household name, but frustrated with ther mediocre love-life and had started craving guilt-free, no-strings sex, and had asked him to find it. With the air of Father Christmas pulling an extra-large toy from his sack, he had presented this idea as a wondrous offer, stipulating that if you responded to the ad you needed to put in a lot of effort: explain exactly what you were looking for and why you should be the one to sleep with a famous person.

It didn't ask for a picture, a physical description or a name (which makes me think that it wasn't a picture hoarder or some dude looking to expose everyone). Just a rationale. And, the more I read, the more it seemed to make sense - despite being posted on Craigslist and, initially, beyond belief.

But
then there was the final line:

And remember... there ain't no party like an S Club party...

Could it be?

I wouldn't call myself a fan of S Club 7, although I did - admittedly - watch a bit of the first series of Miami 7 after seeing them on Blue Peter. My friend-who-is-a-midwife regularly breaks out their Greatest Hits CD at parties and we will all inevitably end up dancing to Reach (ch00n!) and/or Don't Stop Movin' (bangin'!) and/or Bring It All Back (positive comment here!), but that's about it. Unlike all the other boys in my odd social clique at school, I was never that much into Rachel - preferring Hannah, who had the prettier smile - but (not doing the celebrity crush thing) I wasn't really ranking the girls in S Club in order of preference for sex.

And yet here was a man offering one. Or, y'know, claiming to be. Or hinting that he was. Maybe he was. I have no idea. I didn't respond to the post.

I was surprised at how long it stayed on the site for (I checked). Nobody appeared to have flagged it and it remained up for days and days and days. I wondered who responded, and what sort of a reply they got. And about whatever motivation the poster had had when he originally posted it. I highly doubt that a real member of S Club ahd enlisted his help to get anonymous shags and suggested Craigslist as an appropriate medium to do so.

But, at the back of my mind, I've always wondered. Jo? Tina? Hannah? Rachel?

And, at times, I wish I'd responded. Just to see exactly what was going on here... if anything at all.

Unless, of course, he was referring to someone from S Club Juniors. That'd be all kinds of wrong.

Monday, 1 February 2016

Crossing the Streams

"You can't write lyrics," said my mum. "You haven't got time to write any lyrics. You're too busy to write lyrics. And forget about chords. You haven't got time to write chords. You're far too busy."
"I haven't got a job," I pointed out. "I'm not really doing anything."
"But you're getting up at 8:30 to search for jobs until 6 every day, aren't you?" she chimed in, knowing full well that that was a lie.
"Boots on the ground," interjected my dad unhelpfully.

That was three years ago. I, in fact, wrote a fuckload of lyrics during the following month, and chords too, to songs which I still sing (if that's the active verb - maybe "sing" is a bit too hopeful) today. And I've been doing so, intermittently, for the best part of fifteen years, since I first picked up a guitar and decided most chords were too difficult to play.

Yesterday evening, I was struck by the fact that I ought to be writing lyrics for a project I do every year, and that I hadn't done so. Or even thought about it at all. I'd just moved all my instruments back into my studio parents' spare room, so I'd at least given myself a rehearsal/production space, but hadn't gotten any further than that. If I could write lyrics, at least I could make a start.

Notepad was open, the cursor blinking at me incessantly, waiting for me to write anything more than a few words. I hit random keys, seeing if anything occurred to me.

Nothing.

I had writer's block.

In desperation, I tabbed through several windows that I had open at the time. Back into the IRC chat to see if anything inspired me, as it did last year. Twitter, to catch up on the (lack of) sexy gossip that was happening. Facebook, to avoid all the baby pictures and despair at the lack of lyric-writing. The game I had open, but wasn't really paying much attention to. And the femdom erotic fiction I had open and was trying to edit down.

The femdom erotic fiction I had open and was trying to edit down...

My new song is about editing erotic fiction. Now if only I knew the chords...

Thursday, 28 January 2016

A Journey of Discovery

I probably haven't mentioned recently, or haven't cared to mention, that I've started doing more hours at work, which is doing its best to cut down the amount of time I have to blog. I mean, yeah, I'm finishing in the middle of the afternoon, so that should be okay, were it not for the fact that I'm coming home to sleep, as opposed to doing anything radically productive.

I also haven't had any time for sexyfunthings. It occurred to me yesterday afternoon (when, in between shifts at work, I'd managed to escape to my parents' mercifully empty [apart from the cat] house) that I hadn't had an orgasm in over a week - which, although perfectly bearable, is pretty unusual for a sex blogger who's just spent a year being really horny and has had free afternoons and a weekend.

So I relented. I locked myself in the bathroom (although I needn't have locked it, really, since there was nobody there [apart from the cat], but I did it out of habit) and, with an odd swooping feeling in my stomach, I unbuttoned my trousers; I was hard before I even got my pants off.

I'd almost forgotten what my erect penis looked like. But this time, unloved for a while and starving for a bit of attention, it was certainly different. Much harder than it's been for as long as I can remember, and bigger too (increased bloodflow? more space to breathe? nuclear radiation mutation? Bueller?), and also with a darker head - not massively, just more so than I remember. It looked, frankly, more like a cock out of porn than anything else - huge, hard, visibly throbbing, a thin lining of pre-come glistening from the tip.

I took my time over the wank, building myself up as much as I could before I came, and the result was almost indescribable, but I'll attempt to do so here:

!!!

As a side-effect of this, my cock was noticeably more difficult to wipe clean, as there were errant strings of come on more bits than usual (plus my hand, my pubic hair, and in my belly button). I kept finding more and more to clean, and I could have sworn I was just producing more and more as I went on. Nevertheless, with a sense of something between slightly sickened and sweet worship in glory, I ascertained that everything was back in order before returning to the lounge (avoiding any accusing gazes, or I would have done if there had been any - but there wasn't anyone there [apart from the cat].)

Back to work for a while and I finally, after about thirteen hours' time, made it back home in the evening. By this point - drained of energy, drained of semen, and having had a lot of fun at work but running back and forth with crazy mania in the process - all I wanted to do was crawl into bed and fall unconscious. That happened last week, but I had 'flu, so it may not have had the same gravitas.

I draped all my clothes loosely over my computer chair and drew my naked form into a sitting position at the head of the bed. My girlfriend had started watching a film review on YouTube, but was more absorbed into a copy of Empire. I was half-paying attention before I realised that I was, again, hard - although not as much as I had been earlier (but that may be impossible) - and suddenly came to the realisation that I'd been making myself hard...

...by squeezing my shaft very gently between my index and middle fingers.

I wasn't even aware I was doing that. It was just something to do with my hands, like fiddling with a bit of Blu-Tack or twirling a pen through my fingers like a majorette's baton; I wasn't attempting to elicit any response and I most certainly wasn't going to have another orgasm. My penis just happened to be in the way and...

...well, you get the idea.

So I'll say one thing for increased working hours. They certainly do encourage me to discover even more about my body than I thought was possible. And, hey, I get paid for it, too!

Friday, 22 January 2016

Sick fuck

"How are you doing?" asked the receptionist at work, all earmuffs and furry gloves as she opened the front door from inside and I - very gratefully, as I was beginning to experience necrosis - stumbled through. Taking my coat off to hang on the precarious hatstand just inside, I opened my mouth to respond and found myself producing, not a cohesive answer, but rather a short, high-pitched squeak. It petered out into indifference and I tried again, resulting in a sound somewhat resembling an anaemic frog.

"You've lost your voice?!" she said as I pointed frantically at my throat. "But how are you going to work?"

In all honesty, I hadn't considered that. I knew that I was ill, and I knew how ill I was. But, throughout the bus journey there and the twenty minutes of standing around waiting outside, I'd been more concerned with remaining upright. I hadn't really tried to speak and didn't factor in the fact that I basically couldn't.

My girlfriend had left the house in the early morning, in order to go to work herself. Neither of us had had much sleep - I certainly hadn't had any - and she was much worse than I was at that point. Despite my protests, she still got up and left, leaving me with the distinct impression that my first instinct - to call in and say I wasn't well and had better not go in - was somewhat moot, since I have much less far to travel and wasn't feeling as bad as her. Getting up was a struggle. Getting dressed was a struggle. Getting to the bus stop was a struggle. Waiting in the cold nearly killed me. And yet here I was, at work, willing to try, even though it was abundantly clear that I couldn't.


I was sent home at ten minutes past nine.

As I made my way home - slowly, seeing as how the roads are covered with frost and the bus I take is sluggish at the best of times - I constructed a fantasy in my head in order to distract me from the fact that my throat was trying to make a forced exit through my chest. I'd get home and find that my valiant girlfriend had also been sent home despite all her efforts. She'd suddenly remember that it was #NationalHugDay (Twitter says it was, so it must be true) and give me a hug, which somehow would turn into a naked cuddle.

Naked cuddles are the warmest type, so they must have some amount of healing properties.

Inevitably, of course, there would be some kissing - why not, everyone likes kissing - and I'd find all the pain and shortness of breath and tight feelings in my chest rushing down to my gradually hardening shaft. She'd roll me onto my back and gently massage my penis, rolling my foreskin back and forth, every rub and squeeze compressing all the sickness into a smaller and smaller ball, coaxing it towards the head of my cock. Pain would mix with pleasure and I'd cry out, but she would gently lower her body down to sit on my hips, enveloping me in her warmth, soothing me with tender caresses to my chest as I pulse and throb inside her.

We'd rock together for a while, working through all the sore aches and chesty pains, and then there would be an orgasm, so volcanic and so unexpected that all the sickness would be let loose, shooting out of me and dripping from her, the final aches disspiating in the mass of sparkles and steamy heat that rises from the afterglow.

Effectively, I'd have my sickness fucked out of me.

This isn't, of couse, what happened. I was alone when I returned home and still so when I got into bed with buttered toast, a cup of tea and Identity Crisis. Finishing all these I fell into an uneasy doze, from which I roused myself with an unexplained bout of coughing. Finding nothing else to do - and lacking the motivation to move from the supine position I found myself lying in - I groped randomly for my crotch, masturbating gently to at least retreat into the haze of sexual pleasure. I wasn't even aiming to orgasm, but I did, aware a split-second too late that my breathing was more ragged than usual and my post-masturbatory coughs were more violent, sending shocks of pain directly through the thorax that I'd been trying to soothe.

I haven't tried to orgasm since. I also haven't slept. I've been sitting here with a dark cloud above my head, stochastically pausing to catch my breath or cursing at the world (quietly, as I can't speak loudly right now), trying for solace via tea and Halls Soothers. It's not been the best couple of days in the world, frankly... but I eventually did, at least, get my hug.

Monday, 18 January 2016

Paranoid? Me?!

I was sitting in my corner playing Final Fantasy VII when I heard my mother calling my name from below.

My full name.

She only ever uses it when she's angry. She's angry most of the time, but still, it unnerves me when anyone uses my full name. The staff at my new(ish) job still haven't learned any other form of my name, so they use it all the time. It's like being constantly under fire. Good times.

I slipped off my stool and trembled my way to the top of the stairs. I knew, of course, exactly what had happened. She'd walked into my room, found the hidden VHSs through a random search, decided to watch what was on them even though they were marked Wacky Races, found the grainy soft porn I'd been recording off Channel 5, and was preparing to throw me out of the house or something.

The cogs in my brain were whirring like Billy Whizz on steroids. I'd admit my guilt and fall prostrate on my knees, begging for forgiveness for my sluttitude. I'd promise to tape over the sinful content of my VHSs with the snooker, or something else I'm not interested in, and actually do it, spending the rest of my life in quiet regret, punctuating my schoolwork and whatever came afterwards with periodic screaming, sliding inexorably towards my death, for which I would definitely be alone.

Either that or she'd body-slam me through a brick wall.

I twisted my face into a look of abject sorrow to try and gain any sympathy she may have for this lost boy and half-appeared at the top of the stairs.

"...you called?" I whimpered with the quietest voice I could manage.
"I really hate you and I think you're a horrible person," she bellowed without preamble, "so I bought you this."

And she held out a copy of the geology-related educational software that I'd been wanting for a few weeks.

I staggered down the stairs to accept it with a grateful thanks to her for the gift... and to Fate for giving me, at least, one more chance.

Friday, 15 January 2016

HornyHour: Breaking my own heart

I was walking along the bush-lined path that led to the university building where most of our lectures happened. I wish I could say that I had an exciting or interesting purpose for my trip, but to be fair, I just needed to use the toilet, and this was the closest one. I could have crossed the road - cars didn't really pose much of a threat on campus - and gone back to my room in student hall, but that would have required me to walk up the twelve flights of stairs, and I really didn't have the time for that stuff.

She walked past, flashing me a smile and a wave as she came along. Her salutation was brief, but we were alone for a moment, and that's all I needed. It just slipped out, without me meaning to.

I said her name.
"Yes?"

She stopped, waiting for me to say whatever it was I was going to say.

"Oh... nothing," I said.
"No, what is it?" she beamed.
"Nothing, really."
"Oh, come on..." she coaxed, urging me to reveal my secret.

I had no idea what I was supposed to say.

The thing is, I knew what I wanted to say. I wanted to say that I had a crush on her, but then again, I also had a crush on the girl in my History class, and also on the girl I often sat next to in lectures, who was probably my best friend at university, which was itself odd, because she wasn't a mature student, and all of my other friends were, and that was odd in itself because I was an 18-year-old hanging out with a load of 33-year-olds, and that I went to Linguistics not to check on how she was doing after having a cyst removed, but to get a look at her, and that I'd decided, the night before, that I did in fact have a crush on her, only her, and now here she was and I'd almost told her and what was I to do?

I'm sorry, I'd written in my diary. I'm really, really sorry, I really am so sorry. I knew what it was like (or, at least, I thought I did) to be in the situation of having me have a crush on you. The girls at school had all found out and none of them seemed to like me at all after they did; some of them actively hated me, in fact, and that was clearly because it was me. It was a terrible thing to have ILB fancy you, like you'd committed some heinous crime and this was your penance.

I couldn't tell this girl, this friend I had, that I had a crush on her.

"I..." I started. "I like you. In, er, in that way. Er..."
Her smile vanished.
"...but we're friends, and I want us to be able to stay friends, but, er, I like you and... and... and..."
There was a pause.
"...I just thought you... should... know."
"Okay," she said, and was gone.

Well, what was I expecting? She hadn't murdered me right there and then, so that was a plus. And, in fact, it was never mentioned again by anyone. She was sitting completely alone in an empty lecture hall when I entered the following day for our morning lecture, and I sat next to her, and neither of us said anything. She invited me to her 21st birthday party, at her (aristocratic) family's (country) home, that summer, and I went along. I saw her practically every day for the following two-and-a-half years; nothing changed, and the only person who knew was the trombone player in the band I was in, who tried to get me to ask her out.

I didn't. I don't ask people out. It doesn't go well.

I knew, back then, even before I'd started the conversation, that I'd be breaking my own heart by telling her, that she wouldn't reciprocate and that I actually quite liked not knowing, because in that case there was always a chance. I'd be breaking my own heart, but I'd been dumped at the beginning of that academic year, and my heart had been broken then too. And it had been eating me up inside, because I was convinced once again that I was completely undesirable, especially now that the girl in History seemed to have vanished and the girl I sat next to in English had a boyfriend in the third year.

I don't know why I did it. I don't know why I said anything.

But my heart was already nearly there. It only needed one more push to be tipped over the edge. And it was me that gave it that push.

I went to the toilet like I'd intended to, sat down on the seat, and cried.

http://hornygeekgirl.com/2015/09/08/hornyhour-1/ 
click the image for last week's prompt

Sunday, 10 January 2016

Soft Porn Sunday Special: ILB's Top 10 Sex Scenes

Among the little side-projects I work on (which are comprised mostly of monologuing to myself while walking to town or waiting for a bus), I tend towards making lists: books I haven't read but want to, films I like but everyone else seems to hate, order in preference of the Nintendo consoles, my top 20 blogs in order of preference. It makes me think I'm more important than I actually am, and makes me feel like a YouTuber, so that solves all my money worries.

One of the lists I've found much harder to compile - in fact, it's nigh-on impossible - is that of a top 10 sex scenes in soft porn. Especially in order of preference. I've reviewed so many scenes for Soft Porn Sunday and have hundreds more to go (seriously... hundreds), and in searching my Wikipedia-like memory I could recall about fifty that I like. Narrowing it down to ten was momentous, and then ranking them in order was torturous.

So that I have it written down somewhere, here's my top ten, in reverse order, as of this moment in time.

10. Mirror Images II: Terrie & Man
Shannon Whirry & Unknown
[video link]
This might be placed a little higher if I actually knew the name of the character who Terrie's sleeping with, or the actor who plays him - I used to, because I recorded this off Channel 5 when I was younger. Anyway, yeah, so, Whirry plays identical twins in this one, Carrie (the good twin) and Terrie (the bad twin), and they both manage to get their kit off several times.
All the scenes here are decent, but Terrie does end up sleeping with a couple of men who Carrie's already been acquainted with. The seventh sex scene in the film is my favourite - Terrie in sexy stockings playing up her "bad girl" cred by seducing the unknown "man" and ending up with him between her thighs. Glorious, sultry and decadent.
The video link above is to a compilation of all the sex scenes in Mirror Images II. I couldn't find the individual scene.

9. Beneath the Valley of the Ultravixens: Lavonia Shed & Mr Peterbuilt
Kitten Natividad & Patrick Wright
[video link]
Russ Meyer's films are hard to view as softcore because the scenes are often quick, dirty and over before any real stimulation happens - they jump between sexploitation and satire but aren't designed to get you off.
That hasn't stopped me, of course, and the gleeful, frisky shags that Natividad's Lavonia Shed in Beneath... are some of Meyer's most epxlicit and hottest. She manages to bed insatiable garbage collector Peterbuilt no less than three times during the film, all of them hot, and all with action-packed conclusions.
Apologies for the German subtitles in the video linked to above. Seems it's difficult to capture an individual Meyer scene too.

8. Dungeon of Desire: Vickie & Lady in Waiting
Amber Newman & Stella Porter
[video link | SPS review]
The only lesbian scene on my list and the first one that I've also reviewed previously for Soft Porn Sunday. It's a sexy mix of naked flesh, wild abandon, scenery, costume and music, and some very genuine-looking female orgasms. It doesn't aid the plot one iota, but it's done with such care that it's impossible not to love.

7. Andromina - The Pleasure Planet: Omar & Becca
Shannan Leigh & Mike Roman
[video link | SPS review]
Large-breasted, enthusiastic soft porn actress Shannan Leigh makes her first appearance on this list, and it's up against a post in a tribal village with a man who's 90% hair gel. Hmmm, maybe I need to re-think this list.
Okay, so I'm not too keen on Mike Roman (he's a little too "Mills & Boon cover art" for me) or his character Omar, but Leigh's portrayal of sexy rebel Becca is a fun one, and the scene is set well enough. The background vocal in the music is fun too, even if it does sound a little like a rapper forgetting his words...

6. Emmanuelle Through Time: Renee & Everyone
Nataliya Joy Prieto & Everyone
[video link | SPS review]
The first Emmanuelle scene on this list and... it's a number of different scenes, only one of which featuring Emmanuelle. ILB, you subversive bastard.
I've talked before about the carefree sexual activities of ditzy actress Renee (Prieto) in the Emmanuelle Through Time series before, even going so far as to buy some of the "missing" films from director Rolfe Kanefsky to have a complete set. As for the Renee scenes - well, it's impossible to pick one. Professor Stein? Private Summers? Emmanuelle herself? There are many and they're all a lot of fun - and Prieto is a very talented actress.
The video link above routes to a scene featuring Renee having very unusual vampire sex á la Twilight; the review is of her Snow White scene with Gregory the Huntsman from Wonderland, one that - as yet - I still haven't been able to encode, despite being asked. Still, at least I found one video.

5. Bedtime Stories: Belle & Michael
Kim Dawson & Steve Curtis
[video link | SPS review]
Every single episode of Bedtime Stories features Belle, played wonderfully by Dawson as a sexy, slightly older lady who runs the... well, the... whatever the central location in Bedtime Stories is meant to be. Although her sex scenes are few, there are some great ones, and my absolute favourite is this, a really hot scene with young, shy Michael, broadening his sexual horizons (so to speak), surrounded by plush décor and twinkling lights.
This is also the only scene on this list to be overlaid by what soft porn geeks (just me, then?) will recognise as the most-used piece of softcore music (and it's not just Bedtime Stories, either - I think I've heard it in Compromising Situations and in Passion Cove too...). Although it's an OK piece of music on its own, this scene has it syncing well with the sex, which earns it a place in my top five!

4. The Exotic Time Machine II: Moonbeam & Chuck
Leah York & Jason Schnuit
[video link | SPS review]
Hooray for Jason Schnuit!
This scene, which I've talked about at length before, has the (dubious? fantastic? irrelevant?) honour of being the scene I watch when I really need to have an orgasm, the reason being that it always works. I don't know whether it's Moonbeam's sexy back or beautiful hair, or Chuck being high at the time (a few seconds before the scene, Schnuit's portrayal of Chuck thinking he's an aeroplane is hilrarious), or the costumes (such as they are)... but whatever it is, it works for me.
Genuinely can't fault this one, although I do suspect its short length may put a lot of people off. C'est la vie.

3. Emmanuelle - Concealed Fantasy: Pamela & Haffron
Chanra & Paul Michael Robinson
[video link | SPS review]
Okay, I get it. It seems both ironic and churlish to feature two scenes from the Emmanuelle series and not actually have a scene featuring Emmanuelle, and doubly so when it's a film like this, which has numerous Emmanuelle/Haffron scenes (with the gorgeous Krista Allen) such as this one to pick from. Sorry, Krista!
In any case, at number three on my list is the scene I remembered most vividly from my youth when I first saw these films: some illicit, dirty and slightly confusing sex (which could well be anal, I mean, the angle makes it look like anal, I don't really know), starting stood up, transitioning to a bed and finally the floor. And featuring Haffron, who's a great character overall, really. Maybe by this point in the series he's found out what money is.

2. Friend of the Family: Montana & Billy
Lisa Boyle & Begue Georges
[video link | SPS review]
Just missing out on the number one spot is perhaps my longest-lasting sex scene, and an old favourite. Montana (Boyle) actually has two-and-a-half sex scenes in this movie, and her previous one (in a car, with her boyfriend, whose name I don't quite remember) is also good, and it's the one that I kept thinking about during my A-Level History exam (...what?).
But it's this that's easily the better one. Very passionate, very intense sex with a lot of heat, heavy breathing, urgency and no-holds-barred movement from both characters. And you get to learn French too, so that's tres beau. It's short, but brilliant. And it features Lisa Boyle, who's always been popular.

And...

1. Virgins of Sherwood Forest: Serena & Horatio
Shannan Leigh & David Usher
[video link | SPS review]
It's been years since I rediscovered this film in 2005, and even longer since I first watched it in around 2001, and yet the new sheriff's stress-relieving shag with the manservant - up against the castle railings, standing up with no support, bent over the table with a leg on the chair for leverage - still gets my number one spot, for it touches all bases: acting, cinematography, music and sex. 
There are, in fact, eight sex scenes in Virgins, and I was hard-pressed not to put all of them on this list - but I know which one would still get the top spot.
I first watched this scene while packing to go on a holiday about which I was stupidly excited. I love that feeling... and I love this scene.

There are, of course, some honourable mentions, but as for what they are... well, there are many more Sundays left to come this year...!

Saturday, 9 January 2016

Hallelujah!

Long-term readers of my blog (if I have any) may remember that I was relatively excited about getting a new mattress for my 24th birthday (yes, I am that cool), to replace the BEAST I used to have on my old bed. It's since changed hands a few times, having been on top of a few beds of varying size and quality, most recently having been used (albeit temporarily) by my little sister, sleeping as she did - until today - in the room I was in myself for just over a year and a half.

Since then, we've been sleeping - and resting and reading and eating and shagging - on a mattress roughly the size and weight of a ton of particularly sharp bricks. Needless to say, it hasn't been very fun - discomfort exacerbated somewhat by the fat that our landlord provided, in lieu of an actual bed, a divan upon which he placed this hideous mess.

It's been like trying to get to sleep on Bowser's back.

My sister moved out of SH today in order to stay with her new(ish) boyfriend somewhere south of the river, freeing up the mattress, and my parents - intending to turn that room back into a lounge/office effort like it was originally supposed to be - decided, in their infinite wisdom, to offer it back to me so as to effect getting any sleep whatsoever. It shouldn't be difficult, my dad reasoned. They were hiring a van to take all my sister's stuff; it would effortlessly fit in there, and it'd be really easy to carry it into our room from the street...

A couple of trips back and forth, driving up and down in two cars and a great deal of huffing, puffing, groaning and swearing because I walked backwards into a bush, and all four of us managed to get the thing through the front door approximately half an hour after we started.

Trailing mud through the hall and sweeping out the hideous mess of dust and hair that appears to have collected underneath the divan also ended up with the mattress in pride of place, fitted sheet embracing it with only the one or two wrinkles, duvet resting upon it in even some semblance of order. Even as I type, I have a very contented girlfriend in a state dangerously close to relaxation, reclining on her side with neither a droop, nor a creak, or even the muttered oaths and curses that used to accompany bed-related movement.

Praise the Lord, for he hath delivered us at last!

Now, if you'll excuse me, I think I have some important catching-up to do...

Zzzzzzzzzzzzzzzz...

Thursday, 7 January 2016

Pogostemon

Dear Mother,

I shouldn't be listening to you. You have no right or control over my life any more, and to be fair, I don't really think you'd object to many things I do or say. Fair enough, I did have an argument with Dad recently over whether or not we should bomb Syria, but that's ethical political discourse. I don't think it counts. In fact, we have very similar viewpoints on many things.

If you are, however, going to tut and sigh heavily when I'm talking to Dad about my current job situation, and then suggest (while I'm on my way back out to work) that I should get a different job, then I'm not going to want to be talking to you much any more, especially about jobs. A lot of people don't have jobs. I didn't even have one this time last year. I only got this one through luck, and while it could be better, I'm enjoying it to a large degree.

The fact that you said that you didn't care what I did as long as it paid me money I find particularly offensive. I, in fact, do care what I do. I will, however, make allowances on account of the fact that you appear to be doing something to the floor or the house - I have no idea what but it invovles green linoleum - and that you may be stressed out by DIY.

I don't blame you for that. I'd be stressed out by DIY as well.

I will continue visiting the family home, however, on account of the fact that you are now burning joss sticks with the scent of patchouli.

I've always found patchouli rather overpowering. It's not unpleasant, in my opinion, and in terms of the scents there are out there, it's one of the most relaxing. I think the fact that it's quite unusual helps, as does the fact that I will always associate patchouli with sex, although you probably don't know that.

I hope you don't know that.

Alicia's flat used to be permeated with the scent of patchouli (maybe it still is, who knows, I haven't been there for years). It was in every room, even the kitchen, and was immediately apparent from the moment she opened the door. I used to go there, maybe every week or so, for conversation, food and frantic sex - always on her bed, always on top, surrounded by crumpled sheets and fluffy cushions and air full of patchouli, fighting with the characteristic scents of sex for dominance and matched only by the pitch and volume of her screams...

The memories have dimmed now, but they still resonate, and since I remember most vividly (sex notwithstanding) the scent of her living room - and how pleasant it was and how sexually aroused I was throughout my illicit visits (often succeeding, preceding, or both, days at work - ironically, perhaps, a job you did approve of me doing). I remember being nervous, and how music and aroma (and BBC News) calmed me down somewhat, even before sex.

You are stressed at the moment, and I think that you are taking this out on me somewhat. I'm hoping that, in burning joss sticks, you are going some way towards combatting whatever it is you happen to be feeling as a result of green linoleum.

You don't know about Alicia. I don't think many people do.

But if, as I left, I seemed to know more than I should - with a wry smile and a cocked eyebrow and mannerisms unbecoming of one just chastised about his job - that is very much the reason. Proof, if it is needed, that in any situation, I can use my own mind to defuse the situation. In my own head. And my heart.

And my crotch.