Monday, 14 April 2014

World's Sluttiest Cake!

I'm not exactly why my cake was particularly slutty. It didn't even taste particularly good, but I suppose it did look like a hot mess covered with cum AND THAT'S NOT WHAT IT ACTUALLY WAS HONEST

I knew from the moment I started baking that it wouldn't be a normal cake. I knew this because there weren't any eggs, so I chose to substitute them with milk. But, you know, I thought that would be okay, because I'm a maverick like that. I did grease the cake tin, and I thought that was enough, but clearly it was. I also made half the mixture, because there are only two of us, and that will be enough cake for two. I thought this too. All of these I thought.

I even added shavings of chocolate - that is to say, chocolate through a cheese grater - because I wanted to add chocolate drops and didn't have any. I believed myself to be genuinely resourceful.

Also, I didn't want to bother walking to the shops to buy the ingredients I actually needed. It's cake and cunnilingus day, not walk and shell out money day.

So into the oven went the cake tin and I set about making the buttercream icing. For this I actually did have the correct ingredients, so when it ended up incredibly watery, white but translucent and resembling a bowl of semen (there is no other description, that is what it looked exactly like) I was slightly concerned, but managed to console myself by fooling whoever wasn't listening (there was nobody else in the kitchen) that it would get thicker over time, because apparently that happens.

Then the cake was ready. So ready, in fact, that it refused to come out of the very tin that I'd so carefully greased beforehand. I tried cutting it out with a knife, getting under it with a fishslice, asking it really nicely and telling it I'd let it lick my stamp collection... but it still wasn't budging. Eventually I tried whacking it really hard from the other side of the cake tin and, in one glorious rectangular action, a glorious rectangle of cake fell directly out of the tin.

Except it wasn't really cake... it was more like biscuit. And it was only half the mixture; the rest had remained in the tin, like a limpet. But I was halfway there.

That's okay, I thought. I can cover this half with buttercream icing, get the other half out somehow, and put it on top, so it's sort of a cakey biscuity icingy sandwich. That'll be easy. I can save the day after all. So onto the top of the cake went the translucent white buttercream icing.

I then proceeded to attempt to extricate the second half from the cake tin incredibly carefully. It obliged by disintegrating into little pieces, so I ended up crazy paving the top half over the bottom half, trusting that my icing would hold it in place. It kind of did, and when it didn't look so bad after all, I decided to spread the remaining icing over the top of the cake. The result was something that looked like I'd ejaculated over. I wasn't sure what to do, but after a few minutes I decided that breaking down and crying wasn't going to be a useful way to spend my time. I made a small coffee, sliced off a slab of cake and took both through to my bedroom.

"So, uhm, this cake I made..." I ventured. My girlfriend, who was in bed, assured me she'd try it. I carefully placed both coffee and cake on the side, and then went to my grandparents' house as an excuse for something to do so as to not witness her eating it and whatever her reaction might be.

A few hours later and we've eaten all the cake (hence the lack of picture). The general consensus that it was so sweet, soaked with icing that neither looked nor tasted like icing, and full of milk and chocolate but nothing of any particular consistency, that it was totally irresistible. As my girlfriend put it, it was a very slutty cake. I'm not sure what that means, but I'll take it as a good thing.

There's been no cunnilingus... yet. But I hope that, when it does happen, it's just as messy.

Saturday, 12 April 2014

One born every minute

I'll admit it: I didn't see Sucker Punch with my friends when it came out. I imagine I was busy. I wanted to see it, but they went without me because I was doing something or another at the time. And thus it silently slipped me by for a while. I was, eventually, reminded of its existence at Erotica 2013, at which I signed up for a trial of a kinky sexy dirty geeky cosplay porn site (I still have the videos I downloaded), and on said site lie people cosplaying as characters including, but not limited to, Babydoll from Sucker Punch.

Again, I let it slip me by, until I saw it tweeted about the other day. You probably know where this is going, right... so I watched it. The end.

Let me start by saying that I know it has its detractors. The critics hated it. Mark Kermode, in particular, really hated it. But real people I know loved it. Robinson was a big fan, but then again, Robinson likes EVERYTHING EVER COMMITTED TO FILM, so yeah, there's that. My sister, however, who is of more discerning taste, also loved it, to the point of theming her desktop around Sucker Punch, which both made sense and no sense at all to someone who'd never see it - see also: me.

Yesterday I watched the whole film from beginning to end and I liked it. I'm not ashamed. Well, maybe only a little.

The main complaint I see about Sucker Punch is that it's in some way torture porn disguised as feminism. I don't see it. For the uninitiated, Sucker Punch is set in three different worlds - a real one, in which the protagonist (nicknamed Babydoll) is institutionalised for a crime she didn't really commit, a fantasy one in which Babydoll visualises the asylum she's in as a mob-controlled brothel, from which she orchestrates a plan to escape, and a third one - a fantasy within a fantasy in which Babydoll and her friends from the asylum/brothel become animé-style action heroines with weaponry, with highly stylised fantasy/sci-fi action dequences and colourful CGI backdrops. Unsurprisingly, it's that final world that made it onto the posters (and my sister's desktop background).

And I suppose the first five or ten minutes may be torture porn. But I still don't see that - it's painful to watch and not pleasurable whatsoever. But once the fantasies start coming into play, there's very little of that left. The one genuinely unpleasant character who is the antagonist throughout the film is presented very clearly as a villain with no redeeming qualities other than he doesn't kill anyone (at the beginning, at least). Scenes which show signs of swivelling into darker BD/SM-esque territory always have the five girls, our heroines, taking control. Even during the dénouement, which is pretty horrific in places, there's nothing here that's really meant to turn you on by sick fascination in what's happening.

In short, I don't see why anyone could be turned on by this.

However, that's not what a lot of people have a problem with. Most people claim that Sucker Punch's main crime comes during the action fantasy sequences, in which Babydoll and her friends/allies (Sweet Pea, Rocket, Blondie and Amber - we never learn their real names, if they have them, indeed) are somewhat underdressed, with rather scant clothes and flesh on show, and that their combat is an excuse to show sexualised girls.

I disagree. There's nothing on show here any more than what you'd see in Cutie Honey or in any particular episode of Sailor Moon. The movie version of DOA goes out of its way to show crotch shots during fight sequences (something the movie poster itself picked up on), which Sucker Punch does not. And the outfits themselves aren't really that skimpy - they're outfits for fighting. And the girls fight. That's what they do. Moreover, Babydoll is clearly shown to be 20, with the other girls even older than she is. That's way above the age of consent. If there's any sexualisation here, it's of young ladies, not underage girls.

And is it anti-feminist? I don't know. But I don't think that's the aim, either. There's nothing feminist about leaping into the air and beheading three giant hulking ogres, slitting a dragon's throat, defusing a bomb on a runaway train, or fighting gaseous zombies in a World War I trench. Yes, the sequences are ridiculous. But they're fantasies. The girls here act as action heroines. It's kind of refreshing not to have a collection of men being tough guys... but is gender politics really needed here? The film, like so many others, is a continuous story. Shouldn't you be paying attention to the plot? At least, that's what I was doing.

Okay, so yeah, I thought I was going to like it and I did. But I can see why some people may dislike it. I don't agree, but I can see why. It's just neither the be-all-and-end-all of female-centric action films nor the worst film every produced. That honour's got to go to The Tree of Life.

And is it really any worse than 300? Or are half-naked men perfectly acceptable now?

Oh, wait...

Tuesday, 8 April 2014

What shall we do with the dreaming blogger?

You may or may not know that I used to be in a band. Yeah, musician in a band - a radical concept, I know. In fact, I've been in a number of bands, including 47's band, which played all of one gig (but it was fun), and my own, wherein we managed to stumble our way through a few, but with audiences averaging 6, that doesn't really matter too much.

It does say something when you play a gig and the most interesting thing that happens is the presence of marshmallow foam from Cybercandy.

During my three years at university, though, I played in the biggest band I knew since I'd been in the youth symphony orchestra at the age of about 12. I still don't know why I joined, really, but it was something typical of a wanky art student wanting to get through a creative/expressive block, and since that's the same reason I started this blog it's something that never leaves. I don't even know why I stayed so long, since I was ritualistically bullied by the musical director and my section leader. Twice a week I went to rehearse, and twice a week I waited to be yelled at or humiliated by somebody - for no particular reason; I wasn't too bad at my chosen instrument, even: I was just an easy target.

Maybe I've got a neon sign above my head that I can't see. It's masked by the glare from my halo.

But I digress. I kept going, despite the abuse - I had friends there, plus when it all came down to it, I liked the music. And we played more concerts than I'd have ever thought possible, too.

In the back room of the community centre where we rehearsed, there was a large and dusty library of titles which we had never played and never would, old and broken instruments which didn't work, and a pair of antiquated timpani, which I usually hauled out into the big hall myself since I occasionally played the things once my bullying section leader had left, bequeathing the instrumental duties to the one person left in the section (me!). Countless times I sat at the back of the band waiting to play my few notes, and even more times (could they be counted) I wondered how easy it might be to slip off into the back room for illicit sexual activities while the band was playing its 49th verse of Geordie Jack-Tar.

Particularly in my second year (my first and third were different), my nights were characterised by steamy, sweaty self-indulgence while my brain conjured up images of exactly what one (or two, to be exact) could get up to in such a room, how to do so without being caught, and the logistics of having sex on a timpani. I even considered writing a story about it, although I had no idea how - noting down my nocturnal fantasies always came out like a rather clinical bullet point list.

I haven't forgotten.

My dreams have been stranger than usual recently, although (as opposed to the odd sexual situations they tend to throw at me) they have mostly been concerned with Getting Stuff That I Need To Get Done Done, which is both depressing and worrying and more the sort of thing my mother dreams about than I do. However, two nights ago, wholly without any reason to be doing so, I found myself revisiting that back room, naked, with none other than a famous British journalist I shan't name (because you never name a journalist!) as my sexual sparring partner. While the bank played something in the other room that could have been anything. Possibly the theme tune from Ground Force. I didn't really notice, as I was more concerned with hair, skin and filthy filthy filthy sex.

I've no idea whether this is my body dealing with sexual urges in a healthy way (it wasn't a wet dream - I haven't had one of those for a while) or addressing an unresolved issue, but anyway, it was a nice (if completely baffling) situation to have presented itself. I should start a library of these things.

And then last night's dream involved me in a suit with a clipboard.

My brain is really weird.

Sunday, 6 April 2014

A Space Odyssey

Last night, Mane's little brother had a birthday party. He does that every year, because he has a birthday every year. Shocking concept, I know, but many people seem to like birthdays so much that they make it an ANNUAL EVENT. Mine last month was more of a cue to stick cards on my wall which I haven't removed yet and buy a 2DS because they didn't actually get me one.

In any case, along we went, and thus it began with me walking into a room which already contained Mane Jr. along with his older brother and my friend-who-is-a-midwife (who is also their sister) cooking pizza. I immediately regretted having already had soup, but took some pizza anyway. Already in attendance were my friend-who-is-a-teacher and Einstein, although that's not important, as Robinson and Lovely, the young raver, scene girl and about 4,987,545 others* turned up and started spanking jelly.

Uhm, I should probably explain: a large amount of (vegetarian) jelly made its appearance at some point during the course of the evening, toted by Mane Jr.'s mother, at which point somebody produced a fishslice from somewhere and decided to smack the jelly, producing a pleasantly wobbly effect. Evidently, this was so hilarious that we ended up passing the thing around, my turn yielding an immediate flashback in my mind to the last time I spanked someone. My resultant actions were almost too precise.

Anyway, I digress.

At one of these parties, the inevitability is that somebody will stick on the best of S Club 7 at some point (for the curious, this CD actually has a title; it's Best, for some reason). By "somebody", I do in fact mean my friend-who-is-a-midwife, but the again, she owns the CD. After various shenanigans involving doughnuts (don't ask), crotch pumping (totally innocent) and balls in beer (not what you think!) all to the tunes of S Club 7, somebody produced Now 50. And I was 16 again.

I'd forgotten about that year. 2001 was somewhat unremarkable to me, as it was just a year of idleness and inaction. That's all a lie. It contained the first and only time I asked someone out, my first and only rejection and my first suicide attempt, in that order for quite obvious reasons. However, it was also part of my continuing sexual development, although I hadn't started masturbating then, so this mostly consisted of lying on my bed thinking "sexy" thoughts and enjoying the feeling of my penis growing hard and pulsing gently until it felt painful and I reverted to feeling like I had three seconds to live in order to refer to normality.

So, yeah, that's what the Wheatus cover of A Little Respect makes me think of.

Music brings back memories, especially if you're listening to it specifically because of the memories. Green Day's Nimrod does this to me, and probably will again because I haven't listened to it for years. Now 50 brought these things back to me:

- Wondering how the hell someone thought DJ Ötzi singing Hey Baby! was a good idea.
- Marvelling at how many height references Lighthouse Family manage to shoehorn into any track.
- Remembering how Travis singing the word "sing" over and over again sounds like there's been a lot of thought put into that lyric, when the exact opposite is true.
- Being confounded by how desperate someone must be to get into the charts in order to release a song called Because I Got High.
- Despairing at how easy it is to forget all about James when compiling music CDs.

None of which made any difference. For that time, I was 16 again and being surrounded by people I've known since I was 5, including the person I used to hang around with at school the most, made this depressingly realistic.

And then we have Louise Redknapp.

In 2001(ish), one of my friends who I haven't mentioned here before developed a crush on Louise (who, at that point, didn't have a surname for some reason), and kept me guessing for a period of about 45 minutes, mostly on account of the fact that I had absolutely no idea who she was. I still don't get the point of celebrity crushes, but then this guy also seemed to like Melinda Messenger and all five Spice Girls, so maybe he wasn't really that choosy after all. A few months later, I was idly flicking through the newspaper and came across a picture of Louise, and I remember thinking something along the lines of, "oh, right, okay."

I'm not really going anywhere with this. There are too many memories here to focus on and make a coherent post about one or two. And, at that moment last night, there were too many then, as well.

So I went back to spanking jelly.

That seemed to make sense.

* may be an overestimate

Saturday, 5 April 2014


Good afternoon, my name's Innocent Loverboy. I am a white cis male, and I'm very sorry about that.

See? It looks ridiculous when I write it out. I shouldn't need to apologise for the colour of my skin, my sexual identity, or my assigned gender.

Writing that out looks ridiculous too. It's a list of things that people should be taking for granted. Offences which those with conscience fight against - racism, sexism, homophobia, etc. - make the suggestion that members of the public or in the national conscience who don't fit a template they (the offenders) have assigned are not normal people, and therefore should be demonised. This is wrong. And this, we all know.

There's another thing, as well. I'm straight. I've always been straight. I've never been sexually attracted to a member of the same sex. I'm sorry about that too.

I shouldn't need to apologise for that either.

But then there are a few labels that are part of my identity which nobody seems to have any problem with. I've had a few insults thrown at me for "vegetarian", but not that many problems apart from a few odd looks in Yorkshire. Nobody's offended at "socialist". Nor at "Green Party activist", "Woodcraft Folk member", or "James fan".  Are you offended at "Christian"? Depending on who you are, you may be. You shouldn't be, but you may be.

Doing the rounds on the blogosphere, the sex-positive community, the left-wing edge of Twitter and within the sex blogging community as a whole, one does chance across things which, without meaning to, use "white cis male" as a catch-all term for a sexist, misogynistic, boorish and ignorant white cis male. There's no pretence made as to the idea that all white cis men are like that - of course they're not; I'm not, at least - but it does seem that, for whatever reason, that doesn't need to be clarified. Journalists who write articles about feminism, gender issues, race, gay rights and other ethical issues often come out as erudite and well-reasoned, whereas those who oppose them appear the exact opposite - but that isn't always the case. I once read a Guardian article by a black man entitled "of course all white people are racist." I saw his point, but I felt offended.

The problem I have with this issue is that not a lot of people actually bother to read this stuff. Seeing someone who's been abused by men contributing to the #KillAllMen hashtag or write an article about female empowerment doesn't equate to "all men abuse". Someone being racially attacked in the street for being Asian, as happened in my local area last year, doesn't equate to "all white people attack". The guys who stand in the street with "ask me about Jesus" shirts who spend a lot of time telling people they're going to Hell doesn't equate to "all Christians are fundamentalists". I don't even believe in Hell.

But this isn't often clarified. Taking a stand is to be applauded, whether or not anybody agrees with you, even. But it's going a bit too far when I start to feel like I can't say much because I'm just a white cis male and therefore I have to be inherently prejudiced.

I'm not apologising for white men because I don't speak for all of them.
I'm not apologising for heterosexual men because I don't speak for all of them.
I'm not apologising for cis men because I don't speak for all of them.
I'm not apologising for Christians because I don't speak for all of them.

I am one of them. I am not a bully.

I've been bullied, almost always by women, but I don't for one second believe that all women are bullies.

I make no apology for who I am. Whatever someone else does is not what I do. I am a white cis male, and I'm OK with that. You should be too.

Tuesday, 1 April 2014


Yesterday's post by Girl On The Net mentions the concepts of energetic sex and physical exercise. She even managed to tie the two together, smart girl as she is. I find I'm not able to do that... because I don't really see much of a link...

That's a bit simplistic. Let me start again.

I've recently started running again. Last time I tried, it wasn't particularly successful - I got about halfway through the programme before deciding that playing Pokémon Sapphire was a better use of my time than suffering the stares of confused families, amused children, braying secondary school students and ubiquitous small dogs as I exploit the parks of the local area for my own selfish self-destruction. However, partially on account of the fact that I didn't feel comfortable in my own skin at Eroticon (but mostly because my mum told me I was fat the other day) I've restarted the programme.

And so I run: legs screaming at me to stop the ritual abuse, moobs doing some sort of Highland fling while my heart beats an Edinburgh tattoo against my chest roughly translated as, "Let me out! Why are you doing this? I don't know where the priests are hiding!", with my mouth sagging half open as if I've just been drugged, my feet falling flat against the pavements and paths that I manage to stagger onto on an almost daily basis. Laura chirrups in my ear that I'm doing really well and may even get a gold star from the Headmaster if I keep it up.

And then there are dogs.

After all this (and as I progress through the plan) I'm too tired to do just about anything, never mind fuck, so energetic sex is pretty much out of the question entirely since I've managed to expend about a year's worth of energy through pounding the streets while needing the toilet.

Having said that...

I have had some incredible energetic sex. The last time I had some "what the fuck are you on?" sex was about a month ago, but it's not the only time. York, Suffolk, Brighton and Hampshire have all also had their fair share of sex with a long burst of incredible exertion on my part. In pretty much every case, it seems that being on holiday is what gets me moving - and that's in no way a coincidence, when one considers the fact that you can make noise, use all the space you want and generally misbehave in appalling ways when you've booked into a room somewhere and horny. But then that's holiday sex. It's often energetic. Often loud. And often really, really good.

I've also noticed I'm more energetic the first time I have sex with people. That doesn't include my first time, which was akin to playing living statues with the aid of a condom as thick as Gibraltar - but, ever since then, the first time I've had sex with someone new has always involved as much thrusting, grunting and gung-ho push/pull action as I can put into it. And the more it seems obvious that I'm about to have sex, the more energy there is that gets generated. My body is a coitus dynamo, or something.

But for all that, what's with all the energetic sex? Exactly who am I trying to impress? Nobody's watching. I may do my duck-footed wheezy runs on public display, but sex with all guns blazing every single time... is it really necessary? No, of course it isn't. Slow sex is great. Lazy sex is great. Penetration and just holding it there for a while... well, some people may disagree, but I think that's great too. I'm not in porn, so why want to be vigorous each and every time?

Doesn't mean I'm not going to try, though. 

Sometimes I just can't stop!

Sunday, 30 March 2014


11:59, last night.

Ring ring. Ring ring.

"Hello, brother."
"Yo. Talk to me."
"Talk to me. Are you okay?"
"I'm okay. I'm in Holloway."
"With a friend."
"Are you okay?"
"Yeah. I'll talk to you about it all tomorrow."


15:25, today.

Ring ring. Ring ring.

"Hello, 47!"
"Hey. So we're talking about planning a wedding..."
"Next spring..."
"As you said..."
"Yeah. So I've been thinking about bridesmaids, and I was wondering if you would be my head boy bridesmaid?"
"I don't think men have bridesmaids. I think they have pageboys or ushers."
"Is the term you're looking for best man?"
"I suppose I could do that."
"I'll start writing a speech."

2 minutes later...

"Oh, and... bachelor party. I can't say much, obviously, because [his girlfriend's name] is sitting here beside me, but I think hookers, definitely."
"Goes without saying. I know a few."
"Yeah, I thought you might."
"Okay, well, enjoy your day."
"Yeah, you too."

I don't know which of these was less expected.

Sunday, 23 March 2014

Soft Porn Sexless

"Really?" says Regina Russell.
...or How To Waste Your Time More Effectively Than You Ever Thought Possible.

Out of all the soft porn I've seen, 1999's Dungeon of Desire (one of Surrender's last) is one specific film I have a certain affection for. There are a number of reasons for this: I like the cast (apart from stalwarts like Regina Russell, Mia Zottoli, Amber Newman, Jason Schnuit John Stevens, et al., there are a number of cast members who get to do things without really having sex at all), I like the plot (it's ridiculous, but in a fun way), I like the acting (Regina Russell, in particular, has a pretty believable turn here as put-upon model Jill), and it also has a brilliant lesbian sex scene among other things.

It's probably got more than one lesbian sex scene. I wouldn't really know. I haven't seen it since I was about 17.

Thing is, I spent about an hour yesterday looking for it. Some soft porn's easy to obtain via DVD or downloading; some isn't. While it's relatively easy to find scenes being streamed on Dailymotion or downloadable via sites like CMA, whole films are becoming increasingly harder to come by due to both copyright laws and gradually fading interest. But I rationalised that, since there was once a DVD available, there will have been - at some time or another - a rip of the whole movie, and that it will also have been floating around on the web, and that I should be able to find it.

I found it. And, just because I'm that cool, I decided to watch it during lunch.

Unbeknownst to me (and I've very little idea why), there are two versions of this film. I've seen the tactic used before (in The Exotic Time Machine, which I sold for a tenner), but I've still very little idea of why. What they've done is... wait for it...

...they've cut out all the sex scenes and left the story completely intact.

Okay, now take a while to process that. As I've said, I love the story, the acting's sound and (apart from
This is as explicit as it gets.
a visible boom mike in practically every shot) it's not a badly-done film. But this is marketed as soft porn; there are going to be a multitude of sex scenes in it, and they fill out the film. It's even meant to titillate - that's the whole point of the genre! Some of the scenes even lend themselves to the plot... so that makes no sense either! What we're handed instead of sex scenes is an edited version of the scene, usually lasting about twenty seconds or even less, showing bits of the actors pretending to have sex in a pretty sterile way that may merit a 15 certificate, but certainly not be marketed as softcore in any particular sense.

There's quite a lot of nudity in Dungeon of Desire, which is good, because realistically, we're not going to get much else with this sort of thing, so all the scenes where everyone is gratuitously nude (for the most outlandish reasons - apparently, people need to be naked for magic to work, but I'll let them have that one) keep the thing ticking along nicely with shots of boobs and backs, but nevertheless, I see absolutely no reason why one would even want to machete the sex scenes into small chunks while avoiding anything that contains a bum or a thigh. What, is this the version Jason Schnuit wanted to show his children, or something?

But here's the terrible, horrifying thing about it all.

I'll probably watch it again at some point.

Saturday, 22 March 2014


When I was about 16, I decided to download some porn from the computer in the corner of my bedroom. In all fairness, I'd been downloading porn on it anyway, but instead of having a specific softcore series, film or actor/actress to search for, I opened KaZaA Lite and just put "porn" into the search bar. About three hours later, a list had appeared. I chose a random one and hit "download".

The file was called "Hot anal sex". With the exception of a very brief mention in year 7 biology, anal sex hadn't really been mentioned. I didn't really know how to pronounce it, assuming it began with a hard A (as in "cat"), and didn't even really know what it was. I could guess, due to the word and all, but I'd never seen any of it happening, even in porn - whereas I'm finding it hard nowadays to find any scenes that don't involve the bum being part of the whole shebang in some way. I didn't even find the concept particularly appealing, but my thought process (which amounted to "0MGZ!!! S3KS!!1!!111!1") compelled me to click.

Thus began the download.

About five seconds after I started downloading, I got a message from someone called "hihi". I didn't know anyone named "hihi", so it took me a few seconds before beginning to compose an answer. It was a swift and brief "Hi...?", which I thought was appropriate. It then took me a few more seconds to clock that this was actually a message not through MSN. Hihi was the person who owned the file I was downloading.

"hi do u know the name of the man in this video?" said Hihi.
"Which video?" I said, innocently.
"Hot anal sex."

I quickly checked the preview of the video. I didn't recognise him. It wasn't likely that I would, to be honest; I could name a few softcore actors, but this was "Hot anal sex", and unlikely to feature anyone I'd seen on Bravo after 10pm (although there have been some crossovers - I've seen Tera Patrick in some scenes and I can remember that because I am ridiculous). I told Hihi that I was sorry, I didn't recognise him - I didn't recognise her, either, but I hoped Hihi would be able to find out.

"if u do find out who he is i would like 2 see some pics," replied Hihi. Me being me, I took this as a sign to initiate a conversation, both to pass the time and steer my attention away from the fact that somebody I didn't know was asking me about a male adult star I'd never seen via an illegal program I shouldn't have been running while anal porn was still open on my desktop.

Why is this one incident important? Well, it was the first time I'd really considered the fact that girls watch porn. Hihi was a girl who both watched and loved it, preferring anal stuff. I also hadn't considered the concept of underage people watching porn (I started when I was 12, but I didn't see any hardcore stuff until I was of legal age to actually have sex), but it turned out this girl was 14! Suddenly, I felt illicit. Hihi was from the Netherlands, where - or so I'd heard - there was sex ABSOLUTELY EVERYWHERE and the sex education programme was so good that everyone was talking about sex ALL THE TIME, but that doesn't take anything away from the fact that I was downloading anal porn from a 14-year-old.

I had no idea what to do. I closed the conversation window and sat there just thinking. I'd come far enough to complete the download, even if I was 99% sure I wasn't going to enjoy "Hot anal sex" based upon the preview I'd seen. I was on edge, not wanting to appear rude to Hihi, who had shared so much with a complete stranger via a p2p network. She probably did this a lot. I'd imagine a lot of people did. I didn't tend to - but then again, I mostly downloaded softcore stuff. But... but she was 14. I finished the download, and was about to click off the program before I paused.

I opened a dialogue window to Hihi. "If I find out who this guy is, I'll tell you," I typed at the speed of light, and then closed the program just in case anyone who happened to be standing directly behind me in my locked bedroom at 11pm saw me.

I didn't recognise him, so I never either got back to her or attempted to. But I did try to identify him, actually. Why? Because her one question had piqued my curiosity.

And I like being curious.

Monday, 17 March 2014

The Great ILB Birthday Book Giveaway

[DISCLAIMER: This giveaway competition thingy is over. Thanks to everyone who posted and sorry if you weren't picked out of the hat! Blondieboo3, you won - I need an e-mail address or a Twitter @ for you if you want to claim your books!]

I accidentally (and it was an accident!) made reference to the fact that it was my birthday this morning on Twitter - and, since then, I've been flooded with good wishes from all and sundry. Thank you all, ever so heartily- I didn't even realise anyone liked me at all, never mind this much.

Anyway, before Eroticon I went through my boxes of STUFF underneath my bed, and as a result, I have unearthed from the STUFF a fair collection of unopened books - mostly erotica I have duplicate copies of, and miscellaneous other sexy books.

So I'm giving them away for my birthday!

I have three sets of two books each to give away. If you'd like me to enter you into my fair and impartial (I'll close my eyes and jab with a pencil) competition, then just leave a comment in this post and you may be in the running for getting books!

Disclaimer: one, this ends on Friday because it needs to have an end date; two, if you win, you're going to need to send me your address. I'll destroy it afterwards (the address, not your house), but if you're not okay with that, either don't enter or find some other way to claim your prize.

Okay? Got it? Good! Comment! BOOKS!