Sunday, 28 December 2008

Helpful Boyfriend is Helpful

I woke up in my lover's bed, which - although a year ago I'd have said you were 'avin a laugh if you told me I'd ever say that - didn't really surprise me, not least of all because I didn't sleep that well, even after

- a movie
- a very cosy bed
- many snuggles
- (un)acceptable touching
- frantic sex
- violent male orgasms
- teasing
- licking
- more licking
- sensual female orgasms
- story reading
- spooning

I guess I'm just an insomniac.

Nevertheless, I woke up a little dreary, went straight back to sleep and was then woken up again by a second alarm, and then didn't manage to get back to sleep, because TD seemed to be talking herself awake - which is a quite good way to do it, actually, I should try that - and realised with a heavy heart that I needed to get home, because a 2000-word essay on chronic heart failure really has to be the highlight of a Christmas break.

This was when she had the remarkable idea that - wait for it - I could just stay here. Yes, she has to go to work, but I could be here when she gets back. I've done that before, after all (although that time she didn't know I was here). And what's more, she has a new laptop (behold my casual logging into my own account), so - with incredible force of will I brought some notes with me and even pencilled some suggestions in on the train - I've now:

- set up her laptop for the Internets
- downloaded Firefox
- downloaded Thunderbird
- tested a Mac OS package I've been meaning to test for months on her brother's Mac (thanks, Her Brother)
- written 600+ words of my essay (that's going to need some serious cutting down, but 600 words in an hour is still below my usual ability, I'm taking it steadily)
- e-mailed it to myself

And so... now you find me sitting in her room, with her fully set-up new laptop (Windows Vista is awful though, why couldn't they finish it before releasing it?), listening to music I'm streaming directly from my own server, blogging away merrily while trying not to sing along, and wondering if I can cadge a bit of lunch from her dad, looking forward to her return, and glancing at the graphic novel - and two Belle de Jour books - that await my perusal this afternoon.

I am content.

Saturday, 27 December 2008

Hating Skating

Despite it being a festival of love and all, there's rarely a lot of time for sex over Christmas. In my house, with my mother raging and storming throughout the day when one thing's out of place, there's rarely any time for anything, never mind any sexually-related activities. Spending Christmas with my family, there wasn't anyone to have sex with anyway, but I usually spend a period of my alone-days dreaming about a certain someone. Usually the times when I have my right hand clasped around my... but that's neither here nor there (more's the pity).

My dad - master of dry wit, third only to Humphrey Lyttleton and my uncle by marriage (who never, ever stops) - ruminated upon the prospect of going ice-skating again (we went ice-skating on Christmas Eve, with the wiser of us sitting my the side drinking hot chocolate. I was weaving my way through slower skaters with ease and a dash of egocentricity, but I don't think anyone noticed. Good skaters are never noticed among the many casualties you get.), bringing with it the idea of people falling over.

"I don't fall over," I said. "I never have and I never will."
"You've just jinxed it," my mother said.
"True," I said. "I don't think [TD] would like it if I hurt myself, although she'd probably laugh a lot."
"What?" interjected Dad. "She likes you being horizontal?"
"And vertical," I responded. "And both, and 71, and..."

...and then I stopped, because I realised half the people sitting at the table were elderly relatives. Still, it made my dad laugh.

And at least I didn't say 69.

Tuesday, 23 December 2008

Gold Mother

"I don't think it's very gentlemanly to mention sex on your LiveJournal."

I glanced at my mother briefly, and tried to appear disinterested. I know perfectly well that she reads my LJ; what's more, since I started ILB I haven't really mentioned sex at all. The comment to which she was referring is a tongue-in-cheek aside in which I mention the word 'sex'.

"I didn't really mention sex."
"You talked about it. I don't think it's very gentlemanly."

The only comment one of my friends had left on my LJ had been a positive one, she'd been amused by the mention of sex.

"I'm not going to explicitly describe sex on my LJ, Mother; I just don't see what's wrong with one tongue-in-cheek mention of the word."
"It's not very gentlemanly."
"Since when was I a gentleman?"
"I don't think it's appropriate."

She's rehearsed this, hasn't she?

Sunday, 21 December 2008


This FAQ is designed to be an improved and updated version of the original. All old questions will be answered, some new ones added and if you think I've missed anything out, e-mail me and I'll answer that too. Hey, I'm a nice enough guy.

Who are you?
I am Innocent Loverboy, commonly known as ILB. I write a sex blog as well as doing other things.

Age / Sex / Location?
23 years old / Male / London.

Relationship status?
In a relationship with The Drinker!

What's your main job?
I was a teaching assistant for two years, and since then I've switched. I'm actually in training at the moment, so I go to University (one of the top ones, but I won't say which) for a vocational course, but I spend most of my time 'on the job' while learning the skills. I'll qualify next academic year!
Oh, and yes, sexual knowledge helps in this job too!

What's this blog for?
It's still a sex blog. I'll admit that a lot of the posts are about love, but I'll still write about sex when I want to!

When and why did you create it?
Exactly one year ago - 12 December 2007.
I'd been reading sex blogs for ages, and very few were written by boys. There are now a few more that I'm aware of - Todger Talk and The Edge of Vanilla are examples - but most of them, and especially the more famous ones, were written by girls - the Channel 4 documentary only ever mentioned the girl sex bloggers! In my personal blog, I'd mentioned love and sex a few times, but I wanted to muse more upon the topics than I did, so I started a more anonymous way of conveying my thoughts - thus, ILB.

You still clam you're different. What makes you so different?
There are, again, a number of reasons for this:
(i) I place much more value on love then sex. I'm not saying that other people don't (by all accounts, other people should), but to me, love is vital - sex, while fantastic, can only be a side-effect of love. I can both merge and separate the two very quickly. I can also fall in love very easily.
(ii) I'll admit that sex happens for other reasons than love - I've experienced that myself - but I prefer to link the two.
(iii) I like softcore erotica. I don't like hardcore porn nearly as much.
(iv) I'm genuine and honest. I don't smoke, drink, do drugs or even eat meat. And it's not all a facade, that's just who I am.
(v) I'm incredibly shy to ask people out. In fact, I don't ask people out. I have such a morbid fear of rejection that I don't even try. Otherwise, I'm quite an outgoing person.
Basically, I'm not your typical 'lad'. Not trying to stereotype boys, of course, but the unfair image that has been applied to them definitely doesn't apply to me. I don't even like sports of any kind! In real life, the idea that 'boys only want one thing' isn't true. In fact, in many cases they can be much more romantic than girls!

Why are you using Blogger?
A lot of sex journals are written in Blogger. There are better blog services out there, such as LiveJournal. However, places like LJ (and I already have an LJ, anyway) are much more personal-based and it may not be very prudent to start a blog there if I wish to remain anonymous! Also, quality of blog service doesn't equal quality of blog! There are sex blogs on LJ that are truly atrocious!

How many people have you had sex with? / Do you regret any of them?
I have had sex with six people:
- One long-term girlfriend (we lasted a year and a half).
- One close friend (a few times).
- One "lover" (a brief sexual relationship).
- One stand (and it was awful, and reckless of me).
- One friend (and we're now okay, although it confused both of us for a while).
- One more long-term girlfriend! Huzzah!
I regret a few of them - in fact, most of them except #1 and #6 - except, at the time, all of them (but not #4) felt right. The ones I don't regret - surprise - are the ones wherein love was involved.

When did you last have sex?
Two days ago!

How often do you have sex?
Well, I can't really say that it's a planned thing, but it tends to happen pretty much once or twice every day we are together, unless it's a flying visit. Sometimes more, sometimes less. It depends on the feeling, y'know? And then there are those times where you don't have the sex, but the effects are felt...

Who are the people mentioned on this blog?
Okay, well, what a question! Single Student has a list on her blog's menu which links to the appropriate people, which is helpful. I may as well list peoples here.

The main players on this stage are:
- ILB: Innocent Loverboy, a sensitive and engaging boy with a rapier wit and a big head.
- The Drinker: A lovely girl who happens to be my girlfriend and also writes a blog.
- All other sex bloggers are referred to by their blogging name.
- H: Is my best female friend. Her sexuality appears to be uncertain, but she has a lot more experience than me.
- 47: Is my best male friend. He's one of the very few people who knows I am also ILB, and he's clever enough to have worked it out himself. His friendship is an acquired taste, but I can tolerate him!
- Mini: Is a close friend who I don't see nearly enough, and I told her I am ILB. She's cool with that.
- Flirty colleague: She is just that.

The girls are:
- Rebecca: Was my first girlfriend, who cheated on me repeatedly and then left me for another guy.
- Louise: Was my friend who I had sex with. She now had a girlfiend and appears to have calmed down her oversexed activities somewhat.
- Alicia: Is an older woman I had a brief sexual relationship with. She was fine, last I heard.
- Lily: I had a stand with. She was selfish and uncaring, and she hasn't talked to me since. I'm not that bothered.
- snowdrop: Is a friend whom, in a joint MSN conversation with me and 47, started showing more of an interest in me and ended up sleeping with me. In the confusion that followed, which messed with both of our feelings, everyone got hurt a lot and we both ended up with different people by the end of the week. She is now in a steady relationship and very happy. I feel awkward around her now.

So what happened then?
Well, I was quite upset, and worried for both myself and snowdrop, and I was, after a week, invited - on the spur of the moment - to visit The Oxford Seamstress (who has since changed her blogging name - it's all very complicated), who was also slightly stressy about her finals. I visited, catching a very late train to Oxford, randomly. We met, got on, and becoming enchanted, we had sex and then hooked up. The following evening, we went on our first date! We've now been "together" for about 8 or 9 months, and I'm totally and utterly in love!

Can I talk to you? / Can I ask for advice?
Since I started writing ILB, I've actually counselled a few friends of mine (mostly female friends such as FL, but 47 at one point as well), who all seem to be grateful for an innocent loverboy's point of view.
The answer, anyway, is yes. You don't even have to talk about relationships - Jessie, Glamour Girl and Anna have all felt okay with chatting away to me informally, Drinker - evidently - is my main conversationalist (that's not even a word, is it?). If you want to ask relationship advice (well, opinions), just drop me an e-mail or add me to MSN (same address) and we will talk, promise!

Will you go out with me? / Will you sleep with me?
NO! (Sorry.)

What do you look like?
I'm tall for my age. I'd describe myself as 'average build' even though I do have a slightly large stomach (although apparently I'm the only one who sees it as being large, everyone else says it's fine!). I have short black hair, and sparkly blue eyes (my eyes are the only feature about my physical appearance I'm totally happy with).

What do you think is the best post you've written?
Public Display of Attention was probably my favourite to write. It's been quite well-received, as well. I also like what came out of Je t'adore, which I originally intended to be much shorter!
Hmmm, that was very difficult to choose! I guess I like my own writing too much.

What else do you write?
Songs (I'm the lead singer of a band and I love it), poetry, reviews and fiction. Through university, I was a staff member of the paper, and when I was young I ran my own self-produced thingy! I was so enterprising back then.

Who are your favourite band?
I have very eclectic tastes in music, but my favourite band must be James.

What's next for this blog? Will it be self-pitying and lonely like the first half, or sickening and lovely like the second half?
I'm sure I'll find new and interesting ways to disappoint you.

And that's it for Year One! Fantastic! Thanks to Drinker, Blacksilk, Lady Pandorah, Lace Stockings, Tom Allen, 47, Mini, Glamour Girl, Older Woman and anyone else who reads and/or comments on this blog! I'll see you around, and we should all hope to share more of our writing!

Feel the love, people.

Saturday, 13 December 2008

trung-san, sole wa nani desu ka? anata wa tomodachi desu ka?

My last post dealt with something I saw in a newspaper and that turned into a discussion about London freesheets, but I didn't mention the Metro.

I don't generally read it in the evenings - it's a morning paper, after all - but I saw a picture on the front cover that I recognised. Yep, definitely Doctor Life (as opposed to Doctor Light. Sorry. Needed to do that.) - as publicised on Tom's blog. I flipped forward a few pages, now drawn into the paper bu a vague connection to my sex blog browsing...

...and saw this.

A Canadian guy named Le Trung (actually, that sounds French-Asian, but apparently he lives in Canada) has built himself a girlfriend. I've watched a short film on plastic love before, but this isn't really the same thing. Aiko - the name of his pretend girlfriend - is a highly sophisticated android, costing in excess of $20,000 (WTF?!). She can recognise faces, do stuff like butter toast, pick things up and even speak (English and Japanese. Hmm.) - and as this video shows, she can feel pain, too. She even slaps you when you touch her breasts.

I've got to stop using so many hyperlinks. Okay, no more hyperlinks now.

The main problem wth the way the Metro was reporting it was that it seemed to assume Aiko was Trung's girlfriend, and although he does seem affectionate with her, he's never actually claimed that she is as such - she can be programmed for sex, he says, but he has never done that - "AND yes Aiko is still a virgin, AND NO I do not sleep with her." Thanks for clearing that one up, Trung.

The reason I'm writing about this is because I can almost sense the inevitable backlash - once people get more news of this, they will talk. Of course, this is in Canada, and the UK won't get much story about it (thank Glod, or the Daily Mail would have a field day). But there are going to be people claiming that:

- Trung is wrong for trying to replicate the bulding blocks of life
- Aiko will never be similar enough to humankind
- This is perverse, for some reason, and maybe he should get a life for himself except of making one
- He's lying, and is using her for sex

Personally, I don't actually have any problem with it. Trung's claim is that robots like Aiko could provide around-the-clock care for elderly people, which is actually possible and something that any naysayers may not have considered. If you are lonely, or isolated, or just need a companion, then maybe Aiko wouldn't be such a bad person to have around. I'm not entirely 'with' the Metro in that they've played up the fact that she doesn't answer back if you switch her on - in fact, that's one of the worst things they've ever printed - but I'm intrgued by this whole story. It's fascinating.

I wouldn't want an Aiko to play with. I'd much prefer the real thing, and she may be good at maths, but I can't imagine a conversation about the changing world of Shakespeare with her. But I would like to have a conversation with her - I've been amused by AI ever since Talkie Toaster popped up on Red Dwarf. She does sound a bit like a TomTom autoroute device, though.

There's a site about her here. Oh, damn. I'll have to punish myself now. Maybe there's a robot that could do that somewhere...

Tuesday, 9 December 2008


You probably can't make out the text in the image here, but I can transcribe it for you:

To the tall, dark stranger who let the blonde girl on crutches hop on the Tube before you on the Victoria line from King's Cross, Sunday 30th. I thought you were lovely and wish I'd spoken to you. ANON

I almost always read thelondonpaper. Its rival, the London Lite, is actually run by Murdoch, and therefore holds no journalistic merit whatsoever. On the way home from work, I'll sometimes find my iPod out of battery and automatically reach for the first copy you find on an Underground train somewhere. And in the centre, just after the "look-what-club-Lily-Allen-fell-out-of" section, thelondonlove section is home to articles about love that I could probably do a better job of writing, some stuff about whomever married whom recently, and the column on the right, in which you text in to tell everyone that you vaguely saw someone in London who
you like the look of (even if they may be a git).

This section, Lovestruck, I always read. Just like everyone else in London. I don't think I'll ever be spotted, and in any case I'm attached, but it's always fun to read. And then, yesterday, the above popped up, second to last, in a two-column edition of Lovestruck.

"Hang on," I thought, "that's me, isn't it?"

Tall? Check.
Dark? Check.
Strange? Check.
Sunday 30th? Check.
Victoria Line? Check.
Blonde girl with crutches? Check.
Lovely? Well, you decide.

Of course, it could be another tall, dark stranger who let a blonde girl with crutches onto the Victoria Line on that particular day. I don't know how often that happens. It probably isn't me, but it matches me perfectly, and that's odd, and a little gratifying.

I'm attached, so I don't think I'll reply (you can't reply anyway, it's not a dating service, just a text column). But isn't that just a little bit odd?!

Monday, 8 December 2008


"You know what's funny?" said 47, as we were standing in a line waiting to see James.
I was about to answer, and was almost ready to do so while trying not to sound either excited that I was about to see James, or worried that snowdrop (who was a few yards away) would come over and hit me or something. But then I realised that 47 wasn't actually talking to me.
"The one thing I know about you," continued 47, "is that you haven't had your leg over for a year."
Since I had sex on Wednesday, this confirmed that I wasn't the intended recipient of his comment; rather it was directed towards a rather abashed-looking girl that I'd never seen before.

It actually turned out that 47 hadn't ever seen her before, either. Neither of us knew who she was; nor did snowdrop, or any of the other people standing in the line who we hang about with at the gigs. She was just a random James fan who had (I was pleased that my ears hadn't been deceiving me, because I heard it too) just been very randomly vocal about the fact that she had not, indeed, had her leg over for a year.

"A year?" I asked, not wanting to feel left out of either the conversation or the slightly taboo act of discussing sex in Britain.
"Almost exactly a year. To the day, in fact," she replied.

She then went on to take part in the conversation we were having before she had made her ingratiating remark. Every now and again, however, she managed to slip in a reference to her having not had much sex recently. Amusing as this was, it did eventually lead me to ask her if that was all she ever thought about.
"What, sex? Yeah, pretty much," she answered.

Well, you can't argue with that, can you?

Saturday, 6 December 2008

Heavy Flow... of Cash

You know what? I get paid a measly £6K a year, considering I work 12 hours a day, because I'm not actually qualified yet.

You know what? I don't drink, smoke or do drugs, so I have no major vices, except the internet and sex.

You know what? I only recently remembered that I have subscriptions to sites which let you download sex scenes from late-night softcore movies you'll get on Channel 5 and Cinemax.

You know what? I don't really need to be subscribed to such sites any more... so I cancelled all my memberships.

You know what I did with the money I saved? I booked a holiday for next Valentine's.

You know what? I'm a lot happier now.

Thursday, 4 December 2008


There's something certainly romantic about holding hands while wandering along the South Bank. It's generally an amazing place, actually; nowhere except London has that sort of pulse to it, but the Palace of Westminster and London Eye are lit up really nicely at night, and even when it's cold, if you're going to be strolling along the South Bank, night's the time to do it. In fact, after an odd evening/night/morning combination consisting mostly of Charlie Brooker, Family Guy and sex on the floor, there aren't many places to end up that are better than the South Bank. Well, there's Forbidden Planet, and a coffee shop that does better drinks than CCK (marginally, although for atmosphere I'd still prefer CCK), but we'd already been to both of those.

We weren't just randomly at the South Bank, though... although it's something we would do, a random trip to the South Bank via geekery and coffee, and maybe one day we will... there was, in fact, a German Christmas Market happening along the river's edge, and so after buying an overlarge garlic bread covered with cheese, we wandered relentlessly through the Central-European stalls, procuring fudge (some of which was nice, some too sweet), playing musical instruments shaped like animals, buying puzzles as stocking fillers, and having the first ride on a merry-go-round I've had since the age of about 14. There's something special about sitting next to a squealing girlfriend, and holding her hand while rocking up and down on wooden horses while scary fairground music threatens you.

I can't wait for Carousel to hit London next year.

After exhausting the Germans, and their wares of course, we went to an expensive, but very nice, quintessentially middle-class restaurant and had our respective meals, followed by the inevitable trip to Paddington. The train to Oxford took a cruelly long time to leave, and all I could do was stand there and wave. I turned and made my lonely, but enlightened, way home. I ended up actually getting a fair amount of sleep.

I made it into work this morning, which was distinguishable by not being particularly interesting, although the first thing that I noticed was that I hadn't been placed with my flirty, emotionally-charged colleague, who is characterised by her almost-orgasmic moans when she gets to rest her feet (and we are talking, "oh, that's gooood" here) and her slight nausea over the sight of blood. Me being me, I've been counselling her for these things, because I'm A Nice Person™, up to the point of holding her up with a hug at one point, but today I found myself telling her to just go home, after she proved herself of being unable to stand up during a break we incidentally had at the same time.

Even so, I didn't work with her anyway, so during the two-and-a-half-hours she was there, I missed her company and had to do my work on my own (for "work", also read: "writing a poem and a song", because I found time and energy to do that). Then again, given the mood I'm in at the moment, I probably would have related my romantic whimsical story to her, and friendly as she is, that would have probably made her even more nauseous, even if I find it all aesthetically pleasing. But then again, I'm biased, aren't I?

So... you lot get it instead! Aren't you lucky?

Sunday, 30 November 2008


One post goes here so I can finish NaBloPoMo, which I just remembered I'm doing.

I'm worried, tired, burned out and feel ill - none of which are to do with blogging. Honestly, this wasn't difficult at all. A lot of bloggers are all "oh my Glod guys it's tough but I'll keep going FOR MY FANZ". I was just writing because I like writing.

I have other things to do now. See you next month, sexy peoples!

Saturday, 29 November 2008

Working Hard (mutually exclusive)

I woke up this morning (er, afternoon) to discover that I'd slept until midday without even waking up once. Perhaps unsurprisingly, work has exhausted me more than I thought.

Turning off my alarm was a good idea.

My libido has decreased since I (re)started work, although only when I'm at work. There's probably a reason for this, considering the people I'm interacting with most of the time. When I get home from work, however, it's usually at around the nine-o'-clock mark. Back in the ol' single-pre-ILB days, nine used be my watershed for sex. Like, I wouldn't look at any erotica, or search for sexual playmates (and I say 'playmates' in the nicest possible way), before nine. I was always hornier at night, and that set me off, I suppose.

Perhaps it's been ingrained into my mind that after nine, I have to feel horny. It doesn't happen automatically (sprng an erection halfway through a gig may not have been a good idea, for example), but then there's something to be said for quitting a building in which you have been more-or-less on your feet since seven in the morning, and then going home, and lying on your bed listening to your feet hurt. All the other stresses of the day slip away, and I, for one, find myself lying on my back at night, trying to get my energy back.

Who can blame me for the way I feel after that, especially as I rarely even think about sex while at work?

Right, off I go for a romantic meal. Relax, it'll be fine. As long as I behave for, maybe, the first five minutes...

Friday, 28 November 2008

It's All About Me

I was tagged by Anna, because she is a heartless ruthless bitch blogger.

Yeah, covered that one up well.

Anyway, here's the meme, sarcasm not removed.

1. Where is your cell 'phone?
First of all, it's a mobile 'phone, there's no such thing as a cell 'phone; cellular 'phones are from the 80s. Second of all, I have two, and they are both next to me - my old one on my desk and my new one on the chair my girlfriend usually sits on, charging quietly. Not loudly. Horses charge loudly. If your 'phone charges loudly, it's probably a horse.

2. Where is your significant other?
Having dinner with an old friend of hers in the City of Spires. Because, you know, that's where she lives, and all.

3. Your hair colour?
I'm not even pointing out the obvious spelling error in the word "colour", which I duly corrected above. In any case, it's black.

4. Your mother?
NO, YOUR MOTHER! Buh-zing!

5. Your father?
Is an actor. And one of the best, in my humble opinion. But then again, I would say that.

6. Your favourite thing?
Another one with a stupid spelling error. Okay, there's a story attached to this one, and I like stories.
The SNES game EarthBound allows you to enter the name of your favourite food, and your favourite thing. I put "Love" as my favourite thing - the default is "Rockin", which isn't even a thing. I then forgot about EarthBound for ages and ages, until I started playing again - in which I levelled up Ness, who is its main character. He then realised the power of PSI Love
, which is actually PK Rockin α, but I'd forgotten I'd entered the word "Love". Therefore, for a time I actually thought that a deadly, destroying psychokinetic attack that only Ness could use was actually ironically called PSI Love.
Spells in EarthBound level up by Greek letter, so I eventually got Ness to learn PSI Love
, which was totally devastating. I picked up on this idea by releasing an updated version of one of my songs, adding β to the end of the original song's title and releasing it as a separate track.

7. Your dream last night?
This involved my old girlfriend's house. She wasn't there. It didn't even look like her house. But it was in her town. Then my actual girlfriend called and I told her I'd go to Oxford to see her, but I needed to get out of Walsall first. The dream ended as I worried about how long it would take me.

8. Your dream/goal?
I don't really know. I'd like to end up writing a book, I guess.

9. The room you’re in?
It's my room, and I like it. It gets cluttered easily, but is the biggest room in the house. It's very cool. The room was actually re-designed by my parents; while I was at uni it had an odd Guantánamo Bay feel to it, and I got back at the end of the three years to find it completely transformed. I felt weirdly pleased.

11. Your fear?
My greatest fear is being alone. I freak out when I feel lonely, which extends to helplessness too. This is why I'm so keen on relationships. I don't mind being on my own, but there's a difference between that and being totally abandoned.
I guess this extends to a fear of prison, too, because if you're incarcerated then you can't see people, and a restriction of freedom of movement actually terrifies me.

12. Where do you want to be in 6 years?
Who knows? I don't.

13. Where were you last night?
At home. This was the first day off I'd had since three days beforehand. That doesn't seem that long, but the previous two nights I was working from seven-thirty until eight, so I was at work preceded by home. Last night, I was just home. That I appreciated.

14. What you’re not?
Confident. I never have been.

15. One of your wish-list items?
The entire collection of Batman RIP. Bruce Wayne died yesterday and I have no idea what happened. There's no collection of all the issues coming out until next year, but I'm following Green Arrow and therefore didn't have the cash to buy all the issues in Batman RIP.

16. Where you grew up?
Where I am now. Yeah, I'm boring.

17. The last thing you did?
Spoke to my interfering grandmother, who isn't happy with my chosen career, on the 'phone while making a cup of tea and wondering how best to answer question #6. That, and breathing and typing and answering #16 and things.

18. What are you wearing?
Ooh, a phonesex question? How... distracting.
I'm wearing a black T-shirt that says "DRUMMER" on it, some tough blue jean-type trousers, and some socks which, on closer inspection, are grey. Oh, and some pants which are, after a check, blue. Does it really matter what I'm wearing, though? I could be wearing a string vest, elegant headdress and a tutu and I'd still be the same person.

19. Your TV?
I don't have a TV any more as I Freecycled it. The family has a big TV in the lounge, widescreen and everything, which is good for playing the Wii and watching DVDs, but it's nearing the end of its life at the moment.

20. Your pet?
I have a couple of kitties.

21. Your computer?
Is a laptop named Jim. I named him Jim because I couldn't think of any better names at the time, and besides, I like "Jim". He's been completely and solidly dependable for many, many years now. My previous computer was a dekstop named Preston, who is still under my bed. I can't remember the last time I used Preston, but he got ond and cranky and almost died until I installed BeOS on him, which got him running perfectly again.

22. Your mood?
I'm in a funny mood this evening.

23. Missing someone?
Are you trippin', boy? I'm always missing someone, several people in fact. I miss The Drinker, H, 47, Astro Boy and a whole host of other people. Mostly at the moment I miss Drinker, because I think we both need hugs.

24. Your car?
I don't have a car because I can't drive. Plus, I don't need a status symbol right now. When I eventually do learn to drive, I'll take a crash course (ho ho) and then maybe think about buying a car. Or maybe just a small go-kart so I can throw Koopa shells at people and turn invincible for no apparent reason.

25. Something you’re not wearing?
I'm not wearing any shoes. My socks have stains of sweat on them and my feet are aching like buggery. I need a foot massage, badly!

26. Favourite store?
A store is where you keep things. I think you must mean a shop, in which case I like Forbidden Planet, but I tend to buy the entire shop when I'm there which isn't very kind to me. I also liked WHSmith before they started to sell out a little and pretend to be Waterstone's, which is also incidentally one of my favourites.

27. Your summer?
Anna's answer to this confuses me, because "Hah" doesn't really describe a summer. Everyone must have a summer! My summer was spent hovering between holidays and not-holidays. It was an odd summer, with some very good bits and some very bad bits. But then again, I've never been too keen on summer anyway.

28. Love someone?
Innocent Loverboy, it's in the job description, sweetheart.

29. Your favourite colour?
Well, I have a few actually, but I'll go for blue as my first choice. I'm not exactly sure which shade of blue; maybe blue jive, which is a dark blue I used to have on my old room's wall.

30. When is the last time you laughed?
Today. I cracked at work and started making jokes and odd faces and made people laugh. End of the week and I was tired. So sue me.

31. Last time you cried?
Today. I don't know why. I was on the train on the way back and suddenly had to choke back a few tears. I think that I suddenly saw myself as an utter failure. I've no idea why; I just have the feeling of being a failure a lot of the time. It just leapt out at me. How bizarre that was.

Right, that's the end of the meme. If you've read down this far, you're amazing. I don't tag anyone, because I'm too lazy to look at my blogroll. Ooh, I know, I'll tag Anna. I think she's lovely and she'll definitely tackle this meme with all her might. Oh, and look, she already has!

Thursday, 27 November 2008

Z is for... Zs, catching some

The calm feeling that follows love-making works on many different levels, and the age-old (and very unfair) cliché is that men will fall asleep immedately after orgasm, even if their lady isn't satisfied. Of course, the two work together well, but I still don't like the accusation levelled at THE ENTIRE MALE POPULATION in part 2. I mean, where does that leave gay people, then? Do they ALL fall asleep before orgasm? That's some sort of paradox.

I rarely sleep, anyway. I've had insomnia since the age of about 8 and, to be honest, it's a fucking bitch and I hate it, hate it, hate it. On the occasions when I do drop off to sleep, I either have the strangest dreams or get woken up by my body which says something like, "ooh he's getting some sleep - let's hurt him so he'll have to wake up," and follows by making my stomach explode or my head buzz.

The only time I've ever got any decent sleep is when I'm with somebody else. I don't usually have to have had sex, although I love sex and would prefer it, natch. But having somebody there is both calming and relaxing, because:

(i) You're not alone. Any fears or anxieties you have are placated, because there is somebody else and strength in numbers. If, like me, you have an irrational fear of the dark, another person - whether or not they're asleep - is there for you. Nothing's going to happen either way, but there's always the feeling of safety you get.

(ii) You don't need to feel sad. If you do - because everyone does - then there's always somebody there to hold you. And being held, even while crying, is - as we all know - often the best sort of cure. Plus, you're in bed with somebody, so it's much more difficult to feel sad.

(iii) Heat. There's more heat, and if you are naked, there's even more of this than usual. In the winter months, you can feel much hotter when you're entangled with someone else's limbs. Honest. And in the summer months, you're more likely to be hot together, so you've got someone to complain to. Win/win, dudes!

(iv) Sex.

(v) More sex.

(vi) It's easier to sleep after sex. I don't know why - it may be a physical, mental or spiritual thing. Frankly, I don't care what it is. All I know is that I can fall asleep soon (but not immediately - 'cause I care) after sex, and so can she, and I don't tend to sleep much otherwise.

And with the rejuvenation of energy, the relaxation that sleep brings, and the fact that you're getting closer to another day, which will start with you waking up next to someone, this certainly gets a gold star from me, for sure...

Domestic bliss. ILB style.

Wednesday, 26 November 2008

Y is for... Young

I was sitting with some esteemed colleagues of mine during one of our rare breaks. In our new job, we don't get enough breaks, and if you have an hour for lunch you don't get any breaks in the afternoon. You have to forefeit 15 minutes of luncheoning time if you want any hope of afternoon coffee. There also isn't any coffee, but that's beside the point.

Anyway, we started discussing HIV - as you do. We were talking about the relative merits of not having AIDS even if you do have HIV, and how you can get it. I didn't mention that I'd found most of the stuff out from Green Arrow, but we did eventually get around to the subject of sex education and our embarrassed year 9 teachers. (Or in my case, our super-smooth, slightly suspicious year 9 teacher who finished a lesson with, "sex is wonderful.")

I had sex education three times - once in year 5 (but I was sick that day so I missed the video), once in year 7 and once in year 9 - which was all about HIV and very little to do with sex at all. As I was saying to my friends, year 5 is probably too late to start sex education. It's a taboo thing that's dirty until you hit 11 and is then automatically something you're not getting and that's unfair. My suggestion was year 3, in which you're eight years old, precocious and unshockable. You see, I've known about sex since the age of two; ergo, the concept was nothing new to me. I was still a little weirded out by why anyone would want to do it, until the age of about 11, but at least I knew.

Kids who didn't know were totally confused and sickened and used sex as an insult. And the one kid who found out about sex in year 7 was so fucked up by it that his approach to the girls in my class was totally unacceptable.
And that's why you're too old. Letting year 3 kids know about sex - not exactly throwing it in your face, but developing some learning about love and relationships to begin with, and building upon that - would be a much better idea, because by the time they got around to having sex themselves, they'd know what to do, and be ready.
We have the highest teenage pregnancy rate in Europe, and continental Europe has better and earlier sex education. So there's a lesson to be learned from that.

My colleagues didn't agree with me, exactly. But I'm sticking to my guns about this, because - let's be fair - I know about sex and education. And I think it's a good idea, personally...

Tuesday, 25 November 2008

X is for... XXX

Few things are XXX these days. Movies, in fact, are never XXX. There isn't a rating called XXX. Soft porn is always 18, and if you wander into a sex shop and buy a hardcore video, the highest it will be is R18, which is basically the same certificate, except blue and in a square shape. Books aren't XXX, they're just shelved under 'erotic fiction' in a dark corner of Waterstone's with little symbols on the side to denote their contents. And pictures, no matter how far the fist goes into the vagina, can never be XXX.

Probably because it isn't defined. People use XXX as an all-encompassing term for something which is so sexually explicit it borders on offensive, but then again it's also used to describe something which is so sexually explicit that it's titillating. And then, what is sexually explicit? If you're a naïve 12-year-old, then probably anything with sex in it would be XXX. See some softcore erotica and then you'll think that lesbian softcore is XXX, because you don't see any penises when there are men involved, but you see at least a beaver... and then you look at hardcore... and on and on the mazy dance goes. If you're so dipped into depravity that you've got nothing left to see, then what is XXX for you? Three kisses?

There are sex blogs out there that chronicle their authors' escapades in, say, cybersex, which use the title "Warning: XXX Post". OK, so uttering a warning's all very well and good, but it's only cybersex, people. However explicit it gets doesn't make it XXX... or does it?

You see the problem? What I suppose I'm trying to say is... don't use the term. There are inherent weaknesses in something which is essentially an abstract concept. There are differences between simulated sex and actual sex realised, but then again the early softcore movies were made with the actors actually having sex, just shot in such a way that you didn't see anything vital, so even the borderlines there are blurred.

So, I wouldn't use the term 'XXX', because it means nothing. If it turns you on, it works for you. Don't bother your pretty little head wondering how to term it. Shut up and enjoy it, and if you still can't enjoy it, shut up anyway.

Monday, 24 November 2008

W is for... Watching

I'm not a voyeur, but I like watching other people have sex.

Er... okay, I'll need to explain that one... right, when I have sex, I have sex. It's the best. It's wonderful, amazing, fantastic and all other superlatives. But when I masturbate, it's not the best. It's good, but it's not the best and, frankly, it's just me and my hand. My imagination, good as it is, doesn't really help much, because - although I could paint a vivid picture of myself engaged in sex for England - it only serves to remind me that I am not, in fact, in the act of sexual intercourse; rather I am sitting in front of my computer, getting sexual thrills out of something that's actually supposed to be used for playing a guitar or writing a sonnet.

So, my masturbatory fantasies tend to revolve around other people - not me with other people, that's just wrong; nor people I know, even - just people in situations. They don't have to have names.
I guess that's what soft porn is, in many examples, and that's why I like it - I don't get off on the graphical depiction of sex itself (watching a cock go into a pussy... boring! The real thing's what I want...), rather on the situation that's being depicted. A servant with the new Sheriff of Nottingham (because she's had a long ride and needs 'satisfaction') is a lot more exciting for me than, say, Rocco and Jenna Jameson (because they are both pornstars and were paid to have sex beside a pool). I mean, where's the fun in that?

It's not that I can't make up these situations in my head. I can, and I will. But sometimes I want to enjoy myself when I'm tired, or cranky, or emotionally bereft... and I need a visual stimulus. And that's where the watching element comes in. So there we have it. Watching other people. So sue me!

[Nota Bené: I had another dream involving RS. In this one, Drinker was with me to begin with, and no sex occurred. RS just invited us to a party at her flat. We didn't even get to go. Huzzah for us!]

Sunday, 23 November 2008

V is for... Vaginal Sex, Family Guy on

Lois: Vaginal intercourse just tops! It's the bee's knees Meg. Oh, when your rattle it around just right, oh my god! I mean, you remember when we had that old car with the bad shocks, and I used to take the old dirt road on purpose! Meg! Meg?

[Lois looks up to find Meg had left and Brian is standing outside the door]

Brian: I love you!

Saturday, 22 November 2008

U is for... Underneath

Although I am innocent, I am mostly dominant. I'm not ashamed to admit it; I like it on top. I like the missionary position, looking down at her underneath me and watching her body move as I move inside her. I like the feeling of lying there, on top of her. Feeling her under the weight of my chest, her soft skin, her breasts pushed down, and my face buried in her hair. I like that.

But there are occasions where I appreciate the occasional change of pace. I like to be underneath.

And you don't need to be submissive to be underneath. To be honest, you don't need to be either anyway, but if you want to be dominant, you can. You can either command or beg to be ridden. And that's what she's doing when she's on top of me... she's riding me.
That's the only accurate description for what may be daintily termed the astride position. She's on top. She's bouncing up and down, perhaps increasing in speed, and that's riding. No need for spurs and a hat - unless you're really kinky - but she's riding, and that's what feels good. Everything is reversed; I'm still looking at her, but upwards. There's better visibility, too; I can see her breasts, she can see my chest. I can see her skin, hold her sides, finger her clit. I can even kiss her if I sit up briefly. I can rub her nipples... and all the while, she's riding me, and my cock is deeper inside her than ever because, frankly, where else does it have to go? There's no out-and-in, there's just deep-and-very-deep.

So occasionally I say, baby, please ride me? And then I say, yeah, ride me like a cowgirl and don't stop! (Except I rarely say either of those things. I'm paraphrasing.) And sometimes I'm underneath, and I feel her collapse on top of me as she orgasms, and I come deep into her.

Or we flip over and I finish her off that way. You know, whatever works best.

Friday, 21 November 2008

T is for...Tunes

Just got back from a gig.

Yes, I do gigs. I'm in a band.

No, you can't know which one.

No, I don't use the name "Innocent Loverboy".

Yes, I did manage to sing, "I am in love with The Drinker."

Yes, this is a short post.

No, you're not getting any more.

Thursday, 20 November 2008

S is for... S. E. X.

So ran the final part of the plan for the end of chapter 3 of my dissertation. My dissertation's brief ran something along the lines of, "write the first half of a novel and then write about your writing." Since I've got the whole thing in a big black book next to me, it's easy to skim through the text and find my initial plan:

Sex; sleep. R crying. [R, by the way, is the main character in the novel.]

My more detailed plan reads:

S. E. X.

My first attempt at writing a sex scene was back at the tender age of 13, when I decided to write an erotic novel. I stole the ideas from softcore erotica I'd seen on L!VE TV, and wrote very innocent stuff describing nothing graphic:

...she was sitting on me, naked, and having an orgasm.

I remember writing it now, thinking I was so naughty. I probably was, now I consider it. Nevertheless, I never got any further than the first page, because I didn't know where it was going, and I also ran out of ideas after a few paragraphs. Within them, my main character had slept with two different girls, and seemed to have no depth whatsoever. But then again, I was 13, and with the opening line "I lay on the bed, making love to one of my more adventurous girlfriends, Rebecca," what can you expect?

Due to the fact that my dissertation was aimed at young adults, I thought that actually writing about sexual intercourse may be a bit over-the-line - I am all for depiction of sexual intercourse and the lack of a stigma associated with it, but this was a comedy detective novel and very little to do with making the lurve - ergo, I tried to find a way of implying that R had sex with C [his girlfriend], without writing it. And I ended up with:

She will fall silent, eventually, and look into my eyes. I'll feel them start to fill with tears, and my love will lean forwards to kiss me.
Tomorrow night will consist mostly of lying awake and fighting off tears while I watch my love sleep, but for that moment, I will be glad of a slight distraction from my problems, as her hands slowly begin to undo the buttons on her shirt…

Does that turn you on? 'Cause, you know, it shouldn't, really.

But still, all that from three letters? Shocking!

Wednesday, 19 November 2008

R is for... Reading

My lover is ill. That sucks, because it sucks being ill and (if you haven't worked this out already) my new job, which I start TOMORROW, involves making people better, and because I have to be here and she has to be there, I can't actually be there to try and make her better. And that really sucks.

I've been doing the best I can, and my most recent idea was to continue what I've been doing recently, and that's to read her chapters of a book, like a parent reading to a child at bedtime, except she isn't a child and I'm not a parent. (Yet. Maybe at some point in the future, who knows?) I started this venture over the weekend, when she was feeling sick and I recommended The Little White Horse by Elizabeth Goudge; opinion is divided as to its merits, but you can't argue with the fact that its descriptive powers are exemplary, and the setting and characters are as sweet at Lush Snow Fairy. Plus, I read it over a year ago and I loved it, and regretted not reading it at 8, its target age. I may get a copy for my young cousins, actually...

So I started reading it to her. It's actually a very loving thing to do. There I was, sitting in a double bed with a naked girl next to me, and I was reading her a children's novel. And she was listening to my voice, and grinning at the gentle humour, and I, being an actor and all, was doing all the voices and reading in my 'soft, descriptive' slightly middle-class voice.

And she called me today.

I didn't know what to do, because I can hardly send healing powers through the mobile lines. But my heart gave me a squeeze and the idea of reading her another chapter came to me. And so I vaulted over to the bed, and proceeded to continue with The Little White Horse - and we were both back in Moonacre for the next 15 minutes.

And if that isn't love, what is?

Tuesday, 18 November 2008

Q is for... Quixotic

Just off the tail-end of a planned weekend with my girl, which turned into an evening, weekend, and oneandahalf days. It's difficult to let go of someone when...

a) they're not feeling well
b) they don't want you to let go of them
c) both of the above I didn't push the matter too hard. Nevertheless, everything comes to an end at some point, except love into eternity and seemingly the Iraq War, and so I dropped her off at the station today and proceeded to get on with the mundane life that is, without her, mundane.

I thought of...

i) the new job that I start at the end of the week, and what that may bring
ii) the creative/expressive venture that I am planning for Friday evening
iii) the pub tonight to catch up with friends
iv) the play I'm in

...and then, of...

v) the girlfriend, and how I'm going to see her again on Friday
vi) the opportunities that may be around for Christmas and New Year
vii) the proposed holiday together for romancing and schmoozing
viii) the fun we had seeing The 39 Steps last night

...and, flighty thoughts though they may be, they all brought me hope; they all made me feel a little better. And through it all, it's experiencing love that allows me to have these thoughts... and that numbs the pain. Slightly.

So I say to myself, sincerely for once: "Dream on."

Monday, 17 November 2008

P is for... Penis

It's an odd thing, the phallus. An elongated clitoris attached to a mass of erectile tissue reminiscent of a bundle of His. It ejects urine and semen (as well as Cowper's gland fluid - precum, to use the common parlance) and fills up with blood when it's happy. It sounds absolutely disgusting, and yet it's a wonderful thing, in so many ways.

The feeling you get when sexually aroused is rather strange, but it's also one of the best feelings in the world. There's a tingling sensation starting in the testes (and you must not forget the testes, my Best Beloved), which is like an aura heralding the build-up of an erection. This then comes with alarming force, because you don't actually feel the blood rushing into your penis. It's just hard all of a sudden.

There's the common myth that a guy can't control his penis, or stop its, ahem, 'growth'. It's sometimes difficult to; even exposing it to the outer air may cause its stimulation. But there is a way. It involves thinking about dead kittens, really old nuns and Amy Winehouse.

And then there's ejaculation. According to Wikipedia:

As a man nears orgasm during stimulation of the penis, he feels an intense and highly pleasurable pulsating sensation of neuromuscular euphoria. These pulses begin with a throb of the anal sphincter and travel to the tip of the penis. They eventually increase in speed and intensity as the orgasm approaches, until a final "plateau" of pleasure sustained for several seconds, the orgasm.

Both true and false. The throb of the anal sphincter happens, but because of the mental (and/or spiritual, depending on what you want to believe) state you're in during orgasm, you tend not to notice it travelling from there. You do, however, experience the throb when it gets to the head, which is essentially the male clitoris, and as you reach orgasm, you get semen... except if it's a dry orgasm. I've always found both to be pleasurable - in fact, a dry orgasm can often be more pleasurable, whereas a wet orgasm produces the liquid, which is always fun to clear up. Although I've never seen it shoot. It shoots out too quickly, so there's the odd moment of confusion wherein it's not there... and then it is.

A wet orgasm's better during sex, though. Nothing like filling your partner up. Oh, indeed.

And it's all centred around the penis, as well. I mean, yes, there are all the other feelings I've discussed before, but during orgasm, you may end up flying on silver wings, but it's the penis that actually has the orgasm. The rest of you just... helps.

So, yes, sometimes it's annoying, often it's embarrassing, and it even gets in the way at points, but I'm beginning, after years, to be thankful that I'm a boy. I may even, one day, get around to agreeing with the Monty Python guys. Isn't it awfully nice to have a penis?

Answers on a postcard!

Sunday, 16 November 2008

O is for... Oops!

A Western businessman was on a business trip with his colleague, who had a beautiful Japanese girlfriend. He was an unscrupulous man, and decided to seduce the Japanese lady. Sure enough, he managed to work his oily charms, and soon after, love-making began.

"Wakusima," cried the Japanese lady. "Wakusima!"

The businessman, thinking he was being congratulated for his prowess, kept going to the cries of wakusima, until it was all over. Proud, he returned to his conference with a swagger.

The following day, he was playing golf with his colleague. His colleague hit the ball a little too hard, and it sailed across the course, and after bouncing off a rock, it landed in the wrong hole.

The businessmen were surprised. "Damn, wrong hole," said the colleague. His girlfriend agreed; she nodded vigrously, "wakusima!"

As amusing as this little story is, it does raise some questions for the curious. Is there such a thing as a 'wrong' hole? It may not be exactly the hole you were aiming for, but is it wrong? Most reliable sources have told me that to have the aforementioned 'wrong hole' invaded is perfectly pleasurable (if a little unusual). But if she likes it, is it a mistake?

After all, mistakes necessitate innovation. There's a lot of kink in the world, and that leads me to wonder how certain practices got started... I seriously doubt that hitting somebody with a riding crop actually came about as a sexually provocative act to begin with - and tying somebody up almost certainly wasn't - but both are widely done now, and 99% guaranteed to be in any video Kaori Shimizu has appeared in.

Also, if a mistake is something wrong, does that mean that kink is wrong? That such sexual practises which deviate from the 'normal' (hence the 'oops, wrong hole' excuse) are wrong? Maybe a different definition should be applied - not 'right', per se, but perhaps 'right-in-a-different-way', or 'right-but-I-thought-it-was-wrong-to-begin-with-turns-out-I-was-wrong-oh-what-fun' (abbreviated, of course, to LULZ).

So, in the interest of public interaction, I'm going to open this one up to THE AUDIENCE! Have any of you lovely readers had a mishap that's turned out not to be a mishap after all? I'm pretty sure we'd love to hear about it... but if there aren't any mishaps to report, here's a definite example of someone who needs to pay more attention...

Shocking, isn't it?

Saturday, 15 November 2008

N is for... Night

Correct me if I'm wrong, but there appears to be an unwritten law that proposes the night as the official time to be having sex. There's nobody that's ever actually said this to me, but let's be honest here: even if you have the filthiest of one-track minds, it seems to be the natural thing that you think more about sex during the night. It just happens. Maybe it's the pent-up, unreleased sexual energy of the day coming to their head, or maybe it's just the association with going to bed.

(Then again, who's to say that you have to have sex in bed? But that's a whole different debate...)

There is always the sex that you can have any time of the day. That frantic, sleepy morning sex. The lunchtime quickie. The afternoon in bed your preferred location of relations. Even the fantasist's fantastic post-dinner coitus on the table, providing the candles you've knocked over haven't set fire to the house. And I'm not saying I prefer night-time sex... it's just the almost-traditional factor that gives it its charm. (That, and the fact that everyone else is asleep, so you're being somewhat naughty by not conforming to that, naturally!)

I always sleep naked, but even if you don't, there's the fact that - unless you are Sid from Toy Story - you take your clothes off before getting into pyjamas/bed. And last night, despite her tantalising hint, I wasn't fully expecting The Drinker to be wearing anything more than slightly sexy underwear. I wasn't expecting, however, a lacy, red and black, tight supporting and very sexy corset to be wrapped around her torso. But there it was, and after close and purely observational exploration, I concluded it to be real.

It stayed on.

And if it weren't night time, we may well have been having sex, but it wouldn't have had the lack of light - which, as I'm sure you can imagine, added to the charmplusplus - nor would clothes have had to come off.

And to support that statement, let's imagine for a moment that they just may have stayed on, had it not been night time... Me neither.

Friday, 14 November 2008

M is for... Mysbehaviour, Mysery, and Myself

I feel sick.

I've been having some very vivid dreams recently. It's most likely the stress of my training/job/college (whatever you want to call it) that's getting to me. It's getting to everyone. The dreams that I've been having at nights have all been odd, whether they depict daring heroism, frustration ana dnager, or ethereal jaunts through odd places. Last night's dream, however, didn't actually have any of these elements. It only served to make me feel guilty.

I don't know why I dreamt it. It was very vivid, and I'm also very glad it was only a dream. However, in the dream, I willingly had sex with a specific person who was not only not my girlfriend, the lovely Drinker, but also a real person - I'll call her RS - who is one of my fellow students, and also a representative to the student council.

I'm not attracted to RS. She is attractive, but then again so are most of the girls on my course, and I'm infatuated with Drinker. I don't lust willingly after all and sundry, because frankly I don't need to. I can talk quite openly with them about relationships - as is my modus operandi, being ILB and all (in fact, a few days ago another girl, FL, felt quite safe enough to talk about her boy troubles with me, as girls tend to do) - but there's no attraction. There's, despite what When Harry Met Sally might suggest, just friendship here, and why not?

RS, interestingly, is married. I don't know why it was her - maybe my brain just picked out her because I respect her for being on the student council and I recently found out she was married? Or maybe ebcause she organises all the trips and outings for our group? I don't know. Whatever the reason, I had sex with her, and I immediately felt very guilty about it.

Then Drinker turned up, and RS immediately told her that we had had sex. Wracked with guilt and terrified of what might happen, I went and sat on the stairs (that appeared to be in this house we were in) and cried, loudly and heavily, for ages until I realised I wasn't going to do much good, so I went back into the room and told Drinker I wanted to talk to her. She then told me that RS had told her (even shown her the used condom), and I was expecting to be dumped (I was still crying). RS hugged me, but Drinker seemed to be quite happy about it. I was distressed, and I was left hanging as to what would happen to me because of this.

Then I woke up.

I felt awful, guilty, uncertain, and very sorry. It was all a dream, of course, a scandalous dream - but yet, it had all seemed so real. Here I was, lying in my bed, needing to go to college and with the promise that Drinker is actually going to be here soon - we're spending the weekend together - and I've just woken up for a dream in which I've betrayed her by sleeping with RS who, in reality, is a friend who is married.

I don't know why I'm so affected by this. I'd never cheat, especially as I've been cheated on and know how bad it feels. Plus, it was only a dream. But it was so vivid, and so realistic, and I was acting completely out-of-character in that I willingly had sex with somebody else. I felt as if I had really done it.

I still felt sick with myself, and physically so, as I walked down the road to catch a train to college. I was sitting almost directly behind RS all the way through class, and felt so bad about myself that I couldn't concentrate as much as I'd have liked. (Next to her was FL, which made me wonder about her boy troubles, and if they were better for her yet, which probably didn't help). I gave my closer friends a Bowlderised version of the story - I didn't mention sex, or RS - at the break, and they didn't understand why I was so upset, so guilty, so worked up about it... because it was only a dream.

But in the dream, I cheated.

On the girl I love.

And it felt real.

That's not me.

I feel sick.

Thursday, 13 November 2008

L is for... Laughter

Haha, you'd think I was going to write about love! I could (in fact, I do, a lot of the time) but I haven't mentioned sex for a bit, and something came up in the Metro this morning that made me laugh:

The adverts say 'try something new today' - but perhaps showing children 12 sex positions in a bath was not what Sainsbury's had in mind. Dozens of wide-eyed youngsters were given a book featuring the saucy tips for saving water by 'bathing with a friend' during a trip to a local store.
The book also encouraged readers to shave in intimate places, go streaking, chat up strangers and hand out your phone number to five people on the street.

I read that twice to check I wasn't hallucinating (I had only got up half an hour earlier). I did actually read that.

Angry father Andrew Dodd, 37, heard daughter Laura, eight, giggling with friends. "I did not find the book to be offensive, but I thought it was extremely inappropriate to give it to children. On the having fun in the bath pages there were drawings of about 12 sexual positions. The teachers were as horrified as we were then they saw it."

Maybe, but I'd find it amusing back when I was a teacher...

Fay Trussler, headteacher at Burton End School in Haverhill, Suffolk, which took the 42 pupils out of the visit, said: "We informed Sainsbury's and it was understood the book was not age appropriate." Sainsbury's apologied, saying the book - How To Change The World For £5 - was intended for an adult market...

That'll be right.

...and has sent Laura a £30 voucher.

Good on them, I suppose, although this is a good point to suggest that perhaps if we, as the British, were less abashed at this sort of thing, and more open about sex (like our neighbours in continental Europe), then we may have a lot less teenage pregnancy and STD distribution. But you all know that anyway.
I'm secretly hoping Laura buys six of those books with her voucher, though. And sends one to me. I'd like to see what the positions are... because that's how my mind works!

Wednesday, 12 November 2008

K is for... Kisses

Kissing is amazing. We all know it's amazing - the physical act of skin against skin, lips against lips - it's all fantastic. When my lovely girl departs my company, the last ghost of her kisses slowly dies on my lips... and eventually, fades completely, the last vestiges of her visit remaining in my mind. It's all very sad, and there are tales, as yet untold, of tears appearing unheralded in my eyes under the effects of a ghosted kiss and whatever may be on my iPod. But at least there has been a kiss...

...and then we have the humble x.

It's a fantastic letter, x. The kissing sound at the end of rex, tex-mex and sex, the great unknown in the dreaded world of mathematics, and the humble kiss at the end of a piece of text. Oh, and it looks good. (In fact, the only time I don't like x is when it's after an e. "Ex" bothers me. Thanfully, my ex doesn't bother me any more.)

I've gotten into the habit of putting an x to signify a kiss at the end of every text to my girlfriend. I don't generally do it to anyone else... most girls, I've noticed, seem to do this to everyone, but I save my kisses for special people. My best female friend, H, is special and I don't even send her kisses. (But it'd be a bit weird if I did, let's face it...) I sometimes have to backtrack and undo a kiss I did automatically. I'm also having to re-learn, on account of the fact that I've changed phones recently, and my thumb was already used to the configuration of keys you need to press to get a lower-case x after a full stop.

But I digress. Sometimes I've worked around the idea that it's a habit - because kisses are special - by adding extra kisses, or odd combinations like "x times 10 to the power of 3". I even got a card once reading "one hundred and fifty-sex kisses", which is still looking at me from my wardrobe. And you add kisses to the end of e-mails, written letters (which are fantastic because you can hold the things bearing kisses), and even Facebook messages. Except that's a little weird, but still sweet.

The problem with this x-positioning is that they're all virtual kisses, even if they're not via a virtual message. They are sad, lonely pretend kisses. I've noticed, as you probably all have yourselves, that if you miss someone more than usual, you send them more pretend kisses at the end of the message. So I've come up with a solution to stop myself from being sad at an x that isn't a real kiss.

I see it as a promise.

Not a keepsake, or a wish, or a memory. I like to see the kisses I get as a promise - a sign of a real kiss that is yet to come. A simple letter that symbolises so much more, and something I know I will be getting in the future.

Wistful? Probably. But can you blame me? I'm a lover both inside and out, and if I can convey promises of kisses in what I write, then why shouldn't I?

Why not, indeed?

Lots of love,
ILB. x

Tuesday, 11 November 2008

J is for... Jogging, Memory-

I exited one campus after this morning's session and started to decide between walking to the next and having lunch. My eyes latched onto the nearest Subway, and therein came my decision to have lunch and then maybe possibly think about starting to perhaps meander towards the beginning of an effort to get to the next campus, if the inclination came my way.

I bade a quick farewell to my mate, who was going to Westminster to catch a tubular transportation device, and stepped out into the plaza. And that's when it happened... for a brief moment, a London wind blew across Westminster Bridge and caught me in the face. It whipped my hair back gently and brough with it a peculiar scent, like a cross between a city and a university campus.

And in that moment, with that scent and that feeling, and the conversations I've been having recently... it all just came back. It rushed back into me, and filled me with a buoyancy I haven't felt for weeks.

That faint interest, the intrigue, the security... that time of confusion, the frantic late-night first trip to Oxford, the sights, sounds and scents it brought to me. The now-familiar, but complicated streets I can drift through on my own now, and the room I ended up in - the bed I ended up in - and the valuable connection I now have... it all came flowing back to me, and my mind was a whirl of colour and sound for but a few seconds.

I breathed in, sighed blissfully, looked across at London, and then walked on into the plaza, feeling ten times more elated than I probably looked.

Monday, 10 November 2008

I is for... Inside

I've talked about words before. I have also talked about exploration. The fact that the phrase "inside me" turns me on more than many other things both links the two and also casts doubt on my mental state. Awesome!

I think the reason that the very idea of being 'inside' someone gets me going is that it seems so unlikely. It doesn't even seem natural (even though it's a natural fact of life and all); it's somewhat taboo to put something inside somebody else - a knife, for example, usually leads to prison. Unless you're in the army... because then it's apparently okay. But I digress; putting something into somebody is weird enough, but when you put yourself into somebody else, that's some sort of freaky paradox.

I'll admit that during sex (and I'll assume you are a boy and they are a girl; if you, like most ILB readers, are a girl, kindly reverse this assumption) you're not actually putting yourself into somebody else; you are, in fact, putting a bit of yourself into somebody else - be it your tongue, your finger, or your cock (anything else you can think of, let me know...) - ergo, the sentence "I want you inside me", while enticing to say the least, is a bit of a falsehood, because what she actually wants is your cock inside her. But, for some reason, I don't find "I want your penis inside me" quite as enticing.

There's that chat-up line, isn't there - "You have 206 bones inside you... would you like one more?" - which, while it makes me laugh, is a little worse. You may as will rip your penis off and hand it to her, or buy her a dildo. The reason I like "you inside me" is that the sentence admits that your cock is, in fact, a part of you. You are having sex with her, because you are inside her.

And then there's the other thing - inside her. Well, you're not, really. You're inside her vagina, and to that effect, her inside womb, with those wet muscular walls contracting around you and...

....sorry, fazed out for a moment there...'re not actually inside her whole body. It's a part of her body, and a pre-defined part of it at that. But that's sort of what I like about the phrase. You are well aware that during sex, a part of you is inside a part of her, and yet the phrase states that you are inside her. It's amazing. There's more of a connection there - maybe even a spiritual connection. If you're that way inclined, then you could suggest that, even though you're linked in the 'special area', your souls join too. It's slushy and maybe a little too Disney, but there's a possibility! Why else would it feel so right?

So, I may use the phrase more often. "I want to have sex with you" is a bit too direct for an ILB to say outright; "I want to make love to you" is more my style. But howsabout "I want to be inside you - deep inside you"? Does that turn you on?

Works for me, anyway.

Sunday, 9 November 2008

H is for... Happy

Happiness is an emotion which, for a long time, only existed in my memory. I suppose I must have had a happy childhood, but I'm not sure. I can't remember a lot of it. I may still have my innocence, but my childhood... I don't know when that disappeared. I remember being one and a half, lying on the floor of my old house reading a book. I remember most of my secondary school, most of my primary school and my sixth form, by which time I was no longer a child, and no longer happy.

Being in love makes me happy. I was brought back from the brink of a pointless existence by my ability to love, and to feel it back. I now realise that my declaration of celibacy at the age of 11 was probably a little premature, as I started thinking about sex a couple of months later, and got a crush on a girl. I didn't have wet dreams, I didn't masturbate. My ideas about sex all seemed to involve being sealed into a special machine in order to have sex for years on end (if that's not a fetish, I don't know what is). But above all that, I felt my heart squeeze.

And then I stopped being happy.

I dragged my way through school following heartache after heartache. I never asked anyone out, because rejection destroys me. I tried once; it took me a year to get the courage to do it, and I got a rejection, prompting a brief suicide attempt. Where was the love? I was in love (or thought I was), but it was only making me sad. I had counselling for years. I was even put on drugs at university, but they had no effect. I think I can get by without putting stuff into my body.

The happiest times of my life have been when I experience reciprocated love. With Rebecca, I felt more free, more alive. (In fact, towards the end with Rebecca I felt like I needed to tread carefully. I was a different person back then. Maybe I was happy, but deludedly so. Whatever. It's in the past.) With Drinker, more recently, things have been fantastic. My inspiration has come back - I've left my previous job and now in training for another. I'm writing a lot more, and my muse has returned - you should hear the songs.

I'm not generally a happy person. Not really at all. My default setting is "mediocre". But over the last year or so, I've started to appreciate more things. I'm enjoying more things - when I look back at me, between the age of 14-20, I didn't really enjoy much at all. Fair enough, I was a teenager. But still. Now, I've carved myself a niche. Starting ILB was a good decision because, apart from anything else, I can express myself without fear or regret here. I'm not trying to appease anyone.

And so I let my loving side come out, I wrote about it, and I fell in love. And now I'm in a better place.

So I may not be happy by nature, but by conviction, I'm beginning to think it. Maybe at some point in the future I'll begin to feel it, not in short bursts like I usually do, but over longer periods of contented time.

Saturday, 8 November 2008

G is for... Grin

While I was at university, I was a staff member for our newspaper. I reviewed computer games - I even got free ones sometimes, but they were all shit. But I enjoyed it - because I like games, and I like writing, and I was a close friend of the editor, so I used to pop into the office to chat to him once in a while. I was, however, a little surprised that, in the first issue he edited, he included a full-colour spread on what your orgasm face meant. (This was, it turns out, a cunning advertising placement by Trojan, and in retaliation I've always bought Durex.) I was a little interested - and bored - so I read it.

According to the article - and, surprisingly, this tallies with my personal experience - one of the best things your partner can do (assuming they are a girl, and I've just realised how sexist this article was) in bed is to giggle, or at the very least break into a smile, during orgasm. I like it when that happens.

Not least because people - the obvious exceptions being myself and, for the record, Lord Voldemort - look better when they smile. I've never had sex with someone I consider unattractive, of course, but there's something about the act of a broad grin unfurling on somebody's face that really brings out their beauty in multi-layered ways. My girlfriend looks utterly radiant when she smiles, and there's a definite cheeky grin there post-orgasm (during orgasm, I'm usually too busy doing other things, like continuing to do whatever it was I was doing before because I'm unstoppable, or something like that).

There's also the point of looking at the other person during sex (missionary, or astride, are good positions for this, and also coincidentally my favourites - it's good to see who you're making love to), and seeing a smile on their face, assuming they're not a girl in a Hentai game and will accordingly look like they're in extreme pain. You can moan through your mouth, but I think it's nigh on impossible to have passionate sex and keep a straight, serious face all the way through, and while drawing breath (which you have to do at some point - airway, breathing, circulation) you may well smile without knowing it. Fun, eh?

And then there's tickling. Now, I'm probably the most ticklish person in the whole world, but even if you're not, during orgasm all your nerves increase in sensitivity, and if you touch, well, anywhere (but let's say a specific place) immediately following its subsidence, you can make your partner laugh - usually accompanied by a squirm and a remonstration, but it's a laugh, and all in good fun! You can probably even kick off an aftershock that way, which I like doing, too.

So, yeah, an open mouth and a loud moan - well, that's fine, but it's more likely to be faked (although, in all likelihood, probably); a giggle, or even a grin - that's apparently the best reaction to get. Maybe it sounds odd, but it's certainly worthwhile. The best thing is, you don't need to try - it comes automatically...

...except if they are laughing at you. I hadn't considered that.

Friday, 7 November 2008

F is for... Fuck

I had a very immature music class in year 8. They were, in fact, my form group, but as we weren't streamed for music, we had the classes in those groups. They were quite immature to the point of about 8 loud-mouthed reprobates doing an ABC game about sex while our long-suffering fourth music teacher was attempting to take a register.

Idiots... you do an ABC game about sex in your own time.

Anyway, they got to F and said, out loud, "F is for Fuck." Our teacher looked at them, scandalised, but didn't manage to say anything more than a stuttering "excuse me" before they sank back into their sordid, twisted game that I then played after school on my own.

What's a fuck?

That's an actual question. There's a lot of discussion about it. Abby Lee uses it a lot, while Todger Talk use "shag" and I'll use "sex" or even "making love" (the latter phrase turns me on). So I throw the question open: what, to you readers, does "fuck" mean? And, if it maeans something different from the general act of sexual intercourse... ever fucked anyone?