Friday, 29 February 2008

Boy Alone

I was standing in Leicester Square, gaping at the entrance to the Trocadero. I was dressed in my best - from the short-sleeved black shirt down to the Converse All-Stars, I looked like I'd made an effort. I was, however, wearing a bulky blue coat - undone, but still far too conspicuous. Nevertheless, I braced myself, shrugged slightly, alighted the steps that down into Amora, and descended into pink.

In basic terms, Amora is a series of connecting rooms, all themed around one particular aspect of sex. While you are walking around, sex comes at you from every wall, and the almost constant sounds of orgasm float around in the air. It's a very ethereal experience (especially if you are on your own), but not unsettling. You're given a little telephone/radio thing so you can listen to a commentary akin to a museum's, should you wish to. It's clearly well-thought out.

The main problem I had with Amora is that it's clearly designed for people who actually are having sex. The rest of the clientèle (and at 8pm, it was sparsely populated) consisted of curious middle-aged people, and one young, attractive and quite clearly sexed-up couple who were probably below my age. The information on the walls, while actually incredibly interesting (if you like obscure facts), assumes point-blank that you're going to go home from Amora and shag someone immediately, the only exception being the relationship room (the first one) in which there's a billboard condoning the joys of casual sex right next to one about the values of long-term relationships. Well, they cater for all needs, I guess.
The other thing, of course, is that, however you try to describe sex - if you're not writing erotica - it will sound very clinical. Some of the displays could have been written by doctors; the language was explicit, but extremely medical. I mean, I know what the labia minora are, but what's wrong with something like 'the lips of the lady garden', hmmm?

What I did like Amora is probably best summarised in list form:
  • The staff are very helpful and very knowledgeable about the subject. There aren't many of them, so they aren't overly intrusive, either.
  • The interactive displays are very good: I liked the model girl for exploring of the erogenous zones and the subsequent model girl who elicits a moan if you find her G-spot. I rubbed her to orgasm before moving on. (Since one of her legs is missing, it's easier to find, though.)
  • The fetish room has a model girl and a model boy you can spank with actual spanking paddles. I tried for a long time to reach the right force. The plastic bitch either thought I was too weak or too strong. Ah well, do it to yourself if you like it that much.
  • There's a soft mould of Jenna Jameson's breasts which you can touch and fondle. That, and her vagina, and even her anus. Bloody hell, my finger's been in a porn star's pussy. I feel so dirty.
  • The video demonstration of how to give a girl oral sex really turned me on.
I wouldn't claim it's the greatest value for money, however - I spent less than an hour there, and I saw everything (and felt all I could feel). But I booked online. If you go on the day, it's ten quid a throw, which is kind of reasonable for the experience.

Something I was really looking forward to was the aphrodisiac lounge, but when I got there, it was completely vacant. I liked the way it looked - it looked comfortable; pouffes and chairs and tables, something akin to a bed, and a bar; but the bar was not staffed and there was nobody else in the lounge. To actually enjoy it, you'd need to be tired, with someone, and in need of a drink after going through Amora.
The sex shop was on the way out. Here, I lingered until the helpful assistant showed me all the male sex toys. Evidently he's tried them all, because he told me exactly how they work. I wasn't tempted; in fact, I was mostly tempted to walk back into Amora and try and fit two fingers into Jenna's vagina again, but you can't blame him for trying. I guess I'm just not a toys man.

Walked out of Amora and back in again, had another browse, then out again and found myself on Shaftesbury Avenue. I decided that, since I'd dipped into depravity, I might as well look in another sex shop, since I'd never been in one before. Walked to Oxford Street and entered Harmony.
This was a wrong move. As I expected, there was no softcore ("you'd have to try Ann Summers for that," the man at the till said) and I couldn't make head nor tail of the sex toys for men - even ones that were moulds of vaginas (no way am I sticking anything up my arse, even if it does make wanking feel great). Basically, I felt very out-of-place, and I quitted the store having bought nothing from either there or the one in Amora.

"Innocent Loverboy," I reminded myself. "The word 'innocent', ironic as it may be, is in your name. You don't belong in a sex shop; you belong in a girl! Have a Subway sandwich, and calm down."

But I'd done what I wanted to do; I wanted to explore Amora and I wanted to see what Harmony was like. I'd done both; I had no souvenirs, but a lot more knowledge.

And, credit where credit's due, a museum with a red "orgasm tunnel" featuring telescreens with constant videos of people having wild, orgasmic sex has to have something going for it - even if it's barefaced cheek!

Leap into Action


Have sex!

Then you'll be able to say, "I had sex on a day that doesn't exist in two months simultaneously."

And how many people can make that claim?

Thursday, 28 February 2008

I'm that bored

So, being single means I have nothing to do. Sure, I have friends, lots of friends - but they're usually all otherwise engaged (some even have partners) on Friday nights. It gets really boring, and sometimes, I just have to do things on my own. I went to see Stardust on my own.

Tomorrow night, I'm going to Amora. On my own.

I wouldn't go to Amora with my friends, anyway - but from the look of the reviews, and the general gist of the website, it's much more of a thing for sexually active couples, but fuck it - I'm a sex blogger and it's my right to go to Amora! I've never seen it reviewed on any sex blog before, so this'll be an ILB First

Short notice, maybe, but if anyone has the cash to shoot down to London and book a ticket for Amora, I'll be there tomorrow evening. I'll be the nervous, dark-haired, blue-eyed single one called... ah, but that would be telling, wouldn't it?

Wednesday, 27 February 2008

Support Forum

"I haven't had sex for far too long."
"Nor have I."
"NOVEMBER!!" (this was February)
"I haven't had sex in well over two years."
"What?! How do you cope?"

That's not a rhetorical question - but it may as well have been.

This was some time ago (while I was still at uni), but it rings true somewhat. I hadn't had sex in over two years. I'd like to think I'd come close, but I really hadn't. Flirted a lot, yes. Kisses, yes. Hugs, yes - many. Sex? Not even close.

But the question "how do you cope?" is not really a valid one for somebody who's sexually inactive. What, exactly, is an answer to that?
"Oh, I've just been unlucky."
"Oh, I've just not met anyone."
"Oh, I'm single."
"Oh, nobody will go near me."
"Oh, there are a lot of more attractive boys at this university."
"Oh, I'm far too shy to ask anyone."
"Oh, I masturbate a lot."

None of them work, really.

But the reason why I say it's not a valid question is because it isn't really a question. Sex is lovely, but there's no question of coping or not coping. It's not something I'd given up, like chocolate or drugs or something. It's something that I wasn't having the opportunity to get.

As a teetotal vegetarian, I'm used to "how do you cope?" questions all the time. Content as I am without alcohol or meat, the same question - when applied to sex - makes me feel uncomfortable.

Tuesday, 26 February 2008

"ILB is sick of breathin'; it's fuckin' boring."

I've noticed something... I've gone off sex for a bit.

Weird, isn't it? I mean, I love sex. I, like every other animal on the planet, love sex even more now that I'm not sexually active.

Downloading Windows Media Player 11 (update 1 of 1)... done!
Initializing installation... done!
Installing Windows Media Player 11 (update 1 of 1)...

But, for some bizarre reason, over the past couple of days I've just had an unwillingness to watch erotica, look for sex, touch myself or even chat to anyone in particular (the exception here being Jess. Backrub's still on offer.). I have, but at points I find myself wishing that I wasn't. An orgasm clears that up, though. Then I go back to feeling guilty.

Weird, isn't it? A temporary blip, perhaps, from my normal state of being? Or just lack of interest caused by going back to work? It may be work running me down. Give me a few days and the balance will be reinstated. I'l have my drive back and be solid as a rock... only not at work. That'd be all kinds of wrong.

Sunday, 24 February 2008

Addiction IV: Flirting

I flirt all the time - constantly, even, with everyone. It's not something I used to do, but upon hitting the age of about 19, I started flirting. Quite brazenly and without any hint of subtlety.

I'd been dumped, and once I'd spent a few months wondering what I'd done wrong, I started to get my 'sweet, charming boy' image back. And so I started to flirt. I had no idea how, but basically chatting to girls and grinning seemed to do the trick. Being part of a group where pretty much everyone is quite liberated worked well for flirting (although in that group, everyone hugs everyone and there's a lot of kissing and sex too; although I never got any of that, got a few kisses and constantly grinned at people) - but after a while, I realised I was doing it almost subconsciously.

I worked in a shop for a time, and I was constantly regaling female customers with quips along the lines of, "You think what you do is hard? You want to try what I do - on your feet all day, selling books to the general public? There's only one step below this - Virgin employee..."
I'm in a theatre company, and the last major role I played was a rather flirtatious character, who not only played with the emotions of one of the female characters, but also stole a kiss or two from her. ("That was a nice kiss," the actress remarked, after our first encounter - now we don't stop flirting! Sweet!)
One of my mates who's gay to the max gets really annoyed when I flirt. We were once in a Pizza Hut in Wales, and I couldn't stop myself from talking to the hot waitress. He had to drag me off at the end of it, and attempted to have a go at me when she wasn't around. It didn't work; I was feeling really cheeky.
Nowadays, I flirt with girls through eye contact or even legerdemain
(even though I'm not that bad, honest - you have to remember, "Innocent" Loverboy?). I was on a train yesterday, and the girls in the next carriage were obviously amused because I was mouthing the words of a song through my iPod to myself, so I inclined my head their way, winked, and grinned at the floor. They collapsed into laughter (probably at me, but I don't mind!)...

The best thing about being someone like me with regard to flirting, however, is that people seem to know, from first impressions, that I'm perfectly harmless and inoffensive. I'm not going to go further than giving you a friendly wink or grin, unless you initiate a hug or something, and even then I won't go further than that. I'm the kind of person you can snuggle for hours without fear. And, of course, I never mean any harm.

So I flirt.

It's fun.

Saturday, 23 February 2008


I can be very naughty sometimes.

I was split in two last night. One 'me' was, ahem, enjoying myself, while the other 'me' was chatting informally to a couple of girls I know over MSN. Yes, that's right... a boy can multitask. Furthermore, the girls had nothing to do with what the first 'me' was doing, even though the second 'me' was flirting. Get it so far? My Mii, by the way, is... well, let's leave that one aside for the moment.

Anyway, up popped another MSN box from a friend asking me if I wanted to go to the cinema. I said yes, and agreed to meet him and some others at a restaurant; flirted a bit more, signed off, orgasmed, then realised I was late and made a hasty bid for the restaurant.

The first song my iPod threw at me was Road Rage by Catatonia. Don't ask me why I know all the words. In my post-flirting, post-orgasmic, pre-food state, I felt somewhat high. I mouthed all the words and even sang them as I ran down the street, did a few twirls and even jumped a couple of times. In the end, I must have been virtually dancing all the way.

Might have looked a mess when I got there, though.

Thursday, 21 February 2008

It's Called "Sex".

[Prepared entirely as a submission for the book You're Not The Only One which, amongst others, Abby Lee has been plugging. If this book's as good as Shaggy Blog Stories, I'd recommend seeking out a copy when it comes out. Please excuse the odd formatting of the post which, when copy-and-pasted from a Word Document, doesn't seem to like being shoved into Blogger.]


"I doubt if there are any rational people to whom the word 'fuck' would be particularly diabolical, revolting or totally forbidden." – Kenneth Tynan

People have a problem with “sex”.

Note the inverted commas. It’s not the act of sex that people have a problem with (that is all-too-clear from within two seconds of opening any e-mail program ever created; I’m constantly bombarded with mails from people who are having the best sex of their life, and want to share their secret with me for only $9.95). People know how to have sex. They know the different ways in which you can have sex. They know it exists. The average Briton has sex 2.6 times a week. The problem I am referring to here is that of being unable to utter the word we apply to it: S – E – X.

It’s a swear word in primary schools. Even after the initial stages of sex education in year 5 it’s taboo. However, even the majority of adults seem to shy away from the word, even if they’re talking about it. Euphemisms[1] crop up more commonly than ever when mentioning sex and, I have to admit, I am a culprit of this. I’ll refer to sex as:

  • Coitus
  • Making love
  • Making the love
  • Making the passionate love
  • Making the hot, sweaty, steaming passionate love
  • Getting to know one another intimately
  • To “coucher avec quelqu’un”
  • Taking a relationship to the highest stages of pleasurable activities
  • Flying past the stars on silver wings
  • Shazam![2]

I’m Innocent Loverboy, and I play up to my name. Other sex bloggers, of course, take a slightly different view. The blokes at Todger Talk frequently use the word “shagging”, and Abby Lee just calls it a fuck. But let’s be honest here: practically everyone on the sex blogosphere uses a pseudonym. We assume a different identity so that we can talk freely about sex, ergo: nobody should give a monkey’s about what we say as an alternative to “sex.”

Mixed company is where it gets a little sticky.

“You want to think about doing it, but you don’t want to think about your friends dong it; that’s just gross,” I remember an old friend once saying to me. While I agree with her on the whole, what’s “doing it”? Doing what? Playing swingball? Having a tea party? Putting on a rock concert? Reading Batman?

Then there’s mixed company when you’re trying to discuss the subject itself. “I was sleeping with my girlfriend when…” “We were making love while…” “I was performing the horizontal hula with my euphonium…” It makes sense, sure, but why not say, “I was having sex”?

There are, of course, the different implications of the different metaphors. Making love to someone is different from fucking them, I think we’d all agree – even if the action is entirely the same, never underestimate the power of language – but sometimes, you can’t apply one. What if you just “had sex” with someone, and there’s no other way you want to put it? You can’t really say, “we were – you know…” without sounding like:

i) a year 9 schoolchild

ii) an idiot.

My theory is that, although the action grows more and more frequent (while people get more and more desperate), the word “sex” has become ostracised. When you first learn about sex, the word is what comes into your head. It immediately attaches itself to something which you find revolting, and by the time you reach 12 and think, “Love a duck![3] I’d actually quite like to be having it off[4] with someone at some point!” you’ve got a new name for it. It’s not even in fashion to say “sex” any more. Perhaps “I’m having sex” has come to mean “no, I wasn’t”. Who knows?

In summary: apply whatever metaphor you want to the act of physical lovemaking. But we had all better accept that the universal word for it is, was, and always will be, that dreaded word:


So let’s embrace it. It’s a good word. It’s valiantly travelled this far through history, and is still going strong.

And as I always say,[5] “wanna have sex?” is much more direct and to-the-point, plus it has the advantages of being less of a mouthful, than “would you like to lie in a peculiar fashion and engage with me in the act which may or may not result in reproduction… with a euphonium?”

[1] Not to be confused with euphoniums. Unless “euphonium” is, in itself, a euphemism. Wow, paradox.

[2] Not that one.

[3] Not literally. Unless you’re into that sort of thing…

[4] I’m thinking of more and more of these as this article goes along. It’s a good thing I did that sex workshop a couple of years ago when we listed them all…

[5] A lie.

Tuesday, 19 February 2008


Even by my standards, this post is gross.

I've been away for a short while - Friday to today - and I neglected to tell any of you that I was going anywhere, whoops! Because of the close proximity to another person (not in that way!), I had to refrain from self-pleasure for a few days. Not that it was difficult (I'm not that dependent or addicted... just, er... slightly hedonistic), but I was barely turned on at all during the whole visit. That's not really surprising in itself... I mean, do any of you other straight people out there get turned on by your best friends of the same sex?

When I got back today, it took me about an hour to get all the computer/internet things I needed to do sorted out (would have been a lot more, but I had access there - only I couldn't post on Innocent Loverboy when anyone could have a look at what I was doing!), and then I thought, "oooh, let's masturbate; I haven't done it for some time." So far, so good.

[20 minutes later]

I've finished. It's everywhere. There's a lot of it. I know that's not very surprising, because there's that widely-spread fact that if you don't ejaculate for ages, you get a stronger cumshot; similarly, if you do so frequently, you get less as you go along (that is, unless you are Peter North). So I wasn't surprised by that...

...the unusual thing was the consistency. It was, and there's no other way to put this, thick. It felt warm and heavy in my hand. It was so thick, it was even somewhat yellow, rather than a translucent sort of white. What's more, it was a bit harder to wipe off, as well. I flickered from sheepish to pleased to sore to a little frustrated, and ended by feeling a little ill.

And then I thought I shouldn't have wasted it, because we really do need to repair some tiles in the bathroom.

I'm trying to think of what could have caused the consistency change. I'm thinking it's all the milkshakes I've been drinking.

Thursday, 14 February 2008

Lots of verifiable emotion

Happy Valentine's!

Yeah... you didn't expect to hear that from me, did you? Single, bitter, jilted innocent Loverboy. A cheery greeting on Valentine's Day wasn't what you were expecting.

But it would be far too easy to take the other side of things. So many people in my situation would start by talking about the commercial aspect of it: refer to it as "Clinton Cards Day"; claim that it's been sugarcoated, Disneyised; say that it's killed romance; go so far as to say that it's not really needed in society anyway, as partnership as an institution is dying out.
You could always think up alternate names for it. Many of these abbreviate nicely: Singles Awareness Day, for example, makes a lovely "SAD" when made into an acronym. Of course, one of the delicious ironies of the day as it stands has to be that it abbreviates to "VD" without even trying. You could, also, call it V-Day - making it sound like a battle.
Then there's the comforting thought for all us singles out there: Saint Valentine - the bastard who started all of this - died a horrible, violent and painful death.

But I'm not going to say any of that.

Saint Valentine was like me. He was stuck in a bad situation for speaking his mind, but he kept speaking his mind. He was deeply, and passionately, in love with the beautiful daughter of his executioner. The first love note of the day, "from Your Valentine", shows how devoted he was. Your Valentine. Yours.
Saint Valentine was the first Innocent Loverboy.

For those of you enjoying Valentine's with your partners/flings today, think about what a good situation you are in. You have love, and/or sex. Take a while to consider Saint Valentine, and how he must have felt. He died without even knowing the touch of the girl he loved. So, savour what you have, and remember how you got it. Rejoice in your feelings. Relish every little brush of the hand they give you, every little breath they take, every thrust into you (if you're that lucky).

Happy Valentine's. Make it count. Enjoy it, if you can.
I command you!

Monday, 11 February 2008

Let's work it out, boy

* Love2Suck pulls off her panties and nightie, now completely naked, she lowers her steaming wet pussy onto wheatsheaf's cock

Sometimes, I'm not in the mood for anything except sex.
I'm home from work, I've eaten lunch, watched Family Guy, scanned some art in for one of the websites I help to moderate, and somewhere within this domestic order I'm feeling a little turned on... so my first instinct is, "okay, you know how to tackle this..."
But at the moment I don't. Rather, I do, but I'd actually prefer not to. I don't want to break out the soft porn, or visit a sex chatroom, or search my room for sexy pictures, or even lie back and envision ridiculous situations involving me, girls and sherbet lemons in combination. In fact, I don't even want to exercise my hands at all.

What I want, in fact, is to be sitting in my computer chair, when a girl with flowing locks of curly red hair walks through my bedroom door...
ILB: "Can I help you?"
Girl: "Well, I don't know... can you help me?"
ILB: "What with?"
Girl: "I'm giving you everything, all the joy can bring. This, I swear."
ILB: "Excuse me?"
Girl: "Oh, wait. Hang on, that's the Spice Girls. Shall I try that again?"
ILB: "Go ahead."
Girl: "Wanna have sex?"
ILB: "I thought you'd never ask!"
She skips over to me, lifts me off my chair and pulls me into a deep, passionate and warming kiss. Before I know it, I'm unbuttoning her shirt, and she's pulling off my t-shirt. Her round, perfect breasts are revealed, and I suckle absentmindedly on one of her nipples, making her moan softly with anticipation.
I walk backwards, and she playfully pushes me back onto the bed. My trousers and pants are taken off, and without even removing her skirt, she positions herself over me, and slowly lowers herself onto me. I feel myself penetrating her, and my penis slipping past her soft folds, nestling inside her...
[40 minutes later]
Girl: "That was beautiful."
ILB: "No, you're beautiful."
Girl: "Yes, I know. What do we do now?"
ILB: "I've got an idea... if you open your legs..."
She spreads her legs wide, and I move my head downwards. I clear my throat, and move towards her special area. She closes her legs behind my head, and sighs deeply.

That's the sort of thing I want to do.

Girl: "Mmmmm. That's what I want, what I really, really want."
ILB: "...What?!"

Friday, 8 February 2008


We were on our way back from the theatre. I'd really liked the play. My father liked the curtain call. My mother had fallen asleep. Whatever. We were driving through North London.

My mother and I saw him at he same time (well, I saw him first, but we twigged at the same time). He was relatively young. He was on his knees, and he was speaking very rapidly. He was holding her hands in his; she was short, but was standing up.
He was clearly asking her to marry him. They were on the grass in the middle of a roundabout in North London. I don't know why. Maybe they met there. Maybe they lived nearby. Maybe they were motorists who always drove around it. Maybe he just needed somewhere unexpected, or somewhere everyone would see.

He was proposing. And for a few seconds, I was watching.

Romance is not dead. And it never, ever will be.

Thursday, 7 February 2008


Long, well-formed legs, reaching out to the plains of Babylon, spreading wide open tempting you inside...
Glistening wet pussy, dripping juices, looking tempting and juicy...
Succulent wet lips, tasting of heaven - unadulterated bliss as you run your tongue along them...
Moist, yet stiff, clitoris, the perfect compliment to your ecstatic experience...
Thick, meaty penis, pulsing with temptation, sliding into the soft folds with a casual, yet needy, ease, eliciting a sigh of raw, lustful contentment...
Spreading white cum from both boy and girl, a juice which is everywhere, gleaming in the light, adding its own special scent to the spread...

This is not just porn.
This is M&S porn.

Wednesday, 6 February 2008

Less than three

I come back from work and I find that:
- nobody has responded to my latest personal ad
- RedTube has closed down (see that, Pandora?)
- I've got no interesting e-mails at all

But I love the blogging community all of a sudden, so that's OK.

Oh, and I've linked to Todger Talk. It's not really a blog I like that much... but I'd feel a bit stupid if I didn't link it.

Still, there are better male blogs out there... ones not written by laddish types who need to swear in every sentence. You're reading one now, come to think of it.

Tuesday, 5 February 2008

This is the BBC Light Programme.

Like Blacksilk, I haven't been around to blog much. Like Lady Pandora, I've got a load of views on sex that I feel I need to write about - just not feeling like I'm doing it in the most eloquent way (Unlike Pandora, however, I lack a jar full of all the evils in the world - and I also lack hope, natch). Like LucyBoots, I'm horny.

Unlike all of them, I'm a loser.

Oh... and a boy, too.

But one thing I can do... I can talk.
I could talk for Britain. I'm such a geek, I know about so many things that aren't of any real relevance. I could tell you how fast the heart of a mouse beats, all the trick arrows used by Green Arrow in the DC universe between the Crises, the first Pokémon owned by Ash/Red in the first version of each separate franchise, or the names of all the ghosts in Luigi's Mansion. I could reel off the history of my favourite band, probably backwards. I could play all kinds of drum beats on a desk. I could recite nearly every lyric recorded by William Shatner. I could discuss, in detail, all eight series of Knightmare.

Store of vital information that I am, however, I've never considered myself that physically attractive (barring a few shots in which my hair appears red). Everyone else says I'm handsome, though.

One thing on which everyone is agreed (my eyes, which even I think are pretty, notwithstanding), and I promise I'm going somewhere with this, is that my voice is extremely sexy.
I talk rather quickly (I type quickly, too, so I can keep up with my thoughts), but I've got a hesitant, deep (although not bass) voice, and perhaps most importantly, I speak with a cut-glass English accent. Born and brought up in North London, on the cusp of the Home Counties - and the son of an actor, to boot - I speak in received pronunciation. No London accent; no Midlands twang. Even though I'm no patriot (republican, actually), I speak The Queen's English.
That's why I talk a lot. Because I like my voice a lot. And the American girls I know like it too. For all I know, every time I open my mouth, I'm getting them all hot and bothered... or is that just the desired effect of my mouth being open? Who knows?

The thing I like about the sex blog community that I've found myself immersed in is that I can be myself. Everywhere else, I have to put up a front - I'm most like myself when I'm with my friends; it's the same with everyone.... but my job involves a massive amount of pretending to be someone I'm not. Here, I can talk about what I want to. And usually, it's sex. You can't talk about sex with north London boys in their early 20s, nor can you with girls. Boys will suddenly pull up all their bravado (or go all shy), and girls will either think you're a pervert or become rather too keen if they're drunk. When it's your sister, that's not something you want to see.

But I can't use my voice.

Maybe that's a good thing. If I did, whether I wanted to or not, I'd have a fan club. That probably wouldn't add to the mystique.

Saturday, 2 February 2008

Come hither, females

I'm sitting in my freshly cleaned, tidied and hoovered room. The bed has been done over - turned over mattress, changed linen, sprayed... and looks fantastic. All my stuff is where it should be and I know where it all is. As for me, my body's been through the shower. No loose skin, no dirt or grime, no stubble. Everything here is pristine, and if something's clean, it's only a matter of time before it gets dirty again.

Now would be the perfect time to have sex.

Friday, 1 February 2008

Taking a Stand

When I was in year 9, I was told you couldn't get pregnant if you had sex standing up. I must have laughed for about seven hours.

I've had sex standing up in the past - it's like something from one of those sci-fi eroticas on DVD from Surrender Cinema; she was leaning forwards, holding onto the post st the bottom end of her bed, and I was standing behind her holding her sides. She didn't get pregnant from that, true - but then again, we were using protection...
But this entry isn't about having sex standing up.

I was masturbating (gosh! really? wow!) last night, and I was too lazy to actually get any porn or erotic writing up on my screen, so I was relying, once more, upon ILB's Introspective Imagination
which, considering how quickly my brain moves, is a pretty handy tool for getting the job done. However, just as I was beginning to get into it, I realised that:
a) my computer chair was squeaking and my mother was in the next room
b) my legs had both gone numb, and my hands were both tired
c) it was about 10:30pm, and I needed to take a shower before going to bed
As a result, I decided to finish as quickly as I could. Because of this decision, I stood up, and I immediately wished I hadn't.

I don't know if it's different for girls (someone enlighten me?), but it's actually quite painful for a guy to masturbate standing up. I have managed it before... only I'm not going to go into that, unless I feel like doing an article on public masturbation, and given the nature of this blog, it will come up at some point... but it hurts.
As you masturbate, your body goes tense and slack very rapidly. Your legs, if they're supporting your weight, will come under some great strain. Most people will sit up or lie back as they wank, and I guess that's the most comfortable position in which to do so.
The urge I get while standing up wanking is to bend my knees. Backwards. Unless you are either EXTREMELY double-jointed to the point of freakishness, or Plastic Man, that's humanly impossible without breaking your legs. Plus, your patella wouldn't allow it. I have sometimes bent my knees forwards, only that looks like you're squatting. And if you bend forwards and backwards rapidly, not only does it look like you're fucking your imaginary friend, it also looks like you're having some sort of seizure.

Not that anyone ever watches me masturbate, mind you.

Of course, if you stand up and wank until you orgasm, you will end up with very sore legs. And you'll end up bending your knees forwards anyway, as it's an automatic reaction. And, in purely practical terms, you'll cum straight forwards so it might go everywhere, rather than fall gracefully into your hand.

But, dear God, it does feel pretty good to stand up. For a few seconds, at least.