Saturday, 31 January 2009


*ILB is sitting at his computer having just taken a mock exam ahead of the real exam he has next week.*
Mother: (entering with a cup of tea) "So, how many bones are they in the human body?"
ILB: "Well, we don't need to know that, but it's 206."
Mother: "Oh?"
ILB: "It's a chat-up line... you know?"
Mother: "Sorry?"
ILB: "You have 206 bones inside you; would you like one more? It's a chat-up line, yes?"
Mother: *stares*

Friday, 30 January 2009

seduction: ur doin it rong

"Okay," she said as we finally laid down the book full of LOLcats I'd bought her for Christmas, "time to get ready for bed."
We were already in bed, but I knew what she meant.
"Well," I agreed, "you get into your pyjamas, and I'll stay naked."
"What?" she answered, sounding puzzled. "You're not naked now, are you?..." And as she sad so, she reached around from her position facing the wall with a hand, and grasped at a random part of my body. She got the bare flesh of my stomach fat.
"You are naked!" she practically squealed.
"Told you," I teased. "I took all my clothes off when I went to get the LOLcats book! Now, are you going to get into your pyjamas, or not?"
She did. I lay in her bed as she changed, smug in my sneaky nudity. Why she didn't hear the rustle of fabrics... I'll never know.

Wednesday, 28 January 2009

Blow Up

As I've said before, I don't orgasm through having my cock sucked. I never have. I can't say I never will, but it's doubtful. And it's not because I've never had a good enough blowjob. In fact, I've had some fucking fantastic oral sex - I have to admit to having given more than I've received, but I like that fact!

It's a strange thing, when you think about it. It even sounds funny - consider the following conversation which happened a couple of weeks ago:

FL: "What's your starsign, [ILB]?"
ILB: "Well, I'm a Pisces."
FL: "It says here that you should demand things, because you are likely to receive."
ILB: "Okay. Thanks."
ILB: "Somebody suck my cock."

Well, I thought it was amusing.

But anyway... for whatever reason, I don't get off during blowjobs... so why do I like them so much? And I do; I really, really do.

You know, it might me like hugs? I think it's like hugs.

I'll explain.

You don't have an orgasm during hugs (unless something else is happening, like a tentative lick on your neck, if you're into that sort of thing - or it's a special hug, that's where Jimmy Carr says happened, anyway). But they feel fantastic. It's one of the (if not the) best things about being in a relationship - the persistent, almost constant, hugs you can get, leading into snuggles, kisses, sex, and communal crying throughout the closing scenes of Milk. But we all know why hugs feel fantastic - it's the warmth, the security, and the intimacy. I wonder if I've written one of my addiction posts about it. Ah, yes I have.

So, blowjobs, eh? Well, the point I'm trying to make is that I feel a little secure when I'm in a hug, and I feel - this sounds weird - safe when I've got my cock in a mouth (or, more accurately, she has my cock in her mouth - the first way around makes me sound violent!). It's not just pleasurable, or intimate, or special (even though it is all those things) - it's comforting. And in the current climate, don't we all need a little comfort?

My, my. This post has been a little slapdash, hasn't it?

Monday, 26 January 2009

Power to my kind!

In the early stages of my formative youth, I was merrily getting dressed for PE in my own little corner of the boys' changing room whereupon my bully for the year decided to break the wide circle of people avoiding me to ask me if I had ever had a boner. Not knowing what this was, I asked him - well - what it was.

I hasten to point out that I genuinely didn't know what an erection was. I'd known the basic mechanics of sex since the age of 2, but I'd imagined it to be something like sliding a flaccid penis into the anus. You know, if I'd wanted to imagine it at all. I'd missed the video in year 5, and now I was in year 7 I still didn't know, because we did the bit of biology later in the year.

"That's when your cock gets hard," gloated my bully.
"Oh, yes," I answered honestly, "I get that when I get a feeling of power."

My bully looked as if Christmas had come early.

I have this unsettling ability to be genuine and honest about things, even if they're uncomfortable things - and in my innocence gathered during my 11 years of age, I felt confident about answering this honestly, because I had no idea it had anything to do with sex. Yet I did have erections when I got a feeling of power. That is what happened.

Before you start accusing me of being a seriously weird kid... well, I was a seriously weird kid, but it's still an odd situation, because sexually I've always been a fan of the partners being equal. I'm not into BD/SM at all (although during light roleplay I usually assume the dominant rôle, but that's 'cuz I'm a good actor) and although I do enjoy a certain degree of power, there's a difference between being the owner of an IRC chatroom and a Dark Overlord who abuses and occasionally eats his servants.

Which was my bedtime fantasy. You know, despite me being a pacifist vegetarian. It probably wasn't even a sexual thrill that gave me an erection, it was something about the feeling of either control, or revenge (during one dream I was a monstrous plant who ate the older boys who threatened me while I was skating on a dirt mound - most of the dreams involved eating people, I know not why, maybe I was genunely twisted). It was an odd kind of power, almost evil, although I've always been allied with the forces of good in real life, that I dreamed about, and this gave me an erection.

Of course, when I found out what it was, I quickly retracted my statement to my bully, but he'd spread it around the school. Fortunately, by this time he'd also spread it around that I was gay (because that's a bad thing when you're in year 7, apparently), so that made people shun me, rather than anything else.

And from that moment on my bedtime fantasies - under my control this time - were about being encased in a special machine to have sex for years on end... but that's a different thing entirely, and a very different erection. Hey, what can I say? I was a seriously weird kid!

Wednesday, 21 January 2009

Sister's Code

My cousin discovered, while searching down the back of my granny's furniture of all places, a mysterious piece of paper with a diary entry dated from the 5th of March '04... written by my sister.

I didn't even know my sister had a diary. She would have been about 14 when writing this. It's a shallow, slushy piece of writing about her casual boyfriend of the time, claiming she loves him. It's the same sort of thing we all wrote at the age of 14 about people we liked, let's admit it.

But what's disturbing is what's on the other side:

The Code
1. Hug
2. Kiss on cheek
3. Kiss on lips
4. Snog without tongues
5. With tongues
6. "Touching"
7. "Upstairs"
8. "Upstairs + Downstairs"
10. Full throttle

My cousin, uncle and gran were beside themselves with laughter, and I had to explain the noise when my dad phoned from work at that moment. It was very surreal. Fortunately, I managed to filch the paper away so as not to have my mother read it or somesuch. Not that it matters, my sister is now 19 and this is all in the past - but it did get me thinking. How far do you go before you count it as a stage?

I mean, I wouldn't classify a hug as much unless it's with a person you're involved with. I hug practically everyone; it's a lovely feeling but it's a lot deeper when you're hugging your significant other. If there is a 'code' to be adhered to, why put something you'd do to your mate... or your mother? That's just odd.

I was always told, by my "more experienced, honest I am" friends at the age of 16, that it went like a rounders game, with first base being a kiss and all-the-way being full-on sex. But why the need to classify what you've done anyway? You may as well have a totaliser on your wall if you're going to rate your success by how far you've gone. What should be important is who you've gone with, and why, and more importantly, did it feel good? That's what you should be proud of. 7/10 is more like a school mark. Just not cool, guys.

I've just noticed. 10 = "Full throttle"? What the FUCK?!

Monday, 19 January 2009


Sex bloggers who have books published often include little bits to break up the fact that what they're doing is essentially reprinting what they've written in their blog (I've often thought that, if I were to write a book, I'd write something like Finishing Last: Innocent Loverboy's Guide To Being A Really Nice Guy, which would be totally new stuff; ergo, much more difficult to write). Abby Lee's 'extra bits' included a handy guide to chck if you are a sex fiend. Aimed at women, I was rather puzzled as I skimmed through it, but found myself mentally ticking the boxes and surmised that, yes, indeed I was a sex fiend.

Being as innocent as I was, this was interesting news.

Yet it's not unfounded, and upon reflection (I had a three-and-a-half-hour journey recently, don't you just love British Rail?) and, following that and then a trip to a super secret secret hotel, food and then lots and lots of sex, I have to admit that I do, in fact, have something of an addiction. If I weren't so charming and slightly na
ve, then one may go as far as to call me addicted. I'm not addicted. I just like sex.

In person, I am as presented in ILB. People will confirm this. I'm sweet, with a total lack of temper, slightly fae at points, and actually quite random. I can also be very explicit if it gets me a laugh. But I've slowly come round to realise recently that once you get me into bed, I lose that. There's a hidden edge to me that I'm not quite getting when I'm in a social situation. It's the frantic, sweaty, almost bestial ILB that comes out; it seems odd upon reflection, but we all know your attitudes change when aroused...

Intuitive reasoning down 14 percent!
Mathematic reasoning down 25 percent!

...and that makes me someone that I wouldn't have sex with.

Not that I think it's wrong.

Maybe I'm making up for lost time. Years without sex and then a rather sudden, very satifying stable relationship with regular sex (maybe particularly in a hotel to escape from The Rest Of Life may have something to do with it) and my body ends up going into overdrive. I don't know. What I do know is that I've really started to go for it during sex, wanting it again and again and again, wanting the orgasms from both parties, wanting the screaming, wanting the sensation, and having cold water on the side to drink when having a break.

I suppose, if I had to sum it all up, what I'm trying to say here is...

...please excuse my walking with a limp. I haven't quite recovered from myself yet.

Tuesday, 13 January 2009

Addiction IX: Friends

I got an extremely low mark on a recent essay - one that would equate to a third were I doing a Batchelor's Degree. The course I'm on (training? studying? Hello? Bueller?) is not, but the part of my brain that equates percentages to degree results looks at it and thinks, "hello there, that's a third; what are you doing on this course, idiot boy?" - net result: a period of self-loathing, with some snide comments directed at myself - a kind of miserable ecstasy.

I got up from the computer I was sitting at and went over to talk to the girls on the other side of the computer suite. Well, in actual fact I just wanted to find out what they got, but they're all my mates as well, so I suppose a friendly chat and some results-based espionage could go hand-in-hand. I stood and high-fived several of them as they recounted their successes to me, a few with proud distinctions now under their trainee belts.

That was when I noticed FL hadn't got up from her chair, and appeared to be fighting an urge to cry.

Me being me, I went over to see what was wrong, and noticed a little too early that she had also received a bad mark - in fact, five per cent less than mine. Still a pass, but a very, very narrow pass. Suddenly, we were not only in the same boat, but on the same page, batting for the same team, on the same side, and using the same clichés. And me being me, and not knowing what else to do, I sat there and hugged her.

Nobody's ever resisted my hugs. I guess I'm just a non-threatening boy, or I'm overly soft, or you just don't notice surprise hugs (unlike surprise sex, which is the name one of my less discreet friends gave to rape a year or so back). FL, however, seemed to have been expecting a hug, and instinctively hugged back. She was still visibly upset, but then again so was I, so it seemed natural.

I sat next to her in the following lecture, which appropriately focused on a very depressing subject. If you remember correctly, FL (don't confuse her with RS) told me about her boy troubles a couple of months back, and I didn't want to mention them, because it wouldn't have been prudent. But I was curious. Fortunately, my curiosity was satiated when she slipped me a photo of her new boyfriend. I then showed her a picture of my girlfriend. Cue a high-five, and we - along with the other 40927348127 friends we appear to have - finally sank into the lecture, both nigh-on failures, but kept sane through shared hugs and significant others.

Sunday, 11 January 2009


You know when you get into the mood, yeah?
And then you watch some soft porn, yeah?
And then you watch some hard porn, yeah?
And then you start pleasuring each other, yeah?
And then you put on a Durex Play Vibrations ring and have sex, yeah?
For ages, yeah?
And then you orgasm, yeah?

And then you stop, yeah?
And then you pleasure each other for a while, yeah?
And then the Durex ring runs out of battery because you have been using it for 20 minutes, yeah?
And then you don't stop doing it, yeah?
And then they orgasm, yeah?
And then they fall back onto a conveniently-placed bed, yeah?

And then you have sex again, yeah?
And then they have an orgasm so explosive during sex that it seems consistent, they are out of control, and you are on top of them and therefore you are being shaken around and that makes the sex about ten times better, and they keep on having bursts of orgasm because you have been sexually exciting them for about an hour and a half, and then you orgasm again, which makes them orgasm, and after ten minutes of continuous ecstasy you collapse because it's almost too much, yeah?

You know when all that happens, yeah?

Does it offend you, yeah?

Thursday, 8 January 2009

Again! Again!

I stood at a slight angle, trying to indicate to neither the girl standing at the opposing angle nor the public at large that I was specifically looking for a Durex Play vibrating ring. This one, specifically, because it's the only one I've ever used, and you'd prefer to go with what you know, unless you're for full-on experimentation. I wasn't. I just wanted the Durex ring, and I hadn't been able to find one. And now there was a load of them right in front of me, and I couldn't bring myself to pick one up.

It's not my fault. She got one for free while working for Scarlet and after months of occasional sightings of it, still in its glossy wrapper, we used it on her birthday. It tightened itself around my cock like a too-small elastic band, and stimulated her clitoris as it buzzed like a bee that's more than a little irritated. If I pushed myself off the surface of the bed (floor, table, whatever... but this instance, it was a bed), I could get at her G-spot as well. So, if you consider my release as one of the factors in the equation, that's something like three typed of orgasm. My God, it was fantastic.

And then it wouldn't stop buzzing as I wrapped it in a tissue and put it in the bin. In the end, I had to hit it against my leg to stop it working. Then I found the "off" switch.

But that's all in the past. Again? We briefly looked at the things recently, but didn't buy one. Being quite a vanilla person, I don't think I'd got for buying any of those things you have to insert into an orifice, but this isn't a toy per se, just... a small friend. I thought I'd buy another one, having just had my moneys come through and all.

I hasten to point out that this situation yesterday wasn't a spur-of-the-moment decision. I harkened back, as I stood considering the Durex ring and trying to pretend to be interested in the toothpaste instead, to a couple of hours ago, when I'd been in the Boots in my hometown. They had not only all other products in the Play range, but also their own brand of vibrating cock ring, which I didn't buy because it reminded me horribly of "Tesco Value" Lemonade &c. I then went into Superdrug, which I happened to be passing, and they, again, had all the other Play products and their own brand of ring, but none of the ones I was looking for.

"How long, O Lord?" (Psalm 6, Verse 3)

And, at last, here was the very sex product I was looking for, and I just wasn't able to reach up and take it. My hands were gloved, I suppose, in some magic one-size-fits-all (except-for-ILB-who-has-very-big-hands) magic gloves, which I'd bought whilst on my cock ring hunt - having chanced upon a shop which I'm convinced only appears at a certain point in the moon cycle when the seeker is not specifically looking for it - but the gloves are flexible enough to reach out and take something. I was being stupid.

Eventually, I reached out, and constricted my wooly hand around one of the small, pink packets, now boasting "30% STRONGER!". Nobody looked at me, not even the girl who was now perusing the different makes of condom. Hastening away from the "Family Planning" section (whose name I still find amusing), I quickly purchased it and trotted off into the depths of Paddington station. Potential shoppers take note: Paddington's Boots has the damn things. I knew that we weren't going to use it last night. But I had a few minutes, so why not have bought one? I felt quite pleased with myself.

And then I realised I still had it in my hand when the ticket inspector asked for my ticket. I went a shade of appropriate scarlet, handed him my ticket and shoved the ring into one of the compartments of my spacious bag. As far as I know, it's still in there, but I'll put it in the drawer also containing the box of condoms, tube of KY Jelly and tampon applicator I found in my student house's medicine cupboard four years ago, and it'll be ready to use in a flash if we ever have the urge to have the bee-like sensation once more.

Not that it's the only powerful circle around, though. Did you know that if you draw circles around your partner's knee with one finger, say under the table in a restaurant, they'll... er...

Tuesday, 6 January 2009


Venus, which you can see if you look closely at the picture in the right, is something that I never seem to have trouble for while looking in the dusky sky. I know it's a torturous planet with a very thick atmosphere and intense heat, but it looks very pretty from this distance (hence me taking the picture on my phone, it was just one of those moments).

The planet named after the goddess of love, too. Also known as Aphrodite in the Greek legends - although for some reason I always see them as different in image, I've always thought of Aphrodite as slender with long hair and Venus as more rounded with hair in a bun for some reason - I evidently don't believe in her, preferring instead to champion the Judaeo-Christian idea of God.

But I like to think that, her being the goddess of love and me a lover, she's watching over me... I've been keeping my eyes fixed on her every time I walk home.

Even if she is just a planet.

Monday, 5 January 2009

Two thousand and nine offensive ideas?

And so back to what could be termed jointly 'work', 'training' or 'college'. I need to choose one word and stick with it, methinks. Any suggestions? Maybe I should just call it Dave. Anyway, with the daily commute comes the daily free paper shower, and with that comes the inevitable love section. Today's Metro contained some sex predictions for 2009.

Yes, it did.

Petra Joy (the name
is a coincidence, but since only one other person who reads this will get the irony of someone being called "Petra Joy" it's not as funny as it could be) has this to say:

We are past fluffy handcuffs now and many women and men are ready to go a few steps further to enjoy more intimacy and even better orgasms, namely 'gender-bending'. Men have always been restricted to being butch and in control and women to being passive and feminine. More women will be wearing strap-ons and a few hunky guys might enjoy dressing up in killer heels. This kind of role play allows you to act out fantasies beyond the restrictions that usually apply to gender roles.

Wha... wha... WHAT?!

I mean, just WHAT?

Does anyone else find that, apart from anything else, undeniably SEXIST?!

Friday, 2 January 2009

Hurly ILBurly

So, as of yesterday it is allegedly a new year; ergo, I need to forget that it is 2008 and concentrate on the fact that 2008 is now 2009. That is to say, 2008 is no more, and that we are now in 2009, because what was 2008 is now 2009.

I hope that's cleared it all up for you.

So, because typical New Year events, while good-intentioned, tend to be overly loud and raucous, with attendees who seem to encompass THE ENTIRE POPULATION OF WESTERN EUROPE, we decided - that is to say, TD decided, I just agreed - to go to an event curiously named Hurly Burly, which we duly found after slogging our way through cold, cold London, followed by battling the crowds in search of much-desired sustenance.

Er, you know, food, that is.

Hurly Burly's crux appeared to be that it was split into two - comedy and links by the irreverent, effeminate and drunk Dusty Limits (who performed with panache, and didn't have such a bad singing voice either), supporting songs and burlesque dances featuring Polly Rae and her Hurly Burly Girlys [surely "Girlies"? - Ed]. Having never seen burlesque before, I was more than a little intrigued as to what it would entail, doubting very much that it would echo what we saw on that episode of The Simpsons. In fact, I've always wondered about the morality of burlesque - surely the costumes and style of act unnecessarily sexualise women?

But after intense thought (read: five minutes, I can't concentrate on one thought for very long), the spirit of burlesque seemed more to be cheeky charm than actually objectifying women - after all, burlesque dancers choose to perform in that style, and the comments made by Polly and her colleagues in the programme explaining how they got into burlesque more than confirm that... they celebrate it. And after watching the show, I'll happily admit that there's no objectification here - it's just Polly & Co. enjoying themselves.

A delightful range of delicacies to sample was presented to us. But enough about the ice cream afterwards, I may as well review the revue.

Dusty Limits was great, as I've said - he had an unbeatable rapport with the audience, sang some very funny songs including slights on all sorts of public figures (always a plus) and kept things ticking along nicely, but the real attraction was the burlesque itself. There was tittilation, rather than full-on arousal (which I think is the point), some outrageous costumes (although even with the tassles, none of them have as nice tits as... well, you can see where I'm going with this), and Polly herself certainly knew how to work those hips!

But what impressed me most about Hurly Burly wasn't the quality of the act or the attractive people involved - it was just how well-synchronised it was. The dances were all very carefully choreographed, especially the ones involving all the Girlys together. Polly was our star, but without the rest of them performing alongside her I doubt it would have worked that well! They provided the "rhythm section" of the whole thing, and through our applause I'd like to think we showed our appreciation for everyone involved.

The only problem, I think, is that it was quite short. Maybe we got what we paid for (although only just - quite expensive, but a very good show), but when all was said and done, there was only about an hour and a half of show, including interval. And there wasn't an encore. But they showed us what they had (in more ways than one!), and they had a different show to clear the theatre for, so I guess I was satisfied with what we got to see.

We then got a train back to Oxford and managed to catch most of Jools Holland's Hootenanny, spending the last (leap) second of 2008 in a kiss - starting 2009 as we mean to go on, n'est-ce pas?

We didn't have sex that night. But considering the wave of orgasms I'd felt a few hours before that while engaged in said act on my bed, that was okay too. Now that's what I call a performance.