Friday, 27 February 2009

Addiction X: Thrust!

I don't care what anyone says, I like the missionary postion. I like other positions too - I like doggie, I like astride, I've even done lying-scissors once and I quite liked that (except it hurt). An old mate of mine once asked me what my favourite position was, however, and I said it was the missionary position - and it still is. He then told me that it was boring. I've no idea what kind of sex he'd been having, because it certainly never bores me. Even Shakespeare seemed to have an affinity for it - "you shall bear the burden soon at night," from the Nurse to Juliet, almost certainly refers to a man lying on top of her... oh, come on, it can't be just me who thinks that.

I like the missionary position for the following reasons:

It's almost infallible.
Boy lies on top of girl, inserts erect penis. Girl adjusts to get used to feeling of cock inside her. Horizontal movement from both parties. (Hopefully) orgasm. Job done... or again. Or more. Adjust due to personal preference.
Yes, it all sound disgustingly clinical. But it is. It's, for want of a better word, easy. And fun.

You can go straight from oral sex into the missionary position.
If you're a boy. And you're giving oral sex while crouched over her legs at the bottom of the bed. If you're kneeling on the floor, stand up and fall forwards. Otherwise, crawl upwards. If you're doing a 69, twirl over. I can't emphasise how important that actually is.

It burns stomach fat.
Always a plus. And I'm trying to lose mine. I may have to have more sex.

Hips getting tired? Use your feet!
Yeah, continuous hip thrusting hurts after a while - although I suppose it depends on how much energy you have, I suppose! But then you don't need to grind away like a python to enjoy sex - if there's a wall, or a bar at the bottom of your bed, or something, why not push against that with your feet? You may even go deeper inside like this. Certainly works for me...

Feet getting tired? Use your hands!
My bed's got this nice head bit which not only can be used for tying someone to... I've discovered that if you grab the bars, you can pull yourself up. Continuously. Nice.

Hands getting tired? Use your hips!
They must have recovered by now, surely?

The G-spot's easier to find...
...although I suppose it depends exactly where your girl's G-spot is. I seem to find that while in the missionary position, if you push down with your hands and lever yourself off the ground, so your torso isn't actually touching hers, your penis angles upwards a bit and usually hits that sweet spot. Usually resulting in a fantastic orgasm. Try it - it works for me. And you get to look down at her tits, which is always nice, especially when coupled with her face.

You feel everything.
And you do - you really do.

I didn't try and argue with my mate - from all accounts he was more experiences than me when we were having the conversation - but I knew I was right. And maybe he wasn't that turned off by it, either. I heard him singing, a few days later, "millions of peaches... peaches for me... millions of peaches... peaches for free... missionary position."

I still can't work that one out!

Wednesday, 25 February 2009


Not to be confused with mistresses. Except MPs' secretaries are both, nicknamed 'mattresses' because MPs lie on top of them, which also makes them mistresses. Yeah, that makes things a lot less clear. I guess I just lke the word 'mistresses'. I'll stop now.

So, yeah... mattresses.

My mattress is awful. I've got a king-size bed, plenty of space for sex and cuddles (and singing, can't forget that), and yet the mattress (which allegedly came with the bed a good few years back) has gone through a fair amount of wear and tear. This is, of course, likely due to a very tall boy sleeping on it every night for Glod-knows-how-long, and recently, making passionate love on it a few times every week or so; given the fact that the first time I ever got into the bed a very noticeable spring did its best to impale my back, it's hardly surprising that we've managed to transform it into a veritable BEAST of uncomfortability with all the "movement", even if I do turn it over every couple of months.

So I realise I have my birthday next month, and having forgotten about it, I hadn't given much thought to what I wanted. I'm quite dangerously into my overdraft at the moment, interest-free as it may be - so lots and lots of money is the first item on my list. Along with the 1996 Doctor Who TV-movie with Paul McGann in it, and... a mattress.

I put this idea to my family via e-mail yesterday and got a reply almost instantly from my dad.
A new mattress may be available outside of the birthday list as a gratuity needed by any young buck into serious courting.

Interesting guy, my dad.
I decided to fire off an ambiguous reply.
Well, since [TD] actually suggested I got a new mattress for my birthday, you've hit the theoretical nail on the head pretty easily.

He replied promptly once again:

What, only theory?

I think my dad has too much time on his hands at work. Get him back into acting, people!

Anyway, so I'd forgotten about the mattress situation until this morning, whereupon I'd just finished a jolly session at college proving I am my father's son (acting my heart out; I was brilliant, of course, but got nowhere near as much laughter as I'd anticipated). Decided to send off a couple of texts to people to tell them I'd finished - this is why I don't use Twitter; I'd never shut up about my mundane life - and I got a reply from my mother telling me that not only had she spent an hour looking at mattresses this morning, but she'd also ordered me one. Also that they cost a lot. She made a point of telling me that.

I'm getting a new mattress, and I don't know what it's going to be like. I'm quite excited about that. Maybe a little too much. Still, I'll let you know what it's like once we've given it 'the works'...

Monday, 23 February 2009


[For the record, I don't like the more common word for the sense to do with your nose. I don't find it particularly aesthetically pleasing, especially when it's pronounced correctly, in which case it makes me feel physically sick. Looking at the word unhinges me somewhat, so for the purposes of this post, I will use the word "scent", which is a much nicer word.]

I recently finished reading Wetlands. It's got a lot of controversy surrounding it and I like to defy everything, ever, so I had to read it. It makes perfect sense. And the controversial bits - that is to say, the bits not about sex or part of the (arguably subsidiary) plot - aren't as controversial as the media are making them out to be. It's just defaecation, people. You likely do it every day yourself, so although it's slightly taboo it shouldn't gross you out too much. (Or maybe that's just me. Given what I do, I'm somewhat unshocked by people writing about shit.) The sexual bits - sexual BEAST as I am - I enjoyed, rather than was repulsed by. In fact, what I found most offensive was the fact that the translator used American English.

Anyway, that's not what I wanted to write about, particularly. Wetlands makes a good deal of the scents that can come about through various bodily functions, and that includes sex, although the scent that actually comes from sex - now that isn't mentioned. And it should be, if not in Wetlands then somewhere. Why not here?

The scent "of sex" is a unique one, and although it probably varies according to who you're having sex with (it also seems to make its presence felt during masturbation), there are constants associated with it, and you know it when it's there, too. Essentially, it is a mixture of sexual fluids and sweat, so when you put it like that, it actually sounds pretty repulsive and not something I'd kill to bottle and spread á la Perfume. (It's also very similar to the scent of a penis; not that I go around sniffing penises, but in my time I've masturbated enough to know that.) But in another way, because of the scent itself and what causes it, it's actually very alluring. Let's assume that extreme pleasure - and, let's face it, orgasm - happen at the same time as said scent is created. Psychosomatically, the barin registers the link between the scent and the pleasure, ergo it can, in many cases, turn you on. It becomes less offensive, anyway.

Then there's the fact that it's a dead giveaway. You know you've had a lot of fun when you feel like you have to open a window because anyone going into your room will know there's been some sex going on recently. In fact, entire houses can have this - well, according to one person I know who told me she was de-sexing her house after she held an ill-advised house party - and air-fresheners aren't really the best at hiding it, so openng the wndow is the best technique. You also know that the power-hungry cock whore who works in your office has been getting her dose of action if she comes back
after lunch wth the scent of sex clinging to her clothes. (Disclaimer: May not happen. I don't work in an office, so I've no idea. I just like to assume. At least, I think I do.)

I'm not saying one should actually embrace the scent of sex. It's not something anyone I know actively tries to generate - someone's going to correct me on this, I know it - but it's a side-effect of sexual intercourse which affects the environment, rather than the people involved, which is unique (unless you're pointing the wrong way during orgasm, but I don't want to think about that!) in many ways, and it's not so unpleasant after all - even if you don't find it overly pleasing, it shows - apart from anything else - that you've been putting some effort in... isn't that what it's all about?

Thursday, 19 February 2009

ILB's Risqué Meme

Well, somebody has to start these off...

This is a different meme. It's about things which are a little more on the innocent side of risqué. Name six things you've done (or still do) which toe the line but haven't quite crossed it. No situations in which you've actually had sex or masturbated in public places. Keep it suggestive, dodgy but not dirty.

Because I'm a safe boy, girls at university (during my student days a couple of years ago) used to be okay with hugging me and stuff during the club nights. I often kissed them somewhere inoffensive as well, like the shoulder or the cheek. At one point I kissed 21 girls on the hand in one night.

I've shouted, "Take it off!" at a funny, as well as rather camp, compere to a burlesque show. It's been shouted at me during gigs I've played, so I thought I'd reciprocate.

I used to think Princess Beatrice was hot.

While in the sixth form, I made a list which went along the lines of, "I'm totally straight, but if I were gay, I would have sex with...". Most of the names on the list were members of James.

I am sexually aroused by the sight, or even the thought, of my own penis being erect. Nobody else's. Mine. I think my brain subconsciously links me being hard with having sex, or wanking. Let's face it, that's when it's hard, right? That, and every time a certain someone touches me anywhere, including the air that I may or may not be breathing.

I've always wanted to create a side-on silhouette of people I think are attractive, because I like the way their noses and mouths look from the side. I imagine them standing side-on and me firing some paint at them, with their resulting stencil image on the wall, nose shape intact.

No tags; if you want to do this meme, please do it, it doesn't take long. Let's get it circulating.

Tuesday, 17 February 2009

It's My Valentine's, And I'll Skip College And Go To Center Parcs If I Want To

Yes, that's right, I went to Center Parcs. Or, to be more accurate, we went to Center Parcs. To be even more accurate, I took her to Center Parcs - since I was the one to book the holiday, keep it super-super-secret, take her to she-knows-not-where, bundle her into a taxi and walk up to the Arrivals Lodge with an air of utter confidence.

Actually, that makes it sound like a kidnapping. Let's start again.

Yes, that's right, we went to Center Parcs. As this is the first Valentine's I spent with someone special for yearsandyearsandyears (H actually ended up in bed with the 'flu virus on Valentine's once, which is halfway there, I suppose), I decided we'd do something special. In fact, I didn't decide it at all - we'd been planning to go on holiday (again) for some time, ergo I bookified it myself, it just happened to fall on Valentine's weekend by a g
ood coincidence. Anyway, whatever the reason, we went to Center Parcs. And because it was awesome, I would like to present here:


(i) Welcome to Center Parcs. Your residence is either a room in the Lakeside Hotel or a villa. Me being me, I chose a villa. A lovely little chalet situated right next to the Village Square (again, a coincidence). Two bedrooms (though we only used one), a bathroom, a toilet, a boiler room (which was handy for drying wet shoes and tea-towel) complete with notice stating that one should not sleep in the boiler room, a huge living area and a small kitchenette. I made breakfast - twice - and got domestic in many ways around the kitchen area. TD got very excited that our bedroom had proper wardrobes. This was our little house; for the weekend, we lived here. Let's be frank, we still want to live there. A fantastic place for just sitting and reading, snuggles, having sex on the sofa, and wondering if Beyoncé's new video is digitally altered.

(ii) The restaurants. My Glod, they were all pretty damn fine restaurants. We had some good home-prepared meals - my breakfasts and TD's smorgasbord-stylée picnic for lunch on Valentine's Day itself - but we also went searching for the edible stuff to be found in establishments. Center Parcs' Village Square has a lot of these, and we exploited:
  1. Dining In - for the ridiculously lazy, Dining In allows you to get food delivered to your villa. What a novel idea - if only you could pick up a telephonic device and order 'comestibles' otherwise. Because it took us about an hour to find our villa to begin with, we gladly ordered something doughy with cheese and tomatoes on it. I'd call this pizza, but I won't, because I don't want to give the Italians too much credit.
  2. The Foresters' Inn. A gastro pub which isn't really much of a gastro pub, more of a huge restaurant designed to look like a pub. It's like a tavern from an RPG. On steroids. We had their hot chocolate and at some point sat on a squashy sofa reading books and eating their chips. Yeah.
  3. Café Rouge. Of all the heathens imaginable, a commercial chain in Center Parcs! I actually booked us this one, because we ought to have had a Valentine's meal, really. And so we did. Nice enough food (although mine was a little lacking on the cheese and the dessert wasn't there, I enjoyed it) and very friendly staff. The waitress took a snap of us because we were on a date, and then she got bawled out by some angry C2s at another table. No pleasing, some people.
  4. Huck's - an American bar and grill that not only boasts the finest buffet breakfast known to humankind, but also perhaps the lamest group of singers seen in western Europe. Oh, and it has the Sunday papers, too. Cue waffles, fried eggs and croissants served with The Observer.
  5. The Sports Café. I don't like sports, but I like nachos. The nachos won.
  6. The Lagoon Bar. While swimming (see below), we wanted a drink. Not actually while we were swimming, but you get the idea. I browsed the menu and decided upon a Peach Christa. "What's one of them?" asked the boy at the bar. I helpfully handed him the menu.
  7. Bella Italia. You know what this is. The waiter was on some sort of illegal substance. Either that, or he genuinely thought he was being funny. I'd prefer to think he was on the drugs. It's the only logical explanation.
  8. Starbuck's. See point 2. And so to our final hot chocolate.
(iii) Center Parcs has this one thing which everyone knows about called the Subtropical Swimming Paradise. I did, for a while, think that we wouldn't end up there for long, 'cuz TD decided it would be our Sunday activity. You know, as opposed to every day, like the rest of the population of Center Parcs. However, after a couple of trips down the flumes, a cascade down the White Slide, battling the Wild Water Rapids and a rather random session of picking her up and carrying her about in the outdoor pool (with steam rising off it 'cause the pool was warm and the air was cold), it didn't take long to spend another couple of hours there. And to go back the next day. The hot jacuzzi can't have hurt, either.

(iv) Sex. On the sofa, on the bed and on my mind. Particularly in the middle of the 14th itself wherein we couldn't think of anything else to do. Not that we needed any encouragement, either. I'd like to explain how awesome this was... but can't. Must be something to do with being a couple in your early 20s, on holiday, in your own house on Valentine's Day. I think that probably contributed something to it. My tongue did too, though.

(v) I'm unsure as to my feelings towards Valentine's. I know it's meant to be primarily for single people, and that faceless multinational corporations have taken it away from them and handed it to the lucky ones who have managed to be in a relationship. So, for that reason, I'd like to comfort my single friends insofar as I can remnd them that Saint Valentine, the bastard who started their day of pain, died a horrible, violent death. For us, we woke early with me making breakfast, exchanged gifts and pleasantries (I got a very, very funny book - can't say too much, but it'll give the game away; she got me being a sarcastic git in card form) and spent the day relaxing. Can't really say fairer that that...

(vi) We took everything at a slow pace. Do you have any idea how relaxing that actually is? Even our walking was slow. Unlike the rushed parents who were running everywhere after their kids who they'd foolishly taken because it was half term. Yeah. Better make the best of these days, and all. We couldn't afford the Aqua Sana spa place, but if we took a deep breath, and relaxed, who needs expensive face masks anyway?

(vii) Squirrels! Rabbits! Ducks! Oh, my!

(viii) Walks around the forest. Who knew there were that many trees in Suffolk?

(ix) Money. Don't have any left. Ah, well.

It's been a while since I went to Center Parcs, and this is the first time I've been without my family as well as the first time I've been with my girlfriend. It's also the first time we've been anywhere as a couple where we were completely self-sufficient. It was, simply, fantastic. I'm pleased I blew all my money on it. Er, yes.
Not something we could do every special day, but definitely something I'd be up for doing again. To repeat the whole experience. Maybe add bowling and playing pool next time... or if only to stay in our little house again!

Trust fund, anyone?

Monday, 16 February 2009

Wit Byte

Colleague: "Wait a minute, you've put 'sex' here on this list of basic human needs. I understand exactly why things lke movement and nutrition are there, but why sex? You don't need to have sex to live."

ILB: "Speak for yourself!"

Everyone else: *Laughter*

Tuesday, 10 February 2009

Getting Physical

It's true, I am totally corrupted in every way possible (apart from being a straightedge teetotal vegetarian non-smoker, of course).

At work today I overheard someone say something about (a theoretical) someone being "on the back stairs with a physio". It was only after about five minutes that I realised they'd actually meant that the someone in question ould actually be doing step aerobics or other strenuous exercise relating to running up and down stairs.

Because, of course, what my brain thought she was referring to was this someone and a physio engaging in SEXUAL INTERCOURSE. Considering the physios I know, that's not so much of a stretch of the imagination. They appear to be tactile people in any case.

However amusing I may have found this image, what really worries me - above which particular physio, which particular someone, and all else - happens to be how vividly I pictured the very set of back stairs they would be using for such an illicit deed.

And as they were stone, surely that would be very painful. Still, if you're going to have random sex with someone and injure yourself, there are worse people you could be with than a physio. How handy, indeed.

Thursday, 5 February 2009

Why Being A Man Sucks, Reason #24601

A few days ago, before the wet white stuff started falling from the sky, I masturbated three times in one night.

Never, ever, ever do that.


You have no idea how much it actually hurts.

This is purely because I have a penis. Unless all the girls in sex books are lying to me, and I specifically am targeted because I am gullible enough to believe this, if you are a girl, you can keep wanking until you are satisfied enough to have had 4982756 orgasms and can go to sleep satiated. This is, of course, at odds with the fact that real girls tell me that you can become sore through the act of sex itself, but who am I to be realistic?

I digress. I really shouldn't be masturbating so much anyway. Well, I've learned my lesson now. I'm not keen on the stinging, and although it felt fine the following morning, that evening I had sex and I revisited how great that felt. Wrapping one's hand around one's cock and acting like you're resinating a violin bow is distinctly unsexy. Actual sex is.

And it doesn't hurt after three times in the same night, either.

Well - not that much.

Wednesday, 4 February 2009

Share the Love

So. In church on Sunday I was asked to read out a passage about the value of love (I Corinthians 13:1-13). I read it with aplomb, and managed to resist the urge to make a snarky comment about how it suits me. I don't think my grandparents would appreciate finding out that I write about sex on a regular basis, although they manage to sit through numerous pantomime rehearsals in which I, as a woodcutter, make consistent references to the size of my chopper. Grandparents are weird.

The Bible is oddly prophetic about many things, but this was proven once again to me when, with the comment about love being the greatest of all virtues in mind, it was once again right when the day afterwards saw a snowfall happen RIGHT OUTSIDE MY HOUSE (and a few hundred others too, but they aren't important). The previous evening, I'd managed to diffuse an angry situation by cooking pasta, but on Monday itself, one just couldn't be angry if one had even tried. It may be cold and wet, but dammit, it's pretty stuff, snow. Especially when it's unspoiled and undisturbed. Our garden is still covered with the stuff, and my next-door neighbour's garden is untouched (he has died recently) so it looks pristine, just like it's a white blanket of snow covering the world like...

..a snow blanket that's really...




- We stood and looked out of the window. Together. For a few hours. We just stood there cuddling and watched the snow. And that was our morning's activity. Standing. And. Watching. Snow.

- In the afternoon, we decided to go and see Slumdog Millionaire (actually, my parents decided for us, but we've already seen Milk and we didn't need much further persuasion), which meant walking about about 50 minutes on compacted snow. Ice. So we held hands, and held each other up.

- The evening saw me going to rehearsal and her going back to Oxford. I took her to Paddington and then made the hour-long journey back home to go to rehearsal. In this time, she returned from Oxford to go to an interview of sorts (you'll need to ask her about this), and I was so keen to get home to see her, I took a black London taxi home from rehearsal and spent about £5 on it.

- And then this morning, we went into London together so she could go to the interview, I hung around to see what happened, and when it all came back generally positive, we had lots of hugs and a celebratory lunch.

You see, they're all very ordinary things when you look at them individually, but when you think about it, all this stuff happened in the space of a couple of days. This isn't mentioning the constant battle wth various work situations where we're either supposed to be somewhere or not, and of course the fact that we needed food and suchandsuch. Without a devotion, very little of this would have happened. There'd have been no drive to spend an extra day together, no effort in making food or even going places (who knows how the journey to the interview may have gone were I not there to offer my slightly fae 'advice'?), no helping hand on the ice, no point to an otherwise potentially boring snow day or two, without the devotion that comes with love.

And so there you have it.

And now to start planning our Valentine's holiday...