Wednesday, 29 July 2009


We interrupt this sex blog for a special announcement.


Hello, Seamstress / Drinker! I love you!
Hello, Lady P, and Blacksilk, and Lace Stockings!
Hello, sex bloggers everywhere! Keep at it!
Hello, Mini!
Hello, 47!
Hello, Syren!
Hello, any readers I don't know - but feel free to stop by!

And you. Hello to you too. Yes, you there. New girl. I know you're reading; at least, I'd hope you are. You know who you are. I know who you are, too. But then again, you know who I am, so that makes us even.

The thing is, I trust you. Implicitly. You shared your secret with me, so I'm sharing mine with you. You can read this blog, and find out more about me than some of my closest friends. But I'm OK with you doing that. Really, I am. So please, go ahead.

I'm OK with you, if you're OK with me. Because we really are a lot more similar than I originally thought. And in a world like this, sometimes it's good to share. In some cases, new girl, you just gotta have faith.

Tuesday, 28 July 2009


I remember the first time I came.

It was during a dream. I can't remember the specifics of the dream exactly, but it was set within the small town presented in Russ Meyer's 1979 flick Beneath The Valley Of The Ultra Vixens (look it up; it's an explosive sexual cocktail masked with points about American small-town culture, Nazism, religious fervour, infidelity, incest and race). There was lots of sex in it, as one would expect from a wet dream. As with things I watch that make me suitably hot nowadays, none of it involved me.

Okay, one could argue that none of the things I watch involve me, unless I happen to be a porn star or erotic actor. (I'm neither, by the way. Just so you know.) But I'm talking about those 'virtual sex with [name of porn star here]' videos. Those are just a little lame.

I also remember that the bit where I woke up happened to involve sexual intercourse on a log floating in the middle of a lake (in the movie, the sex scene in the lake happens on the muddy banks). I can't remember who the characters were; all I do remember is the setting. The lake, in this case, appeared much more cavernous than as presented on screen, with no obvious way out - a throwback to the dreams at the age of 11 wherein one was encased in a machine which in effect 'trapped' one into having sex for years? - but that's neither here nor there. The end result was, of course, that I woke up, lying flat on my back, with sticky white cum laced (that's the only way to describe it) over my pubic hair.

I was absolutely appalled with myself. I was about 15 at the time, I think, and was pretty horrified when a "friend" asked me over ICQ if I'd "eva acidentaly cumed in ur sleep". I had answered, truthfully, that it had never happened - but now it had, if I gave the same answer again, I'd be telling a lie. Fortunately, he didn't ask again. I think he was probably more interested in doing it himself - something I didn't indulge in, of course, until after I'd had sex for the first time. But anyway, I'd shocked myself. Not that I hadn't enjoyed it while sleeping, but now I was awake I had the terrible feeling that I'd done something so very wrong.

I cleared it up and then washed myself down with a wet flannel. This horrible, guilty feeling grew at the back of my head. Yes, I know it's one of those natural things, I told myself. Yes, I didn't even do anything wrong (unless you count watching the film in the first place as wrong, which - now I think about it - technically it actually was, being as I was too young for it). I just had a wet dream. But I'd never had one before, and the more I thought about it, the more improbable it seemed that this mythical sensation would happen to me.

And so that was my first-ever orgasm. After about three years of having watched naughty programmes, I'd finally done it. Bit of an anti-climax, but there you go... that's what you get for thinking too much, I guess.

I'll finish off with a song, if I may:

Give me that old-time religion,
Give me that old-time religion,
Give me that old-time religion,
It's good enough for me!

Makes me love everybody,

Makes me love everybody,

Makes me love everybody,
It's good enough for me!

Monday, 27 July 2009

A bit of verbal

As amusing as this is, I'm not entirely sure I agree. Well, I agree, but not entirely. Well, that is to say, I agree, entirely, but I... er...

...look, just shut up, all right? I'm trying to think of a clever way to say that I like talking during sex! Okay? It'd be really boring if I just started by stating it as a fact and moved on to the discussion! Geez!

*breathes in*

Sorry about that, I'm really stressed this evening.

Okay, so, talking during sex. There's talking dirty, and then there's talking. There is, of course, idle chatter, but while you're engaged in the act of coitus, discussing what you're going to be doing on Friday night is probably a sign that there's something a little wrong, unless future planning is your kink, in which case I salute you for admitting it and kindly request that you stay the fuck away from me.

And then there's this, from a picture I saw once but don't ever think I'll find again:

Brock: "This is the greatest night of my life!"
Misty: (reading a book) "Yes yes, magical... roll off when you're done, honey..."

But that's all kinds of wrong.

Anyway, I do like talking during sex. I'm not much of a one for talking dirty (although I'll do it if requested, it tends to heat things up), but I've never thought an odd "I love you" would ever go amiss. The classics, such as "you're so big!", also seem to work, which is odd, because they seem a bit cliché - mind you, they're probably cliché for a reason. And then there's the romantic stuff:

"Oh, _____, I love this so much... I could make love to you for hours on end and then lie next to you while our hearts beat a rhythm against each other while we touch each other to orgasm after beautiful orgasm..."

Except by the time you've finished saying all that, you've probably already finished.

So I'll throw open the floor with a question! What's your favourite thing to say (or to have said) during sex? Dirty stuff, romantic stuff, lustful stuff, or do you prefer a silent floor show? Answers on a postcard, please (or failing that, in the comments box, if you will!). If you're good, I may even tell you mine...

Monday, 20 July 2009


My work is annoying. It's making me tired and stressed, and it shows. I am losing hair, sleep and even skin, and that doesn't do much for a boy's ego, I can tell you. I'm a boy with an ego, so I should know.

I sometimes feel like I'm losing my urge to fuck. I'm not, really. I had magical sex yesterday morning (and then we went off to see Harry Potter, so evidently the effect was longer-lasting), but when I'm not with my lovely girl, I don't seem to be as aroused as I used to be.

Although I am. Just more frustrated about it, because I neither have sex nor masturbate as much as I used to before starting this job. I jujust have neither the time nor the energy. The stolen one-day weekends together are a blessing, as are the occasional day off I get for myself, but all the other days - the working days - they eat away at my social life. Very little time with friends, very little time with lady. Little time for sex and practically no time for indulging myself.

When I do have sex, it's amazing. Frantic, desperate, needy and loving. But then again, that's what sex is. It's all those things and more. But I want more of it, and I only want it with one person (the person I am having it with, thank you very much, conspiracy-desperate readers!), and this job is stopping that happening.

I crave human contact. But I lack time, and I lack energy. I'm burning out, and I want to burn with passion, not futility.

I get a break over the summer for four weeks and then I'm back into training afterwards. That had better come quickly. I need my mojo back. Now.

Saturday, 18 July 2009


...and I'm not talking about sexual arousal. Odd, I know.

The commencement of a romantic relationship is a very exciting thing. It was in my case, anyway, once I'd got over the initial shock of the fact that I actually had a girlfriend (it took me about a week). The fact that one is due to, for whatever reason, meet up with one's (new) significant other incited a feeling somewhat unique. It's a kind of 'continuous' excitement, the kind that makes you feel like there's a balloon inflating in your chest, or even that you can float a few inches above the ground yourself. The initial few meetups, in my case anyway, were characterised by an almost-euphoric state of anticipation preceding the actual event.

Not the kind of anticipation you get when thinking, "in under 24 hours I'll have had sex." I've had those moments too, and they're not half as good.

Over time, one may expect this sort of feeling to subside - and should it happen to me, I'd work hard to make that not so. On account of the fact that I never even thought I'd get a(nother) girlfriend, I have never slipped into a state of blind acceptance that it's actually happening. I'm appreciating every minute of my relationship, with a moderate fear somewhere in the back of my mind that it may at any minute be snuffed out, should I make an unforgivable faux pas, or not compare to some stylish and cool other gentleman who enters the scene with the sole intent of stealing her away.

So I appreciate it. Every damn second.

I still feel the excitement. The buzz is still there, no matter who's making the journey, or where; should a meetup occur between us (and with my work, it's getting really difficult; we haven't had a full weekend, or more, in ages), I still feel the shiver. The tingle of anticipation. I know what is to come, and it usually involves kisses. And hugs. And, most importantly, love.

We don't live together, but should we ever do, I'd hope to feel that tingle still, every day, approaching the time when we can be together again. After all, everyone's got to have something to look forward to.

Wednesday, 15 July 2009

Orgasm Promotion Plus!

Nicked from here:

The National Health Service of Britain has sparked controversy with their controversial sex education campaign promoting an orgasm a day:

A National Health Service leaflet is advising school pupils that they have a "right" to an enjoyable sex life and that regular intercourse can be good for their cardiovascular health...

...Alongside the slogan "an orgasm a day keeps the doctor away", it says: "Health promotion experts advocate five portions of fruit and veg a day and 30 minutes' physical activity three times a week. What about sex or masturbation twice a week?"

One college headmaster called the leaflets "deplorable."

Why? It's about time we had some decent, un-censored, explicit sex education in Britain. Hell, with the level of abashment most teachers (and all others, mind you) seem to have about the subject, any sex education is a step forward in some cases. I mean, all I learned in year 9 was how to put a condom on a cucumber.

Monday, 13 July 2009

A Lack of Restraint

So... it's been difficult, being apart. I mean, it's always difficult being apart, especially when you are very much head-over-not-just-heels in love. I know others have experienced the same, and they have felt the same way. Sneaky references show solidarity, and for that, I am very grateful. (And also feel a little bigheaded because I clearly deserve a mention, srsly.) But we were apart for a long time - a quick dinner, while involving food, doesn't really do the word 'goodbye' justice, and when the planned absence of good company is two whole weeks, it's more than a little depressing.

She returned from her little excursion yesterday, and although I was at work (and had to be so this morning - as did she), there was something to be said for her being a little less far away; at least there was a promise of reading a little story to her over the telephonic device later on in the day, and that I enjoy. But we were still not together. Not physically. Last year I returned from a week-long trip and she was with me within two hours of my return. But with time the bonds grow stronger, and a little less than a week is still a long, long time. Too long... much, much too long.

So she took the initiative. No ties, and no restraints. No regard for the unyielding fetters of the commuter-based machinations of paid work. While I was leaving my workplace, she was leaving her hometown. A frantic train ride, a couple of confused 'phone calls (Her line: "I'll meet you at Liverpool Street..." / My line: "WHAT?!" á la Doctor Who) and a lot of snuggling on public transport later, we had made it. No need to talk to my parents. No need to do anything sociable. Just some time, one stolen night, between two working days. Just a little time for us. Only for us.

We ended up lying on my bed, the sheets in a tangle, as the post-orgasmic haze descended upon us. For those moments, there was only breathing and mutual appreciation of each other's naked presence. It is a familiar feeling for those acquainted with it... but, dear Glod, I have missed it.

And her. I have missed her, too.

But she's back. And all is right.

Saturday, 11 July 2009

More Conversation

I've been at work a lot recently (it's a busy time), and insofar as writing about sex is concerned, work's not exactly the best place to get ideas. But every now and again a conversation happens like the following one between four young, female colleagues (I may, or may not, have changed their names as it doesn't particularly matter what they're called; all that matters is that this happened!)

"Are we going to the pub now?" queried Steph, at the end of a long, tiring day.
"Yeah!" chorused three of the girls. ILB, curious, skulked in the background, waiting to go home.
"Uh," interjected Jess. "Sorry, but I have to meet a..." She paused. "A friend."
A giggle ran through the rest of the assembled collective. "Oh, you have, have you?" smirked Lucy. "A friend, eh?"
Jess giggled, a little too late in realising she had done so. "Yeah... a friend."
"He's not...?" asked Lucy, Steph and Tabitha all at the same time."
"He's not a boyfriend!" protested Jess. "He's not."
"So he's a...?" whispered Steph, and all four collapsed into laughter. ILB, totally confused, continued to listen, thankfully unnoticed.
"He's a fuck buddy, then?" said Steph. A little too loudly. In fact, a few heads turned in the direction of the girls at that point. ILB, feeling that he'd better make himself scarce, quitted the scene, an amused grin unfurling on his face. As he walked out of the workplace, bag on back, he heard some more laughter, and could practically feel the residual heat from Jess' face as the cool air hit him outside.

Tuesday, 7 July 2009

Get To Work, ILB!

Older Colleague: "Do you have a fella?"
Younger Colleague: "Sort of... maybe."
Innocent Loverboy: "Maybe?"
YC: "Well... not really."
OC: "Do you or don't you?"
YC: "Yes."
ILB: "You're dating?"
YC: "Not sure I'd call it dating, exactly."

ILB: "So you're playing the field?"
YC: "I'm sleeping around, yes."

Except we didn't say that last bit. But I think I'd worked it out by then.

Saturday, 4 July 2009

People are Stupid

So... the newspapers reported recently that a study has said, shockingly, that couples who want to increase their chances of having a baby should have more sex.

Great study, guys. Truly earth-shattering.

Thursday, 2 July 2009


A bunch of scallies in school uniform sat beside me on the Tube earlier on today. I don't begrudge them their position; I mean, I had to wear stupid clothes when I went to school too, and if I'd gone into central London then I'd probably have taken the Tube. This particular social clique was clearly the outsider crowd - not quite smart enough to be geeks, alternative enough to be rockers or sporty enough to be jocks. They seemed deliriously happy in their own existence and you can't fault them for that.

What I can fault them for, however, is the question they asked their token girl member - clearly intended to solicit some sort of hilarious response á la "are you a virgin?" - a question asked to me when I was in year 6. I said yes, and this struck my would-be tormentors dumb, as they assumed I would have said no to this unknown quantity (they assumed, incorrectly, that it meant someone who wasn't married, so they were both struck dumb and plain dumb). The question they asked her happened to be the classic:

Maria, do you like mammary glands?

Maria, a pleasant-looking blonde-haired slip of a thing, didn't actually hear this question the first three times, partially because the Victoria Line was making so much noise, but mostly because the boy asking her the question was sniggering to his mates. Now, I don't exactly think that any of them knew what a mammary gland actually was, exactly. It's hardly the technical term for "boobage", but I think we should assume that, insofar as this group was concerned, "mammary glands" = boobs.

Maria didn't know what to say. To be frank, I wouldn't have known what to say either. I mean, where's the joke? It's hardly a question to which either response to the affirmative or negative would be worthy of ridicule. Maria, for her part, could have said yes or no and she would have been right. Yes, she could like mammary glands, because they provided milk to sustain her through those troubled first years of her life. Or no, she could not like them, because (unless Maria is a lesbian, or bisexual or curious) she does not find them physically attractive. Considering the fact that she appeared to be about 12, 14 at the oldest, I doubt she would have even considered that.

Which leads me to wonder: what exactly did the boys want her to say? Evidently it would have been something devastatingly funny - the grins on their previously inane faces gave that away. I was waiting for the response and suddenly it would have all become clear. We'd all have a jolly good laugh and then throw Maria our Kola Kubes and some football cards for co-operating with us in a jolly good wheeze.

What Maria did, say, however, was not what the rest of the group was expecting.
"What's a mammary gland?" she said, curiously.
The boys' faces all resembled something akin to a photograph of a goldfish mid-gasp. Clearly, they had not been ready for a reply consisting of more than one word. To respond to a question in the form of a question, though? Well, that's just too much, isn't it? I mean, game over, man. Game over. Maria had won, and what's more, she had probably won without even knowing that she was being challenged.

And with that, their stop arrived, and Maria rose from her seat opposite me, and sashayed her way off the train, the rest of the group in her wake.