Thursday, 29 October 2009

Tropic of Calculus

I've been told, although by whom I can't quite remember, maybe it was myself, that an acceptable calculation for the minimum age of whom you date is half your age plus seven. This is flawed on so many different levels it's almost impossible to begin consdering it, but let's assume that, for a theory with absolutely no basis, it works. Not being a mathematician, I am enlisting the help of Windows Calculator.

I'm assuming this theory comes from teenagers and men in their early twenties, so let's assume you are 20. Easy enough - minimum age is 17. That seems to work - it's over the age of consent and sensible enough to know that if they are dating a 20-year-old, he/she is three years older and possibly involved in different day-to-day activities, like higher education or even the hideous "work" that people keep talking about. (Unlike the couple I knew who were 14 and 21 - that was just a bit creepy.)
This also works if you're 25 (19 and a half) or even, at a push, 30 (22... although that's a real push). But any older than that and this theory falls to pieces.

Okay, they say all's fair in love and war and, I suppose (although I don't agree - war is not fair, and love sure as hell isn't), as you get older the age difference isn't exactly the same as it makes a difference when you're younger. But seriously - say you are 70. 42 is the age calculated, and that's not young enough to be a toyboy/girl (do toy-girls exist? Or are they called something different?), but old enough to know better, surely? 42 (28) provides more of the result I was thinking of. But, as I say, it's flawed.

And what if you are a child? I mean, I was romantically (although not sexually, that'd also be weird) interested in a young lady when we were at the age of six - and that brings up ten. 6 and 10 kinda doesn't work, when you're young a couple of years makes all the difference.

I'm not really going anywhere with this. It was just something I was thinking about on a train late last night, and wanted to use it to demonstrate two universal truths: people are stupid, and doing maths sucks.

Tuesday, 27 October 2009

What's in a name?

My mother adores my sister, and dislikes me for the reason that every time she says something adoring about my sister I inadvertently make a snide comment, just to balance everything out a little. The rest of the time she thinks I'm OK. Mostly because I stay the fuck out of her way.

I hear through the grapevine - well, via both parents and various sources - that my sister has become vice-president of her university's Feminist Society. This was surprising, as I didn't even know she was a feminist. When my mother repeated this fact with the air of God announcing Christmas would be extended by a few days over the dinner table last night, I put the point to her that I didn't know my sister was a feminist.

"Of course she's a feminist," my mother said. This was, of course, a perfectly valid and totally flawless one-liner to avert any argument that may have resulted. What an intelligent and witty person my mother is.

I have a problem with the concept of feminism when it's applied to the word "feminism". I don't have a problem with the general concept, insofar as it should be taken to imply that women should have the same rights as men. I mean, that's what feminist writers tend to be hinting at (with a few exceptions, notably Rosemary Radford Ruether, who wrote a whole book called Sexism and God-Talk about how God is actually a woman and therefore all men are actually wrong in every way), and it's what modern feminists - in general, anyway, the ones I have studied - say. Even the Spice Girls said in a magazine once that Girl Power is "about being friends with the boys and having fun with them." Exactly, Girls.

The problem, in my view, is that the word has the Latin "femina" in it. There's no masculine aspect of the word and in a theory which promotes equalisation between the sexes, that's remarkably - well - sexist. And because the word is thrown about everywhere these days, it gets applied to things which aren't actually feminist. You get people thinking about butch lesbians who want to kill as many men as possible, like that woman in The Naked Gun 33
. I don't think that sort of person actually exists. You also get positive discrimination, which I absolutely hate - robbed me of a perfectly good job in the library when I was 16, and scars run deep. (Incidentally, my sister went on to work in said library, and she didn't do the job properly, but I'm not bitter about that... well, not very).

Feminism shouldn't be called feminism. You go too far one way, and you get oppression; you go too far the other way, and you get oppression by the other side - normally the once-oppressed. The olives call the grass green and we start all over again.

So, I'm not a feminist. I stand for gender-equality-theory. It's not as snappy a name, but it's much more accurate. In fact, if you just discard all these theories and see people as individual people, we wouldn't need to debate about it... because there would be true gender equality.

And you know what? There is! It's just not been put into practice yet...

Monday, 26 October 2009

We have no time for these games!

I saw a piece about Megan Fox in the Metro this morning. Admittedly, she's never actually out of the Metro, but nevertheless, the article headline had the word "sex" in it, so I read it. And these are the things I discovered:

- Megan Fox likes sex. She's admitted to liking sex, so it's true.
- Megan Fox likes admitting to liking sex so much, she's admitted to admitting to liking sex.
- Megan Fox likes sex, but doesn't "play games" with men, despite this.
- Megan Fox would prefer a romantic meal in a steady relationship rather than playing games which might get her nowhere.

This sounds familiar. I wonder where I have seen it before...

..oh yes, how about EVERYWHERE EVER?!

Megan, my dear, I admire your performance in Transformers, but practically everyone likes to have sex and practically everyone likes to have a date every now and again. What shocking revelations you've given us there. If only there were one idea remotely new.

I also know why this piece of non-news was in the Metro: it's because you want to have people thinking about sex with Megan Fox. If that isn't journalistic spin, I don't know what is.

I'm onto you people.

Sunday, 25 October 2009

Holy shit! I've written a book!

I spent the last few months writing a book and an inordinately long amount of time and money on photocopying on the sly in my University's library. I'd feel honoured if any of you saw fit to spend £3 on the desire to read it. It's all new material, so you have no excuse not to, frankly.

Short version:

Friday, 23 October 2009

University FAIL!

I'm still not going to tell you what I do for a job. It's no secret that I used to be a teaching assistant and it's also no secret that I'm currently "in training" at a university for a job which pays more. Doesn't take a genius to work out what it is if you read my blog or tweets.

Not that I enjoy it or approve of the way it's taught or anything. I have to point out that the university I'm at is one of the really good ones. You know, one of those Top 20, Top 15, even Top 10 stalwarts. One of those really old ones that appears to be falling apart because they haven't got around to replacing the bricks yet. It's a far cry from the last university I went to, the one wherein I actually did a proper degree, since that was a post-1994 university. A fresh conversion from polytechnic to uniersity did that place a world of good and, while I didn't like that either, I'll admit that their courses - in my third year especially - were excellently run.

Came out of there with a good enough degree, too.

Take that, current university!

One of the courses we are doing at the moment is mostly run online, with the lecturer in charge of the course assuming in all good faith that you're reading through the material. That's an incredibly lazy way of running a course, akin to sticking someone on an Open University module and waiting for the results. Anyway, I've made my point to many tutors and nobody's listening. Fuck 'em.

Sexual issues were advertised on the module sheet for this time last week and I was - pleasantly - surprised. I didn't even think sex would be covered, but it's a very important part of life and I was expecting a quick lecture about sex and its impact on our, ahem, future "client group". After all, I gave a presentation last week in which I openly talked about sex for about ten minutes during which I only paused for laughs, so I assumed this would be an open and relaxed encounter in which the points were all covered quicky and concisely.

Unfortunately, it turned out to be one of the online things to reads through, with boring articles to look at and an equally boring quiz about sexual issues, which hardly mentioned sex at all and used very Bowdlerised language to gloss over the issues. Okay, so I wasn't expecting a raw, erotic and graphic description of all things carnal, but surely... surely... they could have given us something better> Or at least a lecture? I mean, this is important!

New life ambition: qualify, work, and once a year, return to this hellhole of a university (or perhaps a nicer one) and give a much-needed one-hour lecture on sexual issues. I mean, I could probably do it right now if you asked.

Thursday, 22 October 2009

Sex... the ultimate cure-all

I have IBS and, if I'm being mild, it's a fucking bitch and I hate it with every fibre of my being. (You don't want to hear me being moderate about IBS, and the one time I was severe, the Daleks were created as a direct result.) Even with the addition of hideous medicine like Mebeverine, which I have to swallow with my nose pinched as I don't like either medicinal compounds or bananas... and this one is both, IBS can attack at very inopportune moments.

This morning, for example, on a train, five minutes into a thirty-minute journey. With no toilets on the train. Huzzah for inadequacy. Upon arrival at the main London station I had to basically sprint to the toilets and spent about half an hour in agony trying to expel whatever it was that was causing the blockage - I'd forgotten, by this point, that IBS works on stress and the only thing that would calm me down was some de-stressing. There was also some blood on the paper, which didn't help my very illogical thought processes.

Anyway, I finally made it to college, but by this time I was too late to go into the lecture, so I just stayed out and went to the toilet again - this time I took a disabled cubicle. And, for basically no reason at all, I decided to sit and think about sex for a while.

No, I didn't orgasm. I didn't even touch myself... much. I didn't. I just reflected upon the finer points of sex. Innocent, remember?

But the thing is, it worked. Well, either that or dumb luck, or that thing that 47 claims Mister Jesus does for him (only in 47's case Mister Jesus removed a gallstone), or a combination of all three - like a Holy Trinity with only one of the original band members left. Whatever. I spent ages on the toilet in CONSTANT BLINDING PAIN, then thought about how awesome sexual intercourse is for about ten minutes and suddenly didn't feel so bad any more. I mean, I felt a bit squiffy,* and I still do. But there isn't any pain... and that's what helps.

Right, time go and make hot coffee for myself and possibly spend a few minutes thinking about sex. Hot coffee... sex... nope, can't see any jokes to end with there. Ah well, next time.

* It's a real word, honest.

Wednesday, 21 October 2009

Durability, Reliability, Excellence

Durex are an awesome company. Okay, so I'm biased - after all, I am currently in possession of a huge bag of goodies whch may cost something in excess of fifty quid were I to actually buy the things - but even if I were not so biased, I'd have been convinced by last night that Durex are an awesome company.

I'll admit that the speech given by the Durex representative, entirely in poetry, was a little odd. Some of the rhymes, er, didn't rhyme - and some of the lines were far too long to scan, for the sake of a rhyme. Still, any epic poem that's going to rhyme 'innovation' with 'masturbation' is worthy of some kudos. And the presentation was pretty cool, all things considered; mainly geared towards the launch of their new discussion 'thing', a multimedia project called ORA!, we got a highly-coloured history of the brand and product(s), with the walls of the venue bursting into moving images with animated text, before ORA! was even touched upon.

Oh, and the venue. Sketch, in central London. What an odd place it actually is. But it's super-modern, too. The toilets are all in little white pods (which talked to you, as well - "Hey, good-looking... I may not be Fred Flintstone, but I can sure make your Bed Rock!"), the door to the cloakroom hangs from the ceiling, and there's a little podium in the very centre of the room, which hosted not only the Durex guys, but celebrity MC Scott Mills, and at one point a lady sitting in a giant champagne glass.

You couldn't make it up.

Apart from awfully well-underdressed young ladies (and overenthusiastic guys) wandering around pimping Durex' products, we saw a few people we recognised - Emily Dubberley, who I pushed TD into talking to on account of the fact that they've both written for Scarlet at some point, springs to mind (but perhaps because she was sitting next to us) - as well as food of varying quantity and quality. The non-alcoholic cocktails were fantastically tasty, but the vegetarian food wasn't plentiful. It was delicious, but due to the sheer magnitude of people there were as attendees, the staff were outnumbered, and it was pretty difficult to find any food, particularly as it was in small bowls and they were snapped up quickly. Still, we filled up nicely on whatever we could find, and the vegetarian stuff was all marvellously palatable.

At 10:30ish the musc started, and so many people took to the floor and danced, but I just half-inched some "80" cupcakes from a stand, grabbed some goody bags and made my way out of the venue, with a more-than-slightly-tipsy Drinker. (To be honest, I'd have been thoroughly disappointed if she didn't get drunk, considering the waiters who kept on filling glasses with champagne...) And so we made our way home, feeling fabulous and frisky.

The goody bag contains three things that buzz, one of which is sparkly, five things that lubricate, one of which massages as well (and one of which tastes of cherries) - and a travel-sized packet of the same, some rubbery things which are marked XL (Good Lord!), and something that slides, slips and stimulates. Yeah, I think we're pretty much set up for a few years, don't you?

I don't think any of the rest of the party is explainable. It was just unique, once-in-a-lifetime. I don't even want to say whether it was good or bad. It just was. I doubt I'll ever see tables decorated with pearl necklaces or boxes of condoms forming the letters 8 and 0 anywhere else ever again, and that - for some reason - makes me quite sad.

Thanks, Durex. You are megastars.

Tuesday, 20 October 2009

I'm going to ink!

I was sitting in a lecture this morning, between two of my friends in the class - one, a married man of 25 with a dental hygienist for a wife, and the other our bit of token crumpet, lots of boobage and curves with appropriate tight top to emphasise the point. Still, while modest she may not be, she's a lovely person.

So why she appeared to be fellating her pen I'm not entirely sure I want to know.

I mean, perhaps she wasn't willingly giving her pen a blowjob. I'm sure that my fellow violinist in my first university wasn't wanking off her bow, either - but that's what it looked like. Well, in this case, my colleague was actually making the noises - a distinctive sucking noise which, coupled with the up-and-down movement her arm was making, was completely indistinguishable from anything else. She was sucking off her pen.

Mind you, maybe that's what she does. I mean, I brush my pens against my lips as if applying lipstick. It's more interesting than our lectures, in any case.

Durex party later. Yay!

Sunday, 18 October 2009

The Boys In The Brigade

I often don't have time to go to church these days. It's not that I'm any less au fait with Mister Jesus, I merely usually find myself at the wrong place in the wrong time on Sunday mornings, or I have critical essays, critical secret projects, or critical tiredness. I went this morning, though, as it was the centenary of our church's foundation stone being laid, and people were turning up in Edwardian dress.

I remembered this just as I was heading out the door with my grandparents, who looked like someone's maiden aunt and Charlie Chaplin. Improvising, I grabbed a coat which I'm saving for the London Expo next week (as part of a Doctor Who costume), the scarf TD knitted for me last Christmas, and my dad's cloth cap. There - Innocent Barrowboy.

The church was decorated with old-style posters advertising the Boys' Brigade. I've never particularly agreed with the BB - my grandmother made me go when I was very young; I hated it, got hurt a lot, pulled out and threw myself wholeheartedly into Woodcraft - and it usually makes me upset to see my little cousin in it. But I guess if the church is going to have a BB, I can just go and mutter darkly in a corner and not cause any fights. I'd get beaten up again, for one thing.

These posters. I couldn't take my eyes off one of them, hanging directly above the cross behind the stage. A row of cartoon boys - fresh-faced, clean-cut, all-white, all-young boys, drawn in that turn-of-the-century style (you know the type, Main Street USA sort of drawing), looking forward, as if into the distance. Kind of like this, only without the excellent music, and... you know... worse.

They all looked the same... they looked so... Aryan. But then there was the caption. And this caption just made everything all right.

Boys' Brigade: Maybe they will take you!

I smirked. A lot. Endorsement of homosexuality, in a company which doesn't allow homosexuals? Irony: yes, please. Yes, indeed.

1909 - repressed? Pah!

Thursday, 15 October 2009

I'm Jean Valjean

I used to watch Knightmare on the UK Sci-Fi Channel at 7AM on Saturday mornings. The show that came after it was a low-budget sci-fi romp called My Secret Identity. But this post isn't about that. I've also always been fascinated with people working at staff members for the Justice League, such as Maxwell Lord being their financier or Snapper Carr being their team mascot, without adopting a pseudonym like all the heroes do. But this post isn't about that either.

Belle de Jour mentions in Playing The Game that one of the ultimate lessons learned being a call girl is to keep schtum about who you are. I guess the same counts when being an anonymous sex blogger. My situation, of course, is a little different. I'm not exactly important enough to warrant anyone outing me being any big deal - maybe if I published a bestseller then the Daily Mail would have a go, but seriously. I'm not going to hedge my bets by suddenly introducing myself, "Hi there, I'm _____, oh and don't tell anyone but I'm also Innocent Loverboy, I write a sex blog, and here it is..." I mean, the look on their face would be priceless, but I'm silly, not stupid.

The problem is, sometimes I can't hold my tongue. Three of my best friends, one other blogger, one colleague, one former colleague, my girlfriend, a random girl I know by association, and this bloke I know who was on Knightmare all know exactly what I write. Out of those, 47, Syren, Sandra May, swallow and TD know where to find this blog (whether or not they read it). H and Mini don't, but then again, they've never asked.

That makes nine people who know I write a sex blog. That's far too many people, and I'm not counting TD's friends who most likely know too, and people I've randomly told at CCK, as well as people who may have suspicions. My parents have even come close to guessing at certain points (although, to be honest, I haven't hidden it that well - "Thanks for dinner, Dad, just going upstairs to write about... stuff!"). And then there's always the maniacal idea that somebody may discover this blog, start reading it and work out who I am because, well, if you knew me it wouldn't be that hard.

So here's the plan, more for my own benefit than anyone else. Don't. Tell. Anyone. Not Robinson. Not Hairy Friend. Not my sister. Anyone. Let's just keep it to the nine-plus people that know. Because, to be honest, those of you that do know me as ILB will know me a lot more truthfully than those that don't.

So I'm going to start being careful from now on. And, once again, yes, I know this isn't one of those important sex blogs. It's not the best. It's not even one of the best. But I will say this for me: I read back what I've written sometimes, and I'm thoroughly convinced that, out of the sex blogs I know, it's the funniest.

Wednesday, 14 October 2009

Sexy rabbit... again?!

I've displayed porn for rabbits before. Here, have some more:

I know it's just a very clever way to sell chocolate, but Jesus Christ, that's an attractive rabbit.

Or am I wrong for saying that?

Tuesday, 13 October 2009


Next time you orgasm, take a minute to listen to your own breaths.

If you're having sex, listen to your partner's breaths, and then listen to your own. If you're on your own, make sure you're in a very quiet room, and listen to your own breaths. Preferably during orgasm, if you remember.

Fast, yet steady breaths, not quite approximating a gasp. In and out. While you orgasm.

Just take a minute to listen to yourself breathing.

Because, in those precious moments of orgasm, the sounds those heady breaths make convey your whole world.

Sunday, 11 October 2009


"So, what are we doing tomorrow?"
"I thought you wanted to go to the cinema."
"We could," she admitted, settling herself into a more comfortable position.
"You've got a card," I pointed out as I grabbed onto her sides, looking up at her straddling me.
"I have. I could get points." I felt myself bulging upwards.
"You could."
"How many points do you have?"
I frowned. I don't have that sort of cinema card. Unlimited, yes... points, no. So I picked a number out of thin air.
"Seven hundred. That gets you... seventy kisses." She bent over, her hair tickling my cheek. "Would you like to redeem them now?"
"Yes, please."
"Shall we count?" she whispered, pressing her lips to mine.

One, two, three...

Friday, 9 October 2009

Got a Feeling?

I spent most of last night with H. We walked around an exhibition and then Euston Station for a while. Following that I went home, called TD and went to bed, extremely tired.

And I couldn't sleep.

This is not unusual for me; I've had insomnia since I was about 6 and have been learning to cope without sleep for quite a while. I've often had nights with about three or four hours' sleep and there are a couple of nightds I've had without any sleep whatsoever. Last night I got about one, I think. I had a lie-in this morning before stumbling to college.

I realised last night, while trying to get to sleep, that there was something keeping me up.

I was turned on. I was really up for it, despite being all sleepy and hardly moving. I couldn't even breathe properly and yet still I just wanted to do it. I felt myself hardening up, and growing and growing more and more. It was probably as hard as it was going to be able to get and yet I couldn't do anything to get rid of it. I sure as hell lacked the energy to deal with it myself, and no amount of turning around or curling up into a little ball was going to get rid of it. So I just lay there, willing myself to actually go to sleep or just switch off the horny feeling.

Of course, what I really wanted was a warm, willing, soft and wet girl to slip it into. But I didn't have any of those.

Fortunately, I have one elsewhere, and I'm going to go and see her tonight. And since I never actually did do anything about how I felt last night, this evening should be... interesting, to say the least.

Tuesday, 6 October 2009

I shouldn't be thinking this way at the start of term...

Opposite my college is a railway station. Well, okay, that's a bit of a fib; my college is split into a few different campuses (campii?), but opposite the one I'm in at the moment is a railway station. It's how I get to college, in fact. Every morning I walk past it, and I look at it. And it's got memories for me. It has massive national and even international links, and it's where I went to start one of the best summer holidays of my life, about two years back or so. I remember it well, and recently I've only used it as a depositing point for college at the start of the day.

I just want to be free. It's a clear, crisp Autumn day today, and as I walked past the station's main entrance (I come out of a side entrance, because I'm radical and boisterous) I was seized with a longing to explore. A whole plan unfolded itself in my mind - I'd go to Oxford and I'd grab TD, and together we'd travel back to this station - or any of the major ones in London would do, I'm not too fussy - and we'd board a train. We'd just go somewhere. Russia. Denmark. Liechtenstein. Japan. Iceland. Budapest. Sweden. Just anywhere! Anywhere!

It's the sense of adventure that I crave. I just want to feel liberated. I want to get on a train, and go. With my girlfriend as travelling buddy. I want to see things that I've never seen before, I want to have breakfast in Brussels next to the big zebra drinking tea (it's a great statue) once again, I want to travel as far away from this stuffy, overcrowded, complicated computer room in this stuffy, overcrowded, complicated university as possible. I want to hold hands under the Northern Lights, make love in exotic places under the moon and stars, and kiss on a ship as it cruises down the tropical rivers.

Maybe even go to Center Parcs again.

But I can't. I just can't. I don't have any money, I don't have any time. But at least I have the inclination. And one day, maybe just one day, I'll not turn away and keep walking to college, but I'll step up into the big entrance, walk out onto the main concourse, buy a ticket... and go.

Sunday, 4 October 2009


Forgive me if I'm wrong, but...

Spam's suddenly funny all over again.

Saturday, 3 October 2009

Doubled up...

I woke up yesterday with a cough. Well, okay, I didn't start coughing until halfway through the day, but since my throat had decided to stop working, I was in two minds as to whether to go to college. It was eventually decided for me that I shouldn't go. I neither wanted to, nor could, articulate a vocal reponse contradicting this well-formed and expansive decision which consisted of "don't go to college". So I settled back and soon enough started stroking.

Hmmm, seems my hands work even if my throat doesn't.

Eventually it got too much.
"You able to do it?"
"Let's try."

We had sex in our dressing gowns on a bunched-up part of my duvet.

Anyway, that's why I haven't been blogging over the past couple of days. I've just been unwell. Somehow, your capacity for thought goes a little boom when your throat's making you sound like Bowser Koopa. Back soon!