Saturday, 30 January 2010

Durex Pick & Licks

Durex are always welcome into my life and I am feeling particularly well-disposed towards them at the moment on account of the fact that I used their products to induce multiple orgasm yesterday (on her, not me... my orgasms came later through sexual intercourse. Horses for courses, and all that...). That, and the fact that they offered me the chance to try their new 'idea'. I'll put the logo up soon.

Told you it would be soon.

The schtick of Pick & Licks (yes, it's actually called that) is that you choose five lubes or condoms (although, sadly, not vibes, it seems - although they are expensive), send the form to Durex and they send these back to you (yes, that's actually how it works). In fact, that's a system, it seems, designed to bring back happy memories of Woolworths and using their pick-and-mix section to buy unreasonably cheap sweets. (4p was my record, if I remember correctly.)

I await my striped bag with anticipation, as if I don't have enough Durex stuff already...

...okay, now I must go to my bed. There is a naked girl wearing a pair of kitty ears in it. I'm sure you understand.

Tuesday, 26 January 2010


Dateline London, or possibly Oxford: A lady was seen buying a corset today, stating that despite its recommended retail price being £200, she needed only pay £50 (British Sterling) to obtain this item, using a cunning technique known as "sale shopping". Miss T Drinker, 23, a seamstress from Oxford, was heard stating: "Do you remember the corset I wore last time? Well, this one makes me look two inches thinner than that one. I felt very sexy."

The effects of this staggering discovery were felt as far as North London, where residents were stunned to find out what had happened. Mr I Loverboy, 24, a blogger from London (but he won't say where), said, "You're turning me on just making me
think about it." Upon being interviewed by our staff, Loverboy added, "I have a picture of her wearing the old corset, and that works for me, so who knows what this one will do?"

Mr Loverboy's mobile telephone has gone in for repairs after being deemed too clogged with a liquid substance, possibly sweat, to be fit for continued use.

Saturday, 23 January 2010


The sound on my old laptop was easy to alter; there was a little dial on the laptop itself which I used to turn with my right thumb. I could do it unconsciously and I often did if my music was too loud or, let's be honest, if I was watching soft porn on my laptop. I used to do that a lot. I mean, I still do, just not so much. And my laptop's volume dial was perfect for the average lazy Joe who couldn't be bothered to find a pair of headphones - just turn it down so there's a fraction of volume (so you can still hear the music, natch), but nobody else can hear. Perfect.

My netbook's different. It doesn't have a volume dial and, besides, I'm trying to preserve this thing for a few years - don't want to go messing about with bits of hardware too much (my old laptop emitted a pleasing "crunch" just before moderate volume, which I'm not sure it was meant to do...). But this morning I got an external CD/DVD drive, plugged it in and shoved a random CD in to see if it worked. Hey, look at what's on the CD - Andromina: The Pleasure Planet. (Yes, seriously, there is a film actually called that.) OK, well, I know there are scenes in this and I sort of know where they are, so I looked for one. Okay, there's one. It's way too loud.

Quick, where's the dial? No dial, fuck! So my hands flew to the mouse pad (well, "flew" implies movement of some kind; my thumb just twitched - my palm covers this whole keyboard/mouse setup) and I randomly hit the Windows Media Player volume control. Down a bit, down a bit, not too far, not too far - curse you, too far. Up a tad. Too loud. Right, where's the Windows volume control in the systray?

And I fiddled and I fiddled and I fiddled and eventually I found the perfect setting for watching soft porn. The sound's important, evidently. Lo, I was satisfied, except for the fact that I'd need to turn it all back up to listen to music. I may just have to keep headphones next to my netbook, or something.

Right, I thought. Sorted.

Now what do I do?

Friday, 22 January 2010


There was a boy I knew in secondary school who used to sit on chairs with his legs spread wide open. Lots of boys did this, as far as I can recall, but this one sticks in my head because his legs were practically forming parallel right-angles either side of his body.

I was told in about year 10 or 11 that, in fact, boys always sit with their legs open and girls always sit with their legs closed together. Uh, okay. I've never really thought about how I sit. I usually sit with my legs crossed over - I have exceedingly long legs and they hurt if not allowed space, hence the crossing. And yet I was told, in the aforementioned year(s), that I wasn't acting like a boy because my legs were too close together.

This sort of preconceived idea was picked up by, oddly, one of the nicest people in the year (although not admittedly one of the brightest) - a girl I used to hang out with. We were sitting in the park, a group of us, and she spread her legs and remarked, "Hey, this is well comfortable! It's no idea boys all sit like this!" Um, excuse me? I'm less than a metre away and I was sitting on the grass most likely with my legs close together or crossed.

Of course, then a stray football plummeted to earth, and whacked her between the legs. "Aaargh, my fanny!" was the response.

I still don't quite 'get' what this boy/girl legs thing is about. I mean, I was reminded of this by my memory today and so I sat in my computer chair and opened my legs. It's bloody painful! Also, it looks absolutely stupid. And now I come to think of it, that guy I knew at school looked stupid too, as if he had a point to prove and could assert it by reminding us all of his masculinity by sitting with legs akimbo on simple school chairs.

This goes back to the old notion that boys want sex and girls don't, I think; boys are open to the idea of what's between their legs being available - hence it being practically on display - and girls being closed to the idea (and their legs the same), but we all know that's bullshit; girls want to have sex too, as Rachel stated in Glee earlier this week. So I wonder what the problem is, exactly?

So I'm going to spend the rest of the day looking at how people are sitting. For the good of mankind, of course. But for the record, however someone may sit (or think they sit how society dictates they sit), I don't mind if they have open legs. Especially when my bed is involved.

Thursday, 21 January 2010


As the strained, slightly tinny sound of Born of Frustration from a favourite James bootleg emanates from speakers I cannot see, my fingers tap out arrhythmically on the keyboard. It's a very quiet sound, with very pleasant taps. No need for force, no need to repeatedly hit a key until the letter deigns to appear on the screen.

My finger flies gracefully over the mouse pad and with a soundless nudge on the pad itself, the cursor coaxes a window open. "Whooo," croons Tim Booth, and I press control and touch O without thinking, a world of James bootlegs presenting itself to me. I settle on Chameleon recorded at London Nambucca. A quiet bootleg, this one. It suits my mood. "Bass sounds good, though, don't it?" quips Saul Davies. I return to my typing.

This is seamless. It's all very small - the actions are small, the letters on the screen are small, the windows are small, and due to how far back whoever bootlegged this gig was, the sound is exceptionally small. And my thoughts make a small jump to other people. Saul Davies is small, for example. And my girlfriend is small - she barely reaches my chest.

Welcome to my life, Dell Inspiron Mini 10v Netbook. Ice blue, just enough power, just enough memory, eager to please, and so compact I can fit it into the palm of my hand.

Tuesday, 19 January 2010


There's nothing wrong with kink, just as there isn't anything wrong with adventure. But change isn't fun when it makes things complicated - for example, copying an entire James collection onto an external HD - simplicity, however, can rarely go too wrong.

She met me from work, the lovely drinking girl. I took her home. We sat on the sofa and watched TV, my arm around her. Glee. Very kitsch. Lots of fun. Simple pleasures.

I took her to bed. We cuddled; we kissed. I went down and licked her out. Nothing fancy, nothing adventurous. Just a good old-fashioned licking, all the way to orgasm. Simple.

Wiped my mouth, penetrated her and had sex. Just nice, clean sex. Steady, speeding up, fast, frantic, orgasm. Lay there holding each other. Still special. Still very, very simple.

Read her some story, lulled her to sleep. Managed to get to sleep myself.

All very, very simple.

And a very good evening for us both.

Saturday, 16 January 2010

She makes my head spin around...

My first girlfriend proper was Rebecca, but she considers herself my second, and this depends on whether or not you count Soldier Girl. I certainly came close, but I'm not sure if that counts. I'm still angry with Rebecca for contacting Soldier Girl, who has nothing to do with the fact that Rebecca was a cheating whore, to ask if I seemed like an "attention-seeking tosspot" (her words) just after she'd dumped me. Soldier Girl didn't know.

And why should she? But for the record, I'm not.

I met Soldier Girl on the Internet when I was 17, and I knew who she was, but I didn't know that I knew until she gave me a hint and I clicked. I'd seen a picture of her doing a Knightmare-related activity somewhere on the Internet. And so I added her to MSN (having first spoken on IRC) and we talked. And we talked and talked and talked.

And very flirty she was on IRC too. But only with me, for some reason. Plenty of viable people in the chat room and yet she chose me to flirt with. I still don't know why. But I flirted back. I was 17 and totally inexperienced in matters of the heart, unless you count crushing defeat. And she liked that. And everyone else in that chat room seemed to like it too. It was a rather wry moment, especially when one of our number suggested we set up a #kissingroom for me and Soldier Girl. (We didn't, but at the time it was a nice thought.)

The reason I call her Soldier Girl is because she was at the time a corporal in the ATC. Yes, I know the ATC is an RAF-based organisation, but The Polyphonic Spree never made a song called "Aviation Girl", so I'm sticking with Soldier. Anyway, this was my problem. I struggle with the concept of anyone that young having aspirations to be in the military. I know it happens and I fully accept that it does, but I'm the opposite end of the spectrum; I'm a pacifist to the first degree. I used to work for a peacebuilding charity, I vote Green, I wear a white poppy in November, I sign petitions against violent conflict, I donate to peace charities, I sing songs about how we need to end wars and I think the easiest way to help our country's poor and infirm is to disband the military and operate a home defence and local laws policy instead, using the billions of pounds saved to enhance the NHS.

I'm in the Woodcraft Folk, for God's sake.

And the really stupidly inane thing is, I didn't say any of this. I told her I was a pacifist, but that's the sort of thing I casually drop into conversation, you know...

"Well, of course, Professor, Iago is a villain, as described in the Dramatis Personae; however, since he has been passed over in favour of Cassio, his machinations are precipitated by I'M A PACIFIST the foolish actions of Othello preceding Act One..."

...and of course I cared, really I did. I should have known that we weren't overly compatible. But I acted as if I didn't care. It would have been rude to question her doing something I thought was a step in the wrong direction, and as opinionated as I am, I do try not to be rude.

So we talked and we talked. IRC and MSN gave way to conversations on the 'phone and via text. And the first time we had a telephone conversation, she suggested we meet face to face. I even sent her a picture - she'd sent me about seven - although the only picture I had was one of me dressed as Robin Hood. Fortunately, she was from Nottingham, so she identified. Uh, I think. And so we arranged it, we'd meet up face to face at some point. I tried to organise a date and the first couple of times it didn't work. Eventually we managed to meet for a few hours on a Bank Holiday Monday.

It was a very confusing day. I was enthused and giddy. We met up; she was wearing very weird clothes. The two friends who were with me were slightly put out. They went off to see other parts of Nottingham while Soldier Girl took me back to her house. Nice bedroom, covered in movie posters. TV up in the corner, nice computer cluttered with mess including a piece of paper with my 'phone number on it. We watched Knightmare. We talked. Then she gave me the sign to ask her to be my girlfriend, so I asked her. She said yes, of course. We kissed! My first proper kiss. It was unusual. I liked it. We went on a date, if you call walking to McDonald's a date. Yeah, I know, I'm cool.

I went home that evening. I was high as a kite by then. School next day was a confusing blur, and I don't remember anything about it other that I spent lunchtime in the sixth form common room listening to Pleased To Meet You by James. I wanted to get home so I could talk to her. So I got home, turned on my comptuer, waited... and felt a very sick feeling in my stomach. I knew something was wrong.

And it was.

Soldier Girl turned up on MSN and immediately asked me if we could hold off going out for a while. I got the hidden message without needing to be told. We weren't holding off, we were breaking up. So that was my first and only relationship so far. 25 hours and I'd messed it up already, even though I hadn't actually done anything wrong yet.

I didn't go to school the next day and the few days afterwards I was very tearful. My mother didn't understand, she didn't know how much I had invested on it. But I was extremely stressed at the time, AS-levels coming up and so on, I was battling depression at the time and now this. It was the worst time that I had experienced so far.

Soldier Girl, for her part, immediately became very cold almost immediately afterwards. She was very irritable, and the simplest "hi!" on MSN could incite an outburst of rage - "see? you won't leave me alone! fucking leave me alone!" - I even helped her set up a LiveJournal and whenever I left a comment (which was infrequent) she told me to shut up. I didn't understand and while I didn't say anything about still wanting her, I still did. But she was being very cruel to me. The kind text messages kept coming but she was mean, cutting and sharp otherwise.

Eventually I found out why she didn't want to go out with me after all. It was a valid excuse and it didn't involve any other boys. In fact, it was boys in general. This I understood. I didn't understand, and don't understand, the reason behind the whole "making-me-feel-awful" thing.

The academic year after that, Rebecca asked me out, and I accepted gratefully. Soldier Girl was still being nasty, but she soon began dating one of my friends afterwards. That didn't resolve anything, but effectively it did. I didn't get closure, but I moved on.

I've only met her a couple of times after that - always in a group, once with Rebecca in tow, although I accidentally bumped into her at a Bloodhound Gang gig.

Soldier Girl is now married to a Welsh boy who gelled his hair into a single huge spike for the wedding. She has a son of one year old and occasionally turns up on MSN.

Only I don't say hello any more.

Friday, 8 January 2010

Boy with a one-track mind

Young raver is always a good example of someone who feels like he should casually drp the fact that he has occasional sex into conversations. Take this one, for instance:

YR: "You went to Cardiff university, didn't you?"
Mane: "Yes."
YR: "Is that anywhere near North Wales?"
Mane: "No... but where in North Wales?"
YR: "Er, I can't remember the name of the place, but... it's got a Y in it or something."

Mane: "In any case, Cardiff is in South Wales."
YR: "Ah."
Crazy Lady: "Why do you want to go to North Wales anyway?"
YR: "Well..."
Crazy Lady: "There isn't a girl you want to have sex with there, is there?"
YR: "Well... two."

But that wasn't the only thing that our young raver felt like revealing last night. He also went on at some length about penis sizes and how massive the boobs of someone we've never actually heard of before are (it's kind of hard to picture massive boobs on anyone, never mind someone you've never seen). And then, as we were eventually heading out of the pub towards the cold night air, he finally cottoned onto the fact that most people had been talking about Fear and Loathing in Las Vegas for a large part of the evening.

I don
't actually like Fear and Loathing, by the way. I've seen it with... well, with this group of people (for they are MY FRIENDS, would you believe it?), but plunging into the murky depths of my subconscious and veering catastrophically past everything that periodically goes wrong in my spasmodic life, I remember very clearly that young raver wasn't there. So when did he see it? Well, he was all too ready to reveal all.

"Well, I saw it in my bed with May, yeah, and she really liked it, yeah, but I got bored and had sex with her, yeah, and then afterwards I thought, right, I thought, yeah, that this film was so boring that I had to have sex! What do you think about that?"

Everyone exchanged confused glances. This sort of conversational talent isn't atypical for him. I just don't think any of us knew who May was, that's all.

Wednesday, 6 January 2010

Working hard

I've felt horny at work before. I've even been pushed to deal with it myself a few times, although to be honest, that's not the most pleasant of experiences, is it? Considering the conditions of most work toilets and all. And of course I never actually had a quick jack-off while I was teaching. I mean, there's bad, and then there's bad.

Yesterday, I felt horny at work. No, I've no idea either.

I mean, my mind wasn't actually on sex. It wasn't on work much, either; it was a long day anyway, and I was working a VERY LONG day - I think I should be paid triple for how long it actually seemed - so my mind as drifting. But it wasn't drifting onto naughty things. It wasn't even focused on memories, like that other time. I can't even remember what I was thinking about. Knowing me, something like Batman. Yeah, that fits.

Anyway, for whatever reason, I was turned on. And I was sitting in a chair at a computer of all places. You'd think I'd be used to being turned on while sitting in front of a computer. This wasn't one of those times when it was advantageous.

So I just sat there like a lemon. I mean, what else could I have done? I certainly couldn't have stood up and walked it off, because everyone would have noticed (the trousers I was wearing didn't seem very good at disguising bulges). Altering in the position I was sitting in would've started to hurt. So... I just sat there. Looking stupid and disinterested.

Until the break, by which time I wasn't hard any more.

Thanks, life.