Wednesday, 31 March 2010

On the dangers of leaving your iPhone in public

Young raver left his iPhone on the table when going away to play a round of pool with Mane.

This was an incredibly stupid thing to do, as Hairy Friend demontsrated by instantly picking up the iPhone and deciding to find out how it worked. Luckily for the young raver, he stopped short of taking the thing apart. But he did find this:

I wanna fuck you up the bum
I wanna fuck you like your mum
Wanna pull your hair
And shake your pear
I wanna spunk up your nose
And buy you new clothes

...and so it went on.

So, yes, a poem about sex set in badly-scanning rhyming couplets. And yet he still hadn't returned. Fortunately (well, fortunately for us, anyway), Hairy Friend subsequently discovered a way to add new lines using the iPhone's note-taking function. And hilarity ensued. Take this classic, for instance, courtesy of Robinson and Mane's younger brother:

I'll make you cum
And I'll do it clitoral
I'm not fakin'
I mean that literal

And from me:

Let my battering ram
Into your wallet of ham

And from TD:

Gonna fill you up
Like in "2 girls 1 cup"

And even from Hairy Friend:

Want to suck on your brows
As we do it like cows

Yes, really.

Towards the end of the night TD and I decided to go home early so we could have sex (natch). However, there was only one possible topic of conversation that we could have employed during our walk home.

"How about," she said gleefully, "your arse is going to bruise when we do it with shoes?"
"You're on fire!" I replied. And, as we stolled along, into my phone it duly went.

So I could text it to Robinson for him to add, obviously.

Tuesday, 23 March 2010

Pleased to meet you.

In a state of half-delirium on the Tube (it may have been work, or then again, it may have been a large amount of drugs - but since I don't recall taking that many drugs, I'm going to go with work), I noticed a couple sitting opposite me. Something about them transfixed me. I was quite blatantly staring, in fact, and I think I scared the guy, but to hell with that - he was... well... me.

Okay, before you go and find something more interesting to read, let me point out that this isn't a post about seeing myself in the window and thinking that I look different. That sort of stuff tends to lead to poetry. In this case, there was a guy sitting opposite me who looked exactly like me with deliberate mistakes here and there. His face was fuller, his shoulders were broader, he had more stubble and curlier hair (my hair is curly, but his was curly short; mine only curls when long) - oh, and he was in a Starbucks uniform - but his facial structure was the same, his hands were basically mine and he wore the same expression I wear when on the Tube. The one that says, "yes, I'm here, so what?... so are you."

But what struck me was his girlfriend.

Okay, she didn't actually look like my girlfriend. She was an East Asian with long, shiny black hair. But she wore square glasses, and the expressions she had on her face... well, I knew those expressions so well. And her eyes. Her eyes were my girlfriend's. The way they looked and even moved. Of course, the fact that this girl then put her head on her boy's shoulder and closed those eyes clinched it.

Was I looking at an alternative me? The me where I actually got that job at Starbucks and had nothing else to go back to post-university? The one with the Oriental girlfriend, hair makeover, cool coat, scrappy trousers and clearly more money than sense, despite working at Starbucks (he had a bag from Harrods)? I mean, they just seemed so familiar. So... me.

My iPod switched randomly to Here Comes The Sun by The Beatles. As not-me put his head down to rest on not-my-girlfriend's, the music swelled into my head. And maybe a little into my life, as well.

Sunday, 21 March 2010

These be heroines

"I write a sex blog too," I finally managed to say, "and it's because of you, mostly, that influenced me to... to start writing it. And that's really helped me express my sexuality."

I clutched the crisp, new, signed copy of Belle's Best Bits to my chest. Belle, having pressed it into my hand a few moments earlier, looked at me and smiled. Shamefully, I can't remember exactly what she said in response, but it was overwhelmingly positive.

It seems a strange thing to do, book £10 tickets to see a former call girl speak... to a Times journalist... at the Oxford Literary Festival. Whatever rule you want to apply, it doesn't exactly add up. But it worked. India Knight was a very good arbitrator (even if TD didn't like her shoes), the marquee was lovely and warm and bright, and the house was about as near full as you could get. Belle - or "Brooke", if you prefer - was frank, funny and sharp as a tack. Amid the intermittent bursts of laughter from the audience, many questions were asked, and answered. Including one of mine, in fact.

Plus there were the bingo cards (originally developed by Furry Girl, IIRC) that a few of us got to fill out every time a reference came up. Er, including me, again. Scratching the boxes with my nails for want of a pen. As I managed to get seven of them, despite not being in a row, that won me a signed book. Hey, I'm not complaining.

As I left the marquee, there was a generally uplifting feeling settling down upon that part of Oxford. Journalists were scratching notes into notebooks. H was texting me to tell me she was jealous. TD, clutching my right arm, was positively radiant, and I - a little starstruck but trying not to let it show - was absolutely buoyant.

But the real star of the afternoon was Belle. After a rather random weekend of must-have-it-now sex, watching The Big Bang Theory and feeling refined at eating tea and cake at a festival about intelligent writing, watching her speak was the most perfect, and most grand, grand finale.

Wednesday, 17 March 2010

Additional. Longer.

So, yeah. I left my phone at home and I won't be having it this evening (I'm out of the house this evening, and most of tonight, it seems). I feel lost without it. Humph.

Anyway, as you may have gleaned from my earlier post, it is my birthday. I'm 25, which means I'm nearly dead, or at least something similar to that. The irony being that as a teetotaller I don't really take advantage of the dangerous drug known as ethanol, so having my brithday on Saint Patrick's Day isn't really as fun as it would seem. In any case, last year I was working on my brithday. This year, having the day off, I am lucky in that respect.

As you may have expected, the instant my dad closed the door this morning on his way out, TD and I were all over each other. Birthday sex, a very important part of the yearly routine. We managed to do it all over the house... which was my idea, naturally. It's not really my house (it belongs to my parents), and - assuming I move out at some point withing the calendar year (I'm 25, so I'm meant to be grown up or at least something similar to that) - we need to use all the facilities available. I mean, we already ticked off my bedroom and, er, the bathroom floor (what? don't judge me!). Today we added the downstairs lounge and the kitchen floor. Next stop: the attic (doing it in someone else's bedroom - that'd just be a bit too deviant).

We also used some tingle lube, some O gel, and a cock ring. It's fun to share.

Afterwards we did what any discerning couple would: we, er, went back to bed. We tried - successfully in my case, unsuccessfully in here - to stay awake until midnight last night, to ring in my birthday (I'm important, apparently, or at least something similar to that), but as she feel asleep to my dulcet tones as I bashed away with the children's story we're currently working through - The Phantom Tollbooth by Norton Juster, which is something like the seventeenth book on our list - and so I was left to be awake alone. Fortunately, the large amounts of cake I ate last night got me to sleep anyway. But I was still slightly deprived.

Long story short: it's my birthday, we had lots of sex, we went back to sleep.

I felt an amazing calm descend upon me when I woke up an hour or so later. I hadn't even been aware of my girlfriend's presence in my arms while I was asleep, but maybe that's because I'm used to it by now. But when I woke up, I realised that I was still very tightly holding her, and she was asleep, warm... and naked. If that isn't a calming thought, I really don't know what is. It's calming me down now, anyway (even if not having my phone is freaking me out a little).

Happy birthday to me, in any case. All considered, it's been a pretty good day today... so far, anyway.

Party time!

Dear family being absent, rooms in the house being accomodating, girlfriend being available and Durex Play,

Thank you for making my 25th birthday very pleasurable so far.

Now excuse me while I attempt to re-align some bits of my body into working order.

Friday, 12 March 2010

Commercial Breaks

I'm not too smitten with the idea of capitalism. I mean, I know - particularly in this Western society - we are living in a system which is based on trading money for goods and services. I don't know how we'd build a world without money, frankly. As a leftie, right-wing private-owned capitalism is my antithesis, though, and I'm more of a champion for state-owned institutions, like our wonderful NHS and pre-privatisation railways (ah, those were the days!).

Which brings me onto the subject of this blog.

I don't mind sex blog capitalism. I mean, when it yields entertaining results, that is. Entertaining for me, of course. I have to admit to being a slut in this aspect (among others, ahem); I'm currently reading Abby Lee's second book (more of the same, until she gets outed halfway through and then it suddenly gets interesting) and I think I'm overdosing on Secret Diary (blame LOVEFiLM, not me - well, blame me too, evidently). But those are high-profile sex bloggers.

So, back onto my favourite subject - me.

I - along with many others - appear to be on some sort of list. While there are some sex blogs which will place adverts on their sidebars (and if they want to do that it's their priority), I'm not one of those sex bloggers. This is, after all, a place for me to write about sex, love and all in between. It's not a money-making enterprise at all. The only vaguely money-related things I've done via ILB are:

- advertised my book, and sold it for £3 a throw, which is basically to cover photocopying costs
- reviewed products for Durex (and one TV show), which I'll gladly do because I get free stuff - and I flatter myself that my reviews are good quality, since I apply words liberally, so I'm pleased to do them
- put a link to Coffee, Cake and Kink in the right sidebar, while it was still open

That's it. It's not much, really.

I'll link to other blogs I like and occasionally sites I think are worth visiting, mostly in the text of blog posts, or via the blogroll if they're things I like to read regularly (and think that you should too, whoever you may be...). But my allegiance is not to be bought. I don't 'sell' links on my blog. I don't want extra money from affiliate links and discount-code schemes. And I certainly don't want pop-up windows appearing or any of that other stuff.

So please don't ask me, e-mail people.

I am not a capitalist running dog. Let's just keep this blog clean, healthy, advertising-free, and a good fun space for stories of dalliances, reviews of sexy stuff... and smut.

Thursday, 11 March 2010


As professional as my, er, profession... is meant to - professionally - be...'s always interesting (well, interesting-ish) that people, upon entering a staff room, can just shrug off all their professionalingismingtion (hey, it's my blog, I can make up words if I want to) and reveal their true selves (up to a point, of course). It's when they reveal other people's true selves that's even more interesting.

There's this girl I'm working with. Seems a bit stereotypical, in some cases. She's small, thin, blonde and wears glasses designed - apparently by Dolce & Gabanna (I'm the only person I know who deliberately chose to wear glasses that make me look like a nerd. For the whole of GCSE year I wandered around school being a dead ringer for Harry Potter). I met her the other day and started off seeming quite unassuming.

And then came the morning break.

I was sitting in the staff room reading Beowulf. In she came, this girl, squatted on a comfy chair with crossed legs, having kicked off her shoes.

[I'd like to point out at this juncture that basically nobody keeps their shoes on during the breaks at work. It's to rest the aches and pains, or somesuch. Whatever the reason, any break at work involves an awful lot of feet.]

She whipped out a mobile 'phone - nothing unconventional there - and proceeded to dial a number. It was only at that point that I realised I hadn't heard her voice before. It wasn't really something I was specifically seeking to do; I just couldn't avoid it. Her laugh was the loudest thing I've heard since Kanye West was asked to make a speech about his shortcomings. I glanced up and noticed a grin on this girl's face roughly the size of Nebraska.

"Tell me everything, all of it," she bellowed for the world to hear, even though it was clearly meant to be a private conversation. Not an unpleasant voice, exactly; just intrusive.
More laughter. I couldn't concentrate and put down my book. Fortunately, she didn't notice I was looking at her, half intrigued, half glaring. After all, I wanted to know everything, all of it, as well.
More laughter.
"Wow, you!"
"You did what?"
At this point I was beginning to get annoyed. Bob Newhart makes one-sided conversations funny. This wasn't working as well. I was severaly disappointed.
"Two hot guys?"
Okay, now that was a killer line. Two hot guys what? Whoever was on the other end of this phone, and I'm guessing it was a girl due to the very faint intones I could hear from the other side of the room, had done something with two hot guys, either separately, or simultaneously; alternatively, she could hae been with a friend and they could have had one each. The possibilities were endless. My mind was racing, and it wasn't even 11am yet.
And that's when she said it.


I've never heard such a protracted enunciation of the word "slut" before. It was said with such relish, and with two extra syllables (not counting the pointed t sound at the end of the word). Couple that with the grin and the expulsion of more raucous laughter from this girl, and this was the most gleeful way to call an unknown person a slut that I have ever come across.

Every time I chanced upon this girl later on in the day, I couldn't resist muttering it under my breath. Not that she was meant to hear. In public, that really wouldn't be - if I may use the word for the last time - professional.

Then again, later on this very same girl was asking a favour of another member of staff, repeating the word "please" over and over again before glomping the other staff member and yelling, "I'll have your babies!"
Takes one to know one, then, proving that you can be a self-proclaimed s-her-lutt, whatever you profess to be. Oh, I did it again!

Sunday, 7 March 2010

Straight up!

"Fuck you, stomach," I thought as I scrambled out of TD's bed for the seventh time in a row, leaving a girlfriend both grumpy and worrying in favour of her toilet. Yes, it's not a particularly romantic image, really. It also wasn't the best time to have another of my late-night IBS attacks (why do they always happen at night? It's the worst time!), considering that I'd promised her mother that I'd resume being a teaching assistant for a morning at her school (teaching ICT. Wow, massive departure from your former life, ILB. Well done.*). The following morning, in fact.

Eventually I managed to surmise that my internal war as big as the one in Avatar had subsided, evidenced by the fact that I no longer needed to use the toilet. I also wasn't in pain. But I wasn't moving much, either. And my abdominal section felt strangely tender and wobbly. I had to ease myself back into bed position and even then it was with a groan of less-than-comfortableness. And due to the fact that it was now five in the morning, and I had to be up at seven, I wasn't expecting to get back to sleep at all that night.

This, of course, makes the following occurrence even stranger that it actually was.

I went back to sleep. The dream I had involved me browsing sex blogs. Yes, aren't I predictable? It's notable, however, for being the first time sex blogs have featured in my dreams since I started writing one over two years ago. I even remember specifics; I was reading a blog that doesn't exist (to my knowledge) - one started by a boy and with only two, rather boring, posts - and then went back to ILB and started browsing through my heroes list, something I endeavour to do every day and end up failing to do (though I try...). It wasn't even that erotic a dream.

So I was confused as to why I was so turned on.

This was when I realised I was in dream and therefore I must be asleep. Yay, a lucid dream. Okay, now I can do whatever I want. Oh, fuck. I've woken up. Well, that lasted long.
I had woken up with the biggest erection I have ever had in my life. Almost creating a right-angle from the countours of my body, as evidenced by the fact that it was, in fact, sticking right into my girlfriend's back. Not the best place for my penis to be sticking, I'll grant you. But the fact that it was involuntary made it SPECIAL. Well, I think it did. Maybe it was the fact that it was such a nice erection. Or maybe it was the fact that I had a very bad night and that started with pain and ended with this.

Whatever. Anyway, reasons aside, I've now decided I have superpowers. And it only took me one night of IBS, a strange semi-erotic dream and my girlfriend's back to come to this conclusion.

Excuse me while I go and fight evil.

* Sarcasm.

Tuesday, 2 March 2010


Sometimes, you can have a lot of pleasure without eventually having an orgasm. My orgasms are brief - they're incredibly pleasurable, but they last for a few seconds before subsiding. More often than not, I aftershock for a while, and then feel ready to go again. Seconds out, round two... that sort of thing. I used to have a lot of dry orgasms. I still do, occasionally, although it's less often - I'm more of a "fill her up" ILB at the moment.

But anyway, pleasure sans orgasm. It happens. Even when you're trying your hardest, sometimes it doesn't come. And you don't come, either. And it happens to everyone. Fortunately, not particularly often.

This happened the other day, but not to me. I was in one of my special positions (kneeling, between the thighs), determined to reach my goal. I had an index finger inside my girlfriend's vagina, feeling the inside walls contract around its shape and her labia dilating, letting me in. Nice. I had a little finger (on the same hand) stroking her perineum and probing towards the anus (although not entering it). And to top all that off, my tongue was drawing little circles around her clit, which - judging by the fact that it was nice and hard - was clearly the right thing to do. And there were the moans, and the jerks, and the grasping of hands.

The only problem was, she didn't orgasm.

And stupid ILB kept going. I do this. I mean, I don't think it's fair if she doesn't come once I've started. We had a very highly sexed weekend, mostly - on the bed in the evening, twice on the bed in the morning, then on the bathroom floor later on. You know, that thing that couples do when they've had a lot of sugar. But we were still up for more by the time Saturday evening rolled around. And so I thought I'd make her orgasm first and THAT'S WHAT I WAS GOING TO DO, DAMN IT. So I kept going.

And going.

Eventually she shifted, and I surfaced. I wanted to tell her that I'd do something different, we could have penetrative sex, or I'd feel her, or I could just reposition myself. I wanted her orgasm and it wasn't presenting itself. I wasn't ready to orgasm myself, either. Maybe we were a bit oversexed. I had a reasonable explanation for all this; unfortunately, I wasn't in any condition to say much.

"Blaaaaaaaargh," I managed to say, which wasn't really much of an explanation or apology. I collapsed onto my front and only then did I realise what I'd done to my own body. My back was on fire with hot prickles, I had cramp in both my legs and my knees were stiff and sore. My neck was twisted a little, my hair was all messed up and my nose, which had been pressed against her lady garden the whole time, was hurting a lot more than it should. And my tongue was raw. The fingers I had used had seized up completely; and every time I tried to move them, they hurt. My eyes watered and I could hardly move, never mind talk, and worst of all, I hadn't made her come.

She held me while I lay there and felt so terribly inadequate. I mean, I felt infirm too, but that would pass. (It took a while, but it did pass. I was probably asleep, though.) She even fetched me some water, which - as I was supposed to be doing stuff for her - was wonderful of her. And she told me not to keep licking her for such long periods of time if I ended up hurting that much.

But I wouldn't have cared if I'd made her come.

I didn't sleep too well that night.