Tuesday, 29 June 2010

"I want to have sex," said Zebedee.

It took me far too long to find this one.

I actually saw the article in that paragon of virtue, the Evening Standard, on Friday, and ripped it out of the paper to keep in a secret place - that is to say, I just put it in my bag. Not that I can remember which bag. I've shaken out my rucksack, two Forbidden Planet bags, two Orbital Comics bags, one Sainsbury's bag, and a box of Kellogg's Crunchy Nut. Neither finding the article anywhere nor remembering what it was about, other than it was vaguely connected with sex, I did the honourable thing, and promptly forgot all about it until this afternoon, when I actually bothered to look on the paper's website and type "sex" into the search box, á la the generic search term I entered into AltaVista when I was 14.

Eventually I found it.

Don't be dismayed if people around you can't stop yawning. It may be because they find you sexually attractive. Yawning is not just a symptom of tiredness but it can also be a sign of stress, interest - and wanting to have sex, scientists said.

Well. If scientists said it, then it has to be true.

More seriously, though (and it's not often I say that), I actually believe this one. Not because scientists said it, but because I've experienced the same sort of thing myself.

I don't know if this happens to any of you (because I thought I was some sort of freak, evidently), but at certain points - generally when I'm at work - I yawn so heartily that I feel like I could grow another few inches when I stretch. This isn't a new phenomenon; I've often felt like I can't quite get into my body, and that if I could just stretch enough for my skin to rip open and my muscles to stretch as long as they wanted to, I'd be even more tall and gangling than I already am. But I digress. When I yawn like this, it's not uncommon for me to come out of the yawn feeling turned on.

I'm not sure what turns me on, though. I don't have a yawn fetish (thank God), and I don't recall being turned on and then yawning, which causes an exacerbation of such. It just happens that I yawn and stretch and then I discover that I have an erection. Of course, this may just be the rush of blood and oxygen that happens with a combined yawn/stretch, but why should that turn me on? Shouldn't that just make me heady?

A yawn, as I'm sure you know, is the same as a hiccup - it's your body's attempt to get more air into the lungs, same as a hiccup, due to either an obstruction of your oesophagus, or a lack of oxygen in the circulatory system. This much I know, insofar as my rudimentary knowledge of human biology goes. And it also stands that when yo see somebody you find attractive, or think of a situation you find arousing, you can become a little breathless. So perhaps the two are linked. And then there's post-orgasm sleepiness, which is often brought on following a yawn following an orgasm. OMG CONNEKSHUNZ.

So, yeah, there's a lot of truth in that one. ILB's Real Life Experiences FTW.

Now, if only scientists could explain why I sometimes have a hacking cough when I try to masturbate...

Sunday, 27 June 2010

Her over there, using IRC!

There's a reason I think "her" is a very powerful word indeed - one of the most powerful words in the English language - and I think it has something to do with sex chat rooms and erotic stories.

No, wait, come back, I'll explain this one, honest!

"Her" - unlike "him/his" - can be used as a pronoun in the nominative ("her over there"), accusative ("look at her over there" or dative ("I'm going to sleep with her"), but can also be a possessive pronoun ("she picked up her cash from the client") - and that's the one that's powerful, that possessive pronoun.

It's not unknown for me to have, back in my single days (of which there were many), visited sex chat rooms, mostly around IRC servers like irc.sexnet.org and similar places. I rarely used the same name twice (and it was never "ILB"), but I did hang around, and as an innocent onlooker, I was fascinated by the question that came spilling from the mouths of the angry, horny males that congregated in the rooms - which people were girls?

There's an easy way to tell who's a lady if you're in a room with lots of non-gender-specific nicks (although a lot of them are gender-specific; names like "yx", however, are wonderfully deceptive), and it's easier than opening a /query and asking everyone "m/f?" or even "asl?" (question marks optional) - which will probably get you kicked from the channel anyway. You just look for the "her".

This is where the /me command comes in. Actions which involve things like "[girlname] picks her cash up from the client", innocent as they may be, provide a vital clue as to exactly which gender [girlname] may be. It's the small clues like that which you have to look out for, and which I noticed the angry, horny males ignoring.

What was always funny - well, I thought it was funny, anyway - was when a "her" was dropped into the mix in a main channel and nobody had clocked that the user in question was female to begin with. I can't quite remember the specifics of the channel in question or the action that precipitated it, but it went something like this:

* [girlname] shakes her head in disbelief
[male1] you're a girl?
[male2] u're female?
[male3] wanna pm, [girlname]?
* [male4] looks at [girlname] and is horny
* [girlname] has left IRC (QUIT: Connection reset by peer)

Which just goes to show the effect "her" can have on any number of people.

Of course, I'm biased - I find ladies attractive - but I'm having a difficult time trying to consider the fact that "his" may have the same effect. It doesn't seem to carry the same gravitas. Even in erotica - "he slowly slid his massive, throbbing, blood-engorged cannon into her petite lady garden" - it doesn't seem quite right. I don't think "his" fits too well. It probably doesn't carry the same revelation factor.

So, yeah. "Her". What a word! One of the most powerful, and aesthetically, one of the best - well, I think so, anyway.

And IRC. What a median that is, too!

Thursday, 24 June 2010

Steady Recovery

So it's summer. The windows are open and, even though it's approaching nine, it's still light. I'm lying on my bed having just finished an old issue of Green Arrow I bought from Orbital Comics two days ago. TD has been watching Come Dine With Me, which featured four stereotypical WAGs. I turned the television off (attempting to do it with my feet, which were closer to my TV, but I failed and had to use my hands - lame) and directed my attention towards her. Nice skirt. Top that shows a bit of cleavage, not bad. Very nice hair. Looks relaxed.

So it became kissing time. Evidently. We kissed once, twice... again. Again. Again. I moved, so I was lying on top of her. More kisses. A cool breeze drifted through the window from outside, which was very pleasant.

[I should probably point out at this juncture in the narrative that I was a bit of a physical mess prior to lying on my bed. My back was bent slightly out of shape, my feet were calloused and everything else felt raw. That's what my job does to me, and the sun doesn't really help. I'd had a massage and my feet in a basin of cold water and that made everything better, but slightly so. So cool breezes were most acceptable.]

It had been so long. I hiked up her skirt and traced my index finger across her underwear.

"Rainbow pants?"

They were rainbow pants, indeed. Very pretty. Very nice. But they needed to come off if I was going to progress. After all, if there's one thing summer lends itself to, it's getting undressed. We didn't quite get that far, though.
The rainbow pants came off. I unhooked my trousers, too, pulling them down. And whatever pants I was wearing, even if they weren't rainbow.

More kisses. I leaned forwards, and slowly eased myself into her. Always a great feeling. Exciting, considering we both still had most of our clothes on. More so, as the windows were open.
I lay there for a few seconds, re-attuning myself to my surroundings, before beginning to move. Slow... easy... soft. But deep. Yeah, soft but deep. That, I like.

We lay there, on my bed, having slow sex with our clothes on, while outside, the birds sang a evening chorus, which was clearly audible through my bedroom window.

The are worse ways to end a day, I think.

Monday, 21 June 2010

Making Time

So, yeah, not at work... yet. But I'm not on holiday any more. I did, however, spend a lovely weekend in Oxford, during which we had quite a lot of sex. Some of which happened in the afternoon.

Understandably I've had afternoon sex before, so this probably doesn't come as a shocking revelation to most, if not all, of you, gentle readers digesting these words. But, although it's been the case for me, until TD put her finger on it, I didn't quite clock why afternoon sex seemed like the best kind. And, as she pointed out, it seems remarkably decadent.

And it is. It's comparable, even, to sitting in a hot jacuzzi while eating Ben & Jerry's ice-cream and sherbet lemons. Combined. While watching Series 3 of Knightmare. And getting a blowjob.

I mean, you're not usually having sex in the afternoon, are you? In this workaholic society, you're probably not supposed to - from the age of four, you're usually at school, and afterwards at work, during the afternoon (although I'm with the Spanish - let's start the after-lunch siesta time, ¿si?). Even at weekends you're meant to be using the time constructively - let's write essays, people. Or go for long, rambling walks in the forest. Or watch the T4 onmibus of Glee (or is that on in the morning? Who cares, I record it automatically!), or work on your garden and/or allotment. Where's the time to have sex? Don't you do that in the evening? Or first thing in the morning?

Sex is probably the best when you're not supposed to be having it. That's the naughty aspect; the "because I can, so I will" aspect. And, as I've demonstrated above (Knightmare aside), nobody's likely to suspect you of having sex in the afternoon. Because that doesn't happen, except in porn, right?

So here's the plan. I'm going to set aside every Sunday afternoon from now on. For sex. Because that's naughty. And decadent. And lush. I mean, what else is there to do on Sunday afternoons, anyway? It's a damn sight better than finding something else to do, when the long-established pleasurable experience is there for you both to indulge in. And nobody else will know, obviously.

Long live afternoon sex. Hey, who knows, I might even put on some Knightmare while having it.

"Enter, stranger..."

Thursday, 17 June 2010


Well, I've been a busy bee.

Er, that is to say... I'd have been a busy bee... if I were a bee. I'm not, last time I checked. I've been busy, in any case.

Just in case any of you were wondering, I'm still on holiday, and I've been playing the fun game of Make The Holiday Count. So far, it's been going well. Although I can't exactly say I've been winning on all counts. I've been to Birmingham and back, bought tickets to see Penn and Teller and ordered a Pokémon Mini, so money's an issue. But I care nothing for the cursed lifeblood of the bourgeoisie... until I run out, at which point I care again. But it's been fun, anyway - relationships, of course, helping.

Mini pointed out the other day that I attract the same type of girl - which is odd, because I didn't think I attract any type of girl. But Mini has a point - she is short, busty and a brunette. She's also worldly, wise and smiles a lot (at least, she does in my presence), but holds a very sensitive side, which I pick up on in conversation. We chatted, ate pizza, shared waffles and stared out of the window of the O2 Centre onto Finchley Road.

H, who is also a short, busty brunette, is in Scandinavia. No, I didn't know either. I think maybe I was involved in the planning of this trip (insofar as I may have said at one point, "Scandinavia. Yeah, that's a nice healthy place to visit..."), but I forgot about it until last week, when I was visiting H and she mentioned it. So I had to make good use of my time with her. Good use being snuggling on the sofa, eating soup and going to see some odd monologues at a theatre I didn't even know existed. Yeah, we're cool.

Visiting H, in turn, followed on (in the same 24-hour period, in fact) from TD, and her friend N, going to Italy. Yeah, that's right, I finally get some time off and she buggers off to Italy. It's OK, she's back now, but still... I missed her. She's a short, busty bru... you get the idea. So is N, now that I think about it. Except maybe not that short.

I've also visited 47, and another friend who I probably haven't mentioned yet. I'll call him Farm Boy. He's blonde, though, so that doesn't really count.

Anyway, that's where you find me now. I've exhausted my friend supply, pretty much. At the moment I'm spending my waking hours making love to TD and recording songs for my new album, a couple of which are about making love to TD. Could be worse ways to spend a holiday, I suppose.

Saturday, 12 June 2010


"Come on, you know you want it."
"Please, no more. I can't!"
"I'll be gentle. I'm always gentle."
"No more cum. I can't come any more! I'm worn out!"
"Can't you?"
"Oh... oh..."
"You haven't got another one in you?"
"But I..."
"I'll be good..."

Wednesday, 9 June 2010

Sit Down '98

Rebecca didn't like saying "I love you." Throughout our tumultuous oneandabit-year-long relationship, which consisted mostly of doing absolutely nothing (because, frankly, she is boring), I was the one who said it most. If she did so, it was either sarcastically, or a lie. I remember, specifically, her saying something along the lines of, "I'm going to visit Robin over the Christmas holiday, but I'll come and see you first for a day, because - you know - I love you." She was, in fact, screwing Robin behind my back. Labyrinthine as my mind is, I'd worked it out by this point - but I let her say it. She rarely said it, so even then, I wanted to hear it.

Rebecca didn't like saying "I love you" because, in her words, "it's a bit overdone." Well, it's not, really. Sit Down '98 is overdone. "I love you" is not overdone, especially if you are saying it to someone you genuinely and truly love. In fact, it's a phrase I love myself, because - rather than being something that you can overdo - it's more of an affirmation. A declaration of commitment, and/or feelings. It's perhaps the most powerful phrase in existence (except for "her", which is a very powerful word - I'll explain why in another post, mayhaps), and even if it is used lightly, it's not something that can be overdone.

What she was trying to say - and I picked up on this one as well, although I didn't mention it to her at the time either - was, "I don't love you any more." I'll agree that not saying "I love you" is different from saying "I love you not", but nevertheless, stating that you don't want to say it, when you've been saying it for a while, rings alarm bells, n'est-ce pas?

With TD, I want to say it. I say it every day, even if she's not around to hear it. When I read her stories to lull her to sleep (we are on our seventeenth book; I may put another list up on here when we hit 20), I say it after she falls into Dreamtime (or is that the Night Dragon? Never mind...). I'll say it when she goes on holiday tomorrow, and I'll say it to myself when she's away. And she says it, too. It's been two years and I don't think we'll ever get tired of saying it. I certainly won't, anyway. It can't be overdone... not because I need to say it, but because I want to.

Oh, and despite some of their songs perhaps being overdone slightly, I'll apply "I love you" to James, as well. Sit Down '98 isn't that bad, really. Unlike Rebecca's recent song Is It Too Late To Say I'm Sorry?, which... well... yeah...

Tuesday, 8 June 2010

Pause / Break

I'm on holiday at the moment.

That's right, break out the shock and awe. I have an unofficial two weeks' break from either work or studies (on this course, they pretty much amount to the same thing). Frankly, I've worked really hard. And I earned it. I earned more than two weeks' break, but that's all I'm getting, really. So I have vowed to enjoy it.

I haven't been doing much so far.

My lovely girlfriend goes away for a while, starting Thursday. I see her and N off at the station on Thursday morning, and then I'm left alone. I'll visit H, I'll contact Mini, I'll go and see 47 for a bit, and I may go and see Our DJ for a day. I'm supposed to be doing stuff with my guitar-playing uncle, and I'm also vowed to attempt to engage in more creative endeavours for these weeks. You know, buying shoelaces and that sort of thing.

But this also leaves me with a lot of free time. Spare time. Whatever you want to call it. On my own.

Cue two weeks of eating large breakfasts, going for long and pointless walks, watching bad films deliberately, illicit night strolls in order to buy and consume Half-Baked, showers which take an hour and a half, and thinking. Lots and lots... and lots... of thinking.

As I said, I've earned it.

Monday, 7 June 2010

Yet another dream, yawn.

I'll stop doing these, I promise.

So I was lying in a ghostland between being awake and asleep. TD was next to me and she was slumbering peacefully; we were covered by a bedsheet, but nothing else. No duvet or anything. No pyjamas. Hey, it's getting hot, we have a perfect excuse. I kept flicking in and out of dream, which probably explains the random short-film-esque aspects of my dream, which established lots of little clips of one continuing story, which had...
  • Myself, TD, Chelsea and Jenna Haze escaping from some sort of POW camp
  • Vaulting over some barbed wire and then holding it up so everyone else can get out too
  • Chelsea suddenly rhapsodising about me but rating my blog 52%, using my real name
  • Everyone suddenly making a snap decision to run back to the camp
  • Chelsea and Jenna having spontaneous lesbian sex on a random bed, while TD films it
  • TD suddenly needing to go the doctor
  • Us waiting for six hours on a table, while the doctors kept seeing other people (the most realistic thing in the dream)...
  • ...while covered with a bedsheet, and spooning in the waiting room
  • Massages being offered by the doctor's waiting staff, and me manipulating them into massaging TD, because she wanted one
  • Them taking her away while she was asleep...
  • ...causing me to attempt to cover my naked body with the bedsheet
  • Waiting for the massage, which never came...
...because at that point I woke up. Properly. I let TD continue to sleep while I lay there and mused on my dream for a while. I then turned my attentions to her naked body, of course. That seemed like a much more worthwhile thing to do than wondering whether I eat too much cheese before bedtime.

Sunday, 6 June 2010

Any Question Altered

The other day I asked AQA (63336) what Lisa Boyle's best sex scene was. To tell the truth, I was bored, and in any case, back in my fledgling days of downloading soft porn I'd already decided what her best scene was (in Friend of the Family, also known as Elke, if you want to look it up... she has three sex scenes in it and they're all very intense). But I was curious as to how some average Joe at AQA may choose to answer that question. I mean, would they have just watched all the Lisa Boyle scenes in all the movies and then made their personal choice? That would probably take hours... and a lot of tissues.

Nevertheless, they came up with an answer: this one, from Sheer Passion (1998). They also, being AQA, came up with when and where she was born and the story of her education. That's not what I asked, but it's always good to have some new information. Granted, it's information I could have gleaned from Wikipedia, but never mind. As for her best sex scene? Er, no. It's just an average scene. She also does some lesbian stuff in that movie, if I remember correctly, but that's also average stuff.

So I wonder where that choice came from?

Curious, I posed the same question, only this time I asked about Jenna Haze. She's different from Lisa Boyle - very, very different. For one thing, she does hardcore porn, and as I don't really watch much of that stuff, I shouldn't really know who she is. But I've seen her riding a Sybian, and therefore I know exactly who she is. And what she sounds like. Loudly.

Their answer - apart from telling me that Jenna Haze is 28 and that her bra size is 34B-22-32 (no breast enhancements? Jenna, good for you!) - raised my eyebrows higher than those kids in the Cadbury adverts can get them: This Ain't Star Trek XXX. Really? They actually called a film that? What's next, Vague Spoof with Sex In It? This scene, in fact. I think that's meant to be Spock, only... well... it isn't. And again... it's an average hardcore scene. There's nothing different about it other than the fact that some git with pointy ears and zero acting talent is boning someone probably half his age. In other words, most porn is like this.

So, again, where did that choice come from?

I guess, when it comes to choosing sex scenes, it's up to what you like in a scene. The reason Lisa Boyle leaped to my mind when I was mulling over asking AQA a question is because her films have been ones I've remembered - because she's a good actress. And therefore the stories built around her scenes aren't so ridiculous. So her best scenes are both intense, well-shot, and built around a plot that works. Her performances in flagrante delicto are very good as well, I may add. Whereas Haze, porn star material as she may be, doesn't really put much work into anything besides getting fucked. She does it well, but I doubt she has many other qualities, really. Makes me wonder if she's going through the motions.

AQA are wrong, in any case. Whatever your preferred sexual tipple - artful, intense, story-driven soft porn or explicit, long, formulaic hard porn - both those performers have their finer moments than those they gave me to watch.

Which begs, once again the question...

...how did they choose?