Sunday, 28 November 2010

Test your luck

I dreamed last night that Kylie Minogue was sitting on my lap.

I'd also like to point out that I am in no way attracted to Kylie. I have, however, met her; during my post-university year before I became a TA, I worked for a major chain of bookshops and secured a position in one of the massive ones in central London - one of the shops that had celebrities visiting. We had The Hoff at one point, with his entourage of very excited girls. We also had Matt Lucas and David Walliams, Gordon Ramsay, Michael Barrymore(!), Maisy the Mouse and Poppy Cat (actually, I was Poppy Cat, the costume was bearable; sorry to spoil the illusion), Julie Andrews and, as I've mentioned, Kylie. Kylie herself is very short, Australian, and nice. Much less objectionable than her younger sister who is judging on The X Factor and, ergo, is dead to me.

I don't know too much about her otherwise. I saw and appreciated her on Jools Holland's Hootenanny a couple of years back, doing her 'sultry' act. I've never really listened to her music and I don't think there's much in her physical appearance either (although she's more attractive than her sister); even if I did do celebrity crushes, she probably wouldn't be in the running (sorry, Kylie). I may have worn (and still own, and still wear on occasions) a pink T-shirt with her signature on it (it's quite similar to mine, with a kiss at the end, and everything), but that's about it.

This is, apart from anything else, what makes the dream so confusing.

I don't even remember that much of it. I remember being in a gathering of people, and Kylie walked in, recognised me - although I seriously doubt she would recognise me; she barely even saw me for a few seconds - and then decided to sit on my lap, which was apparently comfortable (bonus fact: my lap is comfortable; TD, H, Mini, Rebecca and others will all tell you the same). She wasn't being particularly affectionate, although not cold either. She was, as far as I could tell, taking advantage of the fact that she is Kylie Fucking Minogue and can do what the hell she wants.

I also remember everyone else in the dream (whoever they were) being rather jealous of the fact that I had Kylie on my knee. What's more, and rather bizarrely, I also remember waking up and still having the sensation of a short Australian pressing against my legs. And no, before you ask, I haven't been sleeping with H, so put your conspiracy theories to bed, observational reader! Keeping my eyes closed, the feeling was very apparent. But, even if I had wanted it to be so, Kylie wasn't there.

Which is probably a good thing, in hindsight. Because that would lead to some very interesting rumours... and probably a more exciting blog post than this one, in which the most interesting thing you've found out is probably the fact that I dressed up as a cat once.

Ah, well. As I said to H at work the day afterwards, "did I mention I'm not a cat?"

Friday, 26 November 2010


My BlackBerry is acting up and taking a few seconds more than usual to load anything at the moment. I've cleared the caché and have put it on charge. I hope the change is temporary.

It's probably my fault for attempting to watch soft porn on the train, so I'll admint my guilt here in the hope that a blessing from the community will heal my BlackBerry spiritually. But probably not.

In my defence, I wasn't actually attempting to watch soft porn for tittilation, or ejaculation - it's a TRAIN; there were COMMUTERS. I was bored, tired, cranky and boxed in and so I decided to see if I could load soft porn in order to see if I could. If it were physically possible. TD and I watched this and this and this via her BlackBerry the night before, so a scene from The Virgins Of Sherwood Forest shouldn't be so hard to find.

In all honesty, it wasn't hard to find. It was loading that was difficult. And after a few minutes, my thoughts (which had previously been "this is naughty, loading soft porn on a train") turned into "attempting to stream soft porn on a train? what was I thinking?". Streaming be the operative word. The angle my BlackBerry was at, my cold hands could only touch a few keys at a time, and I wasn't about to expend energy by attempting to find a version for download. Streaming it would be fine - if only for a few seconds.

Except it didn't work. Because it refused to stream. And then when I gave up (because we were actually pulling into London, that's how long it took), my BlackBerry got all grouchy and didn't want to work to the best of its abilities. I managed to field a call from TD at that point, but on the Tube, it just wasn't switching screens (signal or no signal) without a little "loading" icon appearing first.

I didn't even know that icon existed.

Still, I refuse to be defeated. I'll use a USB cable and transfer an MPEG onto my BlackBerry myself. Because, apart from anything else, I just want to PROVE it can be done. No other reason whatsoever.

Because, after all, if at first you don't succeed... fail, fail again!

Tuesday, 23 November 2010

Boutique Erotique

The first time I heard of an "Erotica" show I must have been about 13 or 14, a short segment having been played on L!VE TV's The Sex Show. Interestingly enough, the main thing I remembered about it was the name of the founder of the corporation - Savva Christodolou. The reason for this being, of course, that I had a Savva and a Christodolou in my school at the time, and would have bet ten to one that one of them would be claiming to their friends that he was their dad (although, to my knowledge, neither of them did, but then who would?). I didn't particularly imagine exactly what would have been at an Erotica, and indeed I forgot they were happening until about three years ago when I noticed the posters first appearing on the Tube. One of the things I could do when I started writing ILB, I reasoned, was to go to Erotica, and I then managed to miss Erotica 2008 and 2009 completely.

Wow, failure. No change there.

But, thanks to some gentle persuasion from the lovely Lady Pandorah and a need for something to do to drive away the incredible mundanity of my life, I dutifully booked tickets and, after an "interesting" journey across London during which I almost began to think we'd be stuck in a timeloop for ever, I finally walked across the threshold... into a sandwich bar. Oh, and then I went to Erotica.

Maxine told me at the last CCK social that Erotica was more like a market than anything else, and naturally I envisaged the one from Sex And The City 2, although thankfully it was nothing like that. Indeed, the majority of the hall was like a market, with stalls every-which-way advertising supposedly erotic goods (although most of them were clothing-based; I guess every market carries a common theme). There wasn't particularly anything for me there, as none of the stalls were selling softcore DVDs and I already have a bag of sex toys and lube ready for perusal and possible use, but it was really interesting to have a look around the goods available. I did buy a bag of fudge, a mixed juice and a decadent strawberries-in-the-chocolate-fondue mixture, so it wasn't a total loss for me. Oh, and I also got a kingfisher badge from the RSPB (yes, the real one), although they probably missed a trick not making a bigger deal of the fact that there's a bird called a swallow. Nevertheless, they managed to do the great tits joke, so credit to them for that.

TD was more fortunate, managing to get her hands (and all else) on a beautiful underbust corset (we split the cost; I was more than willing to see her wearing it), which was beautifully embroidered, but above all, made her tits look about three times bigger. Couldn't keep my eyes off her, of course, but then again, we were at Erotica. That's allowed, right? We also engaged in coupley activities such as, er, getting our shoes polished (both her leather boots and my vegan-friendly smart shoes got a good polishing, although I suspect the salesman may have been lying about the "you'll never need to polish them again" malarkey) and, uhm, pretending we had enough money to buy a £4999 adjustable bed with massage function (although, to be honest, that was an incredible experience, and it would most certainy help with the troubles I have with my back!). And people-watching. What better place to people-watch?

Undoubtedly the main person to watch, however, was the mind-meltingly sultry Dita Von Teese (find out where I've mentioned her before in any context and get a prize!), who brought to Erotica what was allegedly her new show, although I'm not convinced; I think it was a portion of the same. It was a feast for the senses, though - the whole thing was faux-East Asian (and I've got a certain affinity for that sort of thing), her dress was sparkly enough to compensate for a thousand camera flashes, her moves were fluid and certainly sexy, and the music was very fitting. She carried herself with an enormous amount of confidence, her (uncredited) assistant was also stunningly pretty, and the performance was worth the admission price alone, in my humble vanilla opinion.
I would complain, though: I wasn't around for any of the other shows on the day. I would have liked to see the contortionist, the woman with hoops of fire, the one dressed as a cat and all the others. And Dusty Limits, who is always worth watching (although I bumped into him in the toilets, so I got to say hello in any case). Surely it would make a lot more sense to have Dita headlining a fuller show avec the other performers, rather than just giving her 15 minutes in the middle of the day?

Still, that's my fault for not sticking around for any of the other shows. I'm sure YouTube will provide.

In conclusion, it was a fun day. It wasn't spectacular (Dita notwithstanding), but we got an amazing corset, a ride on a special bed, and some fudge which I'm chewing at the moment, so who can complain at that, really?

And who knows, I may go again next year... if only to procure another kingfisher badge.

Tuesday, 16 November 2010


The fog presses at my bedroom window. If I opened my window, it looks as if it would pour in. My main light is on. My radiator, too. And my fan heater, which exhumes heat right next to my computer chair. Outside, it is cold and dark. Fog and chills. Here, I am enclosed. Safe in a little oasis - a pool of light and heat.

If sexual desire is the "yin", today is the "yang". Yesterday, I was horny. Very, very horny. I was turned on, and this lasted for hours. I ran my errands, I did the jobsearching thing, I watched University Challenge, Only Connect and Miranda. But every time I had a spare moment, I felt the urge. A lull in activity? Turned on. Post-lunch break? Wanting it. Got up to stretch my legs? Third leg. Interesting analogies á go-go? Erection.
I just had the feeling. I couldn't get enough. I didn't take matters into my own hands for hours - because I'm not entirely sure I wanted to. Although I knew an orgasm would stop it, I quite liked the feeling-sexually-aroused thing. Besides, I wasn't going anywhere. I was staying at home because I had things to do at home. I did, in the end, masturbate, but it was the last thing in the day. Just before TD called me from Liverpool to say hi. Good timing, ILB!

Today is the antithesis of that day... although I've done basically the same things. Jobsearching (although this time I actually applied), lunch (watching a DVD of My Family in the absence of a decent sitcom on TV), errands. In the fog. Walking to the end of the road to book a haircut, claim a refund on some unused train tickets and grab some medication for my stomach. I thought, when I get home, I'll be turned on. It's bound to happen. This is me we're talking about.

But it didn't happen. I am drifting, but I am not horny. I don't feel the urge. It's very, very strange.

The fog outside my window has turned my garden into a beautiful shade of blue. I have never before seen anything look so calm.

Sunday, 14 November 2010

Not another chunky Sunday morning...

Although Sunday afternoon sex is pretty damn good, it has a contender in Sunday morning sex. As evidenced by what happened this morning - although, having been too tired for sex the preceding night, perhaps it was the result of pent-up energy. Energy, perhaps, sourced from the large amount of Mexican food, rendering us tired in the first place. That, coupled with the fact that it's Remembrance Sunday, and we wanted to go to church, and therefore we needed to get up at some point.

No energy. No time. No question. We had to have sex.

She started it ("I want... I want..."), but I was up for a bit of naughty Sunday morning sex as well. I mean, this is me - when would I ever not be in the mood for some sex? Really?!
I moved on top of her, kissed her neck. She moaned, a low guttural roll which I could feel. I kept kissing her neck, stroking her wrist. There was no need for oral sex - she was wet, and she wanted me. I was hard, and I wanted her too. I moved forward and pushed into her in one fluid stroke. Very nice. Good control, ILB. Well done. And we rubbed against each other as we moved. Slow, steady, increasing in pace. Very deep, very close. Closer. Closer. She laid her hands on my back, curling herself around my body. And then, seemingly from nowhere, she came, with a shudder and a gasp as her body seized up and I found myself coming into her as well.

We finished, got up, went to church, came home, watched Glee, ate lunch and watched some more Glee. I saw her off at the train station this afternoon. It wasn't a happy goodbye, but then again, they never are. Nor was it a particularly warm one. My coat can't keep the cold out forever.

"I was just thinking..." I speculated.
"You know when we had sex this morning?"
"That was really good, huh?"

As evidenced by this song.

Saturday, 13 November 2010


Beware! Lazy post with many pictures, ahoy!

So, I went to this month's CCK social and...
...this is a fairly adequate visual depiction of how it felt. Exactly like a Belgian waffle with melted chocolate on it.

And look at this!Time printed = amount. This is probably why they stop serving at 00:00.

And look at the exact amount of loose change I found in my wallet!

Aquinas, eat your heart out... this is proof of God's existence.

Towards the end of the night I decided to make a sculpture by wrapping the salt-cellar in white napkins and sealing it with melted wax from the candles on the table. I also used melted wax to seal a brown sugar cube to the top. It just seemed like the right thing to do at the time.

Next week: Erotica 2010. A rather different experience. I probably won't take so many pictures, though.

Monday, 8 November 2010


This is beginning to physically hurt, so I'm trying to liven it up a bit.

(click to embiggen)

Sunday, 7 November 2010


I was in church. Having added my name, address, phone number and one of the seven e-mail addresses I have into the paper directory in rather shaky pencil, I handed it to our assistant minister (we don't have a regular one, mind you).

"Is that still your e-mail address?" asked the smiling elder. It was, I saw looking over her shoulder, an e-mail address which clearly routed through the church's e-mail account. If the domain was still functioning, and mail forwarding was configured properly, it should have been working. Our assistant minister replied that yes, he thought it was.

"I'll find out myself," I said, whipping my BlackBerry out of my pocket, and thereby removing the shockingly low-tech method of writing things on paper that the smiling elder had been using - all was balanced in the world once again. "Hold on, I'll open my web browser..."

It's a good thing that I sidestepped at that moment, because I'd clearly forgotten to close Things to excite the Easily Aroused, and lo and behold, there was some rather delicious erotica displayed on my BlackBerry screen. And right behind me were the assistant minister and smiling elder. And in front of me were my grandparents. I think my finger moved faster than Billy Whizz on speed at that point, hitting random buttons - any buttons - to close the web browser. Opened it up again, then, to find the start page winking at me. Phew.

Of course, the recently opened links all had some rather risqué words in them, but at that point I put my BlackBerry cover over the 'phone itself and slipped it back into my pocket.

A few people were looking at me.

"I'll look at it later," I explained.

Saturday, 6 November 2010


wheee, say the fireworks. wheee. bang, crackle, bang, bang, bang. bang, say the fireworks. the night sky lights up briefly. fireworks battle with pollution. pollution wins. the fireworks become invisible. black like the night sky.

throb, says my head. throb, throb, throb. i am lying there, sprawled. my bed's surface is soft underneath me. i feel the soft, warm, jumper. trousers hang helplessly off my waist, socks are odd. white poppy impaled, pinned to my top. i am helpless, a slave to my own lazy inclinations. my head throbs continuously and all i can do is lie there.

ahead of me, my toy rabbit lies on his back. i cannot reach for oxford, he is too far away. guitar tuner, cordless telephone, newspaper with job adverts. they are all there. they are all useless to me. bang, say the fireworks.

a tear works its way out of my eye. i am tired. i am lazy. trickle, says the tear. it snakes down my nose and falls onto the cover. drip. drip. drip.

no more thoughts. feelings all gone. i just exist. i cannot move. energy is a concept now. one which i do not possess.

soft sheets. clothes. radiator heat. oxford. bang. brief lights. throb.

i cannot move.

drip... drip... drip...

Wednesday, 3 November 2010

Optical Confusion

When I'm with my girlfriend, we can be very affectionate. In fact, it's something of a given. There are kisses, and then there is sex. There's also nuzzling, brushing each other's arms, cheeks, you know... all that stuff that you generally baulk at when done in public by anyone else, but automatically becomes okay when you're doing it. That sort of stuff. Of course, I didn't expect my optician to be doing the same stuff to me. She didn't... quite. But she came close.

I am aware that is is her job to look into my eyes. I like my eyes anyway, so it doesn't really bother me that someone can appreciate their colour. With the ridiculous apparatus on them, they probably don't quite look as good. But nevertheless, when it came towards the end of my eye examination (all fine, by the way), she told me took at a corner of a window and leaned very, very close, while she shone the light into my eyes.

It was like a mixture of being seduced and interrogated. She leaned closer and closer (what she was looking for I don't know), until my hypersensitive cheeks noticed the familiar tickling sensation of hair against my cheek. Is that normal? my brain shouted at me. Surely she can see your eyes from further away than that?! Further in she leaned, until I could feel her nose gently pushing at the side of my face. Oh God, I hope she doesn't kiss me. I don't think that's very professional of her.
"Okay, that's good."
"Now look up at the other corner of the window."

I obediently did so... and she leaned in so close that her forehead touched my forehead, a sheet of her hair cascaded down my right cheek, and I could feel the line of her nose. Fuck! What do I do? I stayed cool and focused my eye on the light (her hair would have been in my eyes if anything else).

And then she pressed her forehead so hard into my forehead that my head was resting against the back of the chair and couldn't actually move. Newton's Second Law in action, evidently. Head, hair, nose, cheeks... I could even feel her eyelashes at one point. Not that I could see anything, of course, because she was shining a fucking light into my eyes. And she seemed to be taking a very long time to do so, as well...

"Okay, that's all done." She removed her head from mine, and the light snapped back on. I was still slightly scared, but she told me that I was fine (or that my eyes were, anyway) and, as I turned to go, she shoved a piece of folded paper into my hand. I stumbled out onto the shop floor and made for the exit. What's this? Her phone number? I looked around to make sure that nobody was watching,then unfolded it with trepidation. It was, of course, the date of my next eye examination.

Sooner than I'd expected, too...