Saturday, 31 December 2011

Year End Review

Years have their ups and downs. I think everyone's in agreement that 2010 was a pretty terrible year. 2011 hasn't been much better, frankly, and my hopes aren't high for 2012 (unless someone ousts the Coalition government somehow). But on an individual level, 2011 has had its high points for me, although the first half of the year was pretty bad. Let's go through it.

New Year's Day was one of the worst days of my life, as I was dumped by my girlfriend of two-and-a-half-years without any form of recognisable reason. I still don't understand. I never will unless I get a comprehensive explanation. At least with Rebecca, she was a cheat. With TD, I was left confused as well as upset, and the gloomy train journey back from Oxford was one of the worst few hours of my entire life. I'd lost my girlfriend, and my job, which was dependent on me working with her mother. It's really the worst way to start off a year, and there was no indication that it was coming as well, which is why it was such a shock.

I was on a downward spiral throughout the first couple of months. There were a few high points, including the evening spent reviewing The Lovers' Guide 3D and dating myself on Valentine's, but I hadn't fully recovered by my birthday, despite getting a new haircut. I was still quite emotional at this point, but over the course of April, I gradually managed to get my sense of humour back, accompanied (maybe even helped somewhat) that I had a couple of weeks in April where I was trying to detox on flavoured water, and I think I got my sexy back around that time.

And then we have May.

May has always been a rollercoaster of a month to me. I don't know what it is about that month, the pre-summer buoyancy or the slightly intangible sense of expectancy that something will happen. I've always been of the opinion that if something will happen, it will in May - since I started school. It's the start of the summer term and the holidays come afterwards. And this year, many things happened.
I started May on a terrible low. I made an ATM smile, met another blogger, and broke my DVD player with hardcore porn. I reviewed said porn, was buoyed by the Beatitudes, talked to my cat in order to masturbate with my bedroom door open, and spent a couple of weeks feeling really uncharacteristically dirty, with filthy dreams and unholy urges. At the end of the month, I went to Woodcraft camp, for the first time in years. I loved it with my whole heart, and I started June on a high.

I had a good summer. June, during which I completed a NaBloPoMo mostly by accident, had jumping semen, the urge for a jacuzzi, the incredible SlutWalk (during which I resuscitated a bee), chastisted my sister for dating a married man, started eating Snickers for breakfast, realised my trousers have holes in, and for the first time ever, put a picture of my whole body on my blog. I ended the month, again on a bit of a low, but by that point I had started flirting with a virgin not named Catharine, and through the following July, this developed into a relationship. We went on a date, and then another. By the time my summer holidays started, I had a new girlfriend. I was also in a new band. Things were looking up.

I had a great summer. Don't begrudge me for it. I had a fantastic road trip to the West Country with 47 and two girls. My family holiday was average; some bits of it made me cry, but it was pretty good in parts - people laughed hilariously at me and my dad doing our comedy bits during the turns night, and a replica Princess Catherine ring did the rounds during the naff presents game. I went on my first holiday with Catharine, and although we did have sex on our third date, it wasn't fully penetrative and she remained a virgin. But I got bitten, so I guess that's... okay...? I also met a lot of blogging and tweeting people over the summer, and started September slightly refreshed.

September was pretty dull. I went to my girlfriend's house for the first time, but the rest of the month was quite droll. I did a bit of volunteer work. Not much happened. In October, however, I re-entered full-time education, taking a course which lasted a little less than a month, but for which I put in an insane amount of hard work. I consider it just below my English degree, but about three trillion miles above my other degree, in terms of enjoyment and usefulness. And, Glod help me, but I actually quite enjoyed it. The certificate, incidentally, was actually awarded by one of the Oxbridge universities (although I won't say which one) - so I actually got my Oxbridge qualification. It took me years and through a rather twisting route, but I finally achieved the academic peak that everyone assumed I'd reach.

Take THAT, year 6 teacher!

I grew a moustache in Movember, finishing off my course and feeling my sexual charge growing again, making it back onto Rori's Top 100 list (after a conspicuous absence last year) at a whole nine places above where I'd been in 2009. In December, I met up with some people I haven't seen for over a year, and had a lot of fun. I also visited Catharine, who by this point had gained the title of cutieloveheartgirl. The first half of the month, however, was overshadowed by the death of Rebecca, which put a bit of a downer on things. I saw 47 again, for the last time this year, who was coping incredibly well, and admitted that he didn't know how to grieve. I was called special and then moved on towards Christmas, which was okay.

And that's my year.

So has it been a good one? No. But it's been okay. Frankly, anything would have been better than 2010. Socially, it's actually been a pretty good year, considering how terribly it started. I didn't actually think I was particularly strong, but as it turns out, I possibly am. How strange. I've had my share of incredibly bad bits this year, but hasn't everyone?

Ask my mother and she'll tell you that my year was characterised by not having a job. But in the grand scheme of things, I don't care. Since I started school, there hasn't been a period where I haven't been either in education, employed or volunteering in some form or another. I can't claim to be a workaholic because I am, in fact, incredibly lazy. But I'm not complaining about not having a job. It's made me a little more introspective, but to be honest, I've actually quite enjoyed it. I've spent a year out of employment, not deliberately of course, but out of employment in any case, solidifying who I am and where I want to be going. This isn't where I thought I'd be when the year started, but actually, I'm okay with things as they are for the moment. There'll be some movement in 2012, of course, but again, who knows?

I guess the important thing is... I survived. And I hope to survive the next one too. I'd say "happy new year", but really, we all know that's nothing more than a wish. So. Onward to the new year, everyone, and let's try to make it at least bearable for all involved. And to everyone who's said a single word of encouragement or friendship, or shown me any love this year, thank you too.

ILB out.

Friday, 30 December 2011

Sing, the angelic host proclaim!

Thud. Thud. Thud. My heartbeat was abundantly apparent in my chest. My world dissolved. One by one, my senses came back to me. Touch was second to last to return - the feeling of my own cum, warm across my chest. My cock, still hard but diminishing, filling my hand, pleasant against my palm. The ruffled sheets of my bed cushioning my back. And then, steadily, my hearing came back to me. I heard the hum of the bread maker from downstairs, and the gentle whisper of the white goods doing their housemaid work.

"Aaaaaaaah," sang the choir.
That's new, I thought.

And then I realised how odd that sounded in my head. Telling myself that the sound of a choir singing a held note in my head immediately following orgasm was unusual. I shouldn't have even needed to say that to myself. Still, it was new. I'm used to the temporary loss of senses following orgasm, and after a particularly large orgasm, slight deafness is certainly one of them. But while a faint buzzing in my ears is commonplace, a heavenly angelic choir singing "aaaaaah" with a gradual crescendo was certainly a new one to me.

I wondered where it was coming from for a few seconds. One of my Dad's CDs? The choir that rehearse down the road had gone for a wander? Classic FM? No, it was certainly in my own head. And it felt wonderful. So there was one thing for it...

...I made them sing Light & Day / Reach For The Sun by the Polyphonic Spree.

It seemed like the right thing to do at the time. I mean, the one long note they were holding seemed like the natural lead-in to that particular medley. And while in my post-orgasmic state, I didn't even need to move. I shut down most of my brain and created an orchestra. I already had a choir, after all. They sang their way through the entire song. I heard it all. It wasn't playing anywhere. But I heard it all.

After the final chord was hit, I opened my eyes. The orchestra had gone. The singing had stopped. My choir had gone. But at least they had done their part. They'd kept me company while I recovered from my orgasm... and that means the world to me.

Wednesday, 28 December 2011


I masturbated with my socks on yesterday. No, this is not a fetish. I got five pairs of socks for Christmas. I was grateful for this, as my socks - like my trousers - also often end up with holes in them. And, again like trousers, my logic process goes something like, "well, there may be a hole, but it works as an item of clothing, so let's wear it." I only tend to throw socks away when the hole gets bigger than the hole in which you put your foot, and starts to resemble a dangerous threat to the ozone layer.

I still don't like throwing the damn things away, though. I'd much rather darn them. But I have no idea how to darn. I can't even sew properly; I took textiles technology during secondary school and look with pride upon a little toy I have made and remade throughout the years (with the old one inside every incarnation), but when I try to sew things together they always end up coming apart. I just have no idea how to secure the end of a piece of thread.

In any case, it's not happening. I have some new socks. Aren't they pretty?

Yes, yes they are.

Okay, back to the masturbation.

This is not a fetish. A fetish for socks? I'm not even sure if that's possible. I can understand having a nerdgasm if you're looking for a SOCKS server to transfer information and actually find one, but I don't think that's what your average Joe would refer to. I don't have a fetish for socks, but I managed to achieve orgasm perfectly normally with them on, just as easily as if I had been masturbating without socks on. So why did I do it?

Well, heat of the moment, right? I took my clothes off and forgot to take my socks off. I was abundantly aware that I was still wearing the things, my nerve endings being as they are I wasn't going to not notice, but I didn't bother to take them off. I was more concerned with what was going on in my head and what was happening to my penis. And so I had an orgasm with my socks on. The result? It took marginally less time to get dressed again afterwards.

And, you know, it's winter. And winter is cold. Why shouldn't I be wearing socks?

Sunday, 25 December 2011


I have no idea what to say. So I'll just post this and be done with it.

Saturday, 24 December 2011


The young raver texted me yesterday evening to tell me that my friend-who-is-a-teacher was holding a Christmas dinner that evening, and if I was coming, could I bring crisps? I was rocking Zelda old-skool at the time, but I replied that of course I would, and why hadn't anyone told me earlier? Anyway, I went along and helped said friend-who-is-a-teacher, along with the young raver and another, younger, prettier friend, to set up. We ate the crisps in record time, and eventually Mane and his younger brother showed up and we could get started on the nut roast and masses of potatoes.

We didn't make it through all the potatoes.

"What does age before beauty mean?" asked the friend I have yet to name. "When someone says it, are they calling me ugly, or old?"
"Both," said the friend-who-is-a-teacher.
"I always say ladies first," quipped the young raver, "before I add, 'and men just before'!"

There was a general ripple of something close to, but not actually amounting to, a laugh.

"What's that?" asked Mane's younger brother.
"He's thinking he cleverly puts men before women," someone explained. "It's a bit like a joke, only not that funny."
"Ah!" I piped up. "What I thought was that he was talking about who orgasms during sex! Ladies always orgasm first, because men can't hold it in before they start? Or something like that?"

There was another ripple.

"It's not my usual topic of conversation," chipped in the friend-who-is-a-teacher, "orgasms around the dinner table."
"It's a pleasant subject," I pointed out.
"Haaaaark," said the young raver, as something stuck in his throat and he struggled to breathe.
"You sound just like your mum when she's giving me a blowjob," said Mane's younger brother.

Yes, he actually said that. That's the sort of conversation my friends have.

While the young raver extricated whatever it is he had inhaled, the table wobbled dangerously, both sides threatening to break through the thin wooden slats holding them up.
"Oh, my flaps are weak," said the friend-who-is-a-teacher, poker-faced, causing the unnamed friend to snort into her glass of rosé.
"What?" said all the boys.
"Just taking about my flaps, as I tend to do," she laughed.

I've always known my friends were dirty. But it took one comment from me to set the tone for the evening.

Friday, 23 December 2011


"I don't think we should go to Nanna's now," I said.
"What?" replied my mother indignantly, still pulling on her boots. We had, after all, bought my grandfather an eye-patch. He's had corrective surgery and one of his eyes isn't working, so we decided to make him a pirate. Although, to be honest, I think it was Cath's idea first.
"It's not the right time," I insisted.
"Why not?"
I wrenched open the front door to reveal a cataclysm of heavy rain and howling wind. A rather miserable cat let out a doleful meow. I picked her up with one hand and deposited her on our floor, and she padded off down the hall.
Both my parents paused.
"I'll make tea," said Dad, walking off towards the kitchen.

For some reason, the sounds of heavy rain slapping against the windows, the artificial warmth inside and the fact that both parents are in the house, and that Dad's making tea, simply makes it feel like Christmas. I do rather loathe the plastic tree and its lack of pine scent throughout the living room - and I also can't get over the fact that this living room is on the ground floor (for most of my childhood it was on the first floor) - but I can't find any way to excuse it feeling like Christmas.

Because it nearly is. Nearly. And it's almost beginning to feel like it, as well.

Tuesday, 20 December 2011


It's that time of year again! This FAQ is a redesign that I've had in my head for about six months (that's how far ahead I plan), in order to compress the previous four FAQs into those six classic questions...

  • I write under the pseudonym "Innocent Loverboy". Sorry to shatter any illusions that that may actually be my real name. Most people call me "ILB"; some even do in real life. I also write under other names, including my real one, but that is a rare occurrence. Most of my writing is here, although I wrote and self-published a book once, and I have submitted pieces elsewhere, except those never got anywhere.
  • I don't have a job at the moment, but I'm looking. I am highly qualified, with two degrees, a couple of professional qualifications, and... er... term one of intermediate Japanese. I've been to four different HE universities/colleges throughout my life. I have had some (but not many) jobs in the past. For obvious reasons, I'm not going to be explicit about any of them - the one thing I will be open about is that I have worked with children several times.
  • I am fascinated by love and sex, mostly from an artistic/aesthetic point of view. I don't like to try and deconstruct what I write about as much as I like to enjoy it. I've been interested in love from a very young age and continually developed crushes which never got anywhere. I developed an interest in sex at about 11, having found out about it at the age of 2, although I rarely ever mentioned it at school. I got into softcore porn during this time and still consider myself something of an expert.
  • At the age of 17 I had my first kiss, with Soldiergirl, a young lady who is now married with two children(!). I later got my first girlfriend, Rebecca, who I was with for almost a year and a half before she left me for another man. She recently died from breathing complications. I was single for years afterwards, during which I had sex with Louise, Alicia, Lily and snowdrop. At 23 I met and fell in love with a seamstress who eventually turned into a drinker. We were together for two and a half years, until she dumped me for reasons I still don't understand. About six months later, I found myself in a relationship with a virgin. We're still in that relationship. She's not a virgin any more.
  • I have never successfully asked anyone out; all three relationships so far just seemed to happen. The one time I asked someone out, she said no. I never tried again.
  • I am ruled by my heart as opposed to my head and I like that; I have never tried to change it at all and I never want it to change. I am a good person; I do good things for people, occasionally at the expense of myself. I am shy and awkward, but I am very good at putting on a mask of bravado and have a stage presence. In my spare time, I play music and do stand-up. I love to read. I play video games. I'm half angel. I am a vegetarian, pacifist, socialist and advocate of free speech. I am a member of The Green Party. I have been in The Woodcraft Folk for twenty years (since I was six years old). I don't like bananas.

  • This is a blog about sex. Of course, given my verbose nature you'll find more than just posts about sex here - I will also write about dating and relationships, love and romance, and the occasional humorous post. Although the overall theme of this blog is about love and sex, if I think something's funny or interesting, I'll put it here. As I was saying recently to someone, ILB gets a much bigger readership than my personal non-sexy blog, and I think my friends who read this will appreciate funny or interesting stuff a bit more than Joe Blogs who hangs around my LiveJournal. But most of the posts here are around the vague theme.
  • What makes this blog different from other sex blogs (other than the person writing it) is that there aren't any fancy colours, flamboyant headings, random naked pictures, copy-and-pasted monthly lists of blogs or adverts for 459387150 different sex toy companies on the sidebar. The layout is designed to be open and friendly, easy to navigate and non-oppressive. It's very simple and that, I think, makes my blog easier to read. The most extravagant thing about this blog (other than the person writing it) is the right-hand sidebar with those really simple buttons.
  • I don't take part in a lot of blogging memes, especially the ones that involve nudity, mostly because I think my body is physically hideous, but you will find very rare HNTs, some TMI Tuesdays, and Soft Porn Sunday, where I take a moderately satirical look at a scene from soft porn that I like, and eventually say why I like it. Yes, it's an excuse to watch soft porn. Get over it. I have also both taken part in and completed four NaBloPoMos. Some of those have yielded some of my favourite posts ever.
  • This blog is totally non-commercial. I have occasionally provided reviews of products and porn, but those have always been totally honest and not always positive. I don't do affiliate links, in-text adverts or anything to monetise what is essentially a hobby (although admittedly a hobby that takes up most of my life). I will review things and attend events for sex writers, but I don't want to make any money out of this. It's too much fun.
  • This blog has been featured in Rori's Top 100 Sex Bloggers of 2009 (at the amazingly high position of #97), and of 2011 (at the astronomical #88). I also have profiles on Twitter, Formspring, Technorati, Google, and Quora, although I'm not sure how that last one happened.

  • This blog is created using Blogger, as opposed to any other blogging software, although I am much more seasoned in using LiveJournal, which was a better service before they started using adverts and it suddenly became terrible. I follow people using Wordpress, Dreamwidth, Tumblr and other things too, and there's no specific reason for me using Blogger as opposed to anything else. I just used it because it was there. There's no particular reason for changing, either, so I won't.
  • Being pseudonymous myself, I use other names for people who turn up on my blog - most of them are other bloggers who come ready-made with their own nom de plume! The main other names you'll find here are 47, Robinson and H - they are all friends of mine. There are lots of other people, of course, but you'll discover them in due course. Or just scroll back and read my entire blog, you'll find them somewhere.
  • I divide my blogroll into three sections, although this doesn't actually reflect my opinion on the blogs linked to at all; heroic bloggers update regularly, or have done so within the last month, whereas villainous bloggers are people I love whose blogs are no longer active, but their back catalogue is worth a read. Blogs I like but which aren't specifically about dating, love or sex are marked as unaligned. But if I've ever blogrolled you, past or present, it's a good bet that I love you.
  • Most of the designs I use (including both versions of my logo and the button which may have led you to this FAQ) are my own creation. I do like to keep things as simple as possible if I can.

  • Ah, now this is a question! The typical answer which I'd give if I were asked by someone I didn't know would be something along the lines of, "I didn't see many sex blogs written by boys, except for pictures of cocks or men acting like cocks, so I started one of my own." This isn't strictly true... mostly because I didn't see any sex blogs written by boys when I started. I wasn't egomaniacal enough to believe I was the only one, but definitely the famous ones, such as the ones featured on the Channel 4 documentary, were written by girls. And anyone asked to name a sex blog will probably still name either Abby Lee's blog or Belle de Jour (both of whom I've met; hey, girls!). And there's some truth in that I'm aware my views on love and sex are atypical when compared to the usual stereotype of boys in their 20s. But I don't think that's the real reason.
  • Another reason was, "well, I wasn't getting any sex, so I thought I'd tell the world about that." This is an answer I gave to Emily Dubberley's boyfriend at a screening of a Lovers' Guide film, and although I did it purely for the lulz, there's an inkling of truth in that as well. I did write a very explicit, very frank post in my LJ about how I'd become very sexually aware after coming back from university, and how I was having trouble expressing myself, particularly as I wasn't having sex. I got a lot of open and honest responses from it, which gratified me as my writing had encouraged a lot of people to talk freely about their sexuality online. But as it was on a blog which my parents read, I had to hide it in a locked post, and I don't agree with censorship, so I did feel a bit guilty for doing that. However, it got me thinking - if one entry could elicit responses, what about more than one? Two? Hundreds?
  • I don't think there's one actual reason why I write a sex blog, but if I had to some it up in one word, I'd choose something wanky like: "catharsis". I love to write. And what's more, people consistently tell me I can write. I don't know why, but allegedly I can. I just put my fingers on the keys and go. I rarely even redraft. But I love to write, and I do get people telling me I'm a good writer. It's a situation I like because I get to write more. Through employment, unemployment, education, training, whatever... I continue to write. And I'm writing about sex, which I wanted to do but never could, and what's more, people are reading it. I get over 100 hits a day on this thing, and even though most of them are me, somebody's reading this. Somebody's reading my views on sex. And if they're horny, if they're interested, if they're laughing... well, I did that. And that's a fantastic feeling. That's a wordgasm.

  • I live in a house in North London with my parents and my cat, Willow. Previous residents have included my sister, who has moved elsewhere in London, and my gran, who is now in a nursing home but comes to visit a lot. My cousin also lived here this year, but he has since moved back to the Mull of Kintyre, Scotland, which looks more and more like a penis every time I look at it. I've never had a brother, and having him living in the attic was the closest I've ever had to that experience.
  • I have never lived elsewhere for a significant period of time. Until I was 2, we lived in a different house, about 15 minutes from where I am now. I was in the Midlands for my first degree, but decided not to stay there and defaulted back to London. As my best friend lives in Kent and my girlfriend in Leeds, I do a lot of travelling, which I quite like. I also don't need to stay in London and this may well change in the future, but for now, I'm static where I am.
  • My father is originally from Scotland, but he is a thespian so, like me, speaks with an RP accent (Gran still has her Borders twang). My mother is from Battersea (although she calls it "south Chelsea"). My mother's extended family all live within a quarter-of-a-mile radius from this house. This means that every Christmas is spent with a varying number of people averaging 16 to 18. Also, everyone appears to have a key to everywhere, except me, for some reason.
  • You can find this blog here. There is an RSS feed at the bottom of the page if you want to sign up to it, and you can also read the posts on Sex-Press or Technorati, but the best place to go it here. I read all the blogs on my roll by opening each one individually in separate tabs. I suggest you do the same.

  • I was born on the seventeenth of March, 1985. I was a week late, probably because I hadn't finished reading Great Expectations in the womb and wanted to know the ending. I was eventually born by emergency caesarean section, because it looked like I wasn't going to make it. As the first grandchild, I was then the centre of attention for four and a half years. On the sixteenth of August, 1989, my little sister was born, and my whole family promptly forgot about me. It hasn't changed since.
  • My first ever blog post was made on November 29, 2001. On 21 December, 2007, I wrote my first post in ILB. This is my 734th post, with this year (2011) being the year in which I've made the most posts - almost a hundred more than in 2010.

And because this was a lot of text, you probably haven't read it all, but if you have, many thanks to you. Thanks also to you if you're one of the people I've actually met. If you're Lady P or Blacksilk, thanks again. If you're Catharine, I love you. If you're someone I started talking to this year, then thanks for keeping me company. If you're a casual observer, thanks for reading this small but important bit of text.

Here's a picture of a cat.

Sunday, 18 December 2011

Soft Porn Sunday Special: The Unknown

There's something I remember and I want to see if it makes me orgasm.

Unfortunately, I don't know what it is.

I'm not even aware which late-night cable channel I saw this on. My gut feeling says UK Living, because that was a series more likely to show this than L!VE TV (who mostly showed their own stuff... and closed down in 1999) or Bravo (who mostly showed Surrender Cinema stuff and '70s sex comedies at times - although it could have been them, but I doubt it). But that's a very fuzzy memory. I'm pretty certain, however, that it existed, because I saw two episodes of it.

What I remember is this: it was an "instructional" series starring Kira Reed (whom I know well, both from Sexcetera and a plethora of softcore flicks throughout my teenage years), with each half-hour episode featuring a different area of sex to explore (one was about undressing, one was about light bondage). It was set ostensibly in London - in fact, I can remember the opening sequence:

"Hi, I'm Kira Reed. [something something something]... but I've never been to London, England before. [something something something]."

Hmmm, maybe I don't remember it as well as I'd thought. Anyway.

Despite the opening sequence I can't actually remember any indication that it was in London at all. It featured interviews with people who were probably sexperts (although I can't remember), and short sections called "Kira's Hot Tips!" which featured Kira in a "69" baseball shirt (wildly original there) with her giving instructions in a sultry voice. What I do remember well, however, is that it featured a softcore scene at the end of each show. This was weird, because it completely and suddenly blurred the line between fact and fiction. As this was unannounced, I was quite taken aback (pleasantly) by this sudden twist. The continuity announcer said something like, "and you can see more from Kira in... [the programme name]... tomorrow at the same time, and she may well find a way to get involved herself once more!" Indicative of a recurring motif? I'd like to find out.

And that's what's bugging me... I can't remember. Not at all. It doesn't show up on her IMDB page, despite the fact that it lists practically everything that was ever made, ever. It's not one of those documentaries and there's no comprehensive list of her official site. And, of course, without knowing its title I can't find any scenes online. In fact, there's no indication that it existed at all.

But it did. I just have no idea what it was called.

Thursday, 15 December 2011


"If this had been last Friday, would you have come from Leeds?"
"Yes, of course I would. I wouldn't have missed it for anything, you know that." I almost winced at my own cliché.
"Because, you know, you would have been leaving your ladyfriend to come to this."
"I'd have gone back to her at the end of the day..."
"Still, you'd be leaving your girlfriend to come to your ex-girlfriend's funeral. That's sort of like cheating." 47 grinned into his beer. "Or something."
"It's a good thing it's today then, isn't it?" I said, passing some sort of alcoholic beverage (I know nothing of these liquids) to his dad.

The funeral had gone well. I was slightly disappointed by the fact that the coffin was wheeled in, as opposed to being carried on the mourners' shoulders. The choice of music was variable - it's not every day you hear the whiny voice of James Blunt followed by the short-skirted schoolgirl tones of Britney Spears at a funeral. But I appreciated Justin Bieber's Baby. And the service itself went well enough. 47's song was heartfelt, even if I couldn't hear half the words, and the live James song was pretty, if not performed in the original key (you couldn't tell though... well, I could, but then again, I'm me).
The bit that I didn't think particularly well was her mother's closing sentence, "God lent us an angel." It's very sweet and everything, but I've never been too fond of sentences like that. When one dies, one is instantly brilliant at everything (TD said once that, in order to get a paid scholarship somewhere, she'd have to die, because then everyone would start saying she was really intelligent), but saying something like that was a little too syrupy even for a funeral - although I'm sure it looked good on paper.
What I will say for the funeral, however, aside from everything else, was that it did make me feel a little warmth for poor Rebecca, despite all that she put me through. From the large picture of her and myself projected onto a viewscreen to the constant reminder that she affected a lot of people merely through talking to them on her computer, I was reminded that, initially, she made her presence felt. Whatever she may have ended up doing.

I hugged lots of people.

"You're a very special person too," whispered her mother into my ear.
I am? I wondered. But then I reflected somewhat. Why did she say that?

I mean, she is a genuinely nice person and all, but why specifically say that I was special? It's not something you'd say when a trite "it was nice of you to come" would do. But I cast a look around anyway. None of her other boyfriends had come. Mind you, I don't actually know if she had any other boyfriends... well, ones that lasted more than a couple of weeks, anyway. I'd clocked up almost a year and a half. I hadn't even seen her for months, and even when I last did see her, I didn't say more than few words to her, and that was a question as to whether or not she was going to use the toilet. And after all that had happened, I was still reeling. I was still dealing with the effects it had had on me and I don't think, even with her death, that it will ever go away - reach a resolution.

But I went. I went with the best of intentions. I sat in the same place on the sofa that I always used to sit. I stroked the same cat. I got a cup of tea from the same dad. I shared my jokes with the same brother (although he has a different girlfriend now - but that's okay, so do I). I went, and I stayed. I stayed for as long as I could. And I didn't mention cheating. I didn't mention infidelity, excuses or confusion. I didn't agree with the bit in the funeral service where they said she was honest. I stayed, I was quiet and respectful, and I even smiled at one point.

Am I a very special person? I don't know. But I did leave thinking I went because it was the right thing to do. I have to wonder if anyone else wouldn't have done the same.

Sunday, 11 December 2011

Sex with Catharine, part 4

I'm lying on my back. My shaft is covered in girlcum. I'm sweating, neither hot nor cold, and not sure how I should be feeling, if I should be feeling anything at all. But I am content.

My right hand is wrapped around my penis, tugging my foreskin back and forth. Catharine is lying by my side. She alternates between sucking my tip and kissing me. The kisses are deep, intense and reckless, with no pattern or consideration. She consumes my face. I do the same to her. I have my free hand, which occasionally roams around her body. Sometimes I pulse in her hand or mouth. Sometimes she orgasms. It's messy, lustful and very, very intimate.

She puts her mouth to my right nipple and licks. Or sucks. Or bites. I can't tell. It makes my nerves jangle. I seize up, try to utter a warning. I orgasm, maybe for the second - third - time. I feel it hitting my stomach. Chest. My eyes are closed. I can feel it trickling slowly down my side. I hear Catharine moaning, a sultry one which indicates that she has watched me coming. She loves watching me, she says. I believe her.

She licks up some of the mess. It's difficult, apparently. I clean up as best I can. But mostly I can't move. She can't either. Neither of us want to, to be honest. I curl my arms around her and drift in the post-orgasmic haze. All I can feel is her skin on mine, and the rest of the world gently slips away.

Saturday, 10 December 2011

Sex with Catharine, part 3

From the instant I sink myself into her, she is teetering on the edge. I am aware, of course, that I should be keeping her there, but that's difficult to do when her inside walls contract around my shape, her hands grab my bum and push, and her shallow breaths increase, her mouth twisting the shape of my name...

Instead I concentrate on pushing her over that edge as many times as I can. I go slow and deep, I go fast and hard, I keep up a steady pace and remain consistent. I use my tongue, my hands, my chest. Everything. I can make her orgasm by just remaining where I am and firmly pushing my shaft forwards. Everything for that one aim: bringing her over the edge, giving her those famous orgasms. One after the other.

If I orgasm myself, or if I run out of energy, I stop. But this is not an end. Just a pause. I'll recuperate, lying there enjoying the feeling of her surrounding me. She loves it, she says. She loves being full of cock. And after a while... I start again.

To be concluded...

Friday, 9 December 2011

Sex with Catharine, part 2

Her legs are open before she pushes the duvet aside. She strokes my brutally short hair and gently guides my head downwards, getting her body into a comfortable position. I settle myself between her legs, breathing a little over her vagina's lips, before inching my tongue forwards.

The first lick is golden. I cover her whole, tasting her on my tongue and feeling her quiver. She moans softly as I continue, moving in circles, flicking back and forth across her clit, sliding over and between her lips. Every time I feel her thighs go taut, I go slower, my licks taking her through her orgasm. Then I start again. I keep going until she is soaking wet.

My face is covered with girlcum. I go for the kiss again. She licks the mess off my chin, then kisses me madly. She's almost crazy with expectation. I am hard and ready. I want to give her something.

I give her everything.

To be continued...

Thursday, 8 December 2011

Sex with Catharine, part 1

It starts with a kiss. We are facing each other in bed, her long hair sprawled out behind her, our noses touching tip to tip. My hand is cupping her bum, the other clutched tightly to my chest. Her palm presses against my back...

We kiss. It's deep, passionate, almost feral. We keep going. Longer. Longer. My hand slides lazily, almost effortlessly, around, fingers brushing against the soft lips of her vagina. We've kissed, so she's wet. I slide my fingers in, feeling her moist walls, sensing her body tighten up as I move my hand. She vibrates; she is wet. A long, hollow breath indicates her first orgasm.

All this has happened and we are still kissing.

To be continued...

Tuesday, 6 December 2011

Life, transplanted.

Last night I went to see Adam Kay (one half of these guys) with @shinystaffnurse, who I haven't seen for about two years despite consistently telling myself I should hang out with her more, and @davedawes, who seems to know stuff about more sex bloggers than I do, which I actually thought was pretty cool. Oh, and H.

The show was great - better than the last one I went to, as Adam actually had more time to get through rather than rushing an hour set. And he also managed to get through two bottles of wine. Interesting. And the awkward hanging around afterwards had varied factors, like H being commissioned to ask for a fag from random people (in Soho - I'm surprised she actually got a normal one), Adam telling me he reads my blog (even though I used to read his blog years ago, and the blogs that came after that, so I still maintain I got there first), getting his card (which is a razor blade) without cutting myself, and trading stories. And giving H my camera but failing to get any pictures. FAIL.

But the most interesting topics came when we (eventually) ended up in a place that I referred to as a "Soho bar" (but @ssn insists it was a "skanky caff"). They included:
- Fanuary (a relative of Movember)
- hardcore porn and reviews of the same
- softcore porn and... well, see above
- hentai, tentacle porn on wood carvings and as a cultural phenomenon, and Love is the Number of Keys for some reason
- how young boys can be before they start trading magazines
- people called Tim (but not me!)
- blogs, bloggers, blogging, blogged
- the mighty mighty Twitter
- eating pizza, leading to high-fives (somehow)
- responsible fatherhood
- how writing relentlessly can get you into private occasions... somehow
- 47 (I led the discussion on this one)

Good to see I still have my priorities in the right place...

Flushed with inclusion at this coolest of gangs, I headed out into the night, promising myself to try and hang out with @ssn more often. As I do every time I think of her.

And then I got my hair cut. Well, not right then. This morning. Now I have a forehead that looks like something out of This Island Earth.

Saturday, 3 December 2011


During the week, Rebecca, my first girlfriend, died of breathing complications. She had a heart issue which caused her to collapse at home. She was taken to ICU and put on a ventilator, but couldn't breathe without its aid. Brain stem death happened while she was in a coma, and she ended up being in a vegetative state. When the doctor turned the ventilator off, she died.

Rebecca's older brother is my best friend, 47. He was the one who told me the news and kept me updated throughout what was going on. I told my dad in confidence, who told my mother, who told Nanna, who told everyone else in my family. I'm not happy about that, but I guess they can't un-tell anyone. My lesson learned here: don't say anything to anyone. I have, of course, offered 47 a shoulder. He's actually coping with this stoically well. Some other friends, like Mini, have been asking if he is in shock, denial or disbelief. I just think he's dealing with it well. He's good at that.

My feelings, however, are incredibly complicated.

First off, I am sad Rebecca died - of course I am. She was a very important part of my life and I'm also sad for her family - not just 47, but his parents and the "other" sister, who must be devastated. Rebecca was 25 and although the death would have been painless for her, that's small comfort for the family that I once felt part of. And, of course, I feel sorry for the girl I once felt love for.

However, it's difficult to think about Rebecca without it dredging up some of the resent I still feel from our failed relationship. I don't want to rehash this again, but she hurt me - badly. She did cheat on me, repeatedly, with different people. She boasted about crushing on other people, which made me feel inadequate, and her varying excuses for ending our relationship were all shades of idiotic, the most outlandish one being, "I thought I was polyamorous." I am aware that polyamory is being open about being in more than one relationship, but leaving me to work out who she was shagging on the side is not polyamory. It's cheating. And I'm also pretty certain that this all stems from her having read The Ethical Slut.

TD often commented on the fact that I seemed to have trouble trusting girls with whom I am in a relationship. And I did - I assumed that every argument (well, what passed for an "argument", which was usually her shouting at the top of her voice and me calmly trying to resolve) would mean a break-up, every man she worked with was a potential threat, and that every celebrity crush she mentioned (I hate celebrity crushes) pushed me down to second place. And I still do have that problem. Catharine hasn't mentioned any celebrities or other men (in real life, anyway), and has not been argumentative. But I would feel the stings, I would get jealous, I would be afraid. And this all stems from Rebecca, when the signs were there and I knew I'd get hurt.

After we broke up, she started doing things deliberately calculated to hurt me. I'm absolutely certain about this. She started smoking because she knew I hated smoking, and told me about it. She started listening to whiny emo music she knew I didn't like. And, worst of all, she joined the BNP and was radically racist for a while, before even she realised that was dumb... although, now I say that, her name still appears on a leaked document listing all the paid BNP members. But I'm not sure how current that document remains.

This doesn't mean she was unimportant, of course. She was my first girlfriend (if you don't count Soldiergirl, and I wouldn't). I loved her and cherished her, and I forgave every indiscretion. She did, in fact, cheat on me even before we had met, but after we had agreed to make a go of things, but I forgave. Because, when it comes down to it, I am an ILB. I was firmly of the belief that love conquers all. But I guess I was wrong. I hope I wasn't.

I have very mixed feelings. I'm confused and upset. I'm upset that she died. I'm worried for her brother (my "brother"). And I'm sad that it had to happen so suddenly, and to her family, who must be suffering. Death has affected everyone, but everyone I know who's died (bar one person, who I shall mention another time) has had a life. This is different. This is upsetting and devastating. But there's a very small, very selfish part of me which is angry. At who? I don't know. It's angry that she left without giving me answers, without justifying anything to anyone. Did she come to regret what she'd done later? 47 says she did. I'm not sure. She did write a song a year or so ago called Is It Too Late To Say I'm Sorry?, clearly about me (although not explicitly so). I don't think she ever felt regret. Although now it's impossible to know.

And it always will be.

47 called me again yesterday. They were going through her things, and he found a notebook in her bedroom, in which she had taken the time to transcribe all the text messages I sent to her. Many of these would have been sent while she was cheating. She still wrote the down in her book. Did she still hold the love for me I held for her? Again, we'll never know. I'll never know. But it's nice to know, I suppose, that I had an effect on her - that I managed to be as good as I could be. I lit a spark somewhere in her heart, and I hope that it's a light she carries with her, wherever she may go on to be.

Friday, 2 December 2011

Binary opposition

The way I've always seen it, you can have two types of wank: a dirty one and a clean one. Yes, I've always seen it that way. I just didn't know I had that view. I realised this the other day.

I know that masturbation is dirty by definition. It's messy. It makes a mess wherever you do it, whichever gender you are and however it happens. But then again, so do a lot of things. Eating fruit does the same and that isn't a sexual thing, unless you're reading Goblin Market or posting this sort of picture. Or eating it off someone else. Okay, bad example. But you get the idea. Things are messy. Having an orgasm is one of those things. Yes, it feels fantastic. But it's messy. It's dirty. But that's not what I mean.

It's difficult to define what I mean by dirty/clean, as it's a very simplistic dichotomy of an umbrella term encompassing various types of an act, almost forming a binary opposite of the type Claude Levi-Strauss would enjoy. And it almost stigmatises what I would classify as a "dirty" orgasm, even though that's not my intention. I find both of them enjoyable. I'm sure you would too. But for lack of a better definition (safe/unsafe? - no, also positive/negative. right/wrong? - even worse. raw/cooked? - also Levi-Strauss!), I'll go with these.

A "clean orgasm" is the type I'm used to. It's an orgasm sitting in my chair watching soft porn. To be honest it really was the only sort of orgasm I had throughout my first time at university. Three whole years. I was busy. I was a student and I was in several bands. I had reading, writing and cooking to do, and of course, I had to watch Doctor Who too. I didn't have space, time or the will to have any other sorts of orgasm. And I got addicted to soft porn. I liked it; I still do. I take the piss a bit in my reviews, but on the whole I liked it. I didn't have sex once while at university (well, I did... but only once), and the orgasms I had for three years were practically all in my chair with soft porn. If it works, why knock it, right? I didn't feel the need for anything else.

In my third year I got interested in cybersex and that's where the "dirty orgasm" comes in. I don't know why my brain made this definition, and I'm not happy with it. But I think the "dirty orgasm" comes from the involvement of other people in a remote sense... it comes from the concept of a real person typing a line of script, or posting a picture on Tumblr, or even having an explicit and/or suggestive Twitter account. The thrill of that type is rare, I'll grant you. I don't have cybersex any more (it's cheating!), and even though there are some really sexually explicit people on Twitter, I don't follow many of them. Some go far too far, and it's difficult to put up with both the grading of language used and the fact that most of them can't spell. The happy medium is hard to find and I prefer the blatant ones - "just had sex" turns me on. No idea why. It just does.


I've been a bit out of order in how I separate orgasms here and I am aware of that. My body is aware of that. There's even a change in how I set my body out for these - dirty orgasms usually end with me on my back on my bed, cum more likely to hit my chest (in some cases my neck). Clean ones end with my hand full of semen. They're easier to clean up after... which is probably why they're clean. But both are pleasant, because both are orgasms after all.

I feel slightly sullied after a dirty orgasm though. I don't know why, but I get the feeling that I shouldn't have been doing it. I've no idea why. I'm masturbating over the concept of someone in real life having sex, not masturbating over that person, as such. But I do feel kind of bad about it. Maybe that's just me. Me being not so innocent after all. I've been having those for a couple of weeks and it's really made me feel pretty shameful. Again, for reasons unknown.

I had a clean orgasm a couple of days ago, though, and that's the last one I had. And that was a nice return to what I know. Again, proving the ultimate truth - I do like soft porn.