Monday, 30 January 2012

Review: "Tickle My Tush" by Dr. Sadie Allison

I was asked to review this book and although I was probably in the minority in actually doing so - I've seen other bloggers refuse to say yes on account of the fact that this book has the word "tush" in the title - I agreed. It's called Tickle My Tush, and it's by Dr. Sadie Allison.

No, I've never heard of her either. I know an American married lesbian couple called Sadie and Allison - Allison is Robinson's older sister - but unless Dr. Sadie Allison is a pseudonym for these two writing in unison (and her picture on the book doesn't make it too likely), I've never heard of her. According to the cover, she's "America's Pleasure Coach", and that's a registered trademark, so it must be true. However, for all that yells "HEY, LOOK AT ME!" from the gaudy cover and incredibly cheesy blurb, the doctor does appear to know what she's talking about.

Tickle My Tush (yes, I know - I'd call it TMT, but that makes it sound like an explosive) is essentially a sex instruction manual focusing on the bum. There are some initial chapters about why the bum is great, but most of the chapters are things like "how to put your finger in it, " "how to lick it" and "how to put your penis into it". Those aren't the actual chapter names, but they may as well be. Now, I've never had full anal sex. I had it briefly once, but that was very, very brief and I don't talk about it. So I can't vouch for any of these techniques she describes, forcing me to discuss the language of the book, which I suppose is what I was meant to do as a reviewer.

C'est la vie.

Okay, so - the book itself. Well, as I said, it's mostly sex tips, interspersed with cartoons which I suppose are meant to be funny, and occasional pearls of wisdom with a drawn version of Dr. Sadie and the caption "Dr. Sadie Sez". I have a bit of an issue with the cartoons, as in all the illustrations of sex, the man depicted is fit and rugged, with a six-pack and well-defined contours. I looked at my thighs this morning and almost cried. But that's just me being me.

I digress. As I said, Dr. Sadie clearly knows her stuff. The chapters are brief and some of the things she says stuck in my head as a reader. I have, in fact, got a bit of a thing for licking girls' bum cheeks - giving the occasional rimjob as well, that's about as far as I go when it comes to kink - but I've never actually done any of the things described in the analingus chapter. I'm assuming this book is written for couples who want to me bore adventurous; it's laid out in that order, anyway ("mild to wild" is how it puts things, although that makes me want to gnaw my own arms off), with the more gentle stuff to begin with and MASSIVE AMOUNTS OF ANAL SEX towards the end. So, for a couple looking to work through the various areas of anal pleasure, this may well be the book for them.


Having said all that, I didn't like it. Why, if it's so useful? Well, I can't say much for the way it's written. Dr. Sadie says early on that she's going to use euphemisms, but I don't see a need for such things if you're going to go into graphic detail anyway. And the euphemisms she uses are... well... grating. I can just about cope with "rimming", but "color" (note the lack of a U) to refer to "feces" (note the lack of an A) set my teeth on edge, "taint" has nothing to do with a perineum, "pleasure inch" and "pleasure tunnel" don't bear thinking about, and I particularly don't like the term "A-spot".

I mean, come on. "A-spot". Really. And it's repeated several times on every. damn. page. I thought it couldn't get any worse until she started using the phrase "He-spot" (to describe a man's G-spot, because lulz it rhymes!). I tried to get along with the language, I really did. I tried to get the puns without groaning, and I tried to see past the PG-rated language to get to the luscious anal sex bit. I even tried to read the "Dr. Sadie Sez" bits without an open and willing urge to crawl under my chair and die, but it was tough going. It just seemed so... well... American.

Okay, yes, I know Dr. Sadie is American and her audience is American and this is an American book and all, but I assume you're meant to take it seriously, and you just can't with the constant flow of terrible puns, teeth-grindingly irritating language replacing words that shouldn't be veiled in a sex book and words like "booty", "buttplay" and "switcheroo". So, uhm, I can't say I found it easy to read. At least it's short.

Would I recommend this book? Well, maybe. After all, I assume the tips are good and anal sex, which is a bit of a contentious issue sometimes, is explored pretty thoroughly. And if you happen to be in a relationship and want a guide to anal sex (rather than just trying it yourself without being an idiot and seeing what happens), this might be a helpful book for you, so by all means have a read. It's unlikely to get a UK release as well, so if you actually want to read it, I'll send you my copy. Just ask me for it. Seriously. I'll give it away at the Erotic Meet if you want.

But for me, I just found it a bit too corny to be tasteful, and a bit too tasteful to be instructive. Which is a shame, because the author comes across as quite knowledgeable at times.

Saturday, 28 January 2012

Juicy Fruit

I just had an orgasm, and one thought filled my mind. Orange juice.

Please note the syntax of that sentence, with one clause coming after the other. I did have an orgasm and I did think about orange juice. They didn't happen simultaneously. As I'm sure you can imagine, my mind was focused on other things at the point of orgasm (or just before orgasm; during the ten or so seconds of intense pleasure that ejaculation brings on, thought tends to go somewhere else). However, almost immediately afterwards, even with ejaculate still dripping from various places (where it landed, silly - I don't cum from any other orifices!), my entire brain suddenly gave itself over, quite involuntarily, to orange juice.

This isn't as bizarre as it sounds. It makes sense to replenish lost fluids following orgasm (and that, my friends, is why you keep cold water nearby!), but throughout most of my life, my main desire has been for lemonade as a drink following orgasm. Even when I was very young and having my first erections (which was an unpleasant experience, as I seem to remember), I had a craving for lemonade. But back then, it's probably because I liked the drink. Lemonade, however, seems a more sensible choice, as it's actually a very watery drink. I mean, it's mostly water, actually. If you're not going to have - well - water, then I don't see much wrong with lemonade. The downside being that a lot of it is gas, as well, so there may be less liquid as you thought. Nevertheless, it's not that much less.

But today - just now - I wanted orange juice. No, not wanted. My body dictated that I go and get orange juice. And so I did. No specific reason; it just filled my mind. My body obeyed.

I do love orange juice, but (even though my girlfriend appears to love putting the stuff on her boobs) I don't really equate fruit with sex. I mean, I can see there's a correlation and everything and blah blah blah Goblin Market gang rape, but fruit doesn't excite me. It's delicious and I love it (mostly citrus stuff, or peaches), but it's not exactly my first port of call. There was a really odd phase during sex with TD for a month or so when, just before I came, I would visualise a large red apple - again, involuntarily... and this one I can't explain; I don't even like apples. But I digress.

I had an orgasm. I thought about orange juice. As I opened the 'fridge, it just seemed like everything was perfectly okay.

Thursday, 26 January 2012


OK, so this is my entry for the Erotic Meet competition. The theme is twisted hearts, but I went a bit further and coupled that with gender identity. And there are hearts in it, and they're a bit twisty. This is also probably the wankiest thing I've ever done. I don't like to preach about gender identity and I'm not one of those "liiiiight thoughts / daaaaark thoughts" art students. Anyway, at least I know what a triptych is. Here is mine (click to embiggen):

I should probably explain. Obviously the theme is gender identity and differentiation, mixed with the twisted hearts. Obviously it's pretty blatant how I did it... I mixed up some paint (I had to mix as grey and pink weren't in the set) and slapdashed three sheets of paper. I stencilled a slightly "explosiony" (which is a word now), slightly twisted heart shape onto each bit of paper, using red paint. Then I used a printer and some glue... and bought some card to stick it on. (I also signed it, but you can't see that in the pic.)

On the left is the "male" sheet of paper with the masculine symbol at the top and a large M (which is a sticker). It's painted pink and has traditionally girly things on it (I asked a girl for ideas): a pink mobile 'phone, a dress, lollipops, some gossiping girls, Hello Kitty and the Glee logo.
On the right is the "female" paper. It's blue and has a football, a rugby ball, a car, Batman, a skateboard and a gamepad, and the sign of Venus at the top.
And the third paper is the "X" paper. It's grey and has a question mark on it.

So what does it mean?

Well, it's meant to be some sort of comment about gender stereotypes, without being too much of a bitch about it. Obviously the idea is that anyone can like whatever they want regardless of their gender - hence, the "inverted" colours of the bits of paper, and the deliberately stereotyped images of things on their respective gender sides).

The "X" paper, however, is meant to symbol everyone, rather than "other" (that's why it overlaps both). There aren't any images, just a question mark. The intention here is that you have to make your own decisions about what you like and what you want - let your heart (twisted or not) decide, perhaps? It's essentially a blank canvas to fill with what you want, with your heart as the focal point. If you won't kill me for saying this, the different shades of grey are intentional - to indicate that everyone is a different shade of grey.

Anyway. It's really wanky, I know. I don't mean to advocate anything. But it's my competition entry, and I had a lot of fun making it. And I put a lot of effort in as well!

Wednesday, 25 January 2012

YYoouunngg RRaavveerr

"I feel I need to cut down," said Robinson. "Because I never have any wet dreams."
"I've only ever had one," I said.

It hadn't taken us long to start talking about masturbation. We were in the pub and the only girl who had been with us had left to go home at some point. The young raver quickly turned the subject to wanking and freely admitted that he did it religiously twice daily, setting his alarm half an hour early so he could rub one off before his day starts, and again at the end of the day, going to bed half an hour before he usually would. He even said he'd done it at camp, which adds another to my mental tally of how many of us have relieved the strain under the influence of tents and calor gas. In fact, we're now going to refer to regular masturbation as "doing a young raver."

But this post isn't about that.

"I can remember my first sex dream," said the young raver, leaning over the table as if everyone else could hear. But since everyone else in the pub consisted of one barman, I doubt they were that interested. "It was about a girl in my primary class."
"In your primary class?" I interjected. "How old were you? I mean, I know Jenna Jameson started masturbating at the age of five, but still, you...?"
"I was in, like, year six," he said, "so I would have been about... ten or eleven?"
"Who's Jenna Jameson?" said Mane.

I remember my first sex dream, too. I was in year seven, and we'd done reproduction at school, so I knew kind of what sex looked like. I had, of course, found out about sex when I was two, but I'd never really tried to visualise it for the next ten years. I'd kind of imagined a man sticking his cock up a woman's bum, and that's really not an idea I wanted in my head at such a tender age. Science Now! made it sound absolutely disgusting, but at least with the jolly diagrams I kind of knew how it worked. I had realised the fact that the lady in question would open her legs, anyway - which was, again, something I hadn't considered. But I had the picture in my head.

In my dream I was a huge, hunky man with rippling muscles. I was faceless, as was the girl I ended up having sex with. It was, strangely, in greyscale. Maybe I couldn't afford colour at that point. Anyway, there was a girl, who was totally non-specific. She was a girl.
"You want me, don't you?" I said, in a low growl.
"Yes," she said. Or something to that effect.
"I'm all yours!" I said, and then I led her into a kind of house, and lay on top of her on a bed. She made the noises that I was to assume someone would make. I hadn't considered the fact that one should move at all, despite Science Now! saying something like:

During sex the man and the woman move their bodies against each other which makes them both feel good.

But then again, that could be interpreted so many different ways.

So I was lying on her. She had an orgasm. That was it.

It's not a very impressive sex dream, I'll grant you. But then again, I was about 11 - maybe 12 years old maximum. And I made up for it with the next seven years of soft porn and continuously more elaborate sexual fantasies. But I suppose that's where it all started, with that greyscale house and the rippling muscles.

Glod knows what the young raver did about it, though. Although I have a vague idea. Maybe he did it twice.

Tuesday, 24 January 2012

TMI Tuesday: I don't even...

OK, seriously, who came up with these questions? I feel all dirty now. I may have to wash my eyes or something.

1. Would you rather wear the same pair of unwashed socks for 2 years or wear the same pair of unwashed underwear for 1 year? Explain.

Socks. Because I can easily go without underwear, but socks are a necessity, due to the fact that my feet get cold really easily. I may have to take them off at some point, in order to wash my feet, but I don't think the question stipulates not wearing them at all.
Couldn't I just go naked for two weeks? I can think of some people that would be OK with that.

2. Would you rather eat a baby or be eaten by a giant baby? Explain.

Well, I wouldn't eat a baby, because I'm a vegetarian.
I actually find the concept of being eaten alive quite tasteless. I can't really watch Little Shop of Horrors without shuddering and I've never liked the muppet Big Mean Carl. I'll never read Not Now, Bernard to a child and have had to leave the room while it's being read. I think it's the worst way to go, with the immense amount of pain and terror when you're in the monster's mouth, especially if you're screaming for help or forgiveness. The scene with the T. Rex in Jurassic Park made me cry, but then again, I was about 10 when I saw it. They should have thought about that before showing it to a room full of schoolchildren.
So... tough choice. I wouldn't go against my principles for anything, but I have an innate fear of being eaten alive. I guess I'll have to skip this question. It's a bit of a lame question, anyway; eating a baby is probably something you'd choose to do, whereas getting eaten by a giant baby is probably something you don't have any choice about.

3. Would you rather steal money from your grandfather in the past or steal money from a grandchild in the future? Why?

As has been said by many people, this question doesn't really specify whose grandchild it is. So I'm going to imagine that the grandchild in the future has grown up to be a powerful media mogul, who hires personal friends to be corrupt aides, hacks the 'phones of dead people, and runs a website which steals other people's work and watermarks it. After all, those people have to have grandfathers at one point. I'd totally steal from them.

4. Would you rather be trapped in a cave full of vampire bats or put a large jar full of bees (opened) in your pants?

Bees. Because it doesn't actually say that you have to be wearing your pants at the time and therefore there's no real question here. Also, I don't like being trapped.
Both bats and bees are naturally defensive, rather than offensive, so I don't think I'd be in any immediate danger.

5. Would you rather be a person with a head that is noticeably big for your body or have a head that is disproportionately small compared to the rest of your body?

Head. Because I don't like my body shape anyway, and having a small head would make me look even fatter than I already am. Having a huge head wouldn't be fun, though, 'cause then I wouldn't be able to lick anyone out. Unless she happened to be straddling my mouth, and that would be tricky with a big ol' head as well.

Bonus: Would you rather have sex, with your significant other, in a sex club with all eyes and a spotlight on you... or would you rather get gang-banged & groped in darkness by a bunch of strangers?

I've never been to a sex club so I've no idea exactly what that would be like. But, as I've said before, I'm a bit insecure about my body image so I'd probably go for the darkness. Having said that, I don't exactly want to be gang-banged either, not since I read Goblin Market anyway. I'd probably have to go for the first option and suffer the ridicule instead, rather than the years of very expensive therapy I'd have to have otherwise.

Sunday, 22 January 2012

Differences of Opinion

"Did you hear about your sister?" my mother asked me.

Oh, good. A riddle. What was I supposed to have heard about my sister? That she had been promoted at work? Yeah, of course I knew that, she hasn't shut up about it. Or that she's been watching Aquila online? Of course I knew. She had to call me to ask me what the programme was called. I needed more information before I was to respond.

"What about her?" I settled on.
"She's not going to America."

Well, that's no surprise. Lots of people aren't going to America. I mean, I'm not going to America. Unless you are, you're probably not going to America either.

"Was she going to go to America?" I asked, completely nonplussed. The vague thought that she may have been going to visit my hairy friend and his new wife popped into my head. But no, that was ridiculous. Surely I'd be going too if that happened (and, you know, if America had an NHS? Because I'd have to take out health insurance otherwise.)? So why was she going to America? Or, as the case may be, not?
"She was going to go and visit whatshisname?"
"Oh, yeah..." I fished around in my head for the long line of men that have been into my sister over the years. "...Tom?"
"Yes, that's it. Only..."
"Did they break up?"
"She didn't want to talk about it."

I smiled ruefully to myself. She'd talk to me about it. I made a mental note to ask her about it at some point. After all, it's a regular occurrence that she breaks up with boyfriends, so I wasn't surprised. I didn't even know Tom at all. I'd seen him once, over Skype.

"She said it wasn't practical," my mother said as I made to walk out of the room.
Here I paused.
"That's a difference between her and I," I said carefully, balancing on my tiptoes to retain my posture.
"What do you mean?"
"Well, with her: long-distance relationship, it's not practical, end it. But with me, it's any relationship, anywhere, any time, no matter how difficult... love will find a way. Love always does." I placed a hand on my heart, to indicate what love was.
"She's a much more practical person than you are," replied my mother.
"I know," I said, shifting to balance on one foot.
"And you're much more romantic than she is."
"Oh, I know that too," I said.

As I walked off to do something mundane, I slowly came to the realisation that I hadn't initially known that my sister was going to America.

I should pay more attention.

Saturday, 21 January 2012


I was getting used to a routine. It wasn't something that was constructed according to any specifics. It just fell into place. We were in York - it was a city I sort of knew. I have been there before. But I felt alien, in this kind city. I felt accepted in the contemporary hotel, where there were comfortable beds, en-suite bathrooms and hotel breakfasts. There were even complementary muffins for those who were in the right place at the right time. But in York, in this cold, friendly city, I felt slightly detached. I visited museums, I went into shops. I was a tourist. I felt... quintessentially Southern.

We had a routine. It just fell that way. My alarm would go off. We would ignore it. At some point, one of us would drag the other out of bed. There may be showers, which were the ostensible reason for going to York in the first place. Then eventually we would venture out. The weather was invariable. It was cold and unforgiving in the icy wastes of the north. We were tourists. We flashed our magical cards and were granted access to places. I saw art, I touched Roman remains I wasn't meant to touch, I failed to be scared of animatronic Vikings. I almost asked for a commentary in Japanese.

We would go back to the hotel. At some points there was lunch. Sandwiches for me and cream crackers for her. On some occasions, just biscuits for both. And then we would fall back onto the bed. We would cuddle. We would have sex. And then she would sleep. I would lie awake, reading my book or playing with my BlackBerry. I ran through scenarios in my head, usually moments from Zelda or even wondering what would happen in Glee.

I wouldn't sleep well. I can't sleep in the light, and she can't sleep in the dark. We had the lights on, for her sake. My eyes would be closed and I would hold her close. Sometimes she would hold me. Sometimes I would fidget, go back to reading my book. I always got to sleep, but it was a long, slow process.

I was still awake at 2am on the last night. Her body was warm. She was awake, too, but I didn't know that yet. I was drowsy and finally slipping away into sleep when I felt her shift and knew she was awake. She turned over. I was on my back; she crept a hand along and wrapped it around my penis. I sleepily felt myself getting more and more aroused. Not knowing what she had planned, I stayed where I was. Solid as a rock. She climbed over me, her skin letting off an electrical spark as it brushed against mine. I let out a long, slow, quiet breath. I let her know I was awake by some short, soft movements. In my semi-conscious state, I could see her shape above me. I felt her lower herself down. She was wet.

I felt myself penetrate her as she slid down onto me, sitting on my crotch. I was deep inside her and felt her inside walls contract around my shape. I looked up at her, my eyes adjusting to the dim light. Her long, dark hair cascaded down towards me. I blinked. She was hardly moving, but I knew she was close. As I felt her insides pulse more and more, she started to shake. I sleepily placed my hands on her thighs to steady her as she came. Her orgasm was intense and as she slid back off me, I felt myself slipping back into my semi-trance. She came again, lying next to me, and then clung to my body as we both finally entered the land of dreams.

Saturday, 14 January 2012

Makes me laugh, anyway...

There's always a lighter side if you look for one. Take sex toys, for example. Their batteries make me laugh. Seriously. Here, I'll demonstrate.

Made you look.

Friday, 13 January 2012

Thursday, 12 January 2012

Hairy Snout, Human Heart

2 day's Thursday.
2 day's Thursday.

Thursday's wedding day.
Is everybody 'appy?

My hairy friend gets married today. He may, in fact, already be married. I'm not sure of the time difference. He's doing it in New York, which is pretty romantic, I guess.

It's not something I could see him doing, actually. Initially, after all. I have known him for a very, very long time. He went though this vague patch in his teens where he fancied basically every girl in our social clique in turn - including my sister, at several points - and appeared quite uncertain. But by the time he hit 18, he turned into a confident, self-assured young man, with radical socio-political views, an easy temperament and a wicked sense of humour to match. He had the confidence to go to his school with four and a half GCSEs and ask to do A-Levels, and even more confidence to sit and listen to them explain that they would only let him do GNVQs, and then say, "right, screw you," walk out and enrol in a sixth form college. He retook GCSE Maths and did three A2s, and then failed to get into university, whereupon he rang up his first choice and talked his way in by verbally demonstrating his knowledge of modern European history.

And that's where he met his girlfriend.

I didn't think he had it in him, to be so romantic. But I guess having a beard doesn't exactly sap that potential. I didn't actually meet her until after nearly everyone else in our group had, but eventually I did, and like everyone else in said group, I liked her. We all approve of her, same as we all approve of Robinson's lovely girlfriend, Mane's pretty girlfriend, my hairy friend's older sister's boyfriend (who is a maths teacher, but seems intelligent anyway), and nobody at all approved of any of Lightsinthesky's successive conquests. But I digress.

This has been a long time coming. I can't even remember when they got engaged. I remember writing several successive letters to Homeland Security confirming that they were in a relationship. She is an American, which makes this difficult, as her government has always seemed picky about who they let in or not - but he got in, and they are living togther now in Pennsylvania. Today they are getting married.

Robinson has yet to make the Batman joke - his fiancée does have the unfortunate tendency to have an incredibly wide smile, and a round face, so does end up looking uncannily like Jack Nicholson's Joker at points - but I'm sure he will. And I think they plan to get married, again, in a second ceremony in the UK, so they can have a much larger gathering (as opposed to the eight people in attendance today). I'm sure we'll procure a Batman costume from somewhere for that.

But enough of this slightly cruel frivolity. Perhaps the most unlikely candidate for a married life in our little group has been the first to tie the knot. He's happy, secure, and living his intelligent life as he was, writing in his own blog about thoughts on marital norms and the trading of surnames (something they aren't doing, after all). He is content.

And it certainly does warm the heart... even if we do all miss him these days.

Monday, 9 January 2012

TMI Tuesday: Isn't it awfully nice to have a penis?

"Go on, ILB, do the TMI Tuesday about the penis that everyone's doing." Yeah, okay then.

1. What’s more important – length or width? Why?

Neither. Although I know some people that place a lot of value on one, the other, or both. But as long as it works, I think it's a perfectly acceptable penis, as long as the person it's attached to isn't a massive cock as well!

2. Ever encountered one that was too big for you to handle?

I don't indiscriminately handle other people's penes, but a friend of mine has a massive penis. It's, according to eyewitnesses, twice the length and width of your average dick, and also has two holes (one is defunct), so it's probably genetically two penes that have grown as one. I'm surprised he's actually managed to go through however many girls without splitting any of them in half, as apparently it gets bigger when aroused! It must reach up to his chin or something!
Anyway, yeah, so I've never seen it. I have shared a bed with him a few times, and at one point I allegedly rolled over in my sleep and grabbed his foot. "It could have been worse," said another friend. "It almost reaches his foot, so it's a good thing that his foot is what he grabbed." I haven't stopped washing my hands since.

3. Best place to put a penis?

For what purpose? Usually I put mine inside my underpants (although it does have a tendency to slip out at points, usually of its own volition...). For urination, well, over a toilet bowl is usually acceptable. And during sexual contact... wherever she wants you to put it! She knows where, after all, and it's her call!

4. If you had a penis for a day, what would you do with it?

I already have a penis. I do a lot of things with it, but they mostly involve going to the toilet. However, I do masturbate, which involves curling my hand around my shaft and pulling my foreskin up and down until I ejaculate, and if I'm lucky, I also have sex with it, which involves putting it into parts of a girl. Why, what else am I meant to do with it?
When I was younger, I used to be fascinated with how strong my penis could be, so I used to get horny and then try and hang towels off it and stuff. It was usually successful. I still can hang towels from it, but it's more painful now. And why would you want to do that anyway? I don't want to break it!

Penis Envy Fact: The largest penis in the Animal Kingdom is 11 feet long (Blue Whale).

No it isn't, it's that of my friend I mentioned above.

5. You’re a penis; which love canal (that’s a vagina) would you most like to visit?
a. short and shallow
b. fall into the gap, gliding smoothly along the slick walls
c. tight suction lip-lock
d. none, I prefer the back door thank you

Okay, well, officially c) is my answer, but as with all questions, it depends on who I'm putting it into to begin with, and what she can do with her vagina once the penis is inside it! I mean, all vaginas are different, but if the inside walls can mould perfectly around the shape of a hard penis inside it, and make both pulse together, then what does it matter? See if the muscles contract around its base and then tell me it matters. Honey, it really doesn't.
Also, does this question call me a cock! How rude!

Bonus: What is the perfect name for your penis or a penis you use often?

My penis was originally named Madison. Then it was called Squishy. Personally, I'm not entirely happy with calling my penis anything in particular. But then again, it wasn't me that named it, so I didn't really have much of a choice.

Sunday, 8 January 2012


The book next to my bed is something I didn't ever expect to be reading. It's an erotic novel. The Pet Shop, by K.D. Grace, has as its premise an overworked, overpaid but undersexed girl, the plot revolving around having discovered (or bought for her anyway) a "Pet Shop", who provide people who act like pets for the sexual pleasure of their temporary "keepers".

Catharine, who won the book (that's why I have it; I didn't buy it, and besides, it was provided by Sh!, so I wouldn't have been let in anyway), handed it to me (wrapped in pink Sh! paper) with the idea that it was about people who enjoyed dressing up as animals, and although certainly the cover seems to suggest that (depicting, as it does, a furry girl, albeit a rather classy one), halfway through the book I'm still not seeing anyone dressed up. The Pets are almost always naked, anyway. And there's a lot of sex.

As I did expect, it's not a book that turns me on massively. I'm not a big reader of erotica, preferring as I do depictions of sex where there's no actual sex happening, but I think one of the reasons for that is that it leaves more to the imagination, an obvious other being the presence of a plot. The book has both. Sex is depicted word-for-word, often as it is in a lot of sex blogs, so it's not a method of depiction I'm unfamiliar with. Your imagination comes into play if you're trying to visualise the sex via the words (again, something sex blogs help me do), and there is a plot, even if some of the characters do start out naked.

I'd have to say that the plot is quite limp. There's something of a mystery about bits of it, but (as with a lot of erotica) most of it seems like an excuse to insert a sex scene, especially since there seems to be at least one on every page at points! Some words (like "pussy") are overused (what, so there aren't any other synonyms for "vagina"?) and sometimes the sex gets tiresome.

But I have to say I'm actually enjoying it. I wouldn't usually choose to read this sort of thing, but it's a page-turner. It makes me laugh (sometimes when it means to, maybe at other points wherein it doesn't, but I laugh anyway), and I'm genuinely curious to see where the plot goes, even if it does seem a bit weak. And as for the sex... well, after last night's crash and recovery via the shower, I'll have to admit I did feel a little stirred by the writing. So maybe, just maybe, I'm enjoying The Pet Shop a little more than I'd be willing to let on.

Saturday, 7 January 2012

No grey in my day

I'm not feeling very sexy. I'm not really a very sexy person (sexual, yes; sexy? not really), but despite a multitude of opportunities to be my usual open self about sex - down to having coffee with Dave yesterday and ending up in a conversation about tentacle porn, followed by Lydia's informal social (which replaced the CCK one this month and brought up some discussions on the subject) - I've just not been really very horny recently. I can talk to horny people, sure. I can even talk about any sexual topic under the sun. I just don't want it right now.

I'm not sure I'm even in the mood for cuddles. I mean, I'd love a cuddle, who wouldn't? But if you cuddle me right now, you'd get scratched from my beard, which has grown too long, and I'd probably also fall asleep. That's one of the reasons I'm not up for sex right now - I fear I may be a bad performer, due to the state I'm in right now.
There's no reason behind this, particularly. I guess it's the day. I'm not really upset or depressed about anything. But I have had an especially dull day today. I didn't wake up until about 1 (wake up, not get up - I was still asleep) and then found that I had very little to do anyway.

And I did very little. I got yelled at by my mother for not being awake any earlier. I played some Donkey Kong Country while narrating it to myself as if it were a Let's Play. I had some soup and went to see my grandfather, who's lying in bed following the latest in a long line of eye operations. It's all very dull. And it's been an oppressive, dull day. A grey sky, heavy feeling in the air. Cold but not brisk. Dull, dull, dull. And I've got that feeling.

I don't know how to get my sexy back. But I'm assuming that shaving meticulously, and washing all this feeling off, may just do the trick. So please excuse me - I'm going to the bathroom, and I intend to shower my sexy feeling right back on.

Wednesday, 4 January 2012

Antici... pation

This week: Informal meeting to replace monthly CCK Social (thanks, @almadsfeika!)
Next week: Spiritual Space, usual time, usual place
Week after: York with cutieloveheartgirl
Week after: This space has been left blank for display purposes
Week after: Erotic Meet

I don't know why I'm suddenly so impatient. I'm slowly gathering things to fill up my social timetable and genuinely aren't bothered about things like getting employment until all these things have passed. But I guess that part of my brain secretly thinks that employment may stop me from doing these things, so that's probably why. In any case, there aren't any jobs, so I don't know why I'm worrying. Go, me and laziness! (Except I haven't actually been lazy. I even did an impromptu jig in the middle of Oxford Street today. I had just stubbed my toe, but still.)

But I'm getting impatient. I want to sit in a café and eat food in a bohemian setting. I want to discuss the finer points of Christian doctrine and death metal. I want to go to the thing that people keep telling me I should go to, if only to surprise other bloggers with my unassuming blue eyes, nervous attitude and hideous facial hair. And I really, really want to go to York. I want to see clhg again, of course, but being middle-class and southern I should feel in place in York. And there are ghosts... and Vikings. Yay for York!

I'm just really impatient. I want these things to happen. Now. I don't really like making complicated plans, and even less so if they're months away and so many things could go wrong between now and then. I even want to go to Eroticon in March - screw 'want to', I'm going; as a sex blogger it's my duty and all - but I really don't want to plan anything yet. I'm just so afraid to commit to anything that far in advance! I'm happier being spontaneous; it feels like much more of an adventure!

However, I can take comfort, even while I'm being fidgety waiting for great things to happen, in the knowledge that I'll be enjoying myself while they are happening. That's a good thing to look forward to, at least - even if it sucks to wait.

Tuesday, 3 January 2012


I was walking down the long road that leads from my house to the nearest railway station. I've lived in this house since I was two, so I must have taken it countless times. Thousands. It leads into town as well. I know the road, with its phallic bush and Weeping Angel kept in stasis by the light that shines on it. Robinson, Mane and his brother, and formerly my friend-who-is-a-teacher, have all lived on this road. I know it well. Usually, I walk down this road with no event happening. It's just a road. Sometimes I hit the school run; sometimes I bump into somebody I know. There's a live music venue at one end of the road where I've done a gig. The entrance to town is about a mile away. But most days, I just walk down the road without such an exciting purpose.

It passes without incident most days. I've filmed myself walking down the road and set it to Mika's Lollipop. It is an unassuming, if long, road. The other day, I found myself walking down it again. I was on my way to a friend's house. There was pizza on offer. And Sherlock. I was minding my own business and tracing the steps I always take.

And then somebody threw a condom at me.

I've no idea who. A black car with tinted windows drove past at breakneck speed. I barely caught a glimpse of its occupants. The window rolled down as it passed me, and a used condom was thrown out of the window, directly at me. It missed by a few feet and landed with a soft plip! on the damp road.

I paused.

Okay, so it wasn't in its packet, fine. Was it used? It looked wet. But to be fair, it was also raining. And most of them are packed with lube. It could have been caught in the drizzle. Or it could have been used. To be fair, it probably was used. I wouldn't open a condom packet usually, if not to use the rubber inside to slip around my penis, or inflate as a novelty at a nu-metal concert. And it wasn't inflated.

Why would someone throw a condom at me? On this road I know so well? What were they expecting me to do, pick it up? I don't indiscriminately carry other people's semen. Or was it a comment on the bourgeois tendency to ignore safe sex advice and not tie the end, as you're meant to do after usage? Or maybe it was a test - to see if my angelic aura was still active in the light drizzle by throwing a used condom and seeing if it was deflected? But it couldn't have been genuine spite, could it? I mean, I don't have any antagonists. I'm too nice for that!

As I heard a slice of pizza calling me, I started to continue on my journey, taking one last glance at the limp piece of latex lying there in the road.

"You're a used wank-bag as well, mate!" I yelled at the car in the distance as it sped away. Only I didn't actually shout that. I'm far too mature.

Sunday, 1 January 2012

Soft Porn Sunday: Crystal Dillan Atkins & Julian McMahon

This one made me shake. Physically shake. Not for any particular reason other than the fact that I never, ever, ever thought I'd find any scenes from this film, and particularly not the specific one I was looking for. It's not exactly a film that's vanished into the ether, either. A pretty comprehensive listing is available on IMDb, and although general reviewer consensus thinks it's pretty poor as a piece of cinema, it does have its lovers. I wouldn't count myself in the latter, but I will admit that some of the issues it raises and tries to tackle are brave, and although the resolution isn't great, it tries. It's not gone so far as to attain cult status, but that's probably because it's an erotic drama.

At least, that's what it's billed as. It's not particularly erotic. It's got sex in it - really rather dirty sex. I've seen it twice on UK TV, and despite the fact that I never thought I'd see these scenes again, I found them online, after what is - I am not ashamed to say - literally years of searching.

Appearance: Magenta (1997)
Characters: Magenta & Michael

This is a complicated film with a very simple love triangle in it - or, to put it more accurately, a square. Michael
Walsh (McMahon) is a married doctor whose wife Helen (Alison Storry) is cheating on him. In fact, the love scenes with Helen in are worth watching - the classic "cheating wife on the 'phone" scenario is done well enough here - as one of the themes is marital discord and the break-up of relationships. But the main focus of the film is its eponymous character, Magenta (Atkins).

Magenta is Helen's little sister. She's a teenage girl and, although she appears to be over the age of consent (in fact, by law she has to be, as she has sex in the film), she is presented as quite innocent to begin with, carrying a teddy bear with her and stuff. As it becomes more and more apparent that her sexual appetite is awakening, Michael becomes more and more attracted to her, and they begin a sexual relationship. This, of course, completes the square - Helen and some other guy, Michael and Magenta - but it also brings up the issue of desire. I think it's probably meant to be forbidden desire - as she's young. But not actually forbidden, since she's old enough. Just not very old.

Oh, and she's his wife's sister. I don't know. It's all very confusing.

Anyway, this scene is something like a reversal of the scene I linked to before, where Helen is having sex on the
sofa while on the phone to Michael. In this scene, Helen is talking to the man with whom she is having an affair. She's trying to end it, as he's teasing her about Michael's new secretary. However, we intercut at various points to Michael , who has succumbed to his urges, having sex with Magenta in the kitchen. So there's a sort of double lack of knowledge here. Or something.

Wow, this is deep.

Okay. This scene isn't so much of a turn-on as it is a particularly interesting bit of cinema. Unlike a lot of the soft porn I've reviewed, there isn't any music, soft focus, clever camera angles or ridiculous plot-line. The dialogue isn't cheesy or funny and there wasn't much of a lead-in. Magenta instigates the sex herself (Michael is trying to resist, but she forces herself onto him - something that hasn't been captured in the link, but I remember it) and, although Helen is clueless, she's not an innocent victim herself, so it's quite a clever play-off.

As for the sex, both Magenta and Michael are clothed. There's not a lot of nudity in this film, really. As I said, there's no music. Both participants are indulging in almost bestial noises, and there's no fluidity to the movements - it's random, and rough, but incredibly realistic. In fact, the thing it's most comparable to is this scene, which has a similar situation - it's realistic, hard, and quick. In a scene of just over a minute, the actors have conveyed the fact that they're really enjoying the sex, as well, which (I'd imagine) is hard to do, especially in a gritty, serious American drama.

All in all, this would be arousing, were it not set up against such a backdrop. But this is me talking at the age of 26. All I remember from my teenage years is being turned on by this individual scene, because it's a pretty young girl shagging someone she shouldn't. But I also remember being gripped as to how it may all turn out in the end. It doesn't exactly end well...

...unlike this scene, which perhaps captures more than it should.